Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  Gandhi had considered it a great success. But for many, the satyagraha had only just begun. They knew that the British were stubborn and would hold firm even with a knife at their throats. But perhaps without violent means, the hope and prayer for an independent India would come more swiftly.

  The ashram at Dandi had been a hive of activity and an anchor of successful campaigns, including the recent boycotting of liquor stores and foreign cloths, mostly around Bombay. There had been bonfires built to burn up all foreign cloth as Gandhi had suggested. It had made for great news and Gandhi had earned his international reputation honestly. His next major action was coming up.

  Gandhi had written to Viceroy Lord Irwin about his upcoming plans on the raid scheduled for the Dharasana Salt Works in Gujarat on May 21st. Gandhi sat with the group who would lead the demonstrators to the salt factory on May 21st. It was late at night and they gathered in a mango grove by the light of a fire.

  The weather was warm and sticky and sweet smelling like mango juice and the woody fire burned brightly.

  “We have much preparations to do over the next several days,” said Gandhi. “It is a long trip and we might need to be fortified for the journey. But do not worry yourself, satyagraha is on our side. The force of truth will guide our footfalls.”

  “What is the purpose of our walk to the salt factory?” asked Abbas Tyabji.

  “We will with patience and non-violence take the salt which is rightly ours and we will distribute it to the poor and those who need it more than we do.”

  “And what if they do not allow us to take it? You have written to Lord Irwin and he is a stubborn man who will not allow us through. This I am sure of,” said Sarojini Naidu.

  Gandhi looked at her and smiled.

  “Yes, I fear that you might well be right. We will stay and we will sleep out under the stars at the salt works until we are heard or until we are forcibly removed.”

  “I fear that we will be forcibly removed,” said Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, “or, worse yet, that we will be beaten. They have not shown mercy to us before.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement amongst those gathered round. Gandhi nodded and smiled and put up his hand to bring quiet to the group.

  “You are right. We might be met with blows and angry voices. I ask none of you to join us who are not willing. And I must fervently request that none of you join us who are not willing to adhere to the principles of non-violence and satyagraha.”

  The group fell silent as the fire crackled and coughed and spat. They had made great strides in just these past few months but yet so much work remained, and the British were as immovable as granite mountains. Worse than that, they had pillaged India of her jewels and gems and they had abused her people for centuries. And still they were unrepentant. Gandhi knew this and it needed no voice. It was only justice and equanimity that he sought, by peaceful means.

  But the British had so far not been moved by peaceful means, and he feared that the poor and the disenfranchised would be moved to violence if their voices would not be heard. He stared into the fire and watched it curl its fingers as he had seen a belly dancer do once.

  “We need to get our rest,” he said at last. “We have many days ahead of us of satyagraha. The journey has just begun my friends. We have a long way to travel yet before Indian independence is attained.”

  Gandhi looked around at the group of leaders who sat around the fire. He leaned in and kissed Kasturba on the forehead.

  “Good night husband, sleep well.”

  She smiled at him as he stood up.

  “Good night Gandhiji,” said Sarojini Naidu.

  Gandhi walked over to his bed which was not much more than some blankets folded up at the foot of a mango tree. He lay down upon them in his dhoti under the dark blue sky with its twinkling stars. The warm, moist air comforting like a puppy’s breath. With peace in his heart and non-violence in his soul he was soon asleep.

  Gandhi awoke to loud, abrasive noises. He sat up and saw the glaring lights from several police cars lighting up the ashram. He went to investigate further and noticed that dozens of policemen were kicking and shouting to awake those still asleep on their beds. Women and men were equally abused.

  Those who by now were awake were lined up against one side as the police worked vigorously to rouse the heavier sleepers. Gandhi noticed the one man in charge of them all. He walked up to him and introduced himself.

  “I am Mohandas Gandhi.”

  The man looked him up and down.

