Lokmanya Tilak

by A K Bhagwat

  “Soon after my arrival there, some of the detenues who had preceded me, pointed out the building in which Lokmanya Tilak had been confined for over five years. The compound within which this structure was situated was adjoining ours. The old structure of Lokmanya’s time had been extended but no material alteration had taken place. It was a wooden building not built of bricks or stones made of palisading, and looked like a cage. At night after lockup, when the lights in the room were on, the human creatures inside looked more like denizens of the forest than like civilised men.”

  “The climate of Mandalay, according to our experience, was unhealthy and unfavourable to a degree - the more so, as we ourselves were the inmates of a wooden cage in Mandalay jail. We could, therefore, visualise the condition under which Lokmanya had to live several years ago. The atmosphere was so depressing that one would feel overcome with a feeling of lassitude and sustained intellectual work in that atmosphere was wellnigh impossible. While at Mandalay I used to be reminded constantly of the land of ‘Lotus-Eaters’ of which Tennyson wrote.”

  “I often used to think and wonder how in those circumstances Lokmanya could go in for prolonged intellectual work for over five years. Only one who had attained complete self-mastery, who was altogether indifferent to pleasure and pain and heat and cold, could rise above such dismal surroundings. Lokmanya was all alone in that horrid cage, the only society that he could get was the none-too-desirable company of the jail officials whenever they dropped in. Even the ordinary prisoners of the jail were not allowed to associate with him. Consequently he would have to be immersed in his books or in his thoughts all the time. What degree of intellectual strain that would mean for the ordinary man, can be easily understood. So great was the physical and intellectual strain, that few men could stand it, much less survive it. I still wonder how in those circumstances Lokmanya Tilak could produce such a magnificent work like Gita-Rahasya.”

  “Interesting stories are still told about Lokmanya in Mandalay jail. His was a simple and, if I may say, monotonous life given to study and contemplation. His imprisonment was ‘Simple,’ so the jail officials did not impose any work on him. But he worked day and night, with his books and with his pen. A little walk in the morning and evening inside the compound of his ward served as a diversion. He was fond of gardening and there are trees which exist even today which are reported to have been planted by him. Lokmanya used to receive letters from his people and friends at regular intervals and whenever there was any delay, he used to feel very anxious. As far as I remember, he had to receive news of several bereavements when he was there but he stood them with the courage and resignation that were characteristic of him.”

  “Lokmanya did not have to serve the full term of six years but was released a few months earlier. Elaborate arrangements were made for his transfer to India prior to his release. He was conveyed from Mandalay to Rangoon in a special train and from there he was taken to Madras. At the dead of night he was roused from his sleep and promptly and without notice taken to the train that was awaiting him. Lokmanya was kept entirely in the dark as to his destination and not till he reached Madras was he able to guess what his destination would be.”

  1 Poetic compilation by Ramdas, the poet saint, said to be the guru of Shivaji.

  2 A collection of the devotional verse of Tukaram, the poet-saint of Maharashtra.

  3 Managalsutra.: A string with small black beads worn by all married Hindu women in Maharashtra.

  4

  TOWARDS COMPROMISE AND CONSOLIDATION

  13

  ‘I was ever a fighter so one fight more the — best and the last!”

  Tilak after his release in an interview with a correspondent of Kesari, gave a complete account of what happened after he was convicted. He said, “After the conviction was declared I was not allowed to see anyone and taken to a police van which was kept ready beforehand. I was taken to a wayside station of the B. B. & C. I. Railway and along with the guard I got into the special train. I was not told where I was being taken, nor did I ask anything. Next morning, the train stopped at the Sabarmati station in front of the Sabarmati jail... where I was then taken.”

  “There I was treated like other prisoners suffering rigorous imprisonment. In ten days I lost about ten pounds. The authorities suspected that I was not taking food and therefore a strict watch was kept over me . When they found the suspicion baseless, a change was made in my diet according to the doctor’s advice.... There was a slight change in my weight and the same food was continued. Though I was given rigorous imprisonment, I was not asked to do any work as my weight was reduced.”

  “I knew that as I was given transportation, I would not be kept at Sabarmati for a long time. On 13th September 1908, the jailor came to my room at about 8 o’clock at night and took me to the office. A train was waiting outside. I was not told anything about the destination also this time. I was given a cook who was a Gujarati Brahmin. A police party accompanied us, but they did not know where I was to be taken. While taking me out of the jail I was given my former clodies, dhoti, coat, pagdi, etc. I was not informed of the change, viz. that I was given simple imprisonment.”

  “Though so much of secrecy was maintained, I could hear at Miagaon station after Baroda, people shouting, Tilak Maharajki Jai.’ I could not see any people, because the doors of my carriage were closed. At about 6.30 in the morning, the train stopped near Bombay Harbour. We were taken through a steam launch to a boat ‘Hardinge,’ belonging to the government military transport.... I was kept in a small cell where the sailors convicted for offences were kept. I was taken to the deck by a European inspector one hour every day. It was very sultry in the cell.”

  “The ‘Hardinge’ did not halt at any place and reached Rangoon on the ninth day of our journey. People at Rangoon knew of my arrival and therefore when I was getting down at the harbour, over a thousand people had gathered there. A train was kept ready and I along with the cook and the police were taken in it on our further journey. We reached Mandalay at 8 a.m. on the next day. I was handed over to the Superintendent of Mandalay Prison. He was intimated before of my coming and he had made all the arrangements. He took me to my cell. I was kept in a room of 20 × 12, which was separated by a compound from the rest of the barrack. I was kept there with the other prisoner who was accompanying me as a cook. The yard around our room was about 130 feet long and 50 feet wide. Nobody was allowed to enter our yard. It was locked all day and night. We were locked up in the cell at night. Our cell had wooden bars and looked like a cage. In the room I was given a cot, a table, a chair, an easy-chair and two cupboards for keeping books. The Gujarati prisoner finished his term of imprisonment and was sent back. A Kulkarni from Satara, who was given five years’ rigorous imprisonment, was given to me as a cook. But he got remission and was released earlier. A third Brahmin was with me for two years, and at last a North-Indian prisoner worked as a cook till I was released.”

  “I was given ghee, milk, wheat flour, rice and pulses. After some days some fruits were given every week. When diabetes became rather acute, there was a considerable change. I wore my own clothes and had my own bed. I was also allowed to take tea, coffee and supari (betel-nut) with my own money.”

  “It would not have been possible to pass time if I had not been allowed to have books, because we were cut off from the world outside. There were three different orders about books. First I was given all books after examining their contents. I was not granted permission to have any book on current politics. I was also not given any newspapers either in English or in any other of our languages. After some days, a fresh order was issued. Only four books at a time were kept with me. Then I made a petition to the Burma Government and I was then given the facility to keep all the books with me. I had about 400 books with me at the time of my release, I was given a pencil to write and I could use pen and ink only when I wrote a letter every month.”

 
“Long before I was convicted, I had a feeling that in all the critical works on Bhagavadgita, the message of the Gita was not correctly interpreted. I read and worked on the subject in prison, and I wrote a book on Gita in Marathi, in which I have given a comparative study of western and eastern philosophy. I wrote this book in about four or six months. But it took me long to plan it carefully and to retouch it after writing it. At present the book is with the government. It was not given to me at the time of my release.1

  “The climate at Mandalay was hot and I could not write well except during winter. Besides this I studied with the help of books German, French and Pali. I have also made some jottings on mathematics, Vedanta and astronomy.”

  “I got one letter every month from Poona and I wrote a reply to it. The letters were strictly censored. I only got private letters. I was given the facility of an interview once in three months, and except on two occasions when Khaparde and Vijapurkar of Rangoon met me as legal advisers, I only met my relations.”

  “My health was on the whole all-right. I had an occasional fever, but it was not serious. Diabetes, however, reached an advanced stage. I have lost five or six of my teeth owing to old age. I have turned grey and I have slightly lost my former vitality and energy. Though I have lost a few Ibs. in my weight, I am fairly fit both in mind and in body.”

  “I knew that I would be released after my term of imprisonment expired and I therefore sent back all the books in May 1914. On 8th June, the Superintendent of Mandalay jail came to me in the morning and asked me to pack up my things. Under police escort I was taken to the station. A special carriage was reserved in the mail, the doors of which were closed at every station. We got down at a small station before Rangoon and then went to Rangoon port. I was then taken on board the government steamer ‘Mayo.’ I was not told whether the steamer was going to Calcutta, Madras or Bombay, and I never inquired. I saw the faces of the Poona police on the steamer. They were specially brought to Rangoon. There were no other passengers. We should have reached Madras on Friday or Saturday, but the boat went at a deliberately slow speed and we reached Madras on Monday evening. I did not suffer from sea-sickness. The prisoner who accompanied me was released at Madras. In a police van I was taken to the Madras station. A special second class carriage, the doors being closed as usual, was attached to the mail. The train halted at Hadapsar and the Dy. S P. of Poona asked me to get down. The station-master asked me for a ticket and I only pointed to the officer in charge. I did not know whether I was to be taken to Yeravda prison or would be released immediatelv. I however trusted the famous saying of Saint Tukaram:(Wait and see what happens.) When the car took the direction opposite to Yeravda I had no doubts in my mind. The pilot car left us on the way. In the car behind there were Mr. Gyder, Inspector Sadawarte and myself. Our car reached Gaikwad Wada on Tuesday 16th, after midnight. Mr. Gyder told me that the government had given me remission of one month and I was released unconditionally. I asked him to convey my thanks to the government. The watchman at Gaikwad Wada did not know whether he should admit me accompanied by the police. He called Dhondopant and I stepped into my house!”

  The Hero’s Home - Coming

  One can imagine the excitement at Tilak’s place at this unexpected arrival of his after midnight. Dhondopant was overwhelmed with emotion. The atmosphere changed almost in a flash. In Tilak’s absence, the routine in the Gaikwad Wada continued. The Kesari and the Mahratta were very ably conducted by Khadilkar and Kelkar, and yet the gap created by Tilak’s absence could never be filled. One of the disciples of Tilak compared Gaikwad Wada during 1908 to 1914 to a temple without the idol. Within a few minutes of Tilak’s arrival, lamps were lit, carpets were spread out and persons were sent out to convey the happy tidings to Tilak’s friends. Within half an hour the news flashed in almost all parts of Poona, and friends and acquaintances flocked to Gaikwad Wada. Everyone was there to welcome Tilak except his life companion who had preceded him to a bourne from which no traveller returns. The moment was too moving for words. People came, bowed down to Tilak and sat on the floor. Tilak saw the old familiar faces, changed and yet the same. Rambhau and Bapu, who were just school-going boys six years back, had become college students and showed signs of early manhood. Dhondopant who had looked after the family, felt almost relieved. Colleagues in public life were rather abashed at the fact that the flame of radical politics had almost been extinguished after Tilak’s removal from the political scene and the most trusted among them had sublimated their political urge by writing dramas. Aurobindo, in response to his spiritual urges, had retired to Pondicherry. The moderates had submissively accepted the Morley-Minto scheme of reforms. India was politically dull but a desire was felt all round that the stalemate had to be ended. Much water had flowed down the Ganges since 1908 and yet most of the changes were due to the march of time rather than to the efforts of people. People could see that suffering was writ large on Tilak’s body and yet his mind was perfectly composed, his disposition as lively as usual. One of Tilak’s devotees described his sentiments in the following words: “Six years appeared to me like a nightmare. Dada came and I felt that time that had come to a stop, flowed on once again.” Tilak talked to people upto 4 a.m. and then retired for rest. Next day was a day of rejoicing in Poona - nay, it was a day of rejoicing all over India. Telegrams and letters came almost in showers. People of Poona came in thousands to Gaikwad Wada to see their beloved leader. India is a land of hero-worshippers. People may not understand the subtle political issues but they instinctively feel the heroism and greatness of certain individuals and worship them as their leaders. When Tilak was at Mandalay, there were hundreds of people, coming from the humblest walks of life, who did not eat sweets; some slept on carpets, some fasted on Friday, the day on which Tilak was convicted. These are innocent ways of Indians, the depth of whose feeling is seldom understood by westerners. The peculiar feature of Indian politics is that leaders who have sacrificed everything for the nation were not looked upon just as leaders of public opinion but as the elderly members of a huge joint family. They had a place in the heart of the people who did not intellectually grasp all that they said. Many western journalists have expressed surprise at the devotion and affection of the Indian people for their leaders. They can comprehend this phenomenon only when they understand that, in India, people are attached to their leaders not for interested motives but with human bonds, and that the sufferings of the leaders, strengthened the bonds and made the attachment closer than before. For some days after the release Tilak had to keep some hours reserved in order to give darshan to the people.

  The question that everyone now asked was, “What would he do next?” He was now old 58, very old according to the standards of his generation, weary, worn with suffering and privation. Would he not rest on his oars? An intimate friend, Waman Moreshwar Potdar, working president of the Sarvajanik Sabha, asked this question on his first visit to Tilak. Potdar records: “The Lokmanya was resting on the swing. I urged him to consider his old age and take rest. He made me sit beside him. He looked at me partly in surprise and partly in anger and said, ‘You see, somebody must do the work that I have been doing. What I do acts as a check on the licences of the government. If I keep quiet, the English will not care for us at all.’ Such was the indomitable spirit that he had. Six years of incarceration had given him a compulsory rest. Though physically he had been stationary, he had been intellectually even more active in jail. In his Gita-Rahasya, he had sought philosophical justification of his lifelong activity. With Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra, he would have well said now:

  “Grow old with me. The best is yet to be!”

  On the 21st June 1914, a mammoth meeting was held in Poona to honour the hero’s homecoming. Tilak’s speech was characteristic of a philosopher. He did not speak of his suffering. He did not hurl challenges either at the government or his political rivals. The humanist note of his speech shows that he did not care for material conquests,
but was touched by the affection which people showed him. He did not make a political declaration but expressed his deep devotion to the people’s cause. He said: “There is a peculiar difference between happiness and sorrow. Grief is minimised when it is shared with others. Happiness is increased when others are there to share it. Those who have assembled today and those who came to meet me during the last three or four days have multiplied my joy thousandfold.” Continuing, he said, that when he came back after six years and when he started looking around, he remembered the story of Rip Van Winkle.

  “Many people asked me as to what I would do next. I am now thinking of my further step. It is necessary to see that the path which one wants to tread is clear. There is a Vedic tradition according to which a person walking through the street sprinkles a little water before stepping forward. I may have to purify my way in a similar manner. It cannot be said today whether the path is sacred and, therefore, I am deliberately keeping silent.” Those who listened to this thinking must have felt the depth of Tilak’s mind. He did not paint rosy pictures. He did not give luring hopes. And yet he declared his firm resolve to act. Tilak did not give any idea of his action because he was a realist who related his plans to the environment and who would not speak out unless he had formed his judgment about the different forces and trends in the political life of the country. All these had soon to be seen in a new perspective altogether, for the Great War began in August 1914.