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

by Robert Payne

  The agreement came in the nick of time, for there were times during the night when Gandhi became delirious. He would ask to be removed to his bed, though he was already in his bed. A strange heaviness had assailed him, and when he spoke the voice was so low that it was almost impossible to distinguish the words. When he was weighed during the morning of January 18, the scales registered the same ominous 107 pounds. He looked so exhausted that the doctors despaired for him. Nehru, too, despaired for him, for he seemed beyond help. But as the morning advanced, it became clear that important decisions were being made. Early in the day Rajendra Prasad addressed a mass meeting, calling on all the inhabitants of Delhi to keep the peace. By the time he returned to his own house nearly all the provisions of the document which would be presented to Gandhi had been agreed upon. The final document read:

  We wish to announce that it is our heartfelt desire that the Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, and the members of other communities should once again live in Delhi like brothers in perfect amity, and we take the pledge that we shall protect the life, property and faith of Muslims, and that the incidents which have taken place in Delhi will not happen again.

  We want to assure Gandhiji that the annual fair at Khwaja Qutab-ul-din’s mausoleum will be held this year as in previous years.

  The Muslims will be able to move about in Subzimandi, Karol Bagh, Paharganj and other localities, just as they did in the past.

  The mosques which have been left by Muslims and which are now in the possession of Hindus and Sikhs will be returned. The areas which have been set apart for Muslims will not be forcibly occupied.

  We shall not object to the return to Delhi of the Muslims who have migrated from here, if they choose to come back, and Muslims shall be able to carry on their business as before.

  We give the assurance that all these things will be done by our personal efforts and not with the help of the police or the military.

  We request Mahatmaji to believe us and give up the fast and continue to lead us, as he has done hitherto.

  It was a strange document, the fruit of many conferences and many compromises, but there was enough substance to it to convince Gandhi that the leaders who offered to sign it were absolutely serious in their determination to keep the peace. He accepted it, listened to their speeches, and said: “I will break the fast. God’s will be done. All of you may well be a witness to it.”

  Then there were prayers, the same prayers which had been chanted at the beginning of the fast, and at 12:25 P.M. Gandhi accepted from the hands of Maulana Azad the ceremonial glass of orange juice which put an end to the fast. Oranges and bananas were distributed to the hundred guests who crowded into his living room, and then one by one, having received his darshan, they made their way out of Birla House.

  A Slab of Guncotton

  GANDHF’S STRENGTH returned more quickly than anyone expected, and for the rest of the day, though obviously exhausted, he behaved exactly as though there had been no threatened fast unto death. He wrote letters, dictated to his secretary, permitted delegations of visitors to enter his room, and prepared himself for the customary discourse to be broadcast later in the day. Indira Gandhi told him that her father had also gone on a fast, and though the news surprised and pleased him, he was also horrified, and immediately wrote a brief letter in shaking handwriting urging Nehru to stop the fast at once. “May the Jewel of India live long and remain among us,” he wrote, and he asked that the message should be given to him as soon as possible.

  The weather had changed. Now instead of the bright winter sunlight there were low murky skies. The rain came down and the whitewashed room with the french windows was gray in the darkness of a winter afternoon. Faces appeared at the window and moved away. The female disciples, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, told one another that heaven was weeping for joy; like Gandhi’s mother they believed that the elements spoke to suffering humanity. There was no thunder and lightning, only the small rain falling.

  While he was fasting, there had come to Gandhi an idea which delighted and baffled him because of its vast scope and astonishing simplicity. Soon he would go to Wardha for a few days to recover his strength, and then he would launch the last and greatest of his campaigns, nothing less than a march to Pakistan in the hope of bringing the two countries together again. Exactly how this would come about, what resources he would use and who would accompany him on the march—all this was left to the future. He talked about the idea guardedly to a few intimate friends, saying that he would lead the Muslims back into India and the Hindus back to Pakistan, and this could be done through the force of ahimsa. The two countries could still unite, the wound could still be healed, and there was still time. Unless this was done, he believed that the two dominions would fall under foreign domination.

  He was perfectly aware that the idea was among the most extraordinary that he had ever conceived, but many extraordinary events had taken place in his lifetime. He had marched on Dandi, picked up a pinch of salt, and shaken the British Empire. Could he not march along the frontiers of India and Pakistan and shake the two dominions out of their enmity? As a corollary to the march it would be necessary to dissolve the Indian Congress and the Muslim League, but this too might be accomplished by the force of ahimsa. He was gambling for high stakes—the highest stakes he knew.

  At 5:20 P.M., still lying in bed, he spoke into the microphone which carried his words across India and Pakistan. He was not yet ready to speak about this last attempt at reconciliation, but he could at least hint at it He said:

  I cannot forecast the future, but God has endowed me with intellect and a sincere heart. Confiding in them, I can give you a glimpse of the future that, if for one reason or another, we foil to maintain friendly relations with one another, with not only the Muslims of India but with the Muslims of Pakistan and the whole world, we should know—and I have no doubt—that India will cease to be ours and pass into alien hands, we shall become slaves, Pakistan will go into slavery, the Union will go into slavery, and we shall lose our hard-won freedom.

