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
April 25, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Salt in the Wind This morning, a crow landed on the sill of my barred window. It did not caw, nor move quickly, but observed me as I turned the charkha. I greeted it softly. It remained, and we shared a few minutes of silence together. In some ways, I felt it was bringing a message — or perhaps simply bearing witness. Even the birds now seem to know that something is changing in the air.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 20, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Roots Beneath the Surface The silence before dawn is not emptiness — it is a gathering. In it, I hear the whisper of millions who have not yet spoken aloud, but who are preparing to. Their resolve stirs like sap rising through the roots of a tree, unseen yet alive. Every morning now feels as though the country is stretching before it begins to walk.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 10, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Threads in the Wind The wind is stronger today. It presses against the bars of my window like a traveler trying to deliver news without a name. It carries the scent of dry earth, sweat, perhaps even distant jasmine. There is dust in the air, but also something else — a rhythm, a thrum, as if all of India is breathing just under the surface.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 2, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune The Viceroy’s Silence I now write from behind stone and steel. Three mornings ago, they came at twilight — when the wind still carries the scent of sleeping earth. Two constables, pale and wordless, escorted a higher officer who stood at the door of my hut like a ghost from another play. I had already folded my mat and finished my prayers. I invited them in, offered warm water and silence. They declined the former and misunderstood the latter.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
March 25, 1930 – Coastal Gujarat Salt and Satyagraha Today, we reached the edge of empire — and the edge of the sea. It is difficult to describe what it feels like to walk for twenty-four days, village to village, step after dusty step, until the land finally ends and the sea breathes before you like some ancient witness. The horizon shimmered like a blade. Our feet were cracked. Our cotton garments stiff with sweat and earth. But we were whole.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
March 15, 1930 – Sabarmati Ashram The Ashram Constitution This morning, under the neem tree at the center of our ashram, I gathered the elders, the weavers, the young satyagrahis, and even the children. The early light filtered through the branches like a benediction. We sat not as leaders and followers, not as high and low, but as equals—braiding purpose from silence.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
March 13, 1930 – Village of Nadiad The Declaration of the Other India This morning, we rose with the cries of peacocks and the scent of neem trees brushing the air. The earth was cool beneath our feet, and my legs, though worn, felt light. It is strange how the spirit, when burning with conviction, lends strength to even the frailest body. We marched early and covered great distance before the sun reached its zenith. As we entered the village of Nadiad, we were greeted not by fear but by reverence. The local elders had spread fresh cow dung on the road and laid marigolds in our path, not as decoration, but as welcome—as offering.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
March 12, 1930 – Sabarmati Ashram The First Step into the Other India Today, as the morning sun peeled open the pale blue sky, I stood barefoot on the earth of Sabarmati, the river murmuring behind me like an old friend offering its blessing. My dhoti clung loosely to my frame, and my staff—plain, but sturdy—felt heavier than usual, not in weight but in responsibility. Around me, seventy-eight satyagrahis waited in silence, their eyes cast not downward in submission, but forward in serene defiance. Together, we took the first step of a journey not just toward the Arabian Sea, but toward a future I no longer ask for—I begin to enact.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Not One More Bomb
Port Chicago, California – July 17, 1944 The metal vibrated beneath my boots. There was a constant rumble—freight cars groaning as they pushed toward the pier, loaded to the brim with 1,000-pound bombs. The air reeked of salt, sweat, and explosives. My hands were shaking a little, but nobody said a word. Not here. We were Black. We were sailors. We were meant to obey.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in History
