Mahatma Gandhi, page 38
Under the Immigrants Restriction Act passed by the new legislature, any Indian who had registered had some rights in Transvaal but everybody, including children, had to pay the £3 poll-tax. At the same time, an old British law, called the Immigration Law, gave every British subject the right to enter Transvaal and become a Colonist if he was sufficiently educated. Since most of the Indians were either indentured labourers or sons of these, there was, it was thought, going to be no problem with the Immigration Law being applied to Indians. If Smuts had removed the Asiatic Registration Act from the statute book as he seemed to have promised Gandhiji, there would have been no problem left between the two statesmen to settle. The Immigration Law would cover all future entry of Indians as of any other immigrants and Gandhiji would have happily gone home (as Gokhale was urging him to), leaving the future of his countrymen in the hands of a man as humane as wise—Jan Smuts. Emily Hobhouse thought so well of him and so many others did too—he seemed almost British in his convictions and ways. But few realised that he was not dealing with the British but with the Boers. He was, after all, Colonial Secretary of the Boer Government and not of the British Government. Gandhiji however treated all governments as if they were British. And if they did not behave the British way, Gandhiji would make them realise their human inadequacy.
The Immigration Act would now be used by the Indians—a minor theme in the orchestration, and one waited to see what the Boers would do.
Now Gandhiji, like all profoundly religious persons, loved his symbols. He would use one satyagrahi as a symbol to see what the Boer Government would do if an Indian tried to enter Transvaal as an immigrant. He had a right. And so now he would use it.
Gandhiji chose Sorabji Shapurji Adajia as his first symbolic satyagrahi. He was a Parsi, and everywhere in the world the Parsis are known for their ethical integrity. Yet, would Sorabji be able ‘to stand to his guns in critical times’? Gandhiji wondered. ‘But’, he went on to argue, ‘it was a rule with me not to give any weight to my own doubts where the party concerned himself asserted the contrary. I therefore recommended to the Committee that they should take Sorabji at his word.’
Sorabji now went through the whole ritual of the satyagrahi. He wrote to the Transvaal Government that he was going ‘to test his right to remain in the country under the Immigrants Restriction Act’. Then, having satisfied himself that he had given the government enough time to consider the whole matter, and hearing nothing from them in reply, he crossed over the border of Natal, entering the Transvaal. He asked the Immigration Officer to examine him and see if he spoke and wrote English as required by law; if not, to arrest him. The officer had no instructions as to how he should behave in this particular situation. Thus Sorabji was allowed to travel freely into Transvaal territory. He went straight to Johannesburg and the Indians received him with great enthusiasm. ‘Very often,’ wrote Gandhiji referring to this incident, ‘it so happens that when we take our steps deliberately and fearlessly, the Government is not ready to oppose us.’ The officer usually has his ideas fixed on a given subject and again he has so many problems to resolve, he cannot look into any one matter too thoroughly, for all rules have their flaws. Further, he ‘suffers from the intoxication of power’. On the other hand, the public worker or satyagrahi has thought out all his plans clearly and conscientiously and is prepared for every circumstance. ‘If therefore, he takes the right step with decision, he is always in advance of the government.’ And if racial and political movements fail, they fail because leaders have not prepared themselves in an appropriate manner for every possible situation, agreeable or disturbing. A man who follows the law strictly carries with him somehow the magic of truth.
Sorabji wrote to the Police Superintendent of Johannesburg that he had arrived in the city and told him he, Sorabji, had a right to remain in the Transvaal in terms of the Immigration Act ‘for he knew the English language sufficiently well, and would be ready to take an examination if the government thought it necessary’. There was no reply either to this letter. But the government after anxious deliberation decided something must now be done: Sorabji was summoned to appear before the Court.