  “Good. You’re the one we are looking for. You are under arrest for engaging in unlawful activities. Hey, that’s enough, we have him,” the man shouted to two Indian officers. The police stopped what they were doing and came over to see Gandhi. Several of them stayed back to control the crowd. Though there was no need. The crowd was peaceful and quiet.

  Kasturba was awake by this time and came over to his side.

  “What do they want?” she asked him.

  “They are arresting me for unlawful activities.”

  Kasturba turned to the man in charge.

  “But we aren’t doing anything unlawful, we are sleeping.”

  The man turned to Gandhi.

  “I am the District Magistrate of Surat,” he said with a posh accent. His lily white skin freckled from too much Indian sun. “Did you not write to Lord Irwin recently about your upcoming march on the Dharasana Salt Works?”

  Gandhi nodded.

  “Then you are guilty under regulation 1827 and you will have to come with me.”

  “I will.”

  Gandhi turned to his wife.

  “You must carry on without me. You and Abbas Tyabji must lead the march.”

  Kasturba nodded and leaned in to kiss him, but he was already being manhandled by one of the policeman and being taken to the car. Kasturba watched after him, as did the others. And when the rest of the policemen and the cars had gone, they had not tired of their cause and the more difficult work that had been put upon them by the arrest of their Mahatma.

  THREE

  Chapter 3

  THE march was going as planned. The day was warm and the spirit of the crowd was hopeful. They were five miles outside of Gujarat and the Dharasana Salt Works. It was Wednesday, May 21st, 1930 and this was their Dharasana Satyagraha, but without their Mahatma. He was still in jail in Poona having been held all the while without a trial.

  Kasturba walked at the front with Abbas Tyabji at her side. Behind them a thick throng of hundreds of Indians walked along the dusty road to Dharasana. As they crested the hill in the middle of the afternoon Kasturba pointed at the horizon. A clot of buildings including the salt works could be seen.

  Abbas smiled and turned towards those behind him.

  “The Dharasana Salt Works is within site. It will not be long until we have the salt pouring through our hands.”

  A roar of enthusiasm erupted from the crowd and subdued as if carried upon an ebbing wave. The faces were smiling and there was plenty of murmuring amongst those in the group.

  It was a mixed group of men and women, though the men outnumbered the women by a great margin. Most of those drawn into the ranks of those marching on the salt works were the poor and the disenfranchised. The very same that the Salt Tax harmed most severely.

  “We must continue on through the barricades and the gates until we have taken control of the salt pens where we will dole it out to those who are here with us,” said Kasturba.

  Abbas nodded.

  “If we get that far,” he said.

  He was pointing to the horizon. In the distance came several vehicles billowing dust in great clouds behind them. There was only one reason those vehicles were coming and it wasn’t to help them get to the salt works any quicker.

  “Just as I feared,” said Kasturba.

  Abbas grunted in agreement. Kasturba turned to a woman and man walking at her side.

  “If they arrest me and Abbas, the two of you must continue onward towards
the salt works.

  “We will,” said Sarojini Naidu.

  “I will make certain,” said Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, “we will not fail Ghandiji, not with all the work that Ravi has helped us with.”

  Kasturba smiled at him and nodded.

  “I know we won’t.”

  They continued their slow march towards the buildings as the vehicles continued to race towards them. It wasn’t long before the first car, a police car, had stopped about one hundred feet where the crowd was. Other vehicles came up and stopped by the first. Policemen stepped out of the vehicles carrying steel tipped lathis.

  Kasturba and Abbas continued their walk, slowly until the front of the group was only feet away from the line of police. A man who was clearly in charge in both deportment and lacking a lathi stepped up to Abbas and Kasturba and put his hand out to halt them. He had a walking stick tucked under his left arm, and he was taller than all the other policemen around him. Kasturba, Abbas, Maulana and Sarojini stopped.

  “I am Sergeant Ryan Webb, you are ordered to halt.”

