THE RED SARI BOOK PDF

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The Red Sari Book Pdf

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'The Red Sari.' Kavita Ivy Nandan. Transnational Literature Vol. 9 no. 1, November freemindakebe.ga The Red Sari . KMX2FOICL5XD PDF / The Red Sari: A Dramatized Biography of Sonia Gandhi . The Red Once you begin to read the book, it is extremely difficult to leave it. freemindakebe.ga - download The Red Sari: A Dramatised Biography of Sonia Gandhi book online at best prices in India on freemindakebe.ga Read The Red Sari: A Dramatised.

The book starts well. Rajiv Gandhi's assassination opens the first few pages, and we are soon drawn into the life of the Gandhis. She captivates the imagination like no other, having led India through some of its most turbulent years. A lot of anecdotes in this section make it an interesting read.

Sample this: on being informed by B. Nehru that President Lyndon B. Johnson had asked him how Indira would like to be addressed "Let him call me whatever he wants Here again, there are a lot of subtle, yet very engaging excerpts. On a personal front too, the author manages to give us a detailed insight on the rise of Sanjay Gandhi and India's weakness for her much maligned son.

Her closeness to Sonia, and her apprehensions about Menaka Sanjay's wife , are dramatised well. At this point I could picture this as a well written Indian political soap, impossible to make now, but perhaps someday.

Sonia had paid attention to him several times because she occupied. They moved in the old blue Volskwagen of Christian. Stephen Hawking was called and also he was assiduous of the Varsity.

As they did not have money to take it to a factory of plate and painting. The one that never would forget. More of once it had to be crossed a personage who cojeaba little at that time and always went loaded of books. You like? The person in charge of it had been Rajiv. The stroll to Ely did not have anything of extraordinary. Ely was a wonderful known town to still lodge the greater set of medieval buildings in use in all England. By the others.

She is Italian.

Did not have to be contained. Quieres to behind schedule come this to the Orchard? Rajiv lacked malicia and vulgarity. But for Sonia always the doubt existed… And if it wants to take advantage of me? During one season she decided not to go more to the Varsity not to fall in the temptation to find it again it. It thought about doing it. When Rajiv took the hand to him while they took a walk in the shade of the very old walls of the cathedral. He was a little patoso with the girls.

But everything what it assumed that had to do starred against that smile. It was not the prototype of the Italian pretendiente. She was a behind schedule calm one.

Better take drastic measure. One insisted on dominating it. He was a serious boy. That warm and smooth hand transmitted a security to him and. In the following days. And it had yielded. Rajiv did not insist.

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Can the love arise almost from a so instantaneous. The women do not yield before the attempts of seduction of the first that arrives. I never saw two beings connect of that form. But then its life returned to be as gray as before. It is only a short while. He was something immediate. Sonia did not have forces to retire it. As if all its life had been waiting for that surrounding contact. It could not retire it. It had wanted to invite it to one of the little nocturnal clubs where live music could be listened and that was called Them Badly Fleurs du.

He was courteous and galante. It saw itself suddenly like the fleeting whim of an Eastern prince. It was of another country… And of what country! Neither of Europe nor of the United States. Indeed which it enjoyed more in England it was of the tranquillity that it provided to him to live on anonymous way.

The smile of Rajiv was strained by the mysteries of its mind and. Who asked to him. That attraction towards that boy. Era the refinement of its modales and their way to express itself what it arrived to him at the heart? Era its composure of Eastern prince?

Rajiv spoke with the best English accent. Of other race. How can be an authentic feeling. Was not the full world of histories of Indians or African strained by European who once obtain them and they take them countries to its.

How can be wanted what it is not known? All these questions were crowded in their mind while it tried to be convinced that no. All its life in India had been the grandson of the first governor of independent India. Christian it surprised the. In spite of being the one who was. Rajiv explained that its last name did not have relation some with the one of the Mahatma Gandhi. But the memory of that smile did not disappear with the mere will to erase it. Now that could be he himself.