He did indeed appear before the court on 8 July 1908. Crowds of Indians had gathered to see this eventful scene. Before he went in, Sorabji had addressed them with a ‘fighting speech in which he announced his readiness to go to jail as often as necessary for victory, and to brave all dangers and risks’. In court, Gandhiji defended the accused. Because of a slight mistake in the summons the accused was released. He was, however, summoned again the next day and was asked to leave Transvaal within seven days. But Sorabji duly informed the Police Superintendent that he had no intention to leave the country. He was, therefore, a few days later sentenced to a month’s imprisonment with hard labour. And when more Indians were increasingly found not obeying the laws, the judges dismissed the cases, often feeling ‘the workers would cool down, finding no outlet for their energies in view of the masterly inactivity of the government’. But the government did not know the Indians or Gandhiji well enough. ‘A satyagrahi is never tired so long as he has the capacity to suffer. The Indians were therefore in a position to upset the calculations of the government.’ And this is what the Indians did.
There was an Indian merchant, rich and ancient as in a fairy tale, with a pure and beautiful son, and a wife duly pregnant—patriarchs seem to have this privilege of sowing the seed at any age—and he would be the next satyagrahi. Daud Seth was his noble name. He was not only President of the Natal Indian Congress but was one of the oldest businessmen that had come from India to South Africa. He was full of tact, says Gandhiji, and he could also speak a little English and Dutch. He was as much respected by his British and Dutch colleagues as by the Indian ones. And, above all, he was a man of immense generosity. About fifty guests, wrote Gandhiji, used to dine with him every day. And he also made munificent contributions to the Indian cause. But God has strange ways of dealing with man, like in the story of Abraham and Isaac. Daud Seth’s son Husen was, according to Gandhiji, even nobler than his father, and was duly sent to England to become the perfect gentleman. But he caught tuberculosis soon thereafter and died very young. Daud Seth never recovered from this shock. Humiliation and even death are as nothing when Husen is no more. Daud Seth became a satyagrahi.
Daud Seth was joined by a few others: there were Parsi Rustomjee, another staunch follower of Gandhiji’s, and Gandhiji’s own son Harilal who had at last returned from India. They could all speak English, and as British subjects they had a perfect right to enter Transvaal. Thus the ‘satyagraha army’ was going to invade Transvaal. And they did. And they were duly arrested (otherwise, what a humiliation for the government) on 18 August 1908. They were asked by the magistrate to leave the country in seven days. They disobeyed and were arrested again and deported back to Natal. They re-entered the Transvaal. The satyagrahis were now sentenced to a fine of fifty pounds or three months jail with hard labour. As satyagrahis, of course they preferred hard labour. In Volksrust jail they received the following telegram from Osman Ahmed, a colleague of theirs from Natal: ‘Congratulate you all. Trust in God. Pray to Him. Obey him who saved Noah from deluge, Moosa from the Pharaoh, Abraham from fire, Joseph from the well, Ayoob from sickness, Enoos inside a whale, and our Prophet when he was in the Cave. He is with us and He is ever just.’ This was the mood of the first satyagrahis and of their supporters.
Immediately after the judgement was pronounced, the following cable was sent by Gandhiji to London to the South African British India Committee: ‘Fifteen deported Indians on re-entering heavily sentenced. All claim right to enter Transvaal either as pre-war residents or educational qualifications. Prisoners include three sergeants recent Zulu campaign, seven Mohammedans, two Parsis, six Hindus. Profound sensation. Since renewal of struggle 175 imprisoned, all classes, all parts.’ He concluded the cable by saying it seemed all so needless and un-British. ‘Indians should not be allowed to despair simple justice.’ And when news came that these prisoners were breaking stones on public streets, he thought such work was indeed a great honour. He was proud of his countrymen.
The enthusiasm of the Indians from Natal, especially because of the rich businessmen who went to jail, was infectious. Would the Transvaal Indians lag behind their brothers? Of course not. Those who had burnt their registration cards and licenses now started hawking again without permits or entering the Transvaal from Natal, thus breaking the law. You just cross over and return, and if at the frontier station they ask you for a pass, laugh and say you haven’t got one. Then you’re arrested and sent to prison. Finally you will join those who break stones on the highways. Such the circle around the circle again.