  Kasturba looked at the young man. He had a boyish face and was probably not much older than in his early thirties. He had taken the post in India as a way to prove himself. It was almost a guaranteed path to speedy promotion.

  “Who are you?” he asked, looking at Abbas.

  Abbas looked into the boy’s blue eyes. He was pale faced with a pink glow, likely from too much Indian sun. He stood over six feet and looked down at Abbas, and his uniform was crisp and clean.

  “I am Abbas Tyabji,” he said, his voice clear and calm.

  Webb nodded curtly and looked at Kasturba as the crowd gathered up behind her.

  “I am Kasturba Gandhi,” she said, smiling at him with genuine benevolence.

  Webb turned around and nodded to two of his constables. The stepped forward quickly and eagerly.

  “Arrest these two.”

  One of them took Kasturba and the other took Abbas. Kasturba turned towards Sarojini.

  “Carry on with the satyagraha.”

  “Not a good idea,” said Webb as the crowd started to move towards him.

  He got back into his car and ordered his men to get back to their posts. The police vehicles backed up and turned around and headed towards the salt works more quickly than they had come. The last car carrying Kasturba and Abbas veered off from the pack heading towards Gujarat.

  The hundreds of white dhotis moved towards the salt works like a frothy white river. They were of one mind and one body. With determined but peaceful hearts they marched on. Though their bodies were weary from the twenty five mile march, their spirits sang of triumph and hope.

  The Dharasana Salt Works were about a mile away and they marched on behind the billowing dust clouds of the police vehicles. And after awhile it seemed as though the world stood still as the dust settled and slowly dissipated like morning fog.

  They got within a hundred feet of the salt works when Sarojini turned and spoke to the crowd.

  “You must not use any violence under any circumstances. You might be beaten, but you must not resist. Do not even raise a hand to ward of the blows. If you cannot do this, you should turn around now.”

  She waited a moment with Maulana at her side, but nobody moved or turned around. So Sarojini did. She turned and faced the barbed wire barricade and marched onwards, the throng of men and women behind her offering great strength and comfort.

  “Do not come any closer,” said Webb through a megaphone.

  A line of dozens of smartly dressed policemen stood behind the barbed wire barricade that was between them and the marchers. Behind the police were the salt pens. Sergeant Webb was under strict orders not to allow a single soul to get past the barricade, and he had been instructed to use any means necessary to secure those ends.

  His men had been told and forewarned. They had been advised to use the minimal amount of violence necessary. They were after all confronting a pacifistic group of peaceful demonstrators.

  “Steady boys,” said Webb as he looked to each side at his men. They all held their lathis diagonally across their bodies. It was brutish and barbaric stick encrusted with steel at its end. The sticks were six feet long and almost as thick as a woman’s wrist. Some of the policemen were slapping the sticks against their open palms.

  The crowd continued onwards towards the barricade.

  “I order you to stop! Turn back now!” yelled Webb into this megaphone.

  But the crowd was unmoved and kept on towards the salt works as Sarojini kept on. There were journalists milling around, watching the event from the far corner of the salt works at a safe distance away. Some were already taking photographs. The crowd was now twenty feet from the barricade.

  “This is your last warning! Turn away now!”

  Sergeant Webb was getting nervous. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this that he would be able to convince them just through a show of force and British determination that they were taking the wrong course. Surely with their leader, Mahatma Gandhi in custody and now with Gandhi’s wife and one of his trusted men also in custody, the crowd would see the futility of their cause.

  But such was not the case. Webb watched in awe with butterflies in his belly as the crowd continued marching towards him and his men. The first line of the protesters reached for the barbed wire barricade and started to pull on it.

  “Stop it! Get back! Get back! Stop it!” he yelled into the Megaphone, but he might as well have been speaking upon deaf ears.

  It wouldn’t take them long to dislodge the barbed wire and then they’d have a hell of a time keeping the throng from the salt works. Webb knew he had to make a quick decision. He looked up and down the ranks of his men. They were well trained, they knew what to do. He looked out over the crowd which was now five and six men deep. He had to make a decision and he had to make it now.

  “Beat them back! Beat them back!” he yelled to his men without the use of the megaphone.

  No sooner had the first words leapt from his lips than the lathis had lashed out at the clutching hands and the bare heads of those within reach. Sarojini was hit smartly across the temple and she fell like a shot to the ground, a trickle of blood at her temple.

  Other men fell about her left and right as if the policemen were using scythes to harvest wheat. Coming in and out of consciousness she could hear pandemonium erupt about her. Men were groaning and screaming as the blows pelted down upon them like hailstones.

  Nobody in the crowd put up so much as a finger to ward of the brutal blows. They sat down if they had not been knocked down and waited for the blows to come. The policemen were incensed by the pacificity of the group and it only enraged them further. They leapt into the crowd kicking and swatting at them as if caught in the midst of a swarm of mosquitoes.

  Webb was horrified at what he saw. His men were becoming undisciplined, they were losing their composure and this would not help at all. He started yelling at them to stop, but just like the crowd before them, his words now fell upon the deaf ears of his men.

  Sarojini looked up and off in the distance she saw the dropped jaws of several of the journalists. They were scribbling like mad and others were taking photographs as quickly as they could. She smiled. She knew that through this violence the tide had now turned in India’s favor.

  Webb was reaching out for his men, trying to grab them one at a time to stop the violence.

  “Why won’t these bloody Indians just bugger off,” said Trafford Leak, kicking at an Indian’s groin as the man sat and then toppled over squealing in pain.

  “They just don’t bloody well get it. You have to knock some sense into this bloody people,” said the much taller Kian Hudnall.

  He was throwing his lathi around as if here trying to harvest wheat. Great swathes of men toppled from his blows. He and Trafford were new to India. They had come right after having sworn their oaths as constables. They had come for the warm weather and the opportunity for easy promotions.

&nb
sp; What they had found was instead an oppressive heat, a smell that could make you cry and a land that was filthy and full of beggars. They hated it here. At their earliest opportunity, both of them would be heading back to the isle just as quick as they could. The other thing they couldn’t understand and nor could they tolerate, was the cowardice of these satyagrahis.

  As far as they were concerned, a man who wanted to change something was a man who would fight for it, not sit down like a pin to be bowled over.

  Webb was trying his best to bring his men under control. He had glanced at the journalists and he wasn’t happy with the looks on their faces or the vigorous movement of the pencils in their hands. Slowly, one by one he was corralling his men, but it was a laborious task made all the more dangerous by having to dodge the backswings of lathis.

  A slim Indian man fell to the ground having been bashed on the head with the steel end of a lathi. He was out cold before he toppled over. Medics had been called and were trying to haul away the injured as fast as they could, but the police were injuring more than they could keep up with.

  “Dev,” cried a man as he writhed in pain clutching at his groin. He was calling on his friend who lay unconscious in front of him, blood already matting his thick black hair like thick oil.

  “Shh, shh,” said a woman as she lay next to Dev Jani, holding him and protecting him from anymore injuries. It was a kind but unnecessary effort. The police had already moved on as their ranks were being thinned by Webb physically bringing them back to order.

  “Why did Ghandiji put us to this task?” cried Govind Mitra. “For what, Amita? So that we might be bludgeoned to death for nothing.”

  “Quiet, Govind, you’ll just encourage them to come back and beat you more. Gandhi is trying to bring us independence. You know that. Do not question his leadership,” said Amita Nagy her voice a hoarse whisper, hard to hear over the groans of the others.

  Govind squeezed tears from his eyes as he sucked in his breath and tried to wait out the pain as it slowly started to ebb.

  “I’m finished I tell you, finished with this nonsense and Gandhi’s satyagraha,” said Govind.