Mahatma Gandhi, page 31
Gandhiji in Durban was unprepared for such a grim battle. What was he going to do? His heart went out to the Boers—brave and God-abiding people. He respected them. But he had given—pledged—his complete loyalty to the British. His duty lay with the British. They may be wrong. So were the Kauravas, yet Bhishma gave his loyalty to them. You pledge your loyalty to one, and you remain with him, though you may not approve of him. In fact, you might think justice is on the side of the adversaries. But that is another matter. Gandhiji had nothing to choose. He argued:
‘Our existence in South Africa is only in our capacity as British subjects. In every memorial we have prescribed, we have asserted our rights as such. We have been proud of our British citizenship. It would be unbecoming of our duty as a nation to look on with folded hands at a time when ruin stared the British in the face as well as ourselves, simply because they ill-treat us here. Our ordinary duty as subjects, therefore, is not to enter into the events of the war, but when war has actually broken out, to render such assistance as we possibly can. The underlying principle in the above argument is . . . insistence on truth.’
Therefore he now offered his services to the British Colony of Natal and he was willing to do whatever they wanted of him. The British found him an irksome friend. How could you pass laws against the Indian franchise, and hope to drive the Indian merchant out of the country, and yet have him fight for you, with you?
Knowing the dilemma Gandhiji offered an Indian ambulance corps. He knew nursing—he loved it. It was one of his two passions, he had said—the one was loyalty to the British and the other his love for nursing. Thus he could combine the two and wanted very much to go to the front and look after the wounded, the forlorn. But the British, would they have him and his crowd?
The British refused this offer. They could get along with their job without Indians meddling in their affairs. But the Boer fought so well, it went ill with the soldiers of the Empire. And Gandhiji went on putting pressure on the British to accept him and his corps of nearly eleven hundred trained volunteers, ‘free’ Indians and many from the class of the hated ‘indentured labourers’. Finally the offer was accepted—the help was sorely needed. And the Indians were in splendid form. They were happy to serve and sometimes went to the firing line to get the wounded out. A new spirit of friendship and comradeship was born.
‘The relationship formed with the whites during the war were of the sweetest,’ Gandhiji writes. ‘We had come in contact with thousands of tommies. They were friendly with us and thankful for being there to serve them.’
‘I cannot,’ continues Gandhiji, ‘forbear from recording a sweet reminiscence of how human nature shows itself as its best in moments of trial. We were marching towards Chievely camp where Lieutenant Roberts, the son of Lord Roberts, had received a mortal wound. Our corps had the honour of carrying the body from the field. It was a sultry day—the day of our march. Everyone was thirsting for water. There was a tiny brook on the way where we could slake our thirst. But who was to drink first? We had proposed to come in after the tommies had finished. But they would not begin first and urged us to do so, and for a moment a pleasant competition went on for giving precedence to one another.’
This humble work of the Indian Ambulance Corps was much applauded and mentioned by General Buller in his dispatches. The leaders were even awarded gold medals. One (coolie) Parbhusingh had shown such heroism that the Viceroy of India, Lord Curzon, sent him a Kashmir robe, and ‘wrote to the Natal Government asking them to carry out the presentation ceremony with all possible publicity. This duty was assigned to the Mayor of Durban who held a public meeting in the Town Hall for the purpose.’ 15
The British Empire was now a united entity. The Indians too were part of this great Empire. The press henceforth began to speak of the Indian in a different manner. And the popular refrain sang:
We are sons of Empire after all.
His job was over. The Indian community had won great prestige with their ambulance corps and with the heroism they had shown. It had become a vital part of African life and politics. Henceforward the work started could but go on. The bill against the Indians will certainly be dropped now. Gandhiji must think of going back to India. True, he was earning a very good income, he was respected not only by his own community but also among his adversaries. Nevertheless one must go back to where one belongs. Thus, entrusting his legal work to two Indian colleagues, and his political work to those whom he trusted, he told them of his decision to leave for India. In fact, now there is not much to do. But there is, his colleagues believed, so much that can still happen. They would let him go only in case he would accept one firm condition. If ever they needed him he would come back to them. This was, of course, an understandable demand. Yes, he would return whensoever they wanted his services. This agreed, there were to be festivities to give their leader an appropriate farewell. Not only his clients gave him presents, which was natural, but many other members of the community as well. The more these accumulated, the more anxious he became. But his wife was overjoyed. This is how it has always been in Kathiawar. Presents are offered ever to the Sovereign. And was not young Mohandas a true leader? A king? Look at him, so young and yet so nobly respected. One could be proud of him. His children too looked up to their prestigious father with respect, with love. And they also welcomed these gifts of gold and silver. Gandhiji spent sleepless nights. How could he, who had done everything as an expression of service to the community, accept any gift?
This was not a question of give and take, but of giving alone. No, he could accept no gifts from his fellow-Indians. What would the wife think?
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘fine thing to do. You earn a lot of money but there is nothing left in the coffers. What shall happen to us if ever we are in difficulty? And what shall I give my daughter-in-law? It is well to believe in God and all that. But for a woman, gold is her only safety, her protection in need. No I will do nothing of the sort. The jewels are mine.’
