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

by Robert Payne

  For the rest of the day and night Gandhi made preparations against the time of his arrest which could not, he thought, be long delayed. He sent telegrams to Malaviya, Mazharul Haq and other Indian leaders, wrote a long letter to the private secretary of the Viceroy explaining that he refused to submit to the order of expulsion so long as the peasants were living “under a reign of terror and their property, their persons, and their minds are all under the planters’ heels,” and he was therefore returning to the Viceroy the Kaisar-i-Hind Gold Medal which had been awarded to him for humanitarian work since it was clear that his humanitarian motives were being questioned. Feeling in need of an Englishman to advise him, he also sent an urgent telegram to Charlie Andrews, urging him to come immediately to Champaran. Finally he wrote out in English a set of rules for his co-workers to follow if he was arrested. The inquiry into the peasants’ grievances was to go on under the direction of Brajkishore Prasad—the lawyer had been oddly stiff and uncommunicative during the December meeting of the Congress, but he had unbent considerably during their meeting at Muzaffarpur and Gandhi had learned to enjoy his practical talents and his sharp, legal mind, which was perfectly capable of understanding that it was sometimes necessary to act illegally. Gandhi now thought that most of the necessary documents could be collected in six weeks, and he made elaborate plans for printing and hiding the testimonies collected from the peasants. When daylight came, he was ready to face arrest. Only one thing appears to have bothered him. If he was arrested and sentenced to jail, the news would be broadcast all over India, the government attitude toward the peasants would stiffen, and probably it would become impossible to conduct a proper inquiry of the peasants’ grievances. The dilemma was not resolved that day, for the government made no move against him, He spent the day quietly, taking down reports from the peasants on their ill-treatment. On the next day he was ordered to stand trial.

  It was a strange trial, the forerunner of many even stranger trials which would take place in India. According to the law he was being arraigned before the bar of justice, but in Gandhi’s eyes the government was on trial and the only justice he respected was the human conscience. Government was uneasily aware that there was some truth in Gandhi’s opinion and therefore acted with great caution.

  Some two thousand peasants were attempting to make their way into the small courtroom; the glass panels of the doors were smashed, and Gandhi was asked to regulate the crowd, which he did with good grace, for he was anxious for an orderly trial and a proper hearing. When the prosecutor requested the magistrate to postpone the trial, Gandhi protested vigorously, saying he intended to plead guilty and accept his punishment, and he had not the least intention of wasting the time of the court. He made a short and forceful speech in which he announced his unalterable decision to pursue the inquiry, and even if he was jailed he would resume his work the moment he was released. The magistrate decided he would need to consult higher authorities before sentencing the prisoner and he therefore postponed judgment until the afternoon. The court hearing had lasted about ten minutes.

  Mr. Heycock, the local magistrate, was a kindly and intelligent man anxious to keep the peace. He thought there would be riots if Gandhi was sentenced to prison, and even if there were no riots there would be tension and ill-feeling. This was not a matter to be decided in the courtroom. He sent a long telegram to Sir Edward Gait, the Lieutenant Governor of Bihar and Orissa, outlining the case against Gandhi and suggesting various alternative actions that might be undertaken. Then he consulted Gandhi, saying he was sorry there had been a trial—that brief and perfunctory trial at which nothing whatsoever had happened except that Gandhi had made a speech proclaiming his guilt—and he hoped everything would come out all right. Meanwhile would Gandhi please postpone his visits to the villages for three days? In three days he hoped to receive a final decision from the Lieutenant Governor. Gandhi greed, and so matters rested until three o’clock in the afternoon, when he entered the courtroom and was told that he would be released on bail for three days. Bail was set at a hundred rupees. Gandhi said he could not offer bail in good conscience and no one would stand bail for him. “If you cannot offer bail, then you may offer personal recognizance,” Mr. Heycock said, and once more Gandhi declined. “Very well,” Mr. Heycock went on, “come back on April 21 when I propose to give my verdict.” Gandhi agreed to come back and receive his sentence.

