Mahatma Gandhi, page 34
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The Zulus were a direct people, tall, extravagant, cruel and beautiful. They killed without stint, as they gave without calculation. They bore no grudge against their enemies, they trusted as much as they once deceived but never trusted a second time. When Retief, the Boer leader, and his men came to Dingaan, as fierce and true as his half-brother Cheka—Cheka the hero and nation-builder—Retief wanted from the Zulu chief the whole of Natal. It would be a Boer republic and away from those devilish British. He, Retief, had recovered for Dingaan most of the cattle the chief Sikonyele had stolen from him, and so Natal was but a proper gift to such a courageous ally, indeed a true wizard was he. Retief then went back to the trekkers to tell them of their new dispensation. But by now Dingaan had become suspicious. Even before the treaty was concluded these Retief’s people were wandering about as if indeed it was already their territory. After giving his people the good news Retief went back to Dingaan, despite all the warnings of his friends. Meanwhile, when news came to Dingaan that the white ‘army’ was already on the march—with their ‘walking houses’ (ox wagons), ‘hornless cattle’ (horses), and ‘shooting sticks’ (fire-arms), 37—though these were only impatient trekkers who’d started moving in while the negotiations were still in progress—Dingaan thought he understood their wizardry. He invited Retief to a party, a great war dance, and when everybody was merry he shouted, ‘Kill the wizards’ and all the whites were slain. And the men hidden behind mountain and high bush fell on the Boers—wagon loads of a thousand men, women and children, and they were all massacred. But the whites were going to come back. What could assegais do against the gun—nothing. Now the whites had an even more powerful weapon. They had, with great difficulty, pushed up one piece of cannon through the trails of the trek. Against this monster who could ever fight? Dingaan’s men suddenly came towards it, wave after wave of them—‘Thirty-six regiments . . . close-packed, with proud-plumes, with shields and assegais, with great roaring’—and they were all slaughtered. Thus the story of Blood River and the celebration of Dingaan’s Day by the Boers. 38 The Zulus moved elsewhere, to another Africa; Africa was so large. Yet the whites would follow them. For the gold and diamond rush made every bit and piece of Africa important. Little by little the Zulu had to be subdued and then made to work. He would not work. Why should he? The whites therefore imposed a poll-tax on him. And the Zulus revolted (1906). Called the ‘Zulu Rebellion’, it was only a skirmish—a police action of the whites against the Zulus. The whites would go hunting the Zulus, hang them, or wound or kill them wherever they could and leave them there. Who was there to look after them?
Loyal to the British as ever, though he did not believe this police action to be just, Gandhiji offered his help. ‘I then believed that the British Empire existed for the welfare of the world.’ He would organise his stretcher bearers again. The British eagerly accepted the help. Gandhiji sent his family—which had now joined him in Johannesburg—to Natal, to the Phoenix Colony. He became a sergeant major. ‘I was,’ says Gandhiji, ‘delighted on reaching headquarters to hear that our main work was to be nursing the wounded Zulus. The Medical Officer welcomed us. He said the white people were not willing nurses for the wounded Zulus—that their wounds were festering and that he was at his wit’s end . . . The Zulus were delighted to see us. The white soldiers used to peer through the railings that separated us from them and tried to dissuade us from attending to the wounds. And as we would not heed them, they became enraged and poured unspeakable abuse on the Zulus . . .Gradually I came into closer touch with these soldiers, and they ceased to interfere. Among the commanding officers were Col. Sparks and Col. Wylie who had bitterly opposed me in 1896. 39 They were surprised at my attitude and specially called and thanked me.’
Most of the wounds were not wounds of battle. They were the result of floggings. And being uncared for, became vicious sores. Besides nursing, Gandhiji also ‘had to compound and dispense prescription for white soldiers . . . This work,’ he says, ‘brought me in close contact with many Europeans.’
Sometimes they had to march thirty or forty miles a day—and the terrain was the harsh veld. ‘But,’ continues Gandhi, ‘wherever we went I am thankful that we had God’s work to do, having to carry to the camp those Zulu friendlies who had been inadvertently wounded, and to attend to them as nurses.’
