Mahatma Gandhi, page 11
Yet the school in the morning remains. And the multiple functions of a new-come bride brought into the household. The cattle, my daughter, have to be fed at this mid-hour of noon, and the clothes have to be given for washing before the cattle return. When the palace servants bring something from Her Highness, the Ranisaheba, you must make them stay in the courtyard, and give to them according to their status, either kumkum and flowers or a small coin or just send them away. And when the Brahmin astrologer comes you must give him a wooden-seat to sit on, and puffed rice and molasses and even a few dry figs if you can find some. And may be he would tell you what pujas to perform that you have an heir and a son. ‘What’s the use of a woman’s womb that bears not even a granary rat?’ You might, now that the sun is getting hotter, cut vegetables for the kitchen. You know, your father-in-law is such a humble man he has often sat in the temple cutting vegetables with your mother-in-law. Even the king’s men would come and ask for advice, and he would give it to them cutting his cucumber or snake gourd. And you can have such a grand look at the divinity in between whiles. ‘Only He gives and He takes. Lord Krishna, he the Bearer of the Mandhara Mountain. He protects us always.’
Meanwhile, Mohania is busy at his school. His English is still poor and his Sanskrit continues to be indifferent. Sanskrit grammar seems such a complicated construct—you may only learn it by heart. And one always has a feeling one is wrong somewhere when one is at school. The big boys dominate the establishment with their physical prowess, and you look up to boys like Mehtab with admiration. Look at his muscles, his courage. He is even unafraid of ghosts. It all comes of eating meat. Then why not eat meat?
Behold the mighty Englishman,
He rules the Indian small.
Because being a meat eater,
He is five cubits tall.
If it’s true then meat may be the answer.
And when you go on eating meat again and again it becomes interesting. It becomes even delicious. One will become strong one day like Mehtab, like any Englishman, and thus the world could be changed. Somehow the eating of meat seems to make you more of a man.
‘How was it last night, young man?’ asks Mehtab of Mohan.
‘It was good, thank you.’
‘Not just good, my dear boy, don’t you feel when you’re at it you’re more of a man?’
‘Perhaps, yes, I do not know.’
‘Go on persisting, Mohania, and you’ll find meat and woman go together. What goes in goes out, and what goes out comes back, and goes out again. What a wonder god’s creation is.’
‘Yes it is, I think,’ says Mohan shyly.
‘And your young wife,’ says Mehtab all knowing and protective, ‘when you’re away at school you’re sure there are no men around?’
‘Men around?’ says Mohania. ‘There are always men around in Hindu houses—uncles, cousins, and servants, and other boys brought up in the household that go to work or come searching for jobs. Our house is no home, you know, friend, it’s like a dharmasala. 21
‘You realise what dharmasalas are like?’ remarked Mehtab with an all-knowing air and winking his bright eyes. Of course, Mehtab was a strong fellow and he knew the world better. Who would know if he did not know?
That day the school was long and difficult. The imagination took hold of shapes and acts and brought them before you; such and such a man is there at home, what may he be doing? Where is she? And the longer the delay the fiercer the pictures. But when Mohania came home, there was great sweetness in the household, the corn was being ground, perhaps the cattle were being given grass, the horses were being groomed, and maybe Kasturba was in the backyard placing the clothes on the washing line, or helping the mother-in-law with the pickles. And the servants were drawing water from the deep splashes of the well. The right eye has been winking the whole day—the left arm shakes. What may it all mean? Lord, what? Seeing her husband, Kasturba comes in like a wife to her husband. Outside her room she’s no sister and bride but a devout wife. The mother-in-law made her into a wife. Mohania is like this. Mohania likes sweets and not so much salties. Mohania is so precise, he does not like a scratch or a thread on his clothes. The wife has to learn about her lord from her mother-in-law. If not, who is there to teach you? And now for some afternoon tiffin.
But when the night comes there’s a premonition of the disaster to be. Mohan does not speak to his wife.
‘Why, what has happened today?’ No answer.
‘Was the teacher difficult? That matters little. When one goes to school, I am told, the masters can be very unreasonable.’