  There were stranger things to come. Though he had promised not to visit the villages, Gandhi had not promised that he would discontinue the inquiry. The peasants came streaming into the town and Gandhi took down their statements with the help of his assistants, taking care that they should be drawn up in proper legal form. Mazharul Haq, who was a member of the Viceroy’s Legislative Council, sent a long telegram to the Lieu-tenant Governor explaining the purpose of the inquiry, describing it as a perfectly normal attempt to decide the rights and wrongs of the case. Gandhi was being presented as a patient researcher after facts without the slightest interest in causing a disturbance. The Lieutenant Governor was inclined to agree with Mazharul Haq, and he ordered that the case against Gandhi should be dismissed and that the local officials should assist him in the inquiry. To his surprise Gandhi had won a total victory. In a jubilant mood he sent off a telegram to the private secretary of the Lieutenant Governor:

  BEG THANK HIS HONOUR WITHDRAWAL PROCEEDINGS AND INSTRUCTIONS LOCAL OFFICIALS GIVE ME FACILITIES DURING INVESTIGATION.

  All that remained was to organize the inquiry on the broadest possible scale and to train the investigators, who included Rajendra Prasad, Mazharul Haq, J. B. Kripalani, Charlie Andrews, and about fifteen others. Though they all regarded themselves as educated men, he insisted that they should regard themselves as clerks, accurately reporting the statements of the peasants. Furthermore, they must live the simple, dedicated life as befitted men eagerly searching for the truth. Many had brought servants and cooks with them, and some of them had set up separate kitchens, and they liked to choose their own hours of going to bed and waking up, and some of them liked to eat meat. The meat-eaters were told to become vegetarians for the duration of the inquiry, the servants and the cooks were sent packing, irregular hours were banned, and the small community of lawyers, scholars and theologians learned asceticism under the guidance of a master. In his autobiography Gandhi said he had simply ridiculed them into accepting his ideas. This was not quite true. He had a passionate belief in the necessity of organizing his recruits wherever he found them, and he was inclined to bully anyone who refused to be organized. Because he bullied with charm and good humor, it was always difficult to take offense.

  Many years later Rajendra Prasad remembered how Gandhi had come to Bihar like a stranger from another planet. Everything about him was strange. There was his strange appearance, his strange habits and stranger methods of work. He seemed to be living on a diet of groundnuts and dates, with some occasional rice or boiled vegetables and bread. He was under a vow to take only five foods a day, he rose regularly at four o’clock in the morning, and wore only hand-spun, handwoven cloth. But what especially surprised Rajendra Prasad was his fast walk, so that everyone had difficulty in keeping up with him. He was so quick and nimble during the walks which took place every morning and evening that people despaired of being able to last out the journey; and he always preferred to go on foot even if a carriage was waiting.

  Since he did not know a word of the Bihari dialect and even his knowledge of Hindi was limited—later he learned to speak Hindi with considerable fluency, without ever losing his Gujarati intonation—he was unable to communicate with the peasants except through an interpreter. In time he accumulated a small army of interpreters. Once it occurred to him to ask them what they would do if he was sent to jail. “Then we shall go home,” they said. He was not pleased. “No,” he answered. “The inquiry must go on. There will always be need of interpreters. You must stay, even if it means going to jail.” He was to repeat these words over and over again, until at last his
followers accepted the fact that there was no disgrace in going to jail, but on the contrary it was a necessary and fruitful experience to be cherished by all men of good faith.

  The arrival of Charlie Andrews filled Gandhi with joy. They felt very close to one another. In Andrews’ presence Gandhi would strip himself of the masks he wore with such ease that he was sometimes unaware that he was wearing them. As soon as Andrews arrived Gandhi proceeded to squeeze some lemons and to offer him a glass of lemonade, because it was a hot day. The lawyers who had congregated around Gandhi were amazed, for he had never performed such services for them. They were amazed, too, to hear Andrews call Gandhi “Mohan,” and Gandhi call Andrews “Charlie.” The lawyers were well-dressed, but Andrews had never shown the slightest interest in clothes, which were usually falling apart. He had made the last stage of the journey by horse-cart, and while he was meditating with one leg thrown over the edge of the cart, the wheel had gradually burned its way through the sole of one of his shoes, and he was perfectly unconscious of it until he stood among them, with his broken shoe. At first they could make nothing of this tall, thin, horse-faced man who was on excellent terms with the Viceroy and many governors of many states. Like Gandhi, he had the habit of sanctity, and soon they warmed to him, becoming aware that he possessed some inner force and was not like other men. They wanted him to stay among them. As an Englishman who had the ear of the Viceroy he would obviously be useful, and he would serve as a protective shield if the planters became troublesome.