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High on the veld however, as Gandhiji walked, he had time and peace to think of other and more inward growing things. ‘Marching with or without the wounded through these solemn solitudes I often fell into deep thought.’ He now knew he had to take important decisions. For over ten years his spiritual energies had been growing—they sought far and wide for pointedness and guidance. But at some moment in one’s existence one must take solemn decisions. His most important problem was not non-possession or even equanimity but the vow of brahmacharya, of celibacy. Was it not time, his spirit said, to take the decision now?
‘I pondered over brahmacharya,’ he writes, ‘and its implications, and my convictions took deep root. I discussed this with my coworkers. I had not realised then how indispensable it was for self-realisation, but I could see one aspiring to serve humanity with his whole soul could not do without it . . . In a word I could not live both after the flesh and spirit . . . Without the observance of brahmacharya service of the family would be inconsistent with service of the community. With brahmacharya they would both be perfectly consistent.’
‘So thinking,’ he continues, ‘I became somewhat impatient to take a final vow. The prospect of the vow brought a certain kind of exultation. Imagination also found free play, and opened out limitless vistas of service.’ 40
The Zulu ‘war’ was over. Returning to Phoenix he discussed the problem with some of his colleagues including his loyal cousin and follower, Maganlal Gandhi. And with West as well. The task was difficult but the decision had to be made.
The primal thrust towards God, the final turning away from body—our first possession—the way. If everything belonged to God and only to God, our first possession must be our supreme gift, back to Him. The body must not only be kept pure and strong—it must also become the true vessel of our being. Hydropathy was not in itself the whole remedy. Of course, hip-baths and such other cleansing methods (so lauded by Dr. Kuhne) were indeed of very great help. But to this was added mud treatment. A wet pack on the belly gives one relief from most stomach diseases. And after all the stomach is the chief source of malady—and earth, mother of man.
To remove the source of malady is one thing but to give up the feeling of the body is something totally different. If the taste for food is one of our primary attributes—and Gandhiji liked good and tasty food—our desire for sexual intercourse is even more vitally so. You could, little by little, change your diet from spiced foods to boiled vegetables and fruits and nuts. But with his best efforts the desire for his wife’s body persisted, almost with intolerable potency. He would still sleep away from her, or exhaust himself altogether so that he should have no vitality left for sexual consummation. But such is bodily passion—and Gandhiji was, as we have seen, a very passionate man—the body would come back to itself, and make its ungovernable demands. What could one do? And here the Gita gave him the final help. Brahmacharya is the way, it said—celibacy itself is called The Way to God. 41 Then may it not be the only way to be dedicated totally to God? And he prayed for guidance. The spirit was always there, within, to help. Yes, it would help him. And what about his wife, Kasturba? Her body was never a problem with her. The procreative energy must now and finally be turned away from all ‘carnal passions’—it must be burnt at the fire of Truth—therefore he must now take a vow of celibacy. Would he?
Now the power of the vow (vrata) is one of the most mysterious attributes a spiritual man possesses. It is not merely a decision to do or not to do a thing. It makes, as it were, for a total transformation—or rather a transfiguration of our spiritual element which establishes one in a different sphere to which one is accustomed to move and have one’s being in. It gives one a new perspective on the things one sees—the vow creates, as it were, cosmic reverberations. A vow, any vow, taken by a serious man and in the right spirit has the power, for reasons as yet inexplicable, an alchemic quality of transformation.
Gandhiji, for example, had written to Rajachandra asking him what one should do if a serpent were there, ready to attack him. Rajachandra had replied—you must choose between wanting to preserve your own perishable body and the desire to destroy a life. Which is the better way? Gandhiji then decided he would not inflict himsa, or suffering, against any living thing. So, as it should, one day he found himself face-to-face with a serpent. It was inside a lumber room. Its only way out was by passing close to Gandhiji. And by now the situation was such that Gandhiji could not go back on his footsteps. He could go forward or stay where he was. If he stayed where he was the serpent would certainly attack him, afraid for its life. Thereupon Gandhiji sat himself down, stretched his legs across the doorway, and waited, praying to God to give him help. Slowly, very slowly, the serpent unwound itself and moving quietly and carefully, went over Gandhiji’s legs like it would over a log, and then it disappeared. This is not the normal behaviour with serpents. How then explain such an experience? The answer is direct; there was an inner transformation—a transfiguration in Gandhi—not a passing one but, as it were, of a primary psycho-biological nature. The serpent had no fear. Gandhiji was saved both in his life and in his desire not to kill.