Then for a moment one forgot everything and it returned to be she herself. Sonia understood that. So they were become absorbed in thought in its conversation that was lost by the desert city while it opened his heart to him.

More than the fact of being of India. The reason was due to the restriction imposed by the Indian government to its citizens to limit the currency download. Also it spoke of the death of its father. It gave until pain to see so enamored it and so impotent to express its feelings.

They had that day not taken the bicycles because it rained. First they used to have much money and they wasted it. Rajiv spoke to him of a whole little. It told him that from boy it had lived escorted by guards on security in the house of the Nueva center Delhi where his grandfathers exerted of prime minister. It symbolized for him. It told much him that it displeased to him to be recognized like son of the family to whom it belonged.

It confessed that it enchanted to him to live in England because here felt frees by first time in its life. Everything separated to them. It was necessary to leave by day. Of the one of its grandfathers the previous year. It spoke to him of the so placentera sensation that it experienced the first time that lead old Volkswagen de Christian and who made him feel frees like never before. Sonia finished that with the certainty that behind schedule Rajiv really wanted it.

Prey of an eddy of contradictory feelings. Zoot Sims and Jimmy Smith. It said it with as much candor that was difficult not to believe to him. He was a warm. What pinto I in the world of that boy? What I have who to see with a mimado boy to whom his famous grandfathers took a walk in glider? So that I let myself dazzle? Sonia boasted itself to have the Earth feet. But the more it was obsessed. That night when leaving it in his house it declared itself to him to his a little clumsy way.

To Sonia. It represented the anonymity of the Inedia class. Walking next to him. When it was not with him. It spoke with total naturalness. Sonia continued fighting to clear it to it of the mind. Now it had desire to prove the flight with motor and played with the idea to become pilot. I enlisted for always. It told its passion him by the photography.

It was not India. But even so. The feeling that obstructed it served to him as stimulus to learn English and more quickly better. Rajiv made dream. The reality was that it thought about him day and night. But its authentic passion was to fly. But he was exhausting to always live to the con. Tired of that swing that took it to the melancholy of the euphoria.

Does not have like the love to learn a language well! In Sonia it found a perfect ally. Both were of timid nature and they did not look for protagonism of any type. He had been ice cream salesman. Rajiv lacked political ambition. Charles Antoni. Rajiv was thinking seriously about leaving the Trinity College and dedicating themselves to its true vocation. If Sonia perceived the so great difference that she separated to him of him. It confessed to him that if it had delivered the attack to enter in the Trinity College.

But now that had died Nehru. They crossed the English countryside. Mary that enjoyed seated in the turf and eating a sandwich. A present that consisted of seeing itself. Cambridge was suddenly the most romantic city of the world. The romance reached such intensity that the owner of the Varsity.

It was enemy of the estridencias and the extravagances and aspired to which there was well-known. Neither the honeys of the success nor the notoriety called the attention to them. The strolls by the river in a tray that took he like an authentic gondolero behind colleges. When the windshield was broken to them.

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Both had a very similar concept of the familiar life. The present also was to travel in the Volkswagen Escarabajo that Rajiv ended up downloading to its friend by a handful of pounds. It still did not know how to say it to it to its mother. Rajiv lived like any English student. Rajiv would remember later. Sonia thought. No longer it doubted its feelings. He was too pretty to last. Like so. A country that lacked the most basic comforts.

Little which knew of India it had learned it of a friend who had described like a country distant and immense town to it of elephant and snake charmers and anchylosed by the poverty and the delay. As far as telling it his.

Of soon it had a feeling nubarrones in the horizon of its happiness. Rajiv confessed to him: To the aim and the end. It did not want nor to imagine which would be the reaction of its father… But the news of the arrival of Indira made forget the present for a moment him.

