Mahatma Gandhi, page 26
No. The Indian, one must admit, is hated. He is whenever possible spat upon. The press find not sufficient words to damn him.
What then should one do in the best Western tradition? ‘We are free,’ wrote Macaulay, ‘to little purpose if we grudge to any portion of the human race an equal measure of freedom and civilisation.’ Just remember your Mill, Burke, Bright, and Fawcette.
‘To bring a man here on starvation wages, to hold him under bondage, and when he shows the least sign of liberty, or in a position to live less miserably, to wish to send him back home where he would become comparatively a stranger and perhaps unable to earn a living is hardly a mark of fair play or justice characteristic of the British nation. 31
‘It now remains for me only to implore you to give this matter your earnest consideration, and to remind you (here I mean the English) that Providence has put the English and the Indians together and has placed in the hands of the former destinies of the latter . . . In conclusion I beg of you to receive the above in the same spirit in which it has been written. I have the honour to remain, your obedient servant, M.K. Gandhi.’ 32
* * *
It is so simple to say—and so complex to know—anything. For example, one could talk so much and so movingly of indentured labour but till one meets Balasundaram, how abstract, how almost irrelevant it all looked. To see suffering face to face is to know something more than suffering—that man has no right to suffer, and not that suffering is evil, but the suffering of suffering is irreverent to human existence. Why should one suffer? And who was Balasundaram?
Gandhiji sat in his law office, occupied as usual with the business files on the one side and the problems of the Indian community on the other. In fact, the former was only a justification for the latter. ‘Service of the poor,’ he said, ‘has been my heart’s desire’ and if one loves anything with all one’s heart, there it comes, the thing asked for. And so Balasundaram, the child-beautiful, appeared.
With broken teeth, blood flowing from his lips and face, on to his low-held turban, he stood, did Balasundaram, with torn clothes, in front of the barrister. He was speechless with fear. He had heard of this great man—somebody had told him of this young Indian lawyer, equal every whit to the whiteman, and whom anyone could go to, and he would defend you against the whites or the government. It was like a fable, like something from a Purana. But perhaps it was true. God does send such men on earth. But when the coolie Balasundaram stood before the great man he felt tongueless. He needed some comfort, but what he could not say. How would he know? He had a broken body and broken teeth, and an intense fear that anything might happen to him, at any moment, in this strange and fierce land, a land where the coolie is caught between the Kaffir and the white man—and the rest is a no-man’s land. Where was one to go? One’s land was far away across the seas. And in any case what was there to go to?
But, here in Africa, the Sahib and his wife were fierce people. When they got angry they really could tear anything, break anything to pieces. Balasundaram learnt, of course, to tell lies. How could one be straight with this Sahib or his great big lady? So one told lies. It made life simple. But the more the lies the more the anger of the Sahib. Now what was one to do? One told ever more lies. The Sahib today had got so furious, he’d slapped Balasundaram, had kicked him, beaten him. Balasundaram well deserved it. In fact, that’s what he thought. But what was he to do? He was just frightened. So he ran away. Where was he to go now? He first went to the Protector of Immigrants, a white man, and in charge of all the coolies. ‘Come tomorrow,’ said the officer. What did that mean? Would the Sahib have him back? No, he would never again serve the Sahib. What then to do?
So he ran to that new Indian, the great man, the coolie lawyer.
Gandhiji immediately stood up and asked Balasundaram to put back the turban on his head. Gandhiji was not a white man, he was not a boss. There was no need for abject respect to be shown to a fellow human being. And now go to the doctor. And here is a letter to the doctor.
