Читать книгу The Story of My Life / История моей жизни - Махатма Ганди, Махатма Карамчанд Ганди - Страница 8

The time of which I am now speaking is my sixteenth year. My father, as we have seen, was bedridden. My mother, an old servant of the house, and I were attending on him. I had the duties of a nurse, which mainly consisted in dressing the wound, and giving my father his medicine. Every night I massaged his legs and retired only when he asked me to do so or after he had fallen asleep. I loved to do this service. I do not remember ever having neglected it. All the time at my disposal, after the performance of the daily duties, was divided between school and attending on my father. I would only go out for an evening walk either when he permitted me or when he was feeling well.

The dreadful night came. It was 10.30 or 11 p.m. I was giving the massage. My uncle offered to relieve me. I was glad and went straight to bed. In five or six minutes, however, the servant knocked at the door. I started with alarm. “Get up,” he said. “Father is very ill.” I knew of course that he was very ill, and so I guessed what 'very ill' meant that moment. I sprang out of bed.

“What is the matter? Do tell me!”

“Father is no more.”

So all was over! I felt very unhappy that I was not near my father when he died.