Читать книгу Daughter Of Midnight - The Child Bride of Gandhi - Arun Gandhi - Страница 13

Kasturbai’s glad tidings were overshadowed by another matter of much graver concern. Her father-in-law Karamchand Gandhi had never fully recovered from the injuries suffered in his accident on the way to the wedding in Porbandar. Now he suffered complications. He had continued as dewan in Rajkot. An English surgeon in Bombay had recommended an operation, but this was overruled by the family physician because of Karamchand’s age and weakness. The family watched helplessly as his health got progressively worse.

Finally, Karamchand was confined to his bed. The nursing duties fell on the family. For Mohan, nursing his father was an opportunity to demonstrate his devotion to both his parents. Also, nursing came naturally to him. My grandfather, from earliest childhood, always showed compassion for anything that was injured or suffering. His older sister Raliatben recalled how young Mohan once climbed a neighbour’s guava tree and, with strips of torn cloth, tried to bandage the broken skin on fruit pecked at by birds.

For weeks, Mohandas spent his leisure time at his father’s side. He came home directly from school, bathed and fed Karamchand, dressed his wound, and compounded his drugs and medicines that had to be prepared at home. During his illness, Karamchand became preoccupied with religion, and Mohan would sit quietly in the evenings and listen to the many priests and holy men (Vaishnava, Jain, Muslim, Parsi) who came to his father’s bedside to discuss religion, sing hymns, and read scriptures. One night Mohan heard for the first time a Gujarati translation of the Ramayana, the story of Lord Rama who was regarded as an incarnation of the Supreme God Vishnu.

Its central message, that “Truth is the foundation of all merit and virtue,” made such a favourable impression on Mohan that he gained a new insight into religion in general and Hinduism in particular. Finally, after all the callers had departed, Mohan would bathe his father’s feet, then knead and massage his legs until the old dewan was relaxed and ready for sleep.

This dawn-to-midnight schedule left Mohan with little time for study and no time at all to spend with Sheik Mehtab — for which Kasturbai was duly thankful. Despite the unsatisfactory “food reform” experiment and other more devastating misadventures initiated by Mehtab, Mohan had never quite broken off their friendship. He explained that, since the association could no longer lead him astray, he now intended to “reform” his friend — a dubious prospect at best, in Kasturbai’s view. With a baby on the way, she believed more firmly than ever that Mehtab was not a proper companion for her husband. She was relieved to see the friendship languish.

Kasturbai herself could think of little else. She was only 15 and marvelled at the month-by-month transformation wrought by pregnancy, feeling the first movement of life she carried within herself. She delighted in the pregnancy and all the attention she got from everyone. From time to time she thought about the ordeal and wondered how she would withstand it — many women died in childbirth — but she resolved not to dwell on the unknown.

The beginning of a new life within her banished any thought of the ending of another. She found little time to worry about her father-in-law’s illness. Such was not the case for Mohan. His constant anxiety about his sick father was superceded only by his unceasing desire for his young wife. Each evening at Karamchand’s bedside, ministering to his needs, Mohan let his mind wander to the little bedroom above the main gate where Kasturbai would be waiting for him. As he imagined her undressing, brushing and combing her hair, and getting into bed, he waited with growing impatience for his father’s customary words of dismissal: “That will do for today, son. You may go to bed.”

Members of the family who realised Karamchand’s health was failing rapidly began to call on the family. One day Karamchand’s cousin was visiting. That night he said to Mohan: “Don’t worry about your father. I will sit by his side.” Thus relieved of his nightly duties shortly after ten o’clock on November 16, 1885, Mohan rushed into his bedroom and woke up Kasturbai. She usually waited up for her husband, but this night she dropped off to sleep early, exhausted from the day’s activities.

Mohandas undressed and slipped into bed beside her. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The voice of the servant called Mohan urgently. “Come quickly! Your father is dying!” Mohan leaped out of bed, flung on his clothes and raced back to his father’s room. He was too late. Karamchand lay still and lifeless.

A great wave of grief swept over Mohan. He would have to live with the shameful knowledge that during the moment of his father’s death he lay wrapped in the embrace of his pregnant wife.

On November 20, four days after the death of Karamchand Gandhi, Kasturbai delivered a child prematurely. In a few days the child died.

“The poor mite that was born to my wife scarcely breathed for more than three or four days,” so my grandfather wrote years later in his autobiography. Then passing his own moral judgment, he added, “Nothing else could be expected.”