The doctor was a white man. He was shocked with what he saw. He not only poured medicine on the wound and bandaged the poor coolie, he also gave him a certificate of Balasundaram being of a victim of clear brutality. And now with certificate and bandage, Gandhiji and Balasundaram went to the magistrate—the same type of court as the ones in India, the same Queen on the wall, and the same shape of table and magnificent servants about. The magistrate was angry, very angry, when he heard the story. He would prosecute the culprit immediately. Gandhiji averred: ‘It was far from my desire to get the employer punished. I simply wanted Balasundaram to be released from him.’ The magistrate kept the ‘turban as an exhibit’ and sent the wounded coolie to the hospital. Here he was well-bandaged and cared for, and once discharged he went straight to Gandhiji. ‘Revered sir, I never want to go to the old Sahib again.’ He could not articulate his words well. His gash was still unhealed. ‘I would like to be free.’ Gandhiji immediately went in search of the employer. ‘I do not want to proceed against you,’ said Gandhiji to him, ‘and get you punished. I think you realise you have severely beaten the man. I will be satisfied if you will transfer the indenture to someone else.’ The master agreed. So now Gandhiji went in search of a new white employer—for according to law, he had to be white, or Balasundaram would have to be escorted back by the police to the old master. A European agreed to take Balasundaram in his service. During this time however the old employer had changed his mind. He and his wife liked Balasundaram, and very much so. He’s such a good servant. Where will one find someone like him? After all, one has paid for and signed documents to have him. Yes, Balasundaram must come back to him. So the white master went to the Protector again. 33 The Protector was out. The coolie, meanwhile, had come back to the Protector. Gandhiji had sent him alone. Everything would now work out well—it was only a question of formality. After all, a white master had been found.
Meanwhile the Protector, on his side, had an excellent idea. The coolie had failed in his duty. The Sahib was right. Balasundaram had done something very wrong. In fact, he could be arrested and sent back for desertion. But he would let the coolie go with just a simple signature to a document, a thumb impression. It would cost nothing to the coolie. And after that signature, of course, he would go back to his master. Why not? The law said it. And being beaten by his master is after all not such a big offence. It happens everywhere, and all over the world.
Balasundaram returned to Gandhiji. Now there seemed no way out. Balasundaram would not go back to his old master. Yet he had signed a document and said he was wrong. And the white master wanted him back. Sick at heart, Gandhiji returned home and wrote a letter imploring the master to consent to the transfer. He refused. So now they went back to the magistrate. The magistrate was very angry. The employer had taken the law into his own hands. He had beaten the poor coolie ‘as if he were a beast’. Balasundaram must be freed from the contract at once. If not, the law would take its own course.
With that he adjourned the court, giving the employer one day to make up his mind. On sober reflection the latter climbed down. 34
The white master now agreed to Gandhiji’s offer. If Balasundaram could find a new master he would let him go, though with deep regrets.
One now went to the new white employer. It was Mr. Askew, the sole European who attended the meetings of the Natal Indian Congress. He would employ Balasundaram, and sign the papers accordingly. The white master of Balasundaram finally gave Balasundaram his freedom. He now went to settle down to work with Mr. Askew.
The news of Balasundaram’s case spread from town to plantation and by mouth and letter all over Natal and Orange Free State, and the Colony of South Africa. The news crossed the seas and was heard of in faraway Madras in India from where Balasundaram had sailed. Somewhere the whiteman was not all in all. And this frail, tall, austere lawyer from India was winning. If things went this way, what would happen to indentured labour, the sugar cane and the new gardens of coffee and of tea? And if the Balasundarams once free, set up their shops, and sat underselling the white man—besides they had so many children they would soon outnumber the whites—what was to become of Natal, and the dream of the Cape Cairo Railway, and the Queen’s red map of earth? The mystique of the Empire in its own way was based on God. There was a secret between heaven and earth, Cecil Rhodes thought, that made for the glory of the British Empire and, ultimately, of the human race. And somewhere deep down Gandhiji and Balasundaram also agreed with this truth. Who can know God’s ways?
Others and yet other Balasundarams followed. And each one ever more courageous. A certain Thangavellu ran away from his master, a baker, one day. He went straight to the Protector and the Protector gave him a three-day pass. Meanwhile, he had to appear before the Clerk of the Peace for an appropriate settlement. Thangavellu was ill-treated by his white master. And he will not return to the same master. But the police meanwhile arrested him.