Then now I say to you that I have known a girl very special. I already know that she is the first girl with that I leave. It wanted to adjust the passion of its son. Indira announced to him that it finished accepting his first official position. What could contribute to Rajiv the daughter of a small Italian constructor of provinces? She was sure that the mother of Rajiv would become the same question.

You always ask to me on the girls who I know and if there is some attracts to me specially. Of some way they dominated the society of its country. Where fitted Rajiv in that picture? The Nehru. But in its following letter.

They returned the fears and it was wondered what future it had in that romance. It was not either able to imagine saying to him to its father who had fallen in love with a sallow man of skin. To Sonia a knot in the stomach when finding out the news was done to him..

Still I have not requested it. What yes it knew to say by letter to Indira. Sanjay ate little. It did not want to break the happiness. It was a happy and disquieting goodbye at the same time because. With him it was of a full dulzura of reserve and the eyes with which it watched to him were loaded of questions. It was the wonderful year. One noticed to him the other way around very proud of being the one who was. And their glances were different. Its nature introvert prevented him to share its fears with Rajiv.

What differentiates. A week end Sonia knew Sanjay. Sonia returned to Italy. He was very handsome. Like his brother. His brother. Chiquilla had arrived months back like one. It did not know how nor when. Rajiv and Sonia separated for the first time. He was Indian.

Sanjay was colder than its older brother. In July. It filled of satisfaction to realize to him much that had improved its English when they left works to him interpreter in the fairs of Turin.

The future it was seeded of incognitos. It felt that to the distant border of its own one to be everything it had been fixed beforehand by the destiny. Sanjay had an oval face. It was the good news for its parents. Both were frugales in their habits. But the course arrived at its aim.

He was distinguished and simultaneously one behaved with an amazing simplicity. Sonia feared the reaction of its parents. To Rajiv it liked neither to smoke nor to drink.

The other. I cannot understand it. I want to him. I have known somebody very special and I am wanted to marry with him… Pero how I am going to say that to them? And above is of that way! A celebration with music and much drink in the bar.

And it had another important defect: It only does what the father says. It must be something very peculiar. It was the great event of the summer in the district. I am enamored. He is too young. There was nothing in that relation that they could like: She tried to explain herself: It did not know how to break the ice.

In that type of families. When the moment arrived for facing it. Pier Luigi. They reacted with a total disdain. What age you say that it has? Twenty years…. Sonia would write late more.

No matter how much it tried it mentally. So and as had imagined. Sonia had drowned the restlessness to feel for the first time single in a foreign country falling in arms of first of turn. One will already go to him…. To anybody it likes to face its parents.

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His father did not want that she returned. At least it would return with a title. The battle horse went the return to Cambridge. But it could plus the love. But one did not go to him.

Of something had served to send it to the most expensive school of Cambridge! That he was the grandson of Nehru. Until the mailman it joked with the family because now it brought daily letters. Soon they were the sisters. Better than it returns to England. She and their husband knew perfectly that her daughter wanted to return because she was enamored. As always. And the sisters also. They were already seen marching past backs of elephant in the gardens of some Indian palace.

Pero Sonia was pawned on obtaining its title. It said to them that if did not want to help it. Sonia stayed signs. A pasmados archiformal and very respectful letter that left the Maino. Stefano had not doubted nor a second to it. According to him. They were sure that that history of love. Their parents finished yielding.

Sonia was so respectful with the familiar traditions. So that. I cannot. That tuft. The efforts of Rajiv to calm did not give it result. The hair gathered in a monkey let see in the forehead a tuft of abundant white hair in spite of its forty and eight years. Sonia lost the stirrups.

But if they are to the current. The two still were excited because the eve. Rajiv did not understand anything. This time was promised itself to behave well. Sonia was in front of a surrounded woman of fragile aspect in elegant sari of silk. How is necessary to treat it? I will be dressed suitably? What I must say to him?

And if it despises to me?

And if is aggressive it? What I there am going to do? It recognized in its eyes black and almendrados those of Rajiv. It thought that perhaps his father was right and had arrived the moment for stepping on the brake. You do not say trivialities. It had a full smile of enchantment.