There was one Imam Saheb, a delicate and aristocratic man who always went about in a carriage, wore the finest of muslins, and loved excellent food. But once in jail he accepted all the jail rules. He was made a sweeper, a job he accepted with alacrity, and functioned with efficiency. There was again Barrister Royappen. A graduate from Cambridge, he lived and worked as an Englishman would. He was, what the British used to call, a Pukka Sahib. Royappen, one fine morning, took a basket, put vegetables into it, and started hawking carrots, eggplants, lettuces and lemons on the goodly streets of Johannesburg. He was, of course, arrested and sent to jail as everyone else. Finally it was to be Gandhiji’s own turn. He went to Durban, addressed huge meetings there, asked Indians to protest against ‘this method of exploiting human labour under a system of indenture which should rightly be prohibited by law’. The movement would now grow wider. The Natal Indians should therefore start satyagraha and ‘bring the system of indenture to an end’. For satyagraha never knows any frustration or failure. ‘Indeed satyagraha is a form of true education . . . and our grievances will disappear in the measure in which we cultivate truthfulness.’ Remember, too, he told them, we fight because we are Indians, for India, in true fact we fight for all humanity. That is the reason why, he explained, so many whites are with us. And after explaining all points in great precision, and giving final advice to the Congress and to the family in Phoenix, with fifteen Indians he took the train to Volksrust (for now the train went straight from Durban to Pretoria!). He was arrested at the border for not giving his thumb and finger impressions according to the new Act. And at his trial in Volksrust, he said he had advised his countrymen to resist the application of the new Act because ‘it offends our conscience’. ‘I am now before Court,’ he went on to say, ‘ready to accept the penalties that may be awarded to me. I wish to thank the prosecution and the public for having extended to me ordinary courtesies.’ The prosecution pleaded that as he admitted his sin to be greater than that of others, he should be fined a hundred pounds and be given three months hard labour. The Judge, on the other hand, declared how very sorry he was to have to judge Mr. Gandhi and argued a difference must be made in his case, whatever the prosecution may say. Gandhiji was therefore sentenced to pay twenty-five pounds or undergo imprisonment with hard labour for two months. Gandhiji happily agreed to go to jail. His last message to the Indians was: ‘Keep absolutely firm to the end. Suffering is our only remedy. Victory is certain.’ And as soon as he was taken to jail, he was given a uniform—short breeches, a shirt of coarse cloth, a jumper, a cap, a towel, a pair of socks and sandals. ‘I think,’ he remarked, ‘this is a very convenient dress for work. It is simple and wears well.’
But there’s a game of life, a pattern that seems imbued with intelligence which seems to encourage you, to test you, even to defeat you, as if everybody had a law of his own dharma and one’s faiths and failures, one’s fears and successes, are but movements in a cosmological system. And the satyagrahi having taken truth as his essence in action and in inaction, truth played back tricks with him. It is, as Gandhiji said, like a rope-dancer’s drama. He cannot look left or right, up or down, he has to look at the rope and at the rope alone. (The Upanishads called it the razor’s edge. 16)
And this supreme rope-dancer, Gandhi, was now faced with an important problem. His wife, Kasturba, was dangerously ill. She had a ghastly haemorrhage. A telegram from West said so. What was he going to do? How should a man of truth act? ‘It is impossible for me,’ he wrote to West, ‘(to) leave here unless I pay the fine, which I will not. When I embarked upon the struggle I counted the cost . . . I am writing to her. I hope she will be alive and conscious to receive and understand the letter . . . Let Manilal read it to her.’
And here is the letter, perhaps the only letter he ever wrote to Kasturba:
(Volksrust Gaol)
9 November, 1908
Beloved Kastur,
I have received Mr. West’s telegram today about your illness. It cuts my heart. I am very much grieved but I am not in a position to go there to nurse you. I have offered my all to the satyagraha struggle.
My coming there is out of the question. I can come only if I pay the fine which I must not. If you keep courage and take the necessary nutrition you will recover. If, however, my ill luck so has it that you pass away I should only say that there would be nothing wrong in your doing so, in your separation from me while I am still alive. I love you so dearly that even if you were dead you will be alive to me. Your soul is deathless. I repeat what I have frequently told you and assure you that if you succumb to your illness, I will not marry again. Time and again I have told you that you may quietly breathe your last with faith in God. If you die even that death of yours will be a sacrifice to the cause of satyagraha. My struggle is not merely political. It is religious and so quite pure. It does not matter much whether one dies in it or lives. I hope and expect that you will also think likewise and not be unhappy. I ask this of you.