‘Ho, ho, what! How dare you go about so free?’
‘Why, I have a pass.’
‘Is it your master’s?’
‘No, it’s the Protector’s.’
‘No good for us. Come then to the police station.’
And, of course, according to the police he had no business, without his master’s permission, to be out on the streets. He was officially loitering. Taken before the Magistrate, Thangavellu said he would rather be in prison than go back to the master. Anyway, for all positions and practices the little pass of the Protector had no value whatsoever. Therefore the Magistrate found the Protector had gone too far. But by Natal-British arrangement, the Protector had the right. By Natal laws, however, he had none. Now, who was right? Thus the coolie had to go back to his master. The Protector, with now the Governor’s consent, cancelled the contract. Finally, the Indian found another job.
But one could not go to the Governor for every case of desertion of a coolie. Everything was in confusion. What then was the law?
A little later a certain Guppi Gownden, Naransamy and a great many others (working on the Beneva Estate) were brought before the Umzinto Magistrate for having left their homes without permission, and having gone out in a body to the city. They pleaded (but how true was it?) that they had gone to perform memorial rights for a fellow Indian. But the Magistrate contended that they had gone to Umzinto to see him so as to be able to protest against their employer. The first two were condemned to two months imprisonment and the rest each to a fine of ten shillings. They had all pleaded guilty. The Supreme Court, where the case was now taken, ridiculed the Magistrate for such a decision. The day the Indians had gone to the city was a Sunday. Thus they were not on duty. But the grossest error was that the Magistrate had condemned them under Section 101 whereas it should have been under Section 31.
Sir Walter Wragg: It is no offence to leave the Estate in a body. You might just as well charge them with going up in a balloon.
The Chief Justice: The most extraordinary thing is so many Indians should plead guilty.
Sir Walter Wragg: The Magistrate has not only taken the wrong section but has quoted the section wrongly and created the offence . . . It is a terrible thing that these men should have been imprisoned for a fortnight. The fault of the Magistrates was that in dealing with cases they would not look at their law books. 35
And now more and more white people were shocked and amazed with what was happening about them, and in their name. Was this the way to behave in civilised society? And with the support of enlightened white opinion on one side and under dedicated leadership of Gandhiji, the movement carried a secret and astonishing momentum of its own. For example, in the sugar estate of Reynolds & Co. at Umzinto, the Indian labourers were so miserable they went to the Protector at Durban for relief. The Protector sent their complaints to the Crown Prosecutor, back to Umzinto. The summons were issued. But the coolies refused to return to Umzinto. The police then came to arrest them in Durban, on the spot. They were all taken to the compound of the Protector’s office. From there they would be marched down to Umzinto. Meanwhile, ‘eight men of the party snatched their loin clothes, which they managed to fasten round their necks and attach to the branch of a tree in the compound before the police could stop them. The branch of the tree was too low to suspend the coolies but as they strained and tried to strangle themselves, they presented a horrible spectacle with their eyes starting from their sockets and their tongues lolling out of their mouths. The women belonging to the party gathered round howling and weeping.’2
The Protector’s chief clerk however came to rescue them and cut the noose. But the police would have their way. The Indians were now handcuffed. People gathered round to see what was happening, ‘some cursing and some commiserating the Indians’. This frightened and pushed the police to more brutal action. ‘The Indians continued to struggle after they were carried out of the compound, and the constable finding them too heavy to carry dropped them on the road which made them howl louder than ever, as their backs which were bare came in contact with sharp stones on the road.’ 36
The Police Superintendent Alexander noticing this immediately asked the police to stop such ‘brutal treatment’ and they were taken to the station in rickshaws to board the train, and finally be placed before the Magistrate at Umzinto.
And thus from tragedy to tragedy, and often from victory to victory.
