Mahatma Gandhi, page 35
‘Today I am in a position to narrate,’ said Gandhiji almost twenty years later, ‘the incident with some detachment as it belongs to a period out of which I have fortunately emerged. I am no longer a blind, infatuated husband. I am no more my wife’s teacher. Kasturba can, if she will, be as unpleasant to me today, as I used to be to her before. We are tried friends, and no longer regarding the other as the object of lust . . . Suffice it to say, with the gradual disappearance in me of the carnal appetite, my domestic life became and is becoming more and more peaceful, sweet and happy.’ 44 A sister at last!
6
Towards Ramrajya
The Kingdom of Sri Rama
The erect, the true, is not easy to reckon with. It creates its own moods, movements, majesty. It will not be subjugated, it plays its own game, as if in solipsist intoxication. Out of the contradictions of the possible it chooses its own mystery—its way of redemption. The true has no barriers and is therefore senseless to time. What comes and goes has to do with the laws of give and take, the mighty and the meek, but this which only gives, what a Ganges!—which Smuts and which Botha could ever stop its flow? Rolling on itself it appears in unexpected corners of space or seasons, monsoons, forever a play of creative revolution—you must be fascinated with the play and not be carried away by its consequences. The consequences are included in the play—they never stay apart. Life must be played. Its rules are simple. To obey not the players but the play.
Now that the Boer War was long over, and the British and the Boers—the two Teutonic peoples—in spite of all their differences, being white in a black land wanted to live together. ‘At the southern corner of the vast continent,’ Smuts had written earlier, ‘peopled by 200,000,000 barbarians, about half-a-million whites have taken up a position with a view not only to working out their destinies—our destiny, but also of using that position as a basis for lifting up and opening up that vast dead weight of immense barbarism and animal savagery to the light and blessing of ordered civilisation.’ 1
They, the whites, had to learn to live together if they were not going to be submerged by this rising tide of prolific barbarism (to which a spot of trouble, some yellow and brown, were also now added) and therefore when a new government came, new laws too had to be enacted. After all, the Boers were very brave and they were willing to play the game. Each of the colonies—the Cape, Natal, the Orange Free State and Transvaal—were to be independent and self-governing colonies, to be sometime later fitted into a federation. For the moment they would claim independence, and they would have it. Jan Smuts rose out of it all the principal, the austere figure, understanding enough to be British and tough enough to be a Boer. Philosophy was his strength (he had stubbornly fought against philosophical dualism of every type) and he had reached a rude but fierce and noble perception of his God. His God played for holism. 2
‘From the Whole you can go down to the parts,’ he wrote, ‘from the parts as such you can never rise to the Whole; and if you are in search of truth, it is hopeless to begin with partial truths, however important and useful they may in other respects be . . . The Whole is the All, but not in an arithmetical sense.’ Yet evolution was a ‘cosmic process of individuation.’ And in this process man has become a ‘legislative being’ and thus by degrees to attain his own wholeness, and finally become united with the Whole. And progress then might be through history, though Evil and Good may both increase with the progress of man. Yet Evil ‘in its gross external form may diminish’ though the sensitive may feel it with even greater acuity. ‘Hence the greatest men are the least happy in the ordinary sense. But here again the Whole exerts its wholesome influence and as a compensation they know a blessedness which is unintelligible and unrealised to smaller natures.’ 3 And thus, as Marcus Aurelius has said, we march on, ever and ever to the ‘City of God’.
It is, as Smuts’ biographer has remarked, the creed of the warrior.
In trying to put order in Transvaal affairs, now that independence was soon coming, new laws were passed—one of them the Immigration Restriction Act. It became Asian for two reasons. The Indian problem had to be removed from the context of the Empire. Therefore, since a few Chinese too were now being recruited, they also became ‘coolies’. The new law simply stated that all adult Asians had to register and carry an identity card for fear of illegal immigration into the Republic of Transvaal. This ruling was not, however, legal, 4 for in all other parts of the British Empire any subject could go and come anywhere he liked and, again, wheresoever the indentured Indians had settled, no such law prevailed. If you were a British subject you had to be treated like a British subject. (The Boers were trying hard to be British subjects—they never could, nor could the Indians—but they were all making an earnest attempt to be so.) The Boers, however, wanted such a law passed and the British joined with them in this demand, for one could never forget, first of all, one is white in a very black country. But there was also some good reason for the Boer attitude. Indians could cross over the Natal border easily, and how could one know one Indian from the other? And the Indians were ubiquitous and very clever. Thus a certain justification being seen, Indians accepted the law, and registered themselves obediently. But the truth of the truth was, Smuts and Botha ultimately wanted the ‘Asiatic cancer’ out. This the Indian community at that time did not know. They still basked under the protective glory of the British Empire.