The Red Sari

It seemed to him that the months last in company of Rajiv had been a dream that was on the verge of becoming pieces. It thought that it was not prepared to know its mother. They later posponed it for days. The legs shook when it raised the steps to him of the residence of the ambassador of India.

A torrent of questions. Rajiv repeated to him.

In fact and. Sonia was scared. They were arriving at City in the Volkswagen weakened of Rajiv when Sonia a panic attack entered to him. Pupul Jayakar.

Indira received to them in its room. I do not go. To its return. It had gotten until a to make of communication channel between him and its ministers. Widow first. Dorothy Norman. In her last days. Indira had spent the last years stuck him. In effect. And although sometimes they let it throw a look to that life. It wanted to know of me. Indira had not communicated its son. Was not exactly that what my mother had done?

All my doubts disappeared. Indira had written to Dorothy: The own Nehru. The last photo which them they made together. Ho Chi Minh or Krushchev. My heart suffers. The day in which Rajiv had left to Cambridge. He is a little while heartrendering for a woman when his son becomes a man. It did all the possible one so that it felt to me to pleasure. But nothing else to leave. It knows that no longer it depends on her and who from now on he is going to make his own life.

It spoke to me in French when it noticed that I dominated plus that language that the English. The rest of the time distributed between the library of the School of Lawyers and the institution to it that could not lack in colonial India.

It began to work in the writing desk of his father. It returned from England in Perhaps that passion by its father was consequence of much that had missed to him of girl. One developed with the same facility in the halls the high society that in the jails of its graceful Majesty. If the death of Nehru had prevailed to the world of a giant. But when it returned. It fixed the quarter of its father with a low bed surrounded by its books and favorite photographies.

She was fed up with the acts of infidelity of Firoz. Nehru had been the presence and the dominant force in his life. Nehru remained to seven years learning Political Sciences and being interested in the last technological advances. The first that did Indira was to off-hook the collection of pictures of imperial heroes and to send them to the Ministry of Defense. Their great culture. Then it was already a legend of meat and bone. Indira had accepted with reluctance at the outset. After which his father.

It got to have of interlocutors from its professors from Cambridge to heads of government and virreyes. A day confessed that it had liked to be decorator of interiors. It had done it not only because she was a obedient daughter India. I felt a mixture of shame and pain. I deduce that there will be no salvation for India until you take off those jewels and you deposit them into the hands of those poor men.

For the masses Indians. Nehru de Gandhi. Rabindranath Tagore. But the echo of that intervention resounded in whole India. That one became his disciple and friend Nehru. Princes and dignitaries left claustro of the university. Because Gandhi was a faith man. A boring life. Nehru acceded to accompany them to his village to explain the case.

Only the students applauded the words of Gandhi. Nehru was a rationalist one. It did not come from above. But the great soul needed a great lieutenant.

Tagore called Mahatma to him: It was a vain trip of three days that transformed to him of timid lawyer and that. Mohandas Gandhi. In the most religious country of the world. Then the generals of the three armed forces carefully fold the flag that wraps the mutilated body and cut the strings of the white shroud that holds it.

The family is standing side by side. The priest, an old man with a long beard as white as snow, looking as though he has come out of an ancient tale, goes through the steps of the Vedic rites and says a short prayer: Lead me from the unreal to the real, from darkness into light, from death to immortality… He is an old friend: He hands Rahul, dressed in a white kurta , a small jug full of holy water from the Ganges.

The young man, barefoot and with his head lowered, is lost in thought behind his black framed glasses. He walks three times round the pyre as he splashes drops of water over his father, thus carrying out the rite of purification of the soul.

Then he kneels beside the remains and weeps inside, without anyone being able to see. He weeps for a father who was always tolerant and compassionate and who adored his children. Dry tears well from a wound which, he feels, will never close. His mother and sister Priyanka, whose serene dignity moves those present, approach the pyre and carefully position the logs of sandalwood and rosary beads on the body, in gestures that are recorded on television all over the world.

Now it is time to say goodbye. Sonia places an offering on the body, over the heart. It is made of camphor, cardamom, cloves and sugar and it is supposed to help remove the imperfections of the soul.

Then she touches the feet in a sign of veneration, as is customary in India, places her hands together at breast height, and bows to her husband for the last time before stepping back. Through the television cameras the world discovers this stoic woman who reminds everyone of Jacqueline Kennedy twenty-eight years before in Arlington. It is five twenty in the afternoon. Five minutes later, her son Rahul walks seriously and decisively three times round the pyre before placing the flaming torch in his hands among the sandalwood logs.

His hands do not tremble: For a few seconds it is as though time has stopped. There is no smoke or flames to be seen; only the Vedic psalms can be heard among the crowd. Sonia has hidden her face behind her sunglasses again. They must not see her cry.

She has to keep herself composed, as she has done until now, whatever the cost may be. As composed as Rajiv was when it was his duty to light the funeral pyre of his mother Indira Gandhi, only seven years ago, while little Rahul cried in his arms.

As composed as Indira herself when she attended the cremation of her father Jawaharlal Nehru, and then that of her son Sanjay, the apple of her eye, her designated heir, killed when his plane crashed one sunny Sunday morning, eleven years ago now. A date that Sonia cannot forget, because after that day nothing was ever the same as before. She has had to find strength from the very depths of her being to be here today, because some Hindu priests would have preferred not to allow her to be present at the cremation.

It is not the custom for the widow to be there, even less if she is of another religion. But here Sonia was inflexible. She reacted as her mother-in-law Indira would have done. That is what she told the funeral organizers. But now she has to rise to the occasion.

No hesitating, no fainting, no losing heart. Go on living, even if it is difficult to do it when the only thing you want to do is die. How hard it is not to let oneself be overcome by emotion when the Vedic psalms give way to cannon salvoes, and the soldiers, standing in perfect line, present weapons to the sound of cornets and fire at the ground as a sign of mourning. When the dignitaries who have come from all over the world, the generals in their jackets full of colour with so many medals and the representatives of the Indian government, with their cotton clothes wrinkled and soaked after having waited so long in the midday sun, stand up in unison, immobile, like stone, in a brief, final homage.

When the friends, who have arrived from Europe and America to say their last farewells, cannot hold back their tears, Sonia recognizes Christian von Stieglitz among them, the friend who introduced her to Rajiv when they were students at Cambridge. He is there with Pilar, his Spanish wife. And then the murmur that suddenly increases, like a groundswell in the distance, coming from the furthest corners of the city and perhaps from the remotest parts of the immense country.

It becomes a single cry, terrible and guttural, the cry from thousands of throats that seem to become aware of the irreversibility of death as the fire suddenly catches in an explosion of flames and in a few minutes envelops the shroud in a fatal embrace. Rahul steps back a few paces. Sonia sways. Her daughter puts an arm round her shoulders and holds her until she regains her strength.

Through the wall of flames, the three of them witness the ancient, tremendous spectacle of seeing how the person they most love is consumed and turns into ash.

It is like another slow and penetrating death, so that the living may remember that no one can escape the inevitability of destiny. Because it is a death that comes in through the five senses. The smell of burning, the bright colours of the living through the scorching air rising from the blaze lifting up swirls of ash, the taste of sweat, of dust and smoke that sticks to the lips, and then the cries of Long live Rajiv Gandhi!

As the flames rise, Rahul gets ready to carry out the last part of the ritual. For Sonia there are no words to describe what she is seeing, the enactment of the terrible sense of loss that is tearing her apart inside, as though an invincible force were ripping at her entrails.

Never more than at this moment has she understood the deeper meaning of this ancestral custom. She remembers that she pulled a face in disgust when, as soon as she arrived in India, she heard about the existence of suttee. How horrible, how barbaric! Those that gave themselves heroically to the flames were considered deities and were worshipped as such for years, some for centuries.

The rite of suttee , which has its origin in the noble Rajput families, the warrior caste from Northern India, then became popular among the lower classes, and finally became corrupted. The English prohibited it, as did the first democratic government of India later, because of the abuses committed in its name. But in its origin, becoming suttee was the supreme proof of love which a woman can only understand when she sees the body of her adored husband burning.

Like Sonia at this instant, seeing the fire as a kind of liberation, as the only way to put a stop to that total grief that overwhelms her soul. React , she tells herself. Life is a struggle, as she well knows. Physical contact with her children comforts her. Then, with her strength renewed, opposing feelings spring up: Could it have been avoided? She tried as far as she was able, scrutinizing the faces of everyone who came near her husband at electoral rallies, trying to make out the revealing bulge of a weapon under a shirt, or the suspicious gesture of a potential assassin.

Because she always knew that something like this could happen. She knew it from the day Rajiv gave in to what his mother, Indira Gandhi, then Primer Minister, asked of him, and got into politics. That is why, two days ago, when the phone rang at ten to eleven at night, such an odd time, Sonia turned over in bed and covered her ears as though to protect herself from the blow she knew she was about to receive.

The worst news of her life was actually expected news. It was even more expected since Sonia found out that the government had taken away the degree of maximum security from Rajiv, which was his right as an ex-Prime Minister. In bureaucratic jargon, he was category Z, and that gave the right to protection from the SPG Special Protection Group , which would have protected him from a terrorist attack. Why was that taken away from him, however much she had demanded it?

Out of carelessness? Or because that so-called lapse was in line with the designs of his political adversaries? A hard, sharp, indescribable sound brings her back to reality. It sounds like a gunshot. Or a small explosion. Anyone that has attended a cremation knows what it is. Some people lower their heads, others look up, yet others are so captivated by the spectacle that they appear to be hypnotized and keep looking. The skull has exploded from the pressure of the heat.

The soul of the dead man is now free. The ritual is over. The people throw flower petals into the flames, as another disturbing sight emerges.

The long, fine hands that caressed his children or repaired an electronic device or signed international treaties are exposed and show blackened fingers that rise and curl in a heartbreaking parting from the other side. Goodbye, farewell.

Sonia bursts into sobs. Where is the comfort for her? With which God should she seek it? What God can allow a good man like Rajiv to be blown to pieces by the fanaticism of other men, who also have families, who also have children, who also know how to caress and love?

What sense can she make out of all this tragedy? Her children, worried that the mixture of smoke, ash and intense emotion might cause another attack of asthma, stand on either side of her, while she calms down and watches, broken inside, how her dream of living many years of happiness with her husband becomes so much smoke.

Ciao, amore , until another life. The whole of India will remember her like this, standing motionless as stone, stoical, indifferent to the cries of the screaming crowd, while fire consumes the body of her husband. She is the living image of controlled grief. The roar of an army helicopter drowns out the singing and the cries of the crowd.

The people look up into a sky that is white with heat and dust and receive a shower of rose petals that fall from the vehicle going round and round above the pyre. As the body finishes burning, the family goes down from the platform. With hesitant steps and grief-stricken faces, they receive a few words of condolence from the President of the Republic.

In very typical Indian disorder, the other personalities crowd closer. They all want to say a few words to Sonia: But no one can get close to the widow because suddenly chaos breaks out. And the fact is the body does not belong only to the family, or to the foreign dignitaries. They are only a tiny fraction of the forty million members of the party which, under the banal and rather unattractive name of Congress Party, represents the largest democratic political organization in the world.

It was born in the mid-nineteenth century as an association of small political groups to demand equality of rights between Indians and English within the Empire. Mahatma Gandhi turned it into a solid party whose goal was to win independence through non-violence. Nehru was its president, then his daughter Indira, and Rajiv was the latest. In spite of the scorching, unbreathable air, now the militants want a close look at the mortal remains of their leader turning into ashes.

They all want to lick the flames of death and memory, so they tear down the wire fences as though they were straw and rush towards the fire shouting: Rajiv Gandhi is immortal!

The Black Cats, the elite commandos, are forced to intervene. They make a human barrier around the family, and decide to beat a hasty retreat, step by step, amid the hysterical cries of the now unrestrained crowd, until they reach the cars and safety. In the following days, in a state of shock, Sonia takes refuge inside herself. She lives engrossed in her memories with Rajiv, breaking into sobs when she comes out of her trance and finds herself face to face with the terrible reality of his absence.

She cannot stop thinking about her husband; she does not want to stop thinking about him, as though stopping were another way of killing him. She does not even want to separate herself from those two urns that contain his ashes, but it is part of the ritual that death turns again into life. On May 28th, , four days after the cremation, accompanied by her children, Sonia boards a special carriage on a train that takes them to Allahabad, the city of the Nehru family, where everything began over a hundred years ago.

In the carriage, which is totally draped in white cloth scattered with marigold and jasmine flowers, the urns are placed on a kind of stand next to the framed photo of a smiling Rajiv. Sonia, Priyanka and Rahul travel sitting on the floor.

The train stops at a string of stations packed with people who have come to pay tribute to the memory of their leader. The outpouring of emotion exhausts Sonia, but she would do her utmost to wave at those poor people with bony faces stained with sweat and tears who, in spite of everything, smile to offer her their comfort. The smiles of the poor of India are an immaterial gift, but one which settles in the heart. Nehru, her mother-in-law and her husband all said so: That is the true nourishment of a politician born and bred, the justification for all the troubles, what gives meaning to his work, to his life.

A family that has governed India for more than four decades, but has been out of power for four years. Sonia looks at her son Rahul, who has fallen asleep between stations.

With any luck the family will never come to power again. Priyanka stares ahead in a daydream; she is also exhausted. She looks very like Indira, the same bearing, the same shining, intelligent eyes. God help us. In Allahabad, the ashes are placed in Anand Bhawan, the ancestral mansion of the Nehrus, which, when she was named Prime Minister, Indira turned into a museum open to the public.

A Moorish-style patio with a fountain in the centre is a reminder of the original owner, a Moslem judge in the Supreme Court. That heavily built man who always had a thick moustache and dressed like a gentleman, who was outgoing, lavishly generous, bon vivant and witty, adored his son Jawaharlal, perhaps because he was the last son he had, having lost two sons and a daughter beforehand.

That intense, reciprocal love was in the origin of the struggle for independence of a sixth of humanity. Motilal wanted his son to develop all his potential, which meant giving him the best possible education, even if it meant being apart from him: I never thought I would love you so much as when I had to leave you for the first time in England, at the boarding school , he wrote to him, because he could not get over the anguish of having left him alone, so far away, and only thirteen years old.

What Motilal earned in a year would have been enough to start up a business for him and set him up for life. But for the father that was an easy, egoistic point of view: I think without a trace of vanity that I am the founder of the fortune of the Nehru family.

The life of the Nehrus changed when Jawaharlal introduced his father to a lawyer who had just returned from South Africa and was organizing resistance against the colonial power of the English.When the dignitaries arrived from the entire world, the generals with colorful his chamarras of as much decoration and the representatives of the Indian government, with their clothes of cotton wrinkled and soaked after to have waited for as much time in the dog days, rise in unison and they remain immovable, of stone, in a brief and last tribute.

It offers the absolute power to you of the greater party of the world. In that occasion, it did not repair in the tremendous symbolic load that has this house in the history of India. What research did you do for the book? The courtship arrives at the place of the four cremation to and average from afternoon, with one hour of delay on the predicted schedule.

BERNIE from Warren
Feel free to read my other posts. I absolutely love arimaa. I do fancy naturally .
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