* * *
Meanwhile, the Indian traders were not to be forgotten. In the Boer Republic of Transvaal they were to be herded (‘for sanitary reasons’) into little community settlements called locations, where alone they could buy their lands, build their houses, and often ply their trade. Things were slightly different but generally difficult even in the Cape Colony. However, the British Government was now in a dilemma. It has to side with the Indians, on principle, because of the Empire, for without India there would be no Empire. And with Indians creating trouble elsewhere, in other African colonies, each with its own peculiar problems, what was to be the position of the home government? Some who had the mystique of the Empire sided with the Indians. For them the Empire was beyond a question of colour. It was somehow holy, divine. For others—and these were the white settlers in the colonies mainly, and the conservatives at home in England, the Empire was—if ever it was going to be what it was destined to be—white. Thus the agitation began not only in Africa but in England as well. Indian delegations, helped with every detail by Mohandas Gandhi, waited on the Secretary of State for colonies, often led by the venerable Dadabhai Naoroji himself. The Secretary of State’s decisions depended on his party’s policy.
At one moment Mr. Chamberlain came to be in charge of the colonies. He was a man of great ambition, precision and courage but he had to deal with a growing Empire. Of course, he understood the Indian case. But then the truth was not just a question of the white or the brown—there was also a deeper fight between the white and the white, between the Boer and the British. In Transvaal, for example, and in other Boer republics there was always the problem of the Uitlanders. For there were more Englishmen in Transvaal than the Boer. And the English had all the money.
Rhodes had called Kruger ‘a dirty, uneducated Dutchman, backward, primitive and impossible, an anachronism, a throw back to the time of Moses who ought to be cleared away’. Kruger had, so the legend went, killed over two hundred lions with his own hands, so hardy, resolute, indomitable was this man. He could look after his Boers, with their farms and their babies, their bellowing cattle, their Bible-readings. The Boers will never be British, will never belong to the modern world. And Kruger on his side did not sit mute. He called the Uitlanders, these new-comers, ‘dirty vultures’ and the gold they had discovered, the very source of corruption. ‘Every ounce of gold,’ he declared, ‘taken from the bowels of our soil will have to be weighed up with a river of tears, with the life-blood of thousands of our people in the defence of that same soil, from the lust of other’s yearnings for it, solely because it has the yellow metal in abundance.’ He hated Johannesburg, therefore, and all its corruptions of Sodom. The English dominated it all. He hated to even go there. And asked once to open a public hall in the city, he grudgingly accepted the invitation, went, and spoke thus from his mountain top. ‘You foreigners, you new-comers, yes, even you liars, thieves and murderers.’ And he returned to his Boer capital of Pretoria, satisfied he had his say. Then he sat with his pipe and coffee pot, till the next Burgher came.
Beware of the British. And now they bring in the Indians. Of course the British need them on their plantations in Natal. And so we have to suffer. Strange.
The Orange Free State, when it discovered the seriousness of the problem, had already made it impossible for Indians to stay on its territory. Transvaal was making it more and more humiliating for them every day. Between the Britisher and the Indian, London would choose the Britisher, of course. But what if it came to a choice between the Boer and the Indian? The Empire came first. And, yet, how could one go against a white man and for a brown man?
‘It sometimes happens in life,’ wrote St. Leger, a famous journalist, in the Cape Times, ‘that men are called upon to decide decisively between the claims of justice and claims of self. With men of honourable inclinations the task is . . . a far heavier one than with men whose natures have long ago cast overboard any conscientious scruples with which they may have been endowed at the outset of their unlovely existence.
‘When one reflects that the conception of Brahmanism, with its poetic and mysterious mythology, took its rise in the land of the ‘coolie trader’, that in that land twenty-four centuries ago, the almost divine Buddha taught and practised the glorious doctrine of self-sacrifice, and that it was from the plains and mountains of that weird old country that one derived the fundamental truths of the very language we speak, one cannot help regretting that the children of such a race should be treated as the equals of the children of black heathendom and outer darkness. Those who, for a few moments, have stayed to converse with the Indian trader have been, perhaps, surprised to find they are speaking to a scholar and a gentleman.’ 37
