Читать книгу Daughter Of Midnight - The Child Bride of Gandhi - Arun Gandhi - Страница 12

Kastur took little notice of the weather on the cool sunny morning she set out for Rajkot with her new family. In all of her 13 years, Kastur had never been beyond the borders of Porbandar. Going to Rajkot was like going to another universe. Kastur found the idea exciting. She had always been fearless, undaunted by the usual terrors of childhood: insects, serpents, wild animals, or the dark of night. Why should she find a strange city intimidating?

Hindu men and women usually travelled separately. Thus, the bridegrooms, Mohandas and Karsandas, rode in one carriage with their older brother Lakshimidas and their father Karamchand, still on the mend from his injuries, while the brides, Kastur and Ganga, travelled in another coach with the older sister-in-law Nandkunwarben and their new mother-in-law Putliba. It was a good opportunity for all these Gandhi women to become acquainted.

When the carriages pulled up in front of the Gandhi home in Rajkot, the travellers found Mohan’s sister, Raliatben, waiting. There were two final Hindu marriage customs to be observed. Before the newlyweds were allowed to enter, Raliatben stopped them with the traditional request — each of her brothers had to present her with a suitable gift to gain entry. Mohandas and Karsandas complied.

Then came the mother-in-law’s traditional greeting to new daughters-in-law, somewhat akin to the Western custom of carrying the bride across the threshold of her new house for good luck.

Putliba put down a measure of rice at the front door and then invited the older couple, Ganga and Karsandas, to come in first, as was their due. Ganga was actually a few months younger than Kastur, but she had married the older brother making her higher in status. As they entered, Ganga tilted the measure with her toe, spilling the rice out onto the floor and stepping on it — this, it was said, would bring prosperity to the newlyweds. Now, it was the younger couple’s turn; Putliba set out another measure of rice. Mohandas and Kastur entered, and Kastur, repeating the ritual, was welcomed to her new home.

A new home, a new life, even a new name: Kasturbai Gandhi. The suffix “-bai” would usually be added to her name Kastur now that she was an adult married woman. And it all took some getting used to. In the days that followed, Kasturbai was often homesick for her old home in Porbandar. Her life as youngest daughter-in-law in the busy Gandhi household was very different from her former life as favourite daughter in the ease and comfort of the Kapadia house.

A regional version of secluding females — what my grandfather called Kathiawar’s “own peculiar, useless and barbarous purdah”, decreed that young husbands and wives must ignore each other during daylight hours. Any show of affection, even the exchange of a few casual words, was considered indecent. Young married women were not to be seen by older men in the family or visiting strangers.

Though Hindu women were not required to hide their bodies with the tent-like chador worn by Muslim women, they were expected to cover their heads and faces with their saris in the presence of elders of either sex.

Mohandas had returned to high school so that their only time together was late at night, in their own small bedroom just above the main gate of the house.

Kasturbai was not idle during the day. As the youngest daughter-in-law in a joint family, it was her duty to perform without a murmur of protest whatever tasks the older women might assign to her. This was another accepted fact of life. Kasturbai knew that by right, all her in-laws, not just her mother-in-law Putliba, but also Nandkunwarba, even Ganga, could order her around. But she was lucky. Unlike many young brides, she was never treated like a chattel in her new home. Putliba was kind, discerning, wise — not at all the tyrannical mother-in-law of stories. In assigning daily tasks to the younger women, Putliba played no favourites and she liked to instruct by example rather than command. She was usually the last person to go to bed at night and the last to take her meals. What kept all of them busy was the amount of work that had to be done in the bustling Gandhi household.

As the dewan of Rajkot, Karamchand Gandhi had a daily stream of visitors who had to be properly entertained: tea, snacks, or full meals, depending on what time they came to visit. Karamchand had never been one to worry about money, and had never accumulated enough resources for his family to live lavishly. As a result, the Gandhis did not have the army of servants and cooks that one might have expected to find in the home of a minister of state; not even the usual staff of servants found in the homes of successful merchants (men like Gokaldas Kapadia).

In the Gandhi household, everyone was expected to participate in household chores. The dewan himself, it was said, had sometimes been seen sitting under a tree in the courtyard, peeling vegetables for his wife while receiving official visitors.

Kasturbai’s mother-in-law was a cheerfully devout woman who took little interest in fine clothes and jewellery, and faithfully observed all vows and fasts prescribed for self-discipline and self-purification, even adding special vows of her own invention. Her daily rituals of purification had become the regimen for her whole household. Putliba wouldn’t eat without first saying her prayers, and wouldn’t pray without first having her bath, and wouldn’t bathe without first visiting the latrine. Ritual safeguards against spiritual pollution were not new to Kasturbai — her parents, too, were religious.

Not long after she settled into her new home, Kasturbai noticed a change in the quiet, likeable boy she had married. In an attempt to play the typical role of a dominant Indian husband, Mohandas was becoming very possessive and jealous.

It all started when he bought several little pamphlets at the bazaar, the sort of thing written in those days to educate young husbands about their conjugal rights and responsibilities. Aware that he had much to learn, Mohandas read the booklets from cover to cover. What impressed him was not the practical advice given, but the commendable exhortation that a husband must always be faithful to his wife. He found that idea compelling. And not just because it appealed to what he later described as his “innate passion for truth”. Mohandas was in the throes of first love. He was “passionately fond” of Kasturbai; he could think of nothing else all day long. To be false to her was unthinkable.

To him it was obvious that a wife, too, should pledge faithfulness; however his adolescent strategy for ensuring mutual fidelity was both unsophisticated and unenlightened. He concluded that it was the duty of the faithful husband to exert his authority over his wife and to make sure that she kept her pledge.

One night Mohandas announced to Kasturbai that from now on he wanted to be kept fully informed about where she went and when, and about whom she met and why. In fact, he declared, she should not go out of the house without his consent.

However, the notion of having to request permission from Mohandas for her every move sounded like oppression to Kastur. With her many household duties, she seldom had time to gallivant. She only accompanied other Gandhi women to call on friends or neighbours, or go with Putliba to the nearby temple for prayers. Nandkunwarba and Ganga never went in search of their husbands to tell them they were going out, so why should she? Besides, it was embarrassing and humiliating.

My grandmother’s spirit was always proud and free. Those who remembered her have testified that Ba would never allow anyone to dictate to her — not even her husband. Yet her manner was naturally accommodating; never challenging. And her instincts were essentially conservative. She had no inborn desire to flout tradition. At this point in her young life, she was not ready to rebel openly against accepted practices or established authority (this would change in the years to come).

On the night of their first confrontation, Kasturbai assured Mohandas she would always be a faithful wife. For her, any other course was unthinkable. She raised no objections to the restrictions he proposed. But she made no promise to observe them.

The next day, without consulting Mohandas, Kasturbai arranged to go with Putliba to the temple for prayers. How could Mohandas object? She was following the example of his own mother, the most virtuous of women. She went to the temple again the following day and the next. The day after that Kasturbai went with her sisters-in-law to call on friends. By actions, not words, she was making it clear to Mohandas how much she objected to his high-handedness.

Mohandas reacted vigorously and attempted to impose even more restraints. They had their first quarrel.

“Are you suggesting that I should obey you and not your mother?” Kasturbai asked.

The new husband had no answer.

“When she or other elders in the house ask me to go out with them, am I to tell them I cannot stir out without my husband’s permission?”

Finally, Mohandas acknowledged that Kasturbai was not the girl to brook such restraints. The orders were rescinded and normal life resumed.

The young husband was learning a hard truth about his wife: she obeyed as she chose. Unless he could convince her of the correctness of his decisions, she was prepared quietly to ignore them and go her own way (that would not change in the years to come).

Mohandas still remained troubled and preoccupied. He was neglecting his studies.

Word came from Porbandar that Kasturbai’s family wanted her to come for an extended visit. It is customary for Indian parents to arrange frequent and lengthy separation of young married couples. During the months she spent in Porbandar, Kasturbai happily settled back into the comfortable, undemanding routine of life in the Kapadia household. She seemed to be discovering anew the everyday enjoyments of calling on relatives and friends, chatting and singing: she loved to sing. In visits to the Gandhi house, where the newlyweds Motilal and Harkunwar lived, she exchanged confidences with another recent bride.

In such conversations, Kasturbai undoubtedly shared some of her confused feelings about her husband and her marriage: how she thought about Mohandas all day long — it made the cooking and the chores go faster. How eager she was, they both were, to be alone together in their room at night. How playful he could be: mischievous in fact, but agreeably so. He had his strange little ways. He always kept a small lamp lit in their room, something she wasn’t used to. But she never objected; she truly wanted to please him in all things.

Why, then, in the first few months of her marriage, had she defied her husband and gone against his wishes? Not just once, but repeatedly. She tried to explain to her friend and to herself.

It was because Mohandas had changed. He had become another person: disagreeable and unreasonable. But was that any reason for defying him — something no good wife should ever do? How could she make him understand that she had her own life to live, her own duties to perform? She wanted to be a good wife, but she also had to be true to herself.

Kastur loved to listen to the stories women told. Tales of the great heroines of ancient India. One of the stories Kastur often asked for was the true story of the brave queen Rani Laxmibai of Jhansi. In 1857, only a few years before Kastur herself was born, Rani had died on the battlefield. She was leading Indian troops against their colonial overlords. The British called this brief rebellion the Sepoy Mutiny.

Kastur’s mother was pleased to tell her daughter the story of a woman’s selfless patriotism, hoping, perhaps, that her daughter would grow up to emulate the courage of Rani Laxmibai. Vrajkunwerba had no illusions that Kastur would ever lead troops into battle, of course, but there were many different ways a woman could be courageous.

In Kasturbai’s absence Mohandas had studied hard, making up for time missed from school during the weeks of endless wedding celebrations. He wrestled with geography, and lost marks for his bad handwriting, but his marks in English and geometry were much improved. He was passed to a higher grade. This was better than the other recent Gandhi bridegrooms had done. Marriage marked the end of schooling for my grandfather’s older brother Karsandas, and his cousin Motilal in Porbandar.

All the while Mohandas was devoting himself to his studies, his inmost thoughts had been centred on his wife. Desperately lonely for Kasturbai, fervently yearning for her return, he had devised an experiment for them to carry out, a new project to bring them closer together: he was going to teach his illiterate wife to read and write. His ambition, as explained in his autobiography, was “to make my wife an ideal wife…. [T]o make her live a pure life, learn what I learned, and identify her life and thought with mine.”

He revealed the plan to Kasturbai as soon as she returned to Rajkot, keeping her awake late into the night outlining his course of instruction starting with the alphabet, and expecting her enthusiastic acceptance of the project. Instead, she seemed wary, unresponsive.

In truth, Kasturbai was surprised and shocked. How could her husband be so unpredictable, so inconsistent? First, he had wanted her to become the most subservient wife. Now he was suggesting she should become the most emancipated and do something totally unconventional, something that went against all tradition. He wanted her to learn to read and write! Her misgivings were almost instinctual. But with her usual protective reticence, she said nothing.

The experiment got underway. Each night in their room, the young couple would spread out the books Mohandas had selected, take up the slates he had provided, and go to work. But each night, just as regularly, they would abandon the effort almost as soon as it began, and go to bed. The trouble, according to Gandhi’s later recollections, was that Kasturbai, the reluctant student, “was not impatient of her ignorance.” He, the zealous instructor, found his fervour to teach his wife overwhelmed by his passion to make love to her.

From Kasturbai’s point of view, there were larger problems. First was the matter of simple exhaustion. Her day was long and strenuous, but her studies with Mohandas could not begin until after nightfall. By that time she had neither the stamina nor the inclination to sit through the lessons he had prepared.

More than that, Kasturbai had every reason to fear the effect her studies might have on her relationship with the other women in the Gandhi family, the women with whom she would be spending the rest of her days. Of the three daughters-in-law sharing the household, Kasturbai had come from the most prominent and most prosperous family. Her father had been mayor of Porbandar. She had grown up in an affluent home, wanting for nothing. Until now, their differences had been of no consequence, and Kasturbai had been careful to keep it that way. By word and deed, Vrajkunwerba and Putliba taught her that to prevent small misunderstandings from becoming lifelong feuds, the habitual practice of courtesy and consideration was essential in the crowded world of homebound women in an Indian joint family.

What would happen now if she learned to read and write — became educated? Would her sisters-in-law feel she was trying to prove she was better than they were? Would she be subjected to their resentment, ridicule and condemnation? What would Putliba think of her? And what would she think of herself? Would her own attitude towards life change if education were forced upon her? Did she want to be changed? My grandmother had an indomitable spirit, but she was not yet inclined to pioneer a revolution. And a hundred years ago the idea of education for Indian women was revolutionary indeed.

Kasturbai’s illiteracy was not unusual; quite the reverse. Except for a tiny number of wealthy princesses sent abroad for study, almost all Indian women in those days were illiterate. Not one woman in Kasturbai’s family — her mother, her mother-in-law, her sisters-in-law, Mohandas’ sister Raliatben — was able to read or write. Education outside the family home was unheard of. There were few schools of any kind and virtually none for girls.

Mohandas’ ill-fated tutoring experiment continued sporadically for many weeks, being abandoned, then resumed several times before he was forced to admit that his attempts to educate his wife were failing. It was a failure my grandfather would lament repeatedly in later years, ascribing it to his own shortcomings — his “lustful love”.

But it seems to me that Bapu’s assessment of this failure in no way took into account Ba’s point of view.

And what was significant is this: she never protested or openly opposed her husband’s wishes. She simply chose not to master her lessons. A pattern was being set.

Obsessed for so many months by the complexities of his new role as husband, Mohandas had made few close friends in school. Now, in his second year of high school, he and a Muslim schoolmate called Sheik Mehtab had struck up a friendship. A tall, handsome athletic youth, Mehtab lived across the street from the Gandhis. He was two or three years older than Mohandas and had originally been a friend and classmate of Mohandas’ older brother Karsandas. Unlike Karsandas, Mehtab was still attending the Rajkot high school where Mohandas saw him every day.

Their friendship distressed Kasturbai. A perceptive judge of character, she suspected his intentions from the beginning. She soon learned that Mehtab was known in the neighbourhood as something of a wastrel who was lazy and boastful. Then she was told that neither Putliba nor Lakshimidas, Mohandas’ level-headed oldest brother, had ever considered Mehtab fit company for Karsandas.

It should be noted that their objections were to Mehtab himself not his religion. The Kathiawar peninsula, somewhat cut off from the rest of India and therefore a frequent sanctuary for those fleeing persecution elsewhere, was remarkably free of the religious hatreds that beset other regions. For centuries, Buddhists, Muslims, Jains, Parsis, Christians, as well as adherents of all the varying sects of Hinduism (somewhat analogous to the various denominations of Protestantism) had found refuge there, living and working side by side. My grandfather later said it was in Rajkot and Porbandar that he got “an early grounding in toleration for all branches of Hinduism and its sister religions” — an attitude he tried to pass on to his followers.

At one point Kasturbai took it upon herself to warn Mohandas against spending too much time with Sheik Mehtab. Mohandas, disregarding (and possibly resenting) her advice, persisted in the friendship. That is where matters stood when the time came for Kasturbai to make another lengthy visit to Porbandar. With his wife away, Mohandas soon became Mehtab’s inseparable companion, and Mehtab became a guiding influence in his life.

One day Mohandas confessed to his new friend that he was plagued by unreasonable fears of the dark and of creatures that came out at night. This embarrassed him, he said, because his wife had none of these fears. Kasturbai would go out in darkness where Mohandas feared to tread; she could sleep soundly, while he, lying awake, was in terror of snakes, thieves, and ghosts.

Mehtab had an answer: eat meat. He attributed Mohandas’ timidity to vegetarianism that was a basic tenet of Vaishnava-sect followers of Vishnu. Mehtab boasted he could hold live serpents in his hand, and could defy thieves. He stated that he did not believe in ghosts — all because he, as a Muslim, could eat meat. His size, strength, and athletic prowess (he was the high school’s star runner) were all due to meat eating. This was also why the English were able to dominate Indians. Mehtab quoted the Gujarati doggerel gaining popularity among young Indians:

Behold the mighty Englishman

He rules the Indian small

Because, being a meat-eater,

He is five cubits tall.

Mehtab informed Mohandas that many of his Hindu high school teachers were now secretly eating meat. So was his own brother, Karsandas.

Mohandas had long since begun to question the validity of certain Hindu practices, starting with the rigidities of the caste system. As a little boy he had seen Uka clean the bucket latrines at the Gandhi house and once asked his mother why Uka was considered Untouchable. Why was it believed that their very shadows could contaminate, and anyone who so much as brushed against them had to be purified by an immediate bath?

Putliba had, momentarily, eased her son’s mind by explaining that it wasn’t always necessary to perform ablutions after coming into contact with an Untouchable; if one touched someone from another religion, a Muslim perhaps, the pollution could be harmlessly transferred. Later on, in a spirit of pre-adolescent rebellion, Mohandas and one of his young cousins had challenged a lesser prohibition of the Vaishnava faith. Secretly retrieving cigarette butts discarded by a transgressing uncle, they had briefly (and unhappily) tried smoking.

More recently, Mohandas had stopped going to temple — the ostentatious glitter and pomp had never appealed to him. What did such outward displays of excessive wealth have to do with inner spiritual values? He had grown increasingly skeptical about all religiously prescribed dogma, and was secretly beginning to regard himself as an atheist.

After due consideration of his friend Mehtab’s urging, Mohandas decided that, for him, meat eating posed no moral problems except for the deception involved. His parents, of course, could never know. If meat eating would make him strong and daring, it was an experiment worth trying. And as part of a reform that could help free India, it was a patriotic duty to be performed.

His first taste of meat — a feast of goat’s meat and baker’s bread (another first) which was supplied by Mehtab and eaten in privacy on a secluded riverbank on the outskirts of town made Mohandas sick. He had nightmares that night. But remorse soon faded when he reminded himself of his duty to grow stronger. More secret feasts followed, even a few visits to restaurants where meat dishes were served. By the time Kasturbai returned to Rajkot, Mohandas had actually acquired a taste for meat dishes. The experiment had become an established habit.

Kasturbai soon realised that her husband, once again, had changed. His attempts to teach her to read and write were forgotten. They seldom talked, even at night. Upon reaching their room, they went straight to bed — in the dark. Mohandas made it a point now to turn off the nightlight. He left for school early, arrived home late, and ate little for dinner, complaining of “digestive” problems. His parents accepted the explanation. But it did not ring true to Kasturbai.

Only gradually, and with horror, did she allow herself to suspect the most likely reason for this latest transformation in her husband. Mohandas had become a meat eater!

Kasturbai had been born and bred a Vaishnava Hindu, and abhorrence of meat eating was stronger among the Vaishnavas. Most Vaishnava Hindus had absorbed many of the basic teachings of Jainism. To them, therefore, the eating of meat was tantamount to eating human flesh.

If Mohandas had now become a meat-eater, she was certain that Sheik Mehtab was the most likely instigator of such wickedness. Living in close proximity with him, Kasturbai became more convinced that this was the horrifying truth. But what could she do about it? She could not now confront Mohandas with her new suspicions. She certainly could not discuss the matter with Putliba, and it would be improper to speak of it with her sisters-in-law. If Mohandas wanted to eat meat, Kasturbai could not stop him. All she could do was keep her silence and pray.

Somehow, her prayers were answered.

Mohandas’ experiment with meat eating stretched out over a full year. To his disappointment, it added not a single cubit to his size but added immensely to his guilt. My grandfather was no doubt beginning to realise that my grandmother knew and understood him better than anyone else. In the end, his guilt overcame his enthusiasm for “food reform”. He could not live with the deception and decided to confess his guilt to his ailing father. It took him a while to muster the courage. He wrote a letter and one day, when his father was lying in bed alone, handed it over to him.

On reading his son’s confession his father cried and so did Mohandas. They embraced, his father forgave him and Mohandas kept his vow to shun meat for ever.

Mohandas’ friendship with Mehtab had meanwhile cast another shadow over his relationship with his wife. Though Kasturbai was unaware of it, Mohandas sometimes discussed with Mehtab his uncertainties about their intimate marital relations. His own feelings of desire for his young wife were constant and intense. Though she seemed to return his love with a tender affection, he sometimes expected her to be more demonstrative.

One day, talking to Mehtab, Mohandas wondered aloud whether Kasturbai was more or less responsive in lovemaking than other women were. With his own lack of experience, he had no way of knowing. Mehtab, a self-proclaimed “expert” in these matters, had an answer — as usual. It was more unnerving than helpful.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Women are often very timid about such things; or, perhaps, she has someone else she likes better than you.”

That night Kasturbai had to face a flood of angry questions and accusations about her fidelity — she could hardly believe what Mohandas was saying. The nights that followed were the same. It was a period of lonely emotional torment for her. She knew who was behind this mischief, but was helpless to defend herself. And there was no one to whom she could turn for help or counsel.

There was worse to come.

Mehtab’s next suggestion was that Mohandas would probably find it interesting to visit a brothel where he could learn about other women. Mehtab knew just the place. He offered to make all the arrangements, even pay the bill in advance. Mohandas allowed himself to be persuaded, but the outcome was disastrous. The ardent but jealous husband, once in the presence of a woman other than the wife to whom he had sworn eternal fidelity, was unable to perform.

“I was almost struck blind and dumb,” Gandhi wrote in his autobiography. “I sat next to the woman on her bed, but I was tongue-tied. She naturally lost patience with me, and showed me the door with abuses and insults. I felt as though my manhood had been injured, and wished to sink into the ground for shame.”

Once outside on the street, however, he felt an enormous sense of relief. He had not broken his vows to be true to Kasturbai.

Sometime later — we do not know just when — Mohandas confessed all of this to Kasturbai. He went to her half expecting to be met with anger, recriminations, and retribution. After his own recent accusations, such reactions on Kasturbai’s part would surely have been justified, which could very well have led to further indiscretions on Mohandas’ part. What he needed was understanding, solace, sympathy — and these he got in good measure. It was the first real test of their marriage and Kasturbai met this crisis with generosity and trust, and a maturity that was scarcely to be expected from a 15-year-old girl.

Sometime in the summer of the year of 1885, Kasturbai had joyous news for her husband and her family: she was expecting their first child.