Alain SUPPINI
Bio
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
Stories (312)
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Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
October 2, 1950 – Sevagram Ashram I awoke today before the birds. The air was cool, laced with the scent of neem and the faint whisper of spinning wheels. It is my birthday. I have lived eighty-one years in this world — and in this one, it seems, the sun chose a gentler path to rise.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 2, 1930 – Nightfall The village of Kheda has always known how to listen to the wind. Tonight, it whispered hope. I arrived just before sunset, the horizon stained in hues of burnt orange and indigo. The air carried a scent of ripe millet and wood smoke. The children waited at the edge of the fields, barefoot and glowing with pride, each one clutching a small lantern fashioned from clay and filled with mustard oil. Their hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what they were about to do.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 30, 1931 – Near the Village of Kalol, Gujarat The soil is soft between my fingers this morning. I rise before the sun, the stars still winking overhead, and step barefoot into the small garden the villagers have let me tend while I stay here. It is not a grand field. It grows no great bounty. But in the gentle sprouts of okra, mustard greens, and tuvar dal, I see the rhythm of service, of dharma. The earth, humble and enduring, reminds me of our people—trod upon, yet full of life.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 7, 1930 – Camp near Vadodara The air was warm, but in the stillness of the dawn, it held a quiet tension—like the breath before a song. In that pause, life prepared itself for one more act of resistance. I sat with a boy named Ravi today—a child no older than ten, who had once scrawled lessons in the dirt with a twig because his family could not afford slates. His handwriting, shaped by earth and necessity, now fills scrolls and letters that travel from hamlet to hamlet. He transcribes declarations, poems, maps, and secrets. His fingers move faster than the trains that still carry Indian salt to British ports, as if he’s determined to write a new destiny before the old one catches up.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 30, 1930 – On the Banks of the Narmada Today, I walked for several hours along the banks of the sacred Narmada River. Its water, though quieter than the sea, carries a different strength—steady, persistent, impossible to halt. Much like our struggle. It was still early, but already the banks had begun to fill with people. Some came barefoot from nearby villages, others had walked all night from distant hamlets. They came not to protest loudly, but to sit, to listen, to prepare.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 16, 1930 — Dharasana The sun was already high when I stepped out of the modest hut, my dhoti clinging damply to my legs. The air shimmered with heat rising from the parched ground. Though I had not marched at Dharasana myself — the viceroy’s order had seen to that — I could not remain still. I had come not as a leader, but as a witness. Dharasana had become the crucible in which the spirit of our movement was tested.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
Near Bhimrad, June 14, 1930 We arrived in Bhimrad just after the sun had begun its descent, the hour when the heat loosens its grip on the land but the dust still clings to the skin. The village seemed carved from the dry earth itself — low mud huts with thatched roofs, sparse trees holding out against the sky, and narrow footpaths where goats nosed for shade. There was no fanfare, no procession. Only silence and the keen gaze of villagers who had waited.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
Sabarmati, June 5, 1930 Today, the sun rose heavy with unease. The wind carried a quiet tension, a stillness charged with questions. We had returned from our march, from our arrests, from the trials that sought to stifle our breath. Yet the air felt thick, as if the movement itself was listening, waiting for something unseen to begin again.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 22, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Letters Through Stone The wall speaks. Not in words, but in tiny scratches — the slow script of silence. I found them this morning, behind my cot, where the damp meets the mortar: initials, dates, nameless prayers etched with nails or fragments of metal. Some are just lines, some letters faded into shadow. One reads “M.K. 1923.” I do not remember carving it, but I believe it was mine. Another says simply: “Truth.” One is shaped like a river, looping, as if it refuses to flow straight under any authority.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 19, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Charkha in the Dark Today, they brought my spinning wheel. It arrived without ceremony, tied with a coarse rope and bearing the dust of some forgotten storeroom. Yet when I touched it, I felt a pulse — not of wood, but of memory. This charkha has turned in my hands through seasons of both freedom and captivity. Now, it waits again to sing.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 10, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Rain on the Ashes Today, the monsoon arrived. From the narrow window of my cell, I watched the first fat drops fall on the scorched courtyard, turning dust to paste, softening the world. There is a smell that only comes with the first rain—wet stone, broken soil, and something like release. The rains do not ask who is free and who is captive — they fall upon us all. And as they fall, I remember once again: nature itself is never colonized.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