Meanwhile, for no understandable reason the new Asiatic Law Ordinance was published (22 August 1906), the forerunner to the historic Black Act. According to this, Indians above the age of eight had to register themselves, giving their finger and thumb impressions, and carry a pass on them which could be asked for by any policeman. And any policeman could, in fact, even enter an Indian home and demand to see this certificate. ‘I have never known,’ wrote Gandhiji, ‘legislation of this nature being directed against free men in any part of the world.’ But the Boers had very good reason to be suspicious of the growing Indian population. ‘It is not the vices of the Indians,’ wrote Lionel Curties, the Assistant Colonial Secretary of Transvaal, ‘that we fear, but their virtues.’ Therefore harass them till they leave you bale and bundle. We don’t want them. We hardly need them. So they must go. And in actual fact, once these laws were effective in South Africa they could serve as an example for all other ‘Dominions of the Empire’.
When the Indians heard of this new ordinance—they were very angry. Gandhiji was in Phoenix when this legislation was formulated and he rushed to Johannesburg to be of help to the community. Polak, who had now become an attorney, was there looking after the law office. And many whites were as enraged as the Indians with the ordinance. A meeting was called at the Empire Theatre, Johannesburg (11 September 1906). Abdul Gani, President of the Transvaal British Indian Association, was in the chair.
There were three thousand Indians in the hall—‘from door to ceiling’. The atmosphere was one of war rather than of negotiation: ‘Better die than submit to such a law’. The Muslims—and the majority were Muslims—were even more enraged. The ordinance had not only demanded a photograph of themselves—which was forbidden by their religion—but said their women too should go and sign in for such a registration, and this no decent Muslim would allow his woman to do. ‘If anyone came forward to demand a certificate from my wife, I would shoot him on the spot and take the consequences.’ Such was the mood. Sheth Haji Habib, one of the chief speakers, by the time he came to read the resolution, was already in a highly emotional state. In getting angrier and angrier he cried out that the resolution had to be passed ‘with God as our witness’.
This touched Gandhiji to the depth of his awakened being. He had just taken the vow of brahmacharya. He now knew the power of taking a vow before God. If the Indian meant what they said they should not simply vote a resolution—but each one, before his God, should take the oath, to himself. ‘We all believe in one and the same God, the differences of nomenclature in Hinduism and Islam notwithstanding,’ Gandhiji declared.
‘To pledge ourselves or to take an oath in name of God or with him as witness is not something to be trifled with. If having taken such an oath we violate our pledge, we are guilty before God and man. Personally I hold that a man who deliberately and knowingly takes a pledge and breaks it forfeits his manhood . . . A man who lightly pledges his word and then breaks it becomes a man of straw and fits himself for punishment here as well as hereafter . . .’
‘The Government,’ he went on, ‘has taken leave of all sense of decency. We would only be betraying our unworthiness and cowardice if we cannot stake our all in the face of the conflagration which envelopes us, and sit watching it with folded hands.
‘There is no doubt, therefore, that the present is a proper occasion for taking pledges . . . But every one of us must think out for himself if he has the will and the ability to pledge himself . . . Everyone must search his own heart, and if the inner voice assures him that he has the requisite strength to carry him through, then only should he pledge himself and then only will his pledge bear fruit.
‘A few words now as to the consequences. Therefore I would give you an idea of the worst that can happen to us in the present struggle. Imagine that all of us present here, numbering three thousand at the most, pledge ourselves. Imagine that the remaining 10,000 Indians take no such pledge. We will provoke only ridicule in the beginning . . . Some or many of those who pledge themselves may weaken at the very first trial. We may have to go to jail where we may be insulted. We may have to go hungry and suffer extreme heat or cold. Hard labour may be imposed upon us. We may be fined heavily and property may be attached and held up to auction. Opulent today we may be reduced to abject poverty tomorrow. We may be deported. Some of us may fall ill and even die. In short, therefore, it is not at all impossible that we may have to endure every hardship that we can imagine. If someone asks me when and how the struggle may end I may say that if the entire community manfully stands the test, the end will be near. If many of us will fail back under storm and stress, the struggle will be prolonged. But I can boldly declare, and with certainty, that as long as there is even a handful of men true to their pledge, there can only be one end to the struggle—and that is victory.’
He was applauded. But it was not applause he wanted. He now spoke gently, softly, with that clear, halting, musical voice, that became so familiar to us later, and somehow tied us to it. It seemed to draw the breath out of you to yourself. It made you face yourself as if he were indeed you.
‘There is only one course open to someone like me to die but not to submit to the law. It is quite unlikely, but even if everyone else flinched leaving me alone to face the music, I am confident that I will never violate my pledge. Please do not misunderstand me. I am not saying this out of vanity, but I wish to put you, especially the leaders on the platform, on your guard. I wish respectfully to answer it to you that if you have not the will and the ability to stand firm even when you are perfectly isolated, you must not only take the pledge but you must declare your opposition before the resolution is put to the meeting . . . Although we are going to take the pledge in a body no one may imagine that default on the part of one or many can absolve the rest from their obligation. Everyone should fully realise his responsibility . . . to be true to his pledge even unto death no matter what others do.’