Mohandas
Meanwhile, once again truth played a trick on Gandhiji. He was suddenly whisked off to Johannesburg to give evidence for Dahya, the tailor who was under arrest. A special warder came to fetch him and a special compartment kept at his disposal, yet he was in the jail uniform and had, when he came down, to carry the luggage like any other prisoner. Naidoo and Polak having somehow heard of Gandhiji’s coming, they were at the station. Naidoo was moved to tears on seeing his great leader. Gandhiji had no food, and no money either. The stationmaster at Volksrust had voluntarily offered him money. Gandhiji, however, had thanked him and then borrowed ten shillings from Kazi, an Indian who was present at the station. With this money Gandhiji had bought food for himself and for the warder. Finally they reached the Johannesburg jail. Gandhiji was taken to a cell filled with Kaffir and Chinese prisoners convicted of murder and larceny. They mocked at Gandhi, laughing and showing each other their genitals. Gandhiji opened his Bhagavad Gita and began to read it, meditating on some of the verses, and exhausted fell soon asleep.
The next morning, though, he was removed to another cell. There were troubles again. The latrines were few, and the Kaffirs also used them. Once, while sitting there, a Kaffir threw him out, so that he could use it himself. ‘I was not in the least frightened by this,’ wrote Gandhiji. ‘I smiled and walked away.’ But the Indian prisoners looking at the scene wept. Soon, however, Indians were to have their own lavatories.
While in jail he learnt to sew—stitching caps with a sewing machine. But in a few days he was taken back to the Volksrust prison. And Indians at every station, when they saw him, were moved to tears seeing their leader in convict’s clothes. And at the Volksrust station once again he had to carry his own luggage. But he realised they were not prisoners, but soldiers of satyagraha. ‘What then did it matter whether we were treated well or ill by the warders?’
And in its own way the time spent in prison was a fruitful one. One could think on God. And one could read. This time Gandhiji read Ruskin again, Thoreau, and the Bible, a life of Garibaldi and essays of Bacon (both in Gujarati) and of course the Gita. ‘I can say today,’ he wrote in Satyagraha in South Africa, ‘that life in gaol is not in the least boring.’
On the very first day Gandhiji was taken with about thirty other Indians to dig up the soil somewhere near a main road. The day was very hot and the work strenuous. But since the majority of these Indians had never done any hard work, being generally business or professional men, most of them were exhausted. And the warder shouted the louder. Some Indians became nervous. And one was in tears. But Gandhiji encouraged every one to do all he could. Gandhiji too was exhausted, there were large blisters on his palms, and lymph oozing out of them. ‘Placing my trust in Him, I went on with the work.’ But the warder went on shouting at the prisoners. One of them fainted. Water was sprinkled on the victim’s face and he woke up. And Gandhiji started thinking. ‘A great many Indians have been going to gaol at my word. What a sinner I would be if I had been giving wrong advice. Am I the cause of all this suffering on the part of the Indians? I considered the matter afresh with God as witness . . . I felt I had given the right advice. If to bear suffering is in itself a kind of happiness, there is no need to be worried by it.’
Sometimes, too, they were allowed to cultivate their own garden, to sow maize seeds and clear the potato beds. Also, everybody had to do scavenging. Gandhiji did not mind this in the least, but others did, and one even vomited while doing his duty. How could a satyagrahi object to the work he is given? Then it will no more be satyagraha.
And now he turned to his chief duty, as cook to the Indian community at the Volksrust jail. There were some seventy-five Indian prisoners, they had petty jealousies, mainly about the rations. ‘I became the cook as only I could adjudicate on the conflicting claims to the rations supplied. Thanks to the love for me, my companions took without a murmur the half-cooked porridge I prepared without sugar.’
The government however thought it was all going too well. Gandhiji was therefore taken away and sent to the prison in Pretoria and given solitary confinement ‘reserved for dangerous prisoners’.