‘The jewels and presents were given to me,’ remarked Gandhiji.
‘Why, what do you think I am, not behind you, a part of you, toiling and moiling for everyone? No, I will not let the jewels go.’
Not able to argue any further he set his children to work. Don’t you think the jewels should be given back to the community? Remember, we served the Indians in the name of God. Of course! the children agreed. They too could not convince their mother. Finally between the one-pointedness of Kasturba and the sweet stubbornness of Gandhiji, of course Gandhiji won. The jewels were all turned over to a trust for the furthering of the cause. The trust continues to exist to this day in the Republic of South Africa.
To whom does money belong is a most pertinent question to ask. The wealth of man is only the bounty of God. Is that it? Gandhiji was still uncertain. He went on questioning.
Meanwhile, the Indian community gave him a regal send-off. He was unhappy to leave his brethren in the struggle. But he was not going far.
The boat stopped at Mauritius. Gandhiji’s name had become so well known in the British Empire that the Governor asked him to spend the day with him. Gandhiji agreed to and also availed himself of the occasion to look into the condition of the Indian indentured labour. Here they did not suffer from the same disabilities as in Natal—nowhere where the Indians had gone were they treated as anything but British subjects—in every way equal to the whites, at least by law. The problem in South Africa, he could see, was a very special one.
* * *
Reaching India was a delight but where was he to settle? Bombay was the proper place for a barrister to practise—but Bombay was frightening after his first experience of it only a few years ago. Gandhiji therefore went straight to Rajkot—his home town, as it were. He had relatives and friends there. He won two or three important cases in that area and immediately the local members of the legal profession said that he could easily settle in Bombay and they would send him enough clients to give him a decent and regular income. With this promise he felt free to uncover his destiny in Bombay. He would soon settle down there as a lawyer—but before then he wanted to inspect the Indian scene.
The Indian National Congress, now grown into an imposing body, was holding its sessions in Calcutta this time. Sir Phirozeshah Mehta was to preside over it. In those days great men travelled in great style. Sir Phirozeshah travelled in a special saloon car. Gandhiji wanted to speak to him about the problem of South African Indians. Gandhiji spent some time with him in his saloon. Yes, the Congress would surely pass a resolution about the wretched conditions of Indians in Natal. But what about the wretchedness of the Indians in India? Unless India is free what can we do in far Africa? Is that not the precise question?
Even so, the Congress sessions were going to be an impressive experience. The great Lokamanya Tilak was there, learned, and dedicated. Gokhale was there too, civilised—almost too highly so—truthful and fearless. And there were others as well, all come to make speeches, pass resolutions, and go back to where they came from having sent petitions to Her Majesty’s Government. And as for the organisation itself—it was thin, inadequate. The Indian National Congress worked just for three days in the year; it had no permanent staff. So Gandhiji offered his services. Mr. Ghosh, an elderly, energetic and eccentric man, was in charge of the Congress office. He had somehow never heard of Gandhiji. Therefore Gandhiji did the clerical job badly needed—to go through the correspondence, and answer letters. Gandhiji found this an enriching experience especially as Mr. Ghosh would often talk, and talk much about the Congress from its very beginnings—he was, as it were one of the founding members.
The living conditions for the delegates were inadequate. The sanitary instincts of Gandhiji never left him in peace. The delegates did not seem to mind the smell of human excreta from wheresoever it came. They would use the latrines freely and not worry about the accumulation of human intestinal remains. When the volunteers were asked, they said they knew nothing about it; it was the job of the scavenger, and not theirs. Thus Gandhiji started scavenging his own bathroom but having had to share it with some others, he cleaned the place for himself and his companions as well. But of course he could not do it for the whole camp. And naturally the delegates went on living in their own filth and odours. Who cares? This is India.
Meanwhile, however, the Congress went on with its doings. The Subjects Committee met and debated what they were going to say and discuss in the general assembly. Gandhiji’s resolution on South Africa too would come up for discussion, like every other, before the Subjects Committee. But everyone made such long speeches that ‘Mine,’ says Gandhiji, ‘was but a feeble pipe among the veteran drums’. It was almost eleven o’clock in the evening. Everybody was by now exhausted and empty.
‘So we have done,’ said Sir Phirozeshah.
‘No, no, there’s still the resolution on South Africa. Mr. Gandhi has been waiting long,’ cried out Gokhale.
‘Have you seen the resolution?’ asked Sir Phirozeshah.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘It is quite good.’
‘Well, then, let us have it, Gandhi.’
He read it trembling.
Gokhale supported it.
‘Unanimously passed,’ cried out everyone.
‘You will have five minutes to speak on it, Gandhi,’ said Dinshah Wacha.
‘The procedure was far from pleasing to me.’ 16
The next day he had to make his speech. What could he say in five minutes? And yet he had spent all night preparing himself for some sort of explicit statement. ‘But the facility of speaking that I had acquired in South Africa seemed to have left me for the moment . . . As soon as it was time for my resolution Mr. Wacha called out my name. I stood up. My head was reeling. I read the resolution somehow.’ Then he read a poem written by someone for the occasion, praising emigration. The bell was rung. Hurt, he sat down.