Mohan was convinced that the death of his and Kasturbai’s firstborn child, the baby son they had longed for, was a punishment for his reckless self-indulgence, his uncontrollable desire for his pregnant wife. He blamed only himself — never Kasturbai. In his words Kasturbai “never played the temptress.” The memory of circumstances surrounding these successive family tragedies of death, birth and death would haunt my grandfather for as long as he lived, altering his thoughts and actions in unforeseen ways.

Life was forever changed for Kasturbai, too, in ways we can only imagine. No bells were rung, no songs were sung, no gifts arrived for the tiny infant she knew so briefly. But as far as I can discover, she never discussed the matter with anyone. I believe even after she became the mother of four sons, Ba carried in her heart a burden of silent sorrow for her lost firstborn son.

In the late spring, Kasturbai returned to Porbandar for another of her periodic visits. Her parents were concerned about their daughter’s health after the experience of a premature birth. This was to be the longest separation since their marriage. Kasturbai needed a change.

There had been another subtle alteration in their relationship. Mohan was now concentrating on his studies with a disconcerting new urgency she did not yet understand.

In Porbandar, Kasturbai quickly recovered her old optimism and self-confidence. She visited the Gandhi home in Porbandar and played with the children of Mohan’s brothers and cousins. This helped her heal the wounds of her own loss.

In Rajkot, meanwhile, decisions were being made that would affect the future course of Kasturbai’s life. The Gandhi family’s fortunes were in decline following the death of Karamchand. The dewan had set aside no money for his family’s future, and the small pension he had been receiving from the ruler of Rajkot no longer arrived; the household was now wholly dependent on the earnings of Mohandas’ older brothers. As sons of a Prime Minister, they would have been candidates for appointment to the post held by their father. But times had changed. With the British dictating all such appointments neither 26-year-old Lakshimidas Gandhi nor 19-year-old Karsandas Gandhi had the knowledge or the proficiency in English which the post now required.

Lakshimidas, who by virtue of seniority was the new head of the household, held a minor job as a law clerk. Karsandas was a sub-inspector of the royal Rajkot police. Neither position commanded a large income or much prestige. All the family’s expectations for the future were now concentrated on Mohan. His mother Putliba, especially, was determined that her youngest son should eventually become a dewan in the family tradition. That meant he must not only finish high school with good marks, but must also become the first in his family to go to college and obtain a degree.

Mohan adopted these ambitions as his own. By the time Kasturbai returned to Rajkot at the end of the year his scholastic ranking was so improved that his small scholarship of four rupees [about 21p today], had been increased to ten rupees which he dutifully turned over to Lakshimidas, the head of the family. In his final year of high school, he was doing even better. He spent much of his time preparing for the college matriculation examinations, tests which required a solid command of written and spoken English which Mohandas lacked since he had learned his high school English from Indian teachers. These teachers, themselves, were markedly deficient in the subject.

None of this mattered to Kasturbai. The kind of learning her husband was acquiring was far less important to her than the kind of man he was becoming. Mohan seemed increasingly sure of himself. His gawky awkwardness was giving way to an alert self-awareness; his quickness of movement appeared to be fuelled by some inexhaustible store of energy. His shyness remained, but now he seemed rooted more in deliberation than in diffidence. Mohan, in short, was growing up. That pleased her. One other thing was clear: he was still in love with her, still eager for her embraces. But Kasturbai, perceptive as always, sensed that she was no longer the be-all and end-all of her husband’s thoughts and endeavours. For reasons she could not explain, that pleased her, too.

In November, 1887, shortly after his 18th birthday, Mohandas confidently travelled alone by bullock-cart to Ahmadabad, the largest city in the Kathiawar region, to take the matriculation examinations. He managed to pass, without much distinction, but still doing better than most: 2,200 of the 3,000 students who took the examinations failed. He applied for admission to Samaldas College in the princely state of Bhavnagar, some 90 miles southeast of Rajkot. Samaldas was a small, new college chosen by the family in preference to Bombay University because it was closer to home and less costly. Admitted for the term beginning in January of 1888, Mohan set off for a new life; this time travelling part way by camel-cart and part way by train. In Bhavnagar, in rented lodgings, he lived alone for the first time in his life.

Before leaving for college, Mohan learned that Kasturbai was pregnant again. During her second pregnancy, Kasturbai tried to keep her hopes and fears in balance. She accompanied her mother-in-law to the temple almost daily to pray for the birth of a healthy child — if possible, a son. She missed Mohan, thought of him every day, but she was not lonely. Her oldest sister-in-law Nandkunwarba was pregnant also, and the two developed a closeness they had not known previously. That spring Nandkunwarba and Lakshimidas became parents of their first child, a daughter. The family celebrated with restraint — they were all still awaiting the arrival of a Gandhi son and heir.

The months passed but not quickly enough for Mohan. He had realised almost from the day of his arrival at Samaldas College that he was floundering. He understood little that was said in classes. Lessons were conducted in English; his marks were abominable; he was fighting loneliness, frustration, and an oppressive awareness that he was soon to assume the responsibilities of parenthood. When his first term ended in May, he quit college and went home to Kasturbai determined never to return to Samaldas College.

With the baby due soon Kasturbai was pleased to have him home again. This time there had been no talk of her going to her parents’ home in Porbandar for the birth — perhaps fearing the journey would be too difficult. In any case, Kasturbai was thankful. The thought of having Mohan on hand to greet their newborn and join in all the celebrations took away the last of her foreboding.

But his return to Rajkot had plunged the rest of the family into crisis. Their plans for the future were now in jeopardy. The family consulted Mavji Dave, an old friend of Karamchand who, since the dewan’s death, had become the family’s most trusted adviser. A learned Brahmin, in tune with the times, Mavji Dave made a startling suggestion: Mohan must go to England to study law.

Such an idea would never have occurred to anyone in the Gandhi family. Sending Mohan to Bhavnagar, barely 100 miles away, had been a financial strain. How could they even think of England? Apart from the expense involved, a member of an orthodox Hindu family could not dream of crossing the ocean and being polluted by an alien society and its strange culture. But Mavji Dave, a pragmatist, reminded the family of their lofty aspirations for the youngest Gandhi brother, and assured them that the study of English law was the surest route to high office in British-ruled India.

“Think of that barrister, who has just come back from England,” he said. “He could have the dewan’s post for the asking.” Mavji Dave spoke of his own son, recently returned from three years of study at the Inns of Court in London where all students seeking admittance to the English bar were trained. He said Indian students were finding the course there not too difficult. His son could give Mohan advice and notes of introduction.

Mohan wondered if he could ever live up to his family’s expectations. He found the prospect of law studies in England instantly irresistible, an answer to all his problems. The rest of the family acknowledged the value of English education, but they reacted cautiously. Lakshimidas and Karsandas wondered where they would ever find the four or five thousand rupees needed, according to Mavji Dave, for three years of study in England. Putliba, who had heard that young Indians in London were tempted to drink wine, eat meat, smoke cigars, and consort with strange women, worried about the religious risks involved in allowing a young man to go abroad alone. To Kasturbai, who had no notion of just where England was, the entire idea was incomprehensible. Besides, her mind was elsewhere.

The debates about Mohan’s future were still unresolved on the day Kasturbai went into labour. The family waited anxiously for the delivery. This time all went well. When Kasturbai gave birth to a healthy baby boy, the entire household rejoiced. Relatives and friends were notified, feasts were prepared, gifts presented, sweets distributed. Six days after the baby’s birth, after performing the prescribed purification rites, Kasturbai emerged from the birthing room for the observance of a solemn religious ritual. According to Hindu belief, the Lord writes down a child’s destiny on the sixth day of life. A name given to the infant on that day helps the Lord identify the child.

The son born to Kasturbai and Mohandas was given the name of Harilal which means “the Son of God”.

Important as these events were to Kasturbai, they provided only a momentary diversion from worry for the rest of the family — and particularly for Mohandas. In the weeks following Harilal’s birth, his mother struggled with her religious misgivings about sending a son to England, Mohandas and his brothers feverishly sought to raise funds for the trip. His mood alternated between elation and depression.

Mohan could persuade his mother Putliba to consent, but would he be able to convince Mr. Frederick Lely, the British political agent and advisor to the Rana of Porbandar, to grant him a scholarship?

Mr. Lely was aware of the Gandhi family’s estimable record of civic service to the state of Porbandar, and might reasonably be expected to grant a state scholarship to Mohan. It was surely within his power to do so. In each of British India’s more than six hundred princely states the Hindu or Muslim rulers were entitled to retain their wealth and their thrones, only if they accepted the “advice” of a British political agent or resident — officials such as Frederick Lely in Porbandar. Actually, the British political agents were the de facto rulers of the princely states.

With high hopes, Mohan went by appointment to Mr. Lely’s residence to present his cause. It was his first personal encounter with British officialdom. Upon approaching Mr. Lely, he bowed politely as Indians would to an elder, palms together. But, even before he could explain the reason for his visit he was curtly interrupted. “No help can be given to you now,” Mr. Lely declared, murmuring something about financial aid for study in England being available only to those who had already earned a college degree.

With that, Mr. Lely turned his attention to weightier matters, unaware, as the British historian Geoffrey Ashe put it, “that he had just stood face to face with the ruin of the Empire.”

This ignominious dismissal left Mohan more determined than ever to go to England. On his return to Rajkot, he and his brothers redoubled their efforts to find 5,000 rupees somewhere, anywhere. Mohan wrote to distant cousins requesting money. One or two indicated they might help, but reneged on their promises when caste leaders objected. Lakshimidas went to local officials asking for assistance on his brother’s behalf. The British political agent in Rajkot, a Colonel Watson, offered nothing more than a letter of introduction to someone in England. The local ruling prince, the Thakore of Rajkot, presented Mohan with a signed photograph of himself. Even Sheik Mehtab, as friend and former schoolmate of both Karsandas and Mohan, was recruited into the fundraising campaign; he wrote a letter to one of his own cousins asking for a loan for Mohan — to no avail.

There remained one other possibility. Mohan suggested the family mortgage Kasturbai’s jewellery. A woman’s jewels were her property. Kasturbai was pained by the suggestion not so much because she was attached to her jewels but because secretly she dreaded the separation. She feared that she would lose her husband to western culture. She also knew going to England was something he considered very important. She resolved to bear whatever came without complaint.

Putliba relented only after consulting a Jain monk Becharji Swami, another trusted family friend and now Putliba’s main spiritual adviser. He suggested that Mohan make a solemn vow to his mother in his presence that he would not touch wine, women, or meat while he was away. Putliba believed in vows, and she believed in her son. He could go now, with her blessings.

On August 10, 1888, friends and relatives gathered at the Gandhi home in Rajkot to honour Mohandas as he set out for Bombay. He was accompanied by his brother Lakshimidas who was safeguarding the passage money. Several years later, writing for an obscure English journal, The Vegetarian, Mohandas depicted this emotion-filled occasion:

“My mother was hiding her eyes, full of tears, in her hands, but her sobbing was clearly heard. I was among a circle of some fifty friends. If I wept, they would think me too weak; perhaps they would not allow me to go to England. Therefore I did not weep, even though my heart was breaking. Last, but not least, came the leave-taking with my wife, it would be contrary to custom for me to see or talk to her in the presence of friends. So I had to see her in a separate room. She, of course, had begun sobbing long before I went to her and stood like a dumb statue for a moment. I kissed her, and she said, ‘Don’t go.’ What followed I need not describe.”

Lakshimidas had planned to book passage for Mohan on a voyage leaving for England in August, but on arriving in Bombay, where they stayed in the home of their sister Raliatben and her husband, they heard that a ship had recently gone down in stormy seas. Already uneasy about ocean travel, Lakshimidas accepted the advice of knowledgeable travellers that Mohan’s departure should be delayed a few weeks until the rough monsoon seas had calmed. Since he could not remain away from his work that long, Lakshimidas left Mohan in Bombay with Raliatben and her husband Vrandavandas, to whom he also entrusted the passage money.

No sooner had Lakshimidas departed than word came from the Modh Vania caste elders in Bombay that the council, headed by a distant relative of the Gandhis, disapproved of Mohan’s trip. No Modh Vania member had ever crossed the “black waters” to England, and none could go there without compromising their religion. Summoned to appear before the council, Mohan somehow mustered the courage to object. “I have already promised my mother to abstain from the things you fear most. I am sure my vows will keep me safe.”

The council was unconvinced. But Mohan, in one of the first of his many eventual refusals to submit to the irrational exercise of authority, held firm. He would not agree to cancel his plans.

The head of the council then pronounced judgment: “This boy shall be treated as an outcast from today. Whoever helps him or goes to see him off at the dock shall be punished.”

Mohan was excommunicated! The edict would affect his entire family, but the most immediate effect was on his brother-in-law Vrandavandas. For fear that he too would lose caste, Raliatben’s husband refused to turn over the passage money to Mohan — even after receiving a letter from the faithful Lakshimidas authorising him to do so. Mohan himself resolved this final impasse. He borrowed passage money from a friend who could later be repaid by Vrandavandas. In that way, Vrandavandas could truthfully claim not to have helped his brother-in-law.

On September 4, 1888, Mohandas Gandhi boarded the S.S. Clyde in Bombay and sailed for England. Westward across the Arabian Sea, up through the Red Sea, the Suez Canal into the Mediterranean Sea, then to the straits of Gibraltar, and northward on the Atlantic Ocean to the English Channel — the voyage would take seven weeks.

In Rajkot, Kasturbai Gandhi began a long and lonely vigil that would last for three years.