The Life and Death of Mahatma Gandhi (The Robert Payne Library)

by Robert Payne

  A photograph of Rajchandra has survived. He had a large mouth, large eyes, thick eyebrows, a heavy nose, a look of restrained intensity like a spring about to uncoil. He wears one of those heavy complicated turbans which were common among Gujaratis, and a long dhoti which reaches to his feet. He sits on a curved Victorian chair with his hands folded on his knees, and there is about him a hint of ruthlessness. He looks more like a soldier than a guru or spiritual teacher. He was twenty-two when Gandhi met him. He would die, burned out by his extraordinary gifts, eleven years later.

  The meeting came just at the time when Gandhi, uprooted from London and grief-stricken by his mother’s death, needed someone he could trust and admire. He desperately wanted a guru, someone who could speak to him with grave authority on spiritual matters, and while Rajchandra never quite assumed this role, for there were too many temperamental differences between them, he nevertheless opened the way to self-knowledge. Many years later in his autobiography Gandhi wrote: “In my moments of spiritual crisis he was my refuge.”

  Rajchandra combined an astonishing intellectual daring with an encyclopedic knowledge of Indian religions and moral earnestness. He was continually asking himself moral questions and searching out final answers. He seemed to have read all the religious books of all the faiths, and he was the first to suggest to Gandhi that no religion was superior to another, for all religions were concerned to bring the worshiper into the presence of God. Rajchandra was perfectly serious when he said that the only proper and worthy object of man’s desire was that he should find himself in the presence of God. Anything less than this was unworthy of human attainment.

  Kierkegaard wrote about his encounter with a knight of the faith, finding him in the local tobacconist who sat behind his counter all week and went for a drive along the seashore with his wife and children every Sunday. The same idea had been celebrated by Gujarati poets, and Rajchandra was a perfect exemplar, although he sold diamonds and pearls rather than tobacco. Vast sums of money passed through his hands; he kept his account books in good order; he attended to the affairs of his business with the regularity of clockwork; and on his desk, beside the magnifying glasses and the jeweler’s scales, he kept a small notebook in which he wrote down his thoughts day by day. He was happily married, rich, eloquent, and enviable, and what was most to be envied in him was his spiritual power.

  Gandhi wrote later that the three men who made the deepest impression on his life were Rajchandra, Tolstoy and Ruskin. Rajchandra entered his life as a living presence, Tolstoy through his book The Kingdom of God Is Within You, and Ruskin through Unto This Last.

  For Gandhi it was a time of desperate uncertainties and inner turmoil. He had returned to India as a barrister-at-law, but with no prospects of being able to open a successful law office. His elder brother had hoped to see him with a “swinging practice,” but there was no practice. He visited Nasik with his brother for the ceremonial purification in the sacred river, the Godavari, which is only slightly less sacred than the Ganges, and on returning to Rajkot he offered a ceremonial dinner to the members of the Modh Bania caste in atonement for the many sins against caste law committed during his journey to England. Not all the Modh Banias were appeased, and in the eyes of many he remained under a permanent ban of excommunication. In his autobiography he claims that he regarded the ban without any undue emotion and without rancor, accepting his fate calmly, with non-resistance. But this was perhaps to claim for non-resistance considerably more profit than it could bear, for he had not yet formulated his ideas about non-resistance, and his ideas on religion were substantially the same as those with which he left India. He had pondered deeply some aspects of Christianity, and knew the Sermon on the Mount by heart, but he had no particular feeling for the Christian way of life. All that London had given him was a great loneliness and the right to call himself a barrister-at-law.

  He had no clear ideas about earning a living. He had of course thought of opening a law office, but Rajkot and Porbandar already had many lawyers. In Bombay the situation was worse, for the lawyers were powerfully entrenched and a young lawyer could advance only with the help of the establishment. On balance Rajkot, with the family home, seemed to be the best place to settle down in. Laxmidas had whitewashed the family house, renovated the ceilings, installed new furniture, and bought a complete new set of crockery. The idea was to celebrate the return of a young and promising brother, who would soon be giving luster to the family name. The Gandhi family fortune was in full decline, but it was confidently expected that young Mohandas would achieve the position once occupied by his father.