Such is the power of the vow. He had seen his mother take vows and keep them strictly. And she went about life as if nothing was ever given up. For a vow is not a deprivation—it is consecration.
He would now take the vow of celibacy, of brahmacharya.
‘I took the plunge—the vow to observe brahmacharya for life. I must confess that I had not then fully realised the magnitude of the task I undertook. The difficulties are even today staring in the face. The importance of the vow is being more and more borne in upon me. Life without brahmacharya appears to be insipid and animal-like. The brute by nature knows no self-restraint. Man is man because he is capable of, and only in so far as he exercises, self-restraint. What formerly appeared to me to be extravagant praise of brahmacharya in our religious books seems now, with increasing clearness every way, to be absolutely proper and founded on experience . . .
‘It (brahmacharya) begins with bodily restraint but does not end there. The perfection of it precludes even an impure thought . . . Saints and seers have left their experiences for us, but they have given us no infallible and universal prescription. For perfection of freedom from error comes only from grace, and so seekers after God have left us mantras, such as Ramanama, hallowed with their own austerities and charged with their purity. Without an unreserved surrender to His grace complete mastery over thought is impossible.’
The second discipline enjoined by the Gita is aparigriha: Non-possession (of material things, mainly wealth). For Gandhiji this was not such a difficult problem. He earned well but he had no taste for money. Money should belong to nobody. Yet what was the true attitude towards money? He suddenly had light on the problem—money belonged to God, we were only trustees. Every piece of copper coin belonged only to God, and whether you were rich or poor you used it for the service of God, not own it—nobody owns money.
‘My study of English law came to my help. Snell’s discussion of the maxims of equity came to my memory. My regard for jurisprudence increased. I discovered in it religion. I understood the Gita teaching of non-possession—that those who desired servants should act like the master . . .’ 42
God seemed, at once, so near and so far. Every act could now become an act of prayer.
Already Gandhiji had in his house his clerks, his relations, and friends (and a number of Europeans amongst these). Everybody shared whatever there was to be shared.
There was no real need to give up anything. But to enlarge this joint family to the whole of the humankind was the next problem.
How to do it with a brother in Kathiawar, so loving, so worthy of reverence, but who, however, depended on Gandhiji’s own regular monthly payments for living? That would have to be stopped from now onwards. If the whole world is your family you may of course love your brother. But you cannot give him any special place in your responsibilities.
‘To my brother . . . I wrote explaining that I had given him all that I had saved up to the moment but that henceforth he should expect nothing from me, for future savings, if any, would be utilised for the benefit of the community.’
The brother was upset. He wrote back an angry letter. What? Had Mohan forgotten it was he, Lakshmidas, that had against hatreds and anxieties, sold land, honour, and jewellery to send the younger brother to London? How could one be so unremembering? What would their revered father and mother have said if they were still in body and breath? What would not happen to the family if no money came from he for whose future they had poured their all, and on whose munificent future depended the material welfare of so many, many? Is this what tradition had taught his younger brother? Let him recognise his duties to the family, as his father and grandfather had ever done. And not show disrespect to your elders, your home, your religion. To this rhodomantade Gandhiji wrote a noble and realistic reply. 43
‘Respected Sir, I have received your letter. I wish to answer it with the utmost calmness and as fully as possible.
‘I am afraid our outlooks differ widely and I see no possibility, for the present, of their being reconciled. You seek peace and happiness through money. I don’t depend on money for my peace: and for the moment at any rate my mind is quite calm and able to stand any amount of suffering.
‘You desire to attain moksha, so do I. If you have really got to the stage of striving for moksha, you should remain calm and unperturbed, and forget all about me, even if I am extremely sinful and maybe deceiving you. But you are not able to do so because of your excessive attachment. This is what I believe: but if I am wrong in holding this belief, I prostrate myself at your feet and beg to be forgiven.