That’s how the first Congress resolution on South Africa was passed. It seemed to convey nothing to anyone—especially when one remembers in Natal every Indian who signed the petition to the Governor had to be told what it contained, and only with his full consent would one accept his signature. Here it was a noble formality. But it gave an official status to the meagre demands of the Indians in South Africa. It would still serve.
And after this annual political festivity everyone went back—leaving Gandhiji behind and in holy despair. Be this the politics of India? And everybody making speeches in English. Dressed like Englishmen, most of them behaved like their masters too. Could this ever bring freedom?
Gokhale had decided to stay on in Calcutta. He was staying at the India Club. Would Gandhiji like to join him? And for one whole month this great Indian leader and Gandhiji shared their experiences.
Gokhale treated Gandhiji like a younger brother.
‘To see Gokhale at work was as much a joy as an education. He never wasted a minute. His private relations and friendships were all for public good. All his talks had references only to the good of the country and were absolutely free from any trace of untruth or insincerity. India’s poverty and subjection were matters of constant and intense concern for him.’
Gokhale too was moved by the unfaltering honesty and noble devotion of his young companion. Gandhiji thus met many of the important leaders, Gokhale himself arranging the introductions. One of them was with Kalicharan Banerji, the first President of the Congress. He was a convert to Christianity. He was a noble and a humble man.
‘Do you believe in the doctrine of original sin?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ replied Gandhiji.
‘Well, then, Hinduism offers no absolution therefrom; Christianity does. The wages of sin is death,’ Kalicharan Banerji continued, ‘and the Bible says that the only way of deliverance is surrender unto Jesus.’
Gandhiji answered that the path of devotion—the Bhakti Marga of the Bhagavad Gita—was indeed also a path of salvation. But Kalicharan Banerji would not be convinced.
Gandhiji continued his search. He visited ashrams and spiritual centres. He went in search of Swami Vivekananda at Belur Monastery but the Swami was not there. It is intellectually exciting to question and ponder what might have happened to India and to the world had they really met. Would Swami Vivekananda have talked to him of his own Guru, Sri Ramakrishna, and showed that love, knowledge and freedom are one, and the surest path to liberation the lotus feet of the Sat Guru, the true Guru: the search for the Guru, the only path to the truth?
‘I believe in the Hindu theory of ‘Guru and his importance’ in spiritual realisation. I think there is a great deal of truth in the doctrine that true knowledge is impossible without a Guru. There must, therefore, be ceaseless striving after perfection. For one gets the Guru that one deserves. Infinite striving after perfection is one’s right. It is its own reward. The rest is in the hands of God.’ 17
Now Gandhiji went visiting temples.
He went to the temple of Kali and was stupefied the way God, or the Goddess, was worshipped. Did God want so much blood? What a tragedy that this great province of Bengal should have such a tradition. And there were many sadhus around the temple too. One of them stopped Gandhiji and asked:
‘Whither are you going, my boy?’
‘Do you regard this sacrifice as religion?’ Gandhiji asked.
‘Who would regard killing of animals as religion?’
‘Then why don’t you preach against it?’
‘That’s not my business,’ said the sadhu. ‘Our business is to worship God.’
‘But why could you not find another place to worship God?’ persisted Gandhiji.
‘All places are equally good for us,’ said the religious mendicant. ‘The people are like a flock of sheep, following where leaders lead them. It is no business of us.’
And what he saw that day he could never, never forget.
So Calcutta had both the bloody temple of Kali and the monastery of Sri Ramakrishna.
He met editors of newspapers. He gave them interviews, wrote letters and articles on the condition of Indians in South Africa. And living in Calcutta 18 he also saw the manner the Indian upper classes lived, the Maharaja and the Nawab, and the way they behaved with the Viceroy—like cooks, thought Gandhiji. ‘Do you see any difference between us and the cooks?’ asked a Maharaja. ‘We are Lord Curzon’s cooks.’
‘How heavy,’ Gandhiji reflected, ‘is the toll of sins and wrongs that wealth, power and prestige exact from man!’
He would now go to Benares. And he would no more travel first class. To know India, you must travel third class. That is where India is seen best. Gokhale thought the experience would be exhausting, and excruciating. Gandhiji would not change his plans even to satisfy his leader. He bought himself simple Indian clothes and with just a canvas bag (worth twelve annas), and a long coat made of rough wool, a water-jug, a blanket, he started on his pilgrimage. Gokhale himself came to mark this great event. ‘If you had travelled first, I would never have come. But now I will.’ And after blessing his disciple, Gokhale went back to his cab while Gandhiji walked on to his awaiting train. But there was no room in any of the third class compartments. ‘It was with great difficulty,’ he wrote to Gokhale later, ‘that I found a seat in one of the intermediate (class) carriages and that (again) after I offered to stand the whole night if necessary. As it was, it was merely a trick on the part of the friends of some of the passengers. The former had occupied all the room with a view to prevent any more passengers from getting in. They got out as soon as the guard blew the whistle for the train to go . . . You cannot adopt gentleman’s time and travel 3rd.’