‘How do you know? You have never been to school!’
‘Then why not teach me? I will also learn.’
‘Why don’t you ask someone else in the house to teach you?’
‘As one knows, there is no one. The women know no alphabet and no man should teach me. So, what?’
‘There are so many elders in the house.’
‘But I cannot talk to the men. And the women of course do not know how to read or to write.’
‘You mean you talk to no one when I am at school?’
‘To whom shall I talk except to mother-in-law, and sometimes to her mother-in-law?’
‘That’s too simple. You mean you never see any man while I am away?’
‘What an idea!’ remarked Kasturba in fury. ‘What does one think I am? Born in a cowherd’s home or amongst the untouchables?’
‘Oh don’t be so angry,’ says Mohania trying to be a little more friendly. ‘I was just wondering.’
‘If this is what the school teaches one, send me home. I would rather be a slave at my parents’ home than a daughter-in-law here.’
‘There’s nothing to be angry about. It’s man’s privilege to be jealous.’
‘And the woman’s to go back home,’ said Kasturba. ‘I’ll pack my trunk tomorrow and be back home. Send me back home; I beg of you.’
‘Anyway you are going back home in a few weeks. Your family is coming to fetch you.’ Kasturba did not answer. She laid herself on the bed and tried to sleep. Tears trickled down her eyes. What was all this and why did I come here? But Mohania came to her and knew he was very unreasonable. He knew her somewhat as he knew himself. And now that their irritations had subsided they felt once again brother and sister-spouse, and enjoyed the never ending game of love.
Beautiful though the game be, how sad one feels after it all. You go back to it to right it, and the more you want to be right, the more miserable you become. May this be true? Is this how a man feels? Dejection follows wonderment? Heaviness follows innocence? If God were true could there be sorrow? May be this is not God’s will. God could not make a wrong world and give us pain. And this mess—could God make a mess? Lord, protect me and give me understanding.
Exercises and examinations of course are important. But it is truth that matters most. How hide it, slip between the elders and rush through the studies and wander through the house aimlessly as if everyone knew what was what, and yet nobody really saw under your mind. How hide a thing that seems like a bubo under your thought or heart, or visible like a pimple on your nose to everyone, and yet nobody understands. Truth alone should shine. Truth alone shines. Should not one rather be like Harishchandra? Is that not the only path of normal human existence?
But now to the studies.
Mohania had important problems. He did not think he was very bright. And yet the whole family seemed to have great expectations of him—he will succeed his father as Prime Minister. A Gandhi has always been a prime minister of Porbandar for at least two generations, and home ministers for six. As if all the ancestors were awaiting this fulfilment, such the gentle pressures around him. But how could this ever be, and these constant thoughts of Kasturba at school, or in between books, in the evening. Night seemed exhaustedly delicious with the pungent odours of fulfilled bodies and that long rest of prurient limbs. Life’s measures seem improper when you looked at textbooks on the table. So, exasperated, Mohandas would take an elementary book in Gujarati and teach his wife the alphabet. At least if he would not study, let her learn how to read and to write. And then one could always go back to the sweetness of the anticipations, and the slipperiness of man’s urge and of the woman’s shy self-revelations. How could this be wrong? From the woman’s face shone a splendour that seemed to annihilate any questions. Indeed, the woman’s eyes were demanding. Do you . . .? Of course, how foolish of me to ask. And the gentle play begins again. The whole house is awake to its own activities. Is this how mother and father have been? Is it how it always is? And there is no one to ask. Even when father is ill and he needs a massage or a hand to help him go to the latrine, how luxurious it is to lie on the awake woman’s body. Mother or brother would look after father. Come wife, let us play the game of husband and wife.
It was so like a doll’s play. But at sixteen one is no more a doll. A baby was shaping itself in the bride’s belly. Would he be a boy?
Sheik Mehtab was not only friend and chum, but ever the hero of the school. Mohania’s own beginnings of adolescent distress and faint rumours of revolt, combined to draw sustenance from him. Mehtab’s courage and knowledge made him the object of deep respect, of gratitude. If he did not know ‘Life’ who would? Meanwhile, Mehtab had other and more elaborate plans to educate his friend to sturdy manhood.
One day Mehtab said to Mohania, winking his eyes, ‘Be ready for an adventure!’ It was spoken in such a manner that if you said ‘no’ not only would you be coward in his eyes, but in your own. What in the world could you be afraid of with Mehtab beside you?
‘Yes, brother, and so I will.’
And when the appointed time came Mehtab was all dressed in gay muslins and smelt of excellent perfume. One would think one was going to a marriage party.
‘Whose marriage are you taking me to?’
‘You’ll see when you come there. And for the moment just follow me, you understand?’
Mohania, silent and wide-eyed, followed his leader. And they came after twisting through many lanes and slipping in between houses to a strange looking dwelling. It seemed a little less clean from outside, besides the doors were closed.
‘Where are you taking me to, brother?’
‘I told you to your marriage, Mohania. Where else!’ and the boss seemed almost angry.
The door was opened by an older woman, dirty in her clothes, but bejewelled and magnificent in her beaming look, who welcomed them in. There was something well-bred about her whole appearance except when she talked, and she talked like a servant. Suddenly Mohania understood. They were visiting a house of concubines. You are not a man if you do not know concubines. Why they have more knowledge and riches in their heart and body than all the wives put together. Suddenly, as if by instinct, Mohania began to take the name of Rama. Whether you fear ghosts or the concubine, the same mantra would work: Ramanama is the most potent force against evil. ‘Lord Rama, He of the Raghu race, protect me!’
Soon the older woman disappeared with Mehtab to a room, and came back and slipped Mohandas to another room. There was a lovely young woman lying on a bed, and her limbs were shapely and full of desire. Mohania had such virility, his body tingled and his hairs stood on end. Frightened and fascinated, he sat on her bed contemplating her bosom, her lips, her thighs, and drawn in by the net of his own desires. What fulfilment there could be if only this body could fit into the woman’s and holding it in its total tightness suck the very juice out of existence. How could this be bad? Why should, if one ate meat and smoked cigarettes, why should not one also slip into the vulnerability of woman, and bite her out into waving upsurges and still her down into fluid satiations? Yet, behind this woman he saw the face of Kasturba, tender, innocent, firm and devoted. How could one ever betray such a wife? Of course, never. And the face of Putli Ba rose behind his eyes—not in admonition but in prayer. ‘Mohania, are you not my son?’ And this made the trick. Strength flowed from everywhere. The gods seemed, suddenly aware, to have come out of the heavens. They were there to help and to protect. The woman seeing such cowardly ambiguity on the man’s face, started to abuse, ‘You son of a donkey, what do you think you are? Be a man and if you cannot be, get out. Because you have paid me money, you think you can just sit there and watch me! Besides, I have other clients. I can tell you if you do not like my body, there are others better than you, richer than you, who want me. Get out.’
Mohania, perplexed and frightened, stood up and walked out. ‘God in His infinite mercy protected me,’ wrote Gandhiji later, ‘against myself. I was almost struck blind and dumb in this den of vice. I sat near the woman on her bed, but I was tongue-tied . . . I felt as though my manhood had been injured and wished to sink into the ground for shame.’ Next day he could never face Mehtab. Was Mohania a coward?
‘Idiot,’ shouted Mehtab, ‘it’s not my money that matters. But the shame on your manhood!’
‘I am sorry to have humiliated you,’ sputtered Mohan. He was so shy. After all, Mehtab was a very good fellow. Only he does not understand a married man’s scruples. Otherwise who knows what might not have happened? Who can foresee the acts of a man of passion? When his own father was ill and needed massage, did not Mohan quickly finish his task and rush to his wife to have coitus. The male organ is such an unruly thing. What is one to do? Lord, who can help us? Lord, who will help?
* * *
Yet what expectations can one have for this country—look at the pomp and vulgarity of the priests, the gold dome, the spire, the silver vessels clinking in the sanctum, the head-dresses, the limb-brocades, the very hair of the goddess gold-covered to shine and to bewilder, the rituals, one more elaborate than the other—it always costs more to have a ‘thousand-names’ said than a ‘hundred-names’—and the camphor and the bell, the sloth, and the slumber in which the priests lived, and look at the rings on their fingers, filigree on their bodies, and their eyes so full of mist and lust—concubines, people said, are who the priests spend their nights with. The priests did of course, but not with the street-corner concubines, but those devoted to Krishna, the Lord. And since Sri Krishna, He the Splendour of the Universe, He the joy in enjoyment, had so many, many gopis, and to each one he was the male, and the fulfilment, then why not each priest be a Krishna, and each concubine a gopi? Bolo Sri Krishna Maharaj ki jai—Shout the Glory of Sri Krishna, the Lord. He the Sun of the Gopis.
Such the sumptuousness of the apparels and jewellery on the women-of-Sri-Krishna, eyes would stare at them rather than on the god, their half-veiled, nose-ringed faces, a more intriguing presence.
How then take the sacraments offered by the priests against tinkling silver and the high and low of chants that they murmured with such graceless garrulity? Was this worship?
Look at the Jainas. Look at the Muslims. And yet we talk of the greatness of Hinduism. Look at our Untouchables. In Rama’s kingdom there were no Untouchables. Yes, there were none.
Even beast to beast act not in superiority. Do beasts ever harm one another in amusement or for a meaningless act? Look at that boy who struck me the other day. And I complain to Father about him. (How can I bear him a grudge?) What made him strike? Do I know? (Does anyone know anything at all?) Do not the Jainas say you can prove nothing? You cannot say even what a jug is. So, how judge a man, any man? Therefore do no harm to anyone. Purify yourself. Thus it was Mohan would bathe early, wash his clothes (whiter than anyone else’s) and go to his room, serious and meditative, and after that to school. Every footstep should be a ritual, every word a mantra. One says one’s beads as it were, as one walks or talks or works. All the world is a temple, the Kingdom of Sri Rama. In the Kingdom of Rama nobody hurts another, nobody complains against another. The right rights all and goes forward to the truth from which it arose.
When Rama sat upon his sovereign throne, the three spheres rejoiced and there was no more sorrow. No man was any other’s enemy, and under Rama’s royal influence all ill-feeling was laid aside. Everyone devoted himself to his duty in accordance with his caste and stage of life, and ever found happiness in treading the Vedic path. Fear and sorrow and sickness were no more. In Rama’s realm no one was troubled by bodily pain, ill fortune or evil circumstance. Every man loved his neighbour, walked in the path of his own duty and obeyed the injunctions of scripture. Piety with its four observances prevailed throughout the world and no one ever dreamed of doing wrong. Men and women were Rama’s earnest votaries, all heirs of final release. 22
Life is such an agglomeration of incidents. The pure act the path. It cuts through unnecessary involvements in time and location, it creates its own universe. After all, like Prahlada, you take the name of God, and you are never abandoned. The poison becomes sweet, the wild elephant mild, and God breaks out from the very pillar to protect you. Such the Vaishnava. Did Mira Bai have to say to herself, she a princess of Marwar, whether the Rana, her husband, would understand her devotion to Sri Krishna? No. Sri Krishna once loved would truly make the Rana understand. Who cares if the family or friends forsake you? You sing the name of the Lord at the temple, and the Lord knows what he does with you. So let us sing the name of the Lord. Lord, what a sight when man sells himself for a commodity. Hunger is bad, is evil, but to hunger for God is good. Mother, let us go to the katha again.
And this time it would be about Sravana.
Sravana, the young Brahmin, who carried his blind father on his shoulders and who, whilst on a journey, being thirsty both, left his father on a roadside, and while drinking water—lapping it up in his great need, by a river—the sound was so animal, Dasaratha, father of Rama, shot an arrow, thinking the noise came from a deer. Sravana had but strength to hand the water-pot to his father, and seeing Dasaratha cursed him and said, because of the act he be separated from his son, like he himself would be from his father, by death—and he died on the spot. And thus the Ramayana, the exile of Rama and Sita, and the sorrowful death of Dasaratha.