‘I fail to understand what you mean by the word ‘family’. To me the family includes not only the two brothers but the sister as well. It also includes our cousins. Indeed, if I could say without arrogance, I would say my family comprises all living beings: the only difference being that those who are more dependent on me because of blood relationship or other circumstances, get more help from me.’
In actual fact when he was looking after the plague-stricken, had not the elder then reproached him saying, what might happen if he, Mohan, died—Kasturba and the children would all have to be dependants on the joint family. It was because of this incident, truly to speak, that Mohan had taken out an insurance policy. ‘If by any chance you die before me you may be sure that I shall myself (serve as) an insurance policy for your wife and children. I beseech you to feel sure on this account.’
Further, all these marriages that are taking place, how corrupting? For example, Harilal, Gandhiji’s own son, had been married away, and now the nephew was engaged to get married. This was all due to the sensuous atmosphere they lived in back in Kathiawar. Even his son, one could say, Harilal, who had gone home for some time went astray because of this dissipated environment. Fortunately the other three children, Manilal, Ramdas and Devdas, they are all growing up in the healthy atmosphere of Phoenix. It is necessary for Indians to observe brahmacharya even if they are married. In fact, even if his three sons should go unmarried, ‘I should not be sorry but rejoice instead.’
However, to return to the problem of money.
‘As for your demand for a hundred rupees a month, I see neither the means at present nor the need of meeting it. Moreover I may have to go to gaol in the course of the struggle here against the new Ordinance . . . If . . . I am free from trouble I shall try and send you the money you have asked for by money order with the sole intention of pleasing you.
‘I am not the master of my earning since I have dedicated my all to the people. I do not suffer from the illusion that it is I who earn; I simply believe that God gives me the money for making good use of it . . .
‘I revere you as you are my elder brother. But I have greater regard for truth. Do please believe me when I say I have written all this with the best of intentions. If you do that your displeasure will cease. Wherever you think I am erring, please bear with me.’
Kasturba was upset with the financial situation. What will happen to us now? Son of a prime minister and all that, and henceforth we would have to live like beggars. Fine thing to say ‘possess nothing’. How can a woman trained life after life to fend for herself in times of calamities—how could she be without a piece of gold? But the God, Gandhiji argued, who sends you these calamities is also the God who protects you. Every experience is a trial—a loving trial placed by Him for us to get nearer Him. There is nothing to fear. Everything is his doing—his compassion.
Thus all money henceforth was going to belong to anybody that needed it. But there was a small problem. How could a man insure himself when God was there to protect. The small insurance policy he had taken earlier was now given up. From now on Gandhiji had no money of his own.
The Gita also gave one more category of spiritual discipline: samabhava—equanimity. For a man of passions to have equanimity is difficult. There is that moving story of Kasturba with the untouchable’s chamber-pot. Once when they were living in Durban, one of Gandhiji’s clerks, a Christian, also lived with them. He was only a recent convert—he was, by birth, an untouchable. To eat with him and stay in the same house with him was itself a great torture for Kasturba. But Gandhiji insisted that among the duties of the household for everybody’s performance, was the clearance of the daily chamber-pot as well. But when it came to Kasturba’s turn, her ancestral prejudice rose up—she would never touch that chamberpot! A thousand times never. Gandhiji pleaded with her but she would not bend. Finally he became angry—he shouted, ‘Get out of the house!’ If she could not do what she was expected to do in this house—and a wife obeys her husband—she had just to go back. But go where? Here she was in South Africa, far away from her people and home—where was she to go? He opened the gate and wanted her to leave. She begged him to have a little self-respect. ‘I put on a brave face, but was really ashamed and shut the gate. If my wife could not leave me, neither could I leave her.’ Yes, he was wrong to be angry. But he would not give up his principles. The chamber-pot of the untouchable had to be cleared. There was no question whatsoever about it. And Kasturba now accepted the rule and followed her husband’s ‘idiosyncrasies’. ‘Willingly or unwillingly, consciously or unconsciously, she has considered herself blessed in following my footsteps.’