  In fact, Andrews had no intention of staying for more than a few days, for he had already booked his berth for Fiji, where he had been asked to preside over exactly the same kind of inquiry which Gandhi was now conducting in Champaran. When the lawyers begged him to stay a little while longer, Andrews smiled and said it was up to Gandhi. Accordingly they marched up to Gandhi and presented their case: Andrews should be asked to stay, because he was eminently qualified and would be of great service to them. Gandhi made a little speech, accusing them of wanting Andrews to stay for all the wrong reasons.

  “You want Mr. Andrews to stay because you have fear in your hearts,” he said. “You think the fight is with European planters. Mr. Andrews is an Englishman, and in a fight with Englishmen he should act as a shield. You must get rid of your fear and learn to stand by yourself without the protection of an Englishman, even though that Englishman happens to be no other than Mr. Andrews. I had half a mind to let him stay, but now that I read your minds, I think he will do more harm than good to the cause by staying, and so my decision is that he will leave tomorrow morning.”

  In fact, the decision had nothing to do with the lawyers’ request. Gandhi had been unable to resist the temptation to point a moral. Since he possessed the moralist’s temperament he frequently indulged in these sermons designed to improve the character of his followers.

  On April 22, after first informing the authorities, he set out by train for Bettiah. It was a three-hour journey by slow train, stopping at all the villages on the way. If the British had any doubt about Gandhi’s impact among the peasants, the train journey would have shown them that he was already a legend. Crowds of peasants were waiting at each station to receive his darshan. At Bettiah there was such a crush of peasants on the platform that it was decided to stop the train some distance away to avoid an accident. He was pelted with flowers, the horses of his carriage were slipped from their traces and the peasants insisted on pulling the carriage by the shafts until he threatened to leave the carriage if they persisted. So they followed him through the small dusty streets, chanting his name. Rajkumar Shukla was in ecstasies. At long last he had brought Gandhi to his own people.

  He lived in the small village of Murali Bharahwa, not far from Bettiah on the map, though it could be reached only by a footpath across the scorching plains. The village was seven miles from the nearest railroad station. It was just one more of the hundreds of thousands of lost villages of India. A month earlier his house had been looted by the agents of the local factory who had employed him, obviously in order to punish him for his opposition to the factory owners and perhaps also because he was known to be in communication with Gandhi. The looting however had taken place before Gandhi decided to come to Champaran.

  The peasants who had observed the looting dictated a complete account, giving the names of the looters, the exact time, and everything else they knew, and their reports were added to the mounting evidence of highhanded behavior by the factory owners. Gandhi examined the wrecked house, commiserated with Rajkumar Shukla, interviewed the manager of the local factory, a man noted for his brutality, and spent the rest of the day and night with the villagers. The next morning he returned to Bettiah.

  Legends have grown around Rajkumar Shukla, who is sometimes represented as a poor, illiterate peasant owning only a small strip of land. In fact he was tolerably well-educated, owned his own herd of cows, employed cowherds and plowmen, and possessed a good-sized house and several acres. What distinguished him from the other peasants was his dogged perseverance and determination. In 1914 he was already well-known to the estate managers as a troublemaker. He sent a number of petitions to the Lieutenant Governor, and since these petitions reflected on the conduct of the estate managers he was brought up for trial and sentenced to three weeks’ imprisonment. The jail sentence made him more than ever determined to seek justice. In April 1915 he appeared at the Provincial Conference held in Chapra, and made a public declaration concerning the ill-treatment of the peasants. When he met Gandhi at the Indian National Congress in Lucknow in December 1916, he was already an experienced agitator.