  Today very many people have blessed me and have assured me that all Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians, Parsees and Jews will live together as brethren, and that all Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Parsees and Christians who are residents of Delhi as well as all refugees will never be unfriendly towards one another, whatever happens or whoever instigates them. This is no small thing. It means that we shall endeavour from now on that all people who inhabit India or Pakistan shall live together as friends. If the breaking of the fast does not signify this, I must say in all humility that you have not done the right thing by weaning me from the fast.

  He went on to speak of the reconciliation which was taking place all over India and Pakistan, and then the speech he had dictated earlier on the subject of the breaking of the fast was read out for him. Having received so many letters and telegrams wishing him long life, he spoke of his desire to live the full course of his life in service to the people, and once again he dwelt on the prospect that he might live for 125 years, or perhaps even 133 years. It was a prospect that did not dismay him and he spoke about it quite seriously. Above all, he prayed for true friendship between all the religions, calling upon the Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims to put aside the last remnants of hatred, for only with true peace could there be hope for the future. This speech, which he had previously dictated, ended with the words: “God, Who is Truth, will guide us in future as He has obviously guided us during these six days.”

  By this time the rain was no more than a slow drizzle, and he went out onto the verandah, where he was lifted up in a chair so that everyone could see him. In the gathering darkness, shrouded in a heavy Australian shawl, looking very small and frail, he lifted his hands in blessing. Then he returned to his room and began to spin. When someone suggested that the day on which he had broken his fast was not suitable for spinning, he replied: “Bread obtained without sacrifice is said to be stolen bread. I have now started taking food, hence I must perfor
m a sacrifice.” At ten o’clock he went to bed, and he was up again five and a half hours later.

  The next day was a Monday, his day of silence and rest, but there were too many things on his mind to permit him to remain silent. For once the inflexible rule was broken. To two visitors who came in the early morning with stories about the terrible things that had happened to Hindus and Sikhs in Karachi, he said: “I intend to go to Pakistan. Give me in writing what you have told me. I will take the necessary steps to set things right.” He could do nothing for the dead, but hoped to bring relief to the living. More and more he thought of the journey to Pakistan as one which was destined and therefore inevitable, even though all his advances toward Jinnah had been greeted with a studied silence. He had half expected that Jinnah would send him a telegram during his fast, but none came. He had hoped that his sympathies for the Muslims in India would be answered with sympathetic treatment of the Hindus in Pakistan, but there was no sign of it. Toward evening, after talking with a visiting Pakistani delegation, he said angrily: “No settlement can now be arrived at through Jinnah. Nobody need go to Pakistan. I should not go there even in my personal capacity.” But this was a passing anger, and in the following days he would talk now hesitantly, now in a mood of complete conviction, about that journey which seemed so inviting, so necessary, and so fraught with danger.

  On the following day he was still weak, still restless. The doctors had decided that he must continue taking only liquid food, with the result that he was unable to build up his strength. He was given an enema, and this exhausted him still more. During the afternoon, when he was carried on a chair to the prayer meeting, he looked ill and drawn, his cheeks sunken. As he was being carried across the garden, someone ran up with a telegram which had just arrived. The telegram did not differ very much from many telegrams he had been receiving—it was a desperate appeal for help from some Muslim villagers in Gwalior, where Hindus had beaten up and killed Muslims—but it did not make him any happier. With Manubehn at his side, he sat down on the platform outside the portico at the end of the garden. There were about three hundred people in the garden. He greeted them with a namaskar, and gazed at them searchingly for a while —they were the usual crowd, who had come more to receive his darshan than to listen to his speeches. But there were among them some people who were not usually found in a prayer garden. Quite close to Gandhi were five men armed with revolvers and hand grenades. They were not policemen. They had come to kill him.

  It was a prayer meeting like all the other prayer meetings, beginning with prayers and chants and concluding with the discourse prepared during the day. His words were being broadcast over All-India Radio, and in addition a camera crew was recording for posterity the strange birdlike appearance he acquired after his fast: the long, thin neck, the shoulders hunched, the eyes alert. He spoke in Hindi in a hoarse, croaking voice. He was indulging in one of his rare tirades against the Americans, who spoke of equality while lynching black men, when there was a sudden sharp explosion followed by a muffled echo.

  There was no panic, no one jumped up and ran, but everyone craned around to see where the explosion had come from. A shiver of fear and bewilderment ran through the crowd. Gandhi, looking tense and excited, said: “Listen, listen, nothing has happened!” A few people began to move away, and all the time Gandhi was making quick, abrupt movements with his hands to make them sit down.

  Manubehn, terrified by the sound of the explosion, had thrown herself at his feet, clasping them with all her strength.

  “Why are you frightened?” Gandhi asked. “It is probably some soldiers practicing sham fighting. But what would you do if they really came to shoot at you and me?”

  A young Punjabi called Madanlal Pahwa had been arrested by the police and removed from the grounds in handcuffs. He made no attempt to escape. An illiterate peasant woman, Sulochana Devi, had pointed him out to the police, saying that she had seen him lighting a fuse with a match. About seventy-five feet from where Gandhi was sitting, a portion of the garden wall had been blown out with guncotton.