  In fact the days of power and influence at Rajkot had gone forever. Never again would a Gandhi become prime minister of a princely state. Laxmidas had been for a while the secretary and adviser of the young Prince Bhavsingh of Porbandar, but his employment had been terminated on the orders of the British agent. He was now little more than a law clerk, eking out a modest living by drawing up deeds and conveyances. Mohandas was in worse plight, for he was making no living at all.

  In Rajkot he felt like a fish out of water. Had he not been a Londoner, an inhabitant of a great metropolis? And what was Rajkot but a few streets and a decaying palace? He wanted everything changed to suit his sophisticated tastes. First, his family must wear European clothes. They must have oatmeal porridge for breakfast, cocoa would replace tea and coffee. Kasturbhai possessed a simple peasant-like grace, but this was not good enough. He insisted that she should take up reading and writing and acquire social graces. Because she refused or was unable to acquire them, he stormed at her and made her life miserable; and in a fit of temper he sent her back to her parents. Jealous, suspicious, overbearing, he was behaving like the typical Indian youth who returns from London to display his contempt for his native village. The Modh Bania elders had good reason to fear the foreign adventures of their sons.

  In those early months after his homecoming Gandhi showed the worst side of himself. Partly, of course, it was due to nervousness, the knowledge that he had become a stranger in his own house. His excommunication hurt him more deeply than he cared to admit. He had stripped to the waist as a sign of humility and deference when he served the elders at the ceremonial dinner, but it was only too evident that his humility was assumed and his deference no more than the mask of a corrosive vanity. In Rajkot he was accepted, chiefly because his father had been universally respected. In Porbandar and Bombay the ban of excommunication was still enforced.

  So he remained in Rajkot, summoned his wife back to his bed, and ordered the affairs of his family as though he, not Laxmidas, was in full charge. Kasturbai became merely the object of his lust, for he despaired of educating her. He decided to take the education of his son Harilal in hand, and since he had a good deal of time to spare, he was soon educating all the other Gandhi children. He enjoyed their company and took them on walks through the countryside. “I have ever since thought,” he wrote in his autobiography, I should make a good teacher of children.”

  This opinion was not shared by the principal of a high school who some weeks later inserted an advertisement in the “wanted column” of a newspaper. There was a vacancy for a teacher of English, who was expected to teach for one hour a day at a salary of seventy-five rupees a month. It was not bad pay, and Gandhi needed the job. He went to the school and was interviewed by the principal, who said:

  “Are you a graduate?”

  “No, but I have matriculated from London University.”

  “Right enough, but we want a graduate.”

  “I had Latin as my second subject,” Gandhi announced nervously, hoping to impress the principal.

  “Thank you, this will do. Now you can go.”

  In despair, Gandhi decided to seek his fortune as a lawyer in Bombay, temporarily abandoned his family, and settled down in a small apartment in a suburb of Bombay called Girgaum. A young friend came to live with him and share expenses. Soon they were joined by Ravishankar, a Brahmin, who was employed as coo
k. He was a genial ragamuffin, very dirty—Gandhi noted that even the Brahmin thread round his neck was dirty—and completely incompetent, with the result that Gandhi had to do most of the cooking. From time to time Ravishankar would threaten to leave them and return to the plow.

  Gandhi wanted to study Indian law, gain experience at the High Court and represent his clients in whatever briefs Laxmidas was able to send him from Rajkot. From his young friend, who was reading for the solicitor’s examination, he learned that barristers in Bombay might vegetate for seven years before making an appearance in court, and a barrister could count himself lucky if he made an appearance in three years. Gandhi decided that, come what may, he would rustle up some briefs and somehow earn the three hundred rupees a month which he regarded as a fair income, since it was as much as his father had ever earned.

  His first court case in India was a disaster. Representing a certain Mamibai in Small Causes Court, he appeared in wig and gown and began to cross-examine the plaintiff’s witnesses. Unfortunately he was struck with stage fright. “My head was reeling and I felt as though the whole court was doing likewise. I could think of no question to ask. The judge must have laughed, and the barristers no doubt enjoyed the spectacle.” He sat down abruptly, returned his thirty-rupee fee to his client, and hurried out of the court, determined never to represent a client until he had the courage to face a judge. In all the remaining months of his stay in India he never entered a court again.

  He was a failure, and he knew it. He had nothing in common with the great figures of the Bombay bar, men like Sir Pherozeshah Mehta, who roared like a lion and knew the laws of evidence by heart, or Badruddin Tyabji, whose powers of argument inspired the judges with awe. He abandoned the apartment at Girgaum and returned to Rajkot, his family, the interminable quarrels with his wife, the English knives and forks. He retreated to the backwaters of provincial Rajkot and took up briefing cases for other lawyers, earning in time a respectable three hundred rupees a month by writing memorials and petitions. The petitions of rich applicants would be written by fully fledged barristers; Gandhi had to be content with the petitions of the poor.

  Laxmidas was one of those unimaginative, solid men who inevitably blunder into trouble when they are dealing with delicate affairs of state. Before inheriting the throne, the young Prince Bhavsingh had secretly and without authority removed some of the State jewels from the treasury. Such at any rate was the story told to the British political agent, Charles Ollivant, “who was also informed that the Prince acted on the advice of Laxmidas Gandhi, his secretary and adviser. Laxmidas should have immediately reported the theft to the British agent, and since he failed to report it, he was regarded as an accessory after the fact. The Prince could not be punished, but the secretary could be replaced on the orders of the British agent. Laxmidas fell from grace.

  It so happened that Mohandas had encountered Mr. Ollivant in London, and they had had a brief and agreeable conversation. The British agent on furlough had shed his imperial manner, and behaved kindly and sensibly. Laxmidas thought it would be a good idea if Mohandas intervened on the basis of his friendship with the political agent. Mohandas was dubious. He thought the proper course would be to submit a petition to the agent, and face the consequences in full consciousness of his innocence. Laxmidas had other ideas.

  “You do not know Kathiawar,” Laxmidas said, “and you do not know the world. Only influence counts here. It is not proper for you, a brother, to shirk your duty when you can put in a good word about me to an officer you know.”

  Mohandas was deeply indebted to his brother, and there was therefore no way in which he could avoid performing a duty for him. He sought an interview with the political agent, and when he was ushered into the office he realized that there was very little in common between the man on furlough and the man sitting at his desk in Kathiawar. Mohandas reminded him that they had met in London. The Englishman stiffened, and seemed to be saying: “I hope you have not come here to abuse that acquaintance. Nevertheless, Mohandas attempted to put the best face on things and opened the case for his brother, only to be stopped short by the political agent.

  “Your brother is an intriguer,” he was told. “I want to hear nothing more from you. I have no time. If your brother has anything to say, let him apply through the proper channels.”

  What was most galling about the rebuke was that it was perhaps deserved.

  Mohandas had a great affection for his brother. He could not simply abandon his plea, for the livelihood and future prospects of his brother depended on his success. He therefore found himself arguing with the political agent, who got up and said: “You must go now.”

  “But please hear me out—” Mohandas went on, more anxious than ever to present his case.

  Angrily, the political agent called for the doorkeeper to remove the offending supplicant. The doorkeeper entered, placed his hands firmly on Mohandas’s shoulders, and threw him out of the room. Gandhi was so incensed that he immediately drew up a letter of protest: “You have insulted me. You have assaulted me through your peon. If you make no amends, I shall have to proceed against you.”

  The political agent was not in the least disturbed by this threat. He wrote: “You were rude to me. I asked you to go and you would not. I had no option but to order my peon to show you the door. Even after he asked you to leave the office, you would not do so. He therefore had to use just enough force to send you out. You are at liberty to proceed as you wish.”

  The judge had handed down a summary judgment; there could be no appeal, for in Kathiawar there was no higher court than the political agent. Mohandas fumed, pondered whether there was not some way to bring him to heel, and spoke about the incident to every lawyer who would listen to him. It happened that Sir Pherozeshah Mehta, “the lion of Bombay,” was visiting Rajkot at the time. Mohandas sent him an account of the incident with the two relevant documents, his own letter and the political agent’s reply. “Tell Gandhi,” Sir Pherozeshah replied, “such things are the common experience of vakils and barristers. He is still fresh from England, and hot-blooded. He does not know British officers. If he would earn something and have an easy time here, let him tear up the note and pocket the insult. He will gain nothing by proceeding against the sahib, but on the contrary will very likely ruin himself. Tell him he has yet to know life.”

  The advice was like poison, but he swallowed it. Never again would he attempt to exploit a friendship or place himself in a position where he could be thrown out of a room at the orders of a British official. The bitterness ran deep, and he was not exaggerating when he said that “this shock changed my whole life.” The intrigues of the princely courts, the arrogance of the British officials, the appalling frustrations which arose in the provinces where real power resided in the hands of alien officials, all these things disposed him to believe that he had no future in India. But where to turn? What country would employ him?

  He was wrestling with these problems when help came from a totally unexpected quarter. In his birthplace there lived a certain Abdul Karim Jhaveri, a partner in the firm of Dada Abdulla Co., shipowners and traders with important interests in South Africa. The partner had heard about the struggling young lawyer and liked what he heard. In a letter to Laxmidas he suggested that Mohandas might be tempted to go to Durban to advise Dada Abdulla in a lawsuit against a distant cousin living in Johannesburg. It was a question of promissory notes totalling £40,000. Lawyers were already working on the case, but they were Europeans, while Mohandas, as a native of Porbandar, would be in a position to offer advice from an Indian standpoint. He could also make himself useful in the Durban office, helping with the correspondence, which was mostly in English. Mohandas was tempted, and made a special journey to Porbandar to discuss the offer with Abdul Karim Jhaveri. He asked how long they would require his services.

  “Not more than a year,” he was told. “We will pay you a first-class return fare and a sum of £105, all found.”

  Mohandas wanted t
o leave India, and he therefore accepted at once. He would leave his family behind and place them in the care of Laxmidas, giving him the full £105 for their expenses, since “all found” meant that his own expenses would be paid by Dada Abdulla Co. in South Africa. Since his return to India, his wife had presented him with another son, who was given the name of Manilal. He felt no pangs at the thought of leaving his young sons, and because he had been spending less and less time with his wife, he was not distressed by the thought of abandoning her. He had come to detest Kathiawar, where, as he wrote later, “a brother will cut his brother’s throat for the sake of a halfpenny.” In front of him lay a new land and new experiences. The political agent had told him to get out of the room, and now he had decided to get out of India altogether.

  South African Adventure

  I think it will be readily granted

  that the Indian is bitterly hated in

  the Colony. The man in the street

  hates him, curses him, spits upon him. . .

  An Agent of the Company

  GANDHI SAILED for South Africa without any clear idea of what was expected of him. He did not know whether he would be asked to appear in court, or whether he was to act in an advisory capacity. The more he thought about Abdul Karim Jhaveri’s offer, the more it seemed to be one of those kindly acts intended to free him from pressing anxieties, but otherwise purposeless. He had an obscure feeling that the summons to South Africa would affect his whole life. In fact Abdul Karim Jhaveri, a Muslim, made the crucial decision which altered Gandhi’s whole life, for if he had not gone to South Africa he might have remained in Kathiawar, an obscure lawyer with a small practice, for all his remaining years.