  At first Gandhi was annoyed by his importunity, but later came to have a genuine fondness for him. Later still, there was apparently a falling out, perhaps because Rajkumar Shukla insisted on a more uncompromising attitude toward the landowners. So much we may guess from Gandhi’s final words about the man in his autobiography: “Rajkumar Shukla was incapable of reaching the thousands of peasants, and yet they received me as though we had been lifelong friends. It is no exaggeration, but the literal truth, to say that at this meeting with the peasants I was face to face with God, Ahimsa and Truth.”

  At the moment when Gandhi left the obscure village of Murali Bharahwa, Rajkumar Shukla vanished from the pages of history. By his persistent efforts to bring Gandhi to Champaran, he served a historical purpose, setting in motion a chain of events that profoundly affected Indian history. At Champaran Gandhi first found himself on Indian soil. For a long time he had been looking for a field of action where he could use the methods he had developed in South Africa. Then, because Rajkumar Shukla kept tugging at his sleeves, he found exactly what he wanted.

  By the end of the first week of May Gandhi was ready to draw up his report. His enemies had not been inactive; the planters and factory owners were still hoping to expel Gandhi from Champaran, and they sent a delegation to wait on the Lieutenant Governor, who was vaguely sympathetic, saying that the government would not be bound by Gandhi’s findings. At the same time he pointed out that it was a free country and the local government could not interfere with a mission of inquiry. Gandhi had a perfect right to enter Champaran and draw up a report, but the government would deal with the report as it saw fit

  This was small comfort to the planters, who still feared a peasant uprising, or at the very least a diminution of their incomes. They insisted that some action be taken, and the Lieutenant Governor decided to arrange a conference between Gandhi and his chief revenue officer. For a few days Gandhi would be outside Champaran, talking with the Honorable Mr. W. Maude at Patna, the provincial capital, and there would be a short breathing spell.

  Gandhi had no objection to a breathing spell, and the discussions with Mr. Maude were reasonably friendly. At the suggestion of the chief revenue officer Gandhi was to draw up his preliminary report immediately and submit it to the government. This was exactly what Gandhi wanted. The report, written on May 13 from Bettiah, covered only eight pages and dealt very g
enerally with the entire situation without quoting specific examples. Yet it was a damning indictment of a situation which was obviously in need of urgent reform. Inadequate wages, illegal fines, unfair distribution of land, and the various assessments imposed upon the peasants were perhaps the least of their burdens. The worst was the feudal character of the plantations, with the planters demanding any service they pleased from the peasants and rarely paying for it. They beat, imprisoned, and starved the peasants, prevented them from using the village wells, and threatened them with court suits on the slightest provocation. “The result has been that the raiyats have shown an abject helplessness such as I have not witnessed in any part of India where I have traveled,” Gandhi wrote, adding that the grievances he had set forth were not likely to be disputed. They were too real, too urgent, to be denied. He wrote calmly, in a methodical legal manner, taking care to avoid the slightest phrase which would offend the government He sent a copy of the report to the Planters’ Association and various other interested parties. Then he went back to the peasants and quietly continued the investigation.

  By this time he had accumulated four thousand reports filled with the peasants’ grievances. According to Rajendra Prasad some twenty-five thousand reports were completed by the time the investigation came to an end. The work went on every day from six o’clock in the morning to six o’clock in the evening; at night these reports were carefully typed out by girl helpers. Meanwhile Gandhi continued to travel round the villages of Champaran with Rajendra Prasad and J. B. Kripalani. At the village of Sarisawa the planters brought forward an old peasant who spoke at length about the kindness and gentleness of the planters, and how the peasants were loaded with blessings and given every kind of advantage, and the other peasants shouted: “You are an old man, and have already one foot in the grave. Why, then, are you taking this sin upon your shoulders?” It transpired that these planters were particularly ruthless and all the peasants had suffered at their hands. Gandhi continued to write up those quiet, carefully considered reports, which were far more effective than incitements to rebellion. His aim was reform, the cancellation of the special privileges of the planters, but he was perfectly aware that the reformers practiced a dangerous art. A few days later he wrote in a revealing letter to Mr. Heycock: