I’ve been in āshrams at various times in my life. Among them, I remember most the Sabarmati Āshram in Ahmedabad, where Gandhiji lived with fellow satyagrahis, where he hit upon the idea of the Salt Satyagraha, the march that transformed the dream of Indian independence into a real possibility, and gave it impetus. The olden-day āshram was a simple, humble abode. Lofty thoughts arose in it; great doings proceeded from it.
There is now a movement that has begun in the West, and in the Far East: to live in the simplest homes and to practice a life of least consumption. The activists seeking and preaching such a lifestyle call their creed Minimalism. Their tribe appears to be growing, and they are receiving increasing mainstream attention. A Netflix documentary titled Minimalism came out a year ago, and writers and journalists have been writing in the Guardian and the New York Times and such, telling how it felt for them to give up a large portion of their possessions. There are on YouTube numerous videos uploaded by all kinds of folks saying why they got started in Minimalism, how they are doing, why others should join them.
I watched Minimalism — the movie — about eight months ago. Its argument, made by minimalism-activists Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, was compelling. Looking for books to consolidate what I’d picked up from the documentary, I found on Amazon a books by Fumio Sasaki and Marie Kondo. The books injected an urgency for action in me. But I had to choose: Sasaki’s approach went to the limit, to the extremity of the ascetic. At his present stage in his journey to a minimalist life, Sasaki lives in a 200 square-foot dwelling that challenges the self-denial of Gandhiji himself, it seems. Marie Kondo lives more comfortably, and she didn’t mind if you kept a little stuff, so long as each thing that you retain passes a test: Does this thing give me joy?
I decided on Marie Kondo’s method to decide what to discard and what to keep; and Sasaki’s approach in regard to time — like him, I took a few months — Kondo urges instant action, all in a day if you can, for the crucible-effect the sudden change gifts you.
Now my house is bare but for the absolute essentials. It is still a short distance from the desired state, however, although I’ve been disposing of stuff continually these eight months. I’ve given away books, CDs, DVDs, shelves, tables, sofas, beds, shirts, trousers, jackets, coats, cameras, lenses, tripods, MacBook, iPad Air, Google Pixel, bags, more bags, wallets, pouches, pictures, picture-frames, vases, Buddhas — and I’m still giving. Outside the house, I’ve had plants potted and arranged on a grid-work on the compound wall, and the ground sports only grass — the compound, too, is bare.
The exercise has proved that I’ve been wasteful, that I have been suffering the press and weight of extreme clutter.
The barer the house, the lighter I get, the freer I feel. The expanding white-space is liberating. The things I have left are things that I love, and when I sight them they make me happy. Since I have fewer things I gaze longer at them, savoring each one. I’m raring to come home these days: driving back at the end of the day, I have no desire to stop to dine out, or to drop in at a cafe, or halt for anything at all.
So there. My home has come to resemble — in appearance at least — an āshram. I’m waiting for the big, noble thoughts, but there’s not yet the scent of them.
As regards tall deeds, I ask them to wait. Let me think first, I’m telling them.
Minimalism Documentary from the site of The Minimalists
Gandhiji’s Study: Shashikiran Mullur