This was the spirit of creative revolution: ‘“Not to submit”, these words have the ring of the revolution,’ wrote Smuts’ biographer, Professor Hancock. ‘To suffer: these words became a new revolutionary technique.’ 5 However, what name to give this new adventure in history? ‘I did not understand,’ writes Gandhiji, ‘the implications of ‘passive resistance’ as I called it. I only knew some new principle had come into being.’ Finally it was to be called satyagraha. Truth (satya) implies love,’ he went on to explain, ‘and firmness (agraha) engenders and therefore serves as a synonym for force . . . That is to say the Force which is born of Truth, and Love, or nonviolence.’ 6 How then could this not lead one to true victory?
Meanwhile, everything must be done to bring harmony between the adversaries. That is what Sri Krishna has taught us in the Mahabharata. Remember the way he begged Dhritarashtra, the blind king, and then Duryodhana, the evil one, the heir, for five provinces to be endowed to the five Pandava brothers, then five districts, five villages, if not, at least five houses? To which evil Duryodhana had answered back:
Take my message to my kinsmen, for Duryodhana’s words are plain,
Portion of the Kuru Empire, sons of Pandu seek in vain,
Town nor village, mart nor hamlet, help us gods in heaven,
Spot that needle’s point can cover shall not unto them be given.
Gandhiji, then, with H.O. Ali (a member of the Transvaal Indian Association) went on deputation to England. The S.S. Armadale Castle on which they sailed had among her passengers Sir Richard Solomon, the acting Lieutenant Governor of the Transvaal, and possible first future prime minister under the new constitution. 7 He was also going to see the colonial secretary. There was further on board the same ship, a Chinese delegation going to London to present the Chinese case before the British Government. Gandhiji talked politics with the Chinese consul and played with his young daughter of nine. The more Gandhiji saw the British, the more he came to respect and admire them. They are so hard-working, united, silent and love to get things done. And finally: ‘We cannot,’ he wrote in his letter to the Indian Opinion from board the ship, ‘match their record in public sanitation.’
Gandhiji and Ali took this miraculous opportunity offered them to meet Sir Richard Solomon. The result, however, promised nothing substantial, a commission would eventually be appointed to examine the case of the Indians. Sir Richard was aiming at big things for himself and he could not possibly commit himself to side issues. The battle in London was therefore going to be a hard one. The press was very well-informed of the various delegations coming to meet the British Government. And, in fact, even before Gandhiji had reached London representatives from Reuter’s, The Tribune, and The Morning Leader had come to interview him. Facts always prepare for victory. So he gave them pure facts.
And now London at last, where he was once a shy, diligent student, and such an eager learner of the facts—London where he had his old friends, the Fabians, the vegetarians, the esoteric Christians, the Irish, the Theosophists, and those who favoured contraceptives and those deadly against them. The women’s movement too had grown in the meanwhile—he saw suffragettes’ processions, admired their courage, their one-pointedness, and saw that the ‘weaker sex’ was not so weak after all. Indians had to learn this courage from the British women resisters, some of whom, like Cobden’s granddaughter, preferred going to jail than pay a fine. This was pure satyagraha. He met persons of every party, even extreme conservatives, as long as they believed in the Empire which he still persisted in trusting as an instrument of God. ‘Here, as elsewhere, he pursued his usual practice of discovering and concentrating on areas of agreement instead of dwelling on differences.’ 8 He also met the Chinese and drew up a petition on their behalf. His colleague, Ali, fell ill, and Gandhiji had the man looked after by his old and trusted friend, Dr. Oldfield. (Gandhiji himself, as a result of his fruit and nut diet, had lost his sense of smell—doctors had called it chronic ozaena. But he had found no time yet to go to Dr. Oldfield for diagnosis and treatment.) A deputation was finally going to be received by the Colonial Secretary, Lord Elgin, formerly Viceroy of India. The deputation consisted of old India hands like Sir George Birdwood, Sir Henry Cotton, and Indians like Dadabhai Naoroji and Sir M. Bhownaggree. Sir Lepel Griffin, chairman of the powerful East India Association, led the delegation.
‘My sentiments,’ declared Lord Elgin opening the proceedings—and seeing so many familiar faces he had known in India—‘would all be in favour of doing anything I could for the interests of British Indians.’ (Hear! Hear!) ‘My Lord,’ began Sir Lepel Griffin, ‘what you have said makes my duty in introducing the delegates more easy. . . . We are very glad without any question of party feeling—because all sides are represented in this deputation—to introduce to you the delegates from South Africa.’ And here he recalled the excellent work done by Gandhiji in South Africa during the Boer War and at the time of the Zulu rebellion. ‘And you, My Lord,’ Sir Lepel went on to say, ‘who have been Viceroy of India, and whose sympathy is with the country, must know that legislation of this sort is unheard of under the British flag; indeed today in Europe, I may say without exaggeration that, with the exception of the Russian legislation against the Jews, there is no legislation comparable to this on the continent of Europe; and in England, if we wanted a similar case, we would have to go back to the Plantagenets.