  A few minutes later Madanlal Pahwa was being searched and interrogated in the police box at the entrance to Birla House. A hand grenade was found on him. He was quite calm. Asked why he had exploded the guncotton, he said he had intended to kill Gandhi, but one cannot kill a man by exploding guncotton on a wall seventy-five feet away from him. About twenty bricks had been displaced as a result of the explosion. “I did this because I do not approve of Gandhi’s policy of friendship and peace with the Muslims,” Madanlal Pahwa said. He was removed to the local police station, and Gandhi resumed his interrupted discourse, as though nothing had happened. The men who accompanied Madanlal Pahwa quietly dispersed. They had originally planned to destroy Gandhi with hand grenades immediately after Madanlal Pahwa ignited the guncotton, but their nerve failed them. It is possible that they had not counted on the presence of the camera crew and realized that they would be recognized on the developed film.

  The police had no doubt that there was a conspiracy and that Madanlal Pahwa was far from being the chief conspirator. He was an unkempt, rather unprepossessing young man, with little intelligence. He had attempted to enter the Royal Indian Navy and failed in the entrance examination, and he had had many odd jobs. Exactly what role he played in the conspiracy was unclear, but it was evident that he was merely a small cog in the machine.

  During the evening Gandhi asked a secretary, Brijkrishna Chandiwalla, what he thought about the affair. Brijkrishna said he had been informed that there was a conspiracy, and several people were implicated. Gandhi realized that his life was in real danger. Patel had come to the same conclusion, and ordered a large guard posted in and around Birla House. Many days later he explained in Parliament exactly what he had done:

  Prior to the bomb explosion, the guard at Birla House where Gandhiji was staying consisted of one head constable and four foot constables. After the bomb outrage, the guard placed at Birla House and their respective duties were as follows:

  1. One assistant sub-inspector of police, two head constables and 16 foot constables were employed at the entrance and at various important points near the main building and at the place where the meeting was held. They had instructions to stop all persons who appeared to be of doubtful character.

  2. A plain clothes staff of one sub-inspector, four head constables and two constables, all armed with revolvers, were deputed for personal protection. Their duty was to watch suspicious characters at the prayer meeting and act promptly in the event of any indication of trouble or threat to life. They were posted mixed with the crowd at the prayer meeting.

  3. Three plain clothes men were stationed on the path leading from the main building to the place where the prayer meeting was held. They were to deal with suspicious characters or to prevent any of the crowd from attacking Gandhiji while he was on his way to the platform of the prayer meeting and back.

  4. A small detachment of troops consisting of one NCO and about twenty men were placed on duty for patrolling the compound and preventing ingress of visitors from over the boundary walls.

  Patel appeared to be completely satisfied with his explanation. He wanted to make it clear that, far from being negligent, he had ordered a large and impressive guard around Gandhi, amounting to about fifty men. But the statement left many things unsaid, since it was obvious that Gandhi was in greatest danger during the prayer meetings, and there were no figures for the number of soldiers and policemen on guard while the prayer meeting was taking place. Nor was anything said about the loyalty of the police, many of whom belonged to extreme right-wing organizations. Gandhi had no objections to being guarded. “If I had refused,” he said, “I would only have added to the worries of Patel and Nehru. It was much better to agree.”

  When a report on Madanlal Pahwa was given to him, Gandhi told the inspector general of police that he felt no anger against the youth and did not want him harassed in any way. We have no right to punish a person simply because we t
hink him wicked; instead he should be won over through love.

  Complimented for his bravery during the bomb explosion, Gandhi replied that he deserved no credit at all. He had really thought some soldiers were at target practice. A few minutes later he appears to have realized that this was virtually impossible. When he realized that there had been an unsuccessful attempt on his life, then it occurred to him that perhaps God had given him a sign. He said to Manubehn: “It is a sure signal given by God to awaken me.” Brijkrishna Chandiwalla, who was with him most of the day, wrote later: “I noticed that he was losing interest in living, more and more so every day.”

  During these last days of his life Gandhi was living on many levels. He was simultaneously indifferent to the prospect of violent death and preoccupied by it. He held meetings with the cabinet, continued his lessons in Bengali, sat over his spinning wheel, addressed prayer meetings in the garden, and he did all these things as though he had twenty years to live, as though the air was not electric with violence, and at the same time he was aware that at any moment there would be another explosion of guncotton or the burst of a hand grenade.

  Although he firmly believed that he was under God’s protection, he also believed that God might very well have ordered his death, and this death would crown his life. When he was alone with Manubehn, he would say strange and tender things to her, scarcely hoping that she would understand them. Two days after the bomb explosion, early in the morning after prayers, on a day which was especially holy for him because it was the twenty-second of the month, the day on which Kasturbhai had died, he drew her aside to tell her what had been on his mind, saying that she would have to bear great trials in the future because she had come to him of her own free will in a spirit of selflessness. Such people inevitably suffered great torments. He continued: