Mahatma Gandhi, page 13
‘So Mohania what may it be?’ he asked, did the uncle.
‘Uncle, I have finished my matriculation, you know. I was not bright but I was all right. Then I went for a few months to the college at Bhavnagar. It was so dull—and my health poor. There was nothing to learn. Our teachers are still new to English education. I must go to England. I must return a barrister. Then I can do something worthy of the family.’
‘Your father,’ said the uncle gently, affectionately, ‘your father had high hopes for you. We felt you would bring lustre to the family name.’
‘I don’t know whether this will ever be true. I am earnest, however, or rather I am trying very hard to be more and more earnest.’
‘Of that, son, we have no doubt.’
‘But I have,’ insisted Mohania. ‘There is no end to the discovery of what is true. I work so hard. And yet I fail, all the time. It’s not so easy, Uncle, to love the truth, to attain the truth. Only Harishchandra could.’
‘Why could you not be Harishchandra? Who knows!’
‘Oh, Uncle, how could that ever be? I am such a simple, unendowed person. All I can do is to seek, seek hard, reach if possible the core of things.’
‘We, the Gandhis, have always been somewhat difficult with the world. You will succeed, though, son. My thoughts are now bent on Benares. If you want to go to England, you can go. If your mother says yes, I say yes. And you have my blessings.’
The uncle was not only kind. He was diplomatic. He was not only humble and truthful, he was also ambitious and proud. Yes, Mohania will bring lustre to the family. Yet, would he help?
‘When will you be going?’
‘As soon as I can get the money. It will cost between five and ten thousand rupees. Madhavji has promised to lend me the necessary sum. I can return it when I make my own money.’
‘If Madhavji says so he means it.’
‘So you think, Uncle, I can go?’
‘Yes, of course, you have my blessings.’ Mohan was overjoyed. So now he could go, he will go.
With this consent extracted he went to his cousin, Paramanandji. To promise money is one thing, but to give it another. Especially a loan, and to such a stripling of a boy. And he going off to far Europe. The family will not permit it. The caste will not permit. It never will. Thus spoke the wise cousin. So what’s to be done now? Perhaps the princes of Porbandar or of Rajkot might give him a scholarship. Would not Mr. Lely, the English administrator of Porbandar, do something to help him out?
‘For the first time in my life,’ wrote Mohandas Gandhi a few years later, ‘I had an interview with an English gentleman. Formerly I never dared to confront them. But thoughts of London made me bold. I had small talk with him in Gujarati. He was quite in a hurry. He saw me when he was ascending the ladder of the upper storey of his bungalow. He said Porbandar was very poor and could not give me any pecuniary help.’ 23 Our Mohania may ultimately have to depend on Paramanandbhai. Yes, the money would come. And with such an assurance he went back to Rajkot.
And then again there was Mr. Watson, the Political Agent to Kathiawar States, and he may, remembering the service of Kaba Gandhi to Kathiawar, render some help. Meanwhile, another cousin, Madhavji, who had promised help, withdrew his offer. He was frightened of caste-opinions. Not only did he not want to loan out any money (to this wiseacre kid of Kaba Gandhi’s!) but he even spoke ill of Mohandas. This made his mother very unhappy. ‘I could easily console her and I have the satisfaction to see that I have often consoled her with success and have made her laugh when she, my dear, dear mother, would be shedding tears on my account. At last Colonel Watson came. I saw him. He said, “I will think about it,” but I never could get any help from him. Then they sought the Thakore Sahib of Rajkot. Nothing came of this either. Then for the last time I saw the Thakore Sahib and Colonel Watson, received a note of introduction from the latter, and an autographed photo from the former. Here I must write that the fulsome flattery which I had to practise about this time had made me quite angry. Had it not been for my credulous and dearest brother, I should have never resorted to such a piece of gross flattery.’ 24
But it was so willed by the gods, Mohan’s eldest brother was with him in this great adventure. Yes, Mohan must go to England and come back a barrister.
And when he returns he would be prime minister anywhere in Kathiawar. The Gandhi name will continue to shine high on the brow of Porbandar.
But the community, roused from its inertia, woke up one day to find that a distinguished member of the Modhi-bania caste was going away to England. This shall not be done. The Gandhis of Porbandar will be excommunicated if they went against the consensus of the community. Yes, we will do it for all the manes in the heavens; the very gods will desert us, if we did not respect our tradition. No, Mohandas Gandhi, son of the revered Kaba Gandhi, will not leave the sacred shores of India.
‘Son, you must not go,’ said the mother.
‘Why not, Mother? You had given me a promise . . .’
‘Yes, that is so. But look at all the community. What will happen to us who remain behind?’
‘Mother, after all, the world has always gone and will go on were the community to say no, and yet again no. The fact, Mother, is this. Do you really believe I will lose caste by going away to England? Do you?’
‘Not really, Mohania. But they say women in England are easy of ways, and further that you will have to eat meat and drink wine.’
‘Is that all that worries you, mother?’
‘Yes, only these . . . and other things as well.’
‘Will you not trust me? I shall not tell you a lie. I swear I will not touch any of those things. Would that do?’
‘I can trust you,’ said Putli Ba. ‘But how can I trust you in a distant land? I am dazed and know not what to do.’
‘God is everywhere, Mother. He is not present only in Gujarat. And He will help me if anyone will . . .’
‘Yes, that is true.’
Who could argue with Mohania? He was so true, so very clever. Yes, he will do something worthy one day. She would ask Becharji Maharaj, the Jaina monk. He was once a Gandhi.
‘Swamiji,’ said the mother to Becharji Maharaj, when he came visiting them a few days later. ‘My son Mohania insists on going to England. He says he will not touch meat or wine or women. Our Joshiji said: Let Mohania take a vow “I will not touch meat or wine or women” and then he could go. What does the Swamiji think of it?’
‘If he would take a vow he would keep a vow,’ assured the Swamiji knowing Mohania well. ‘And I will administer it myself.’
Kasturba, however, was inconsolable. Not only the community was against her and him but he was going to a far-off country with easy women, meat and drinks. ‘And now what will happen to me? Lord, why do you give me this, this, this?’ Her parents too came round to her view. ‘How could you do that to us?’ And day after day he had to argue with them, console his wife. After all, it was going to be only for two years, the separation would be, and when he comes back he will be a barrister. That means money, position and great dignity. Yes, it is right he should go to England.
Of course, the body’s fires who will quell? But life is sorrow, especially the life of woman. She bears pain while men go and fight in the world. Look at our ballads—the Jauhars. Men go to battle to slay the Turk or be slain by him. The women will sit around the fire, reading the sacred texts. If men come back the women will welcome them with kumkum water and flower garlands. If not, they adorn themselves with kumkum and garlands and jump into the blazing pyre. Such the tradition, such the women of Kathiawar. Yes, of course, the body cries. Its agony seems sometimes unbearable. Passion is not anybody’s friend.
Who can bear the submarine fire? Yet must husband and wife know that man must do his duty—he must go to his wars, his conquests. The woman looks after the brood, the little ones. Now that they had a son, he will keep Kasturba busy. A son on the lap is part of his father at home. ‘Harilal will look after you!’ Thus the arguments and explanations, and reversals of arguments, to come to one decision: Yes, Mohandas will leave for England.
‘Then a day was fixed for my departure. At first it was the fourth of August. The matter was brought to a crisis . . . My brother was asked by some persons about my going. Now was the time when he told me to leave off the intention of going but I would not do that. The tenth of August came and I started . . .’ 25
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘Mother, I go and come.’
‘Go and come, son,’ she answered but before she could say her blessings, tears streamed up in her eyes, and she hiding her face behind her hands, spoke nothing. Would she see her son again? This was the only question that needed an answer, but who could tell her? Widowhood is sad, and death the holy termination of this existence. For how long could one carry one’s inauspiciousness about? And Mohania not there.
‘Son, go and come,’ Putli Ba repeated while the whole house was already bustling with the confusions of departure. Kasturba was inconsolable. She sobbed and sobbed. But now she had a son too, to look after, the little Harilal. ‘Can you not stay back, at least for your son’s sake? Must you be so obstinate? There is still time . . .,’ and she would break into big fits of sobbing.
‘I kissed her,’ says Gandhiji, ‘and she said, ‘Don’t go!’ What followed I need not describe.’
The carriage was ready. The servants were in tears. All the family came to the front door; uncles, cousins, aunts, retainers. The neighbours too opened their windows to see this great departure. Perhaps when one goes to London one never returns.
Karsandas, the elder brother, was accompanying Mohan to Bombay. The faithful, the irrepressible Sheik Mehtab too would travel as far as Bombay with his friend. After all, one does not go to England every day from Kathiawar. Mohandas Gandhi’s journey abroad became such an event that even the Kathiawar Times spoke of it. ‘I hope some of you will follow in my footsteps, and after your return will work wholeheartedly for the big reforms in India.’ 26 These were his final words to friends and fellow young men.
* * *
At least it was good to be going to Bombay. From Bombay everything will look different, and London near.
The city of Bombay with its tall Victorian structures, its many fine and honoured statues, its parks, grounds, its harbour, seemed a real metropolis after Rajkot. And the number of Europeans who went about in carriages showed it was an important one too. The buggies were more splendid than anyone saw at Rajkot, with outriders, brilliant horses, and coachmen dressed in black and gold. Ships came and went (though not too frequently) and this in itself seemed to make the city larger than it was. More humanity came in, and some went out too. Goods came in, and raw materials went out. The Kathiawaris were excellent merchants, and they made money with this buying and selling, then selling and buying again. The Modhi-banias, to which sub-caste Mohandas belonged, were a prosperous community in Bombay. You could make money from the foreigner; you could make much money, but you will not go to his land. It was evil to do so. How dare, said they, does Karamchand Gandhi’s son go to London? The community became excited over it all. Elders went to elders and talked about it on verandas, and the women inside their courtyards could not think of such sinful things happening. And, too, with a wife and child. Was it plausible? This indeed was the iron-age, the Kali-yuga. One day some Modhi-banias seeing Mohandas on the street, surrounded him and booed him. ‘Look at that fellow, and he be going to pariah London, so he says, for higher studies. Does not he know in England—and we in Bombay know it for we see it all the time—the Englishmen do not wash every day, they’ve no knowledge of the pure or the impure, the touchable or the untouchable, in fact meat and drink is all they know, and the easy way women yield to men. Just see it in Bombay any evening on Malabar Hill or in Colaba. And the way women and men hold each other tight and dance! You can see it all with your own eyes. Come!’
Mohandas was ever shy. Words did not come to him easily. Nor did hatred. He simply said, ‘I go to study. I will become a barrister and return. I have taken my vows and to those vows am I wedded.’
‘The better-than-you have succumbed, my dear fellow. You will not go.’
‘I will go,’ said Mohandas firmly, and walked out of the angry crowd.
Day by day events began to grow worse. The brother began to wonder if Mohandas was doing the proper thing. ‘Brother,’ he answered, ‘You know I’ve promised Mother. And Mother for me is like the Goddess herself. I will not break my promise. Anyway, the vows were administered by a Sadhu. How could I break these.’
‘Yes, you must go,’ remarked Karsandas. ‘Father always imagined you holding big posts in government. How could you do that if you did not get a London degree? Go, brother, and you have my blessings.’ One could not wait indefinitely in Bombay after all. So Karsandas left for Rajkot. However, monsoon weather was not appropriate for a novice’s sea-voyage. Somewhere a ship had sunk. Thus one had to wait till the climate changed. But this made the waiting worse. The community was getting angrier. One day they called a big meeting. Anybody who did not turn up would have to pay a fine of five annas per person. Mohandas had to answer to the whole community, and be condemned by them if he foolishly persisted in his decision. He went to the assembly nervous but courageous, fearful not of what they would do to him but as to what he would say. And then again to address a whole assembly, the elders amongst them!
They said the same things (at the meeting) they had spoken before; the immorality of the British, the meat, the wine, the women. But he insisted his vows would see him through them all. Remember, there is such a thing as Truth. And Truth protects. Look at Harishchandra. This is not what he said, this is what he thought. And it gave him strength. ‘Rama, Sri Rama,’ he chanted to himself. That is the refuge of the meek and the true. He would go to London and come out a better man. Of this he was certain. He could not say it to the assembly but he knew he would see a new humanity, and he would return a wiser man. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘that I cannot alter my decision. What I have heard about England is quite different from what you say; one need not take meat and wine there. As for crossing the waters, if our brethren can go as far as Aden, why could I not go to England? I am deeply convinced that malice is at the root of all these objections.’
‘You and your family will be excommunicated.’
‘Who can, revered sirs, stop you from doing what you think just. And so I go.’
‘The elders of your family too might be excommunicated.’
‘Well, they will have to take their own decisions. I have taken mine. And it is immutable.’
So young, yet so strong, never had a Modhi-bania boy behaved with such lack-reverence to the community, as this Mohandas Gandhi, son of Karamchand Gandhi of Rajkot. And what do you think, the whole family would duly be excommunicated! One might neither eat with them nor drink with them. No one will ever cross a threshold where the Ota Gandhi family lives. And, of course, there would be no question of any of us giving our daughters in marriage to the Gandhis.
‘This boy has lost his senses!’ they cried. ‘We command everyone not to have anything to do with him. He who will support him must be treated as an outcast, whoever helps him or goes to see him off at the dock shall be punishable with a fine of a rupee and annas four.’ 27
* * *
The S.S. Clyde was a ship that had sailed many seas. When it berthed in Bombay it seemed a wonder and a promise. Mazumdar, the well-known Junagadh lawyer, was going by that ship. If Mazumdar could risk his life going on September seas, why not Mohandas Gandhi? People thought it a wise decision. But when he went to get his money—Karsandas had handed it over to Mohan’s brother-in-law to keep—the brother-in-law would not give it back. Mohandas then went to Ranchoddas Patwari, a friend of the family; the good man, he willingly gave Mohandas the necessary money. The ticket was bought. And so too the clothes and accessories. ‘Some of the clothes I liked, and some I did not like at all. The necktie which I delighted in wearing later, I then abhorred. The short jacket I looked upon as immodest.’ 28 The boat was going to sail the next day. But who knows what can still happen, after all there’s the excommunication? He would go anyway. There was no question whatsoever about it. He would go to England, ‘the land of philosophers, poets, the very centre of civilisation’.
The S.S. Clyde left Bombay for England on 4 September 1888, sailing a quiet, monsoonless sea. He had left his mother.
2
England of the Fabians
Sir, how be a gentleman? What marks and modes of thought and clothes, what inflections of sound and temperament, make a young man a gentleman? And if one is a vegetarian, a little too young and a little too awkward of word or gesture, what then? And what then, too, if one’s English is imperfect (Indian schools, you know, have only just started the teaching of English and, sir, albeit a great language, it’s still an alien tongue to us, and forgive us our abuse of it!). And the way you hold that needly fork and that ever slippery knife in your hands, and ask the waiter in whispered and almost inaudible tones, ‘Be there any meat in it?’ While the ship rolls over to its sides—it’s sort of the monsoon months yet—what then do you do when the waiter does not understand? ‘I do not eat meat,’ you repeat, but the waiter still does not understand. How then, Lord, be a gentleman? You can eat bread and butter and say no word to anyone, eat jam or cheese and endure it all. This does not leave you alone. For a few friendly Englishmen are about and they will not let you in peace. ‘Unless you eat meat, and smoke and drink you will never make a gentleman.’ They more or less mean what they say, though it is not always easy to understand what they say. The best thing then is to go back to one’s cabin and eat little tidbits brought from home, and be hungry. You can at least walk on the deck and show in your clothes that you’re a gentleman. There are still decent people in the world, even among Englishmen, who think you are not a boor if you do not eat meat but who will try and persuade you to do so. Their arguments sound authentic, even true. But there’s the vow. And so you go back to your tea and tidbits, and let God decide the rest.
