by Robert Payne
O Man, give rest unto others.
The chanting of the hymn, which reflected his own preoccupations, seemed to calm his spirits. The coughing went on, however, and when Manubehn suggested that he should take a penicillin lozenge, he was once more oppressed by the thought that someone in his immediate family should have failed to understand him. Did he not have irrevocable faith in Ramanama and in prayer? Prayer alone, not modem medicine, was efficacious against the calamities of the flesh. Once again he spoke about death. He knew there was a conspiracy against his life—he had known it since the bomb explosion ten days before—and he seemed to have some foreknowledge that his death was at hand.
As usual, he had spent the night on his cot on the verandah, and now at last, the prayers over, Manubehn led him into his room and covered him with a wrap. It was still dark outside, with a crisp dew on the grass. Huddled in the wrap, with two electric heaters beside him, he worked over the draft of the Congress Constitution. He was still working on the draft when at a quarter to five he was given his usual drink of hot water, honey and lemon juice. Because he was still weak, the work tired him and he fell asleep, but the sleep lasted only about half an hour. His first thought when he woke up was to ask for his file of correspondence, and when it was brought to him he searched for a letter written the previous day about his intention to leave in a few days for Sevagram. He was annoyed because the letter was misplaced; he had always insisted that his correspondence should be kept in an orderly fashion; and when the letter was found, Manubehn wondered whether it was worthwhile sending the letter because they would probably be in Sevagram before the letter arrived. He said: “Who knows what will happen tomorrow? If we come to a decision about Sevagram, then I will announce it at the evening prayer meeting and it will be relayed on the radio.” He was still annoyed because the letter had been misplaced, but grew calmer when Manubehn cheerfully admitted her responsibility.
He felt strong enough to take a short stroll in the garden, and at 8:00 A.M., according to his invariable schedule, he was massaged while reading the newspapers and learning Bengali, a language he had been studying intensively since his first visit to Noakhali. On the way from the massage room to the bathroom, he caught sight of Pyarelal and gave him the draft of the Congress Constitution, saying: “Go through it carefully and fill in any gaps. It was written under a great strain.” Then Manubehn gave him his bath. While she was bathing him, he observed that she looked exhausted and had lost weight, and he was especially tender to her, saying that her health was his responsibility and if she failed to remain healthy, it would bring great pain to him. “Taking care of your health is an inseparable part of your service to me,” he said, and he suggested that she should do more exercises.
His weight when he came from the bath was 109 pounds. In the circumstances it was a satisfactory weight, suggesting that he was gaining back his strength.
It was probably about this time that Manubehn, having massaged, bathed and weighed him, went off to prepare some lozenges with powdered cloves because she was disturbed by his coughing, explaining that they would be needed during the night, when his cough usually grew worse. Gandhi called her back and said: “Who knows what is going to happen before nightfall or even whether I shall be alive? If at night I am still alive, you can easily prepare some then.”
At 9:30 A.M. he took his morning meal consisting of twelve ounces of goat’s milk, the juice of five tomatoes and four oranges, and some boiled vegetables. Pyarelal came to discuss some minor changes he had made in the Congress Constitution, and for a while they discussed Noakhali, where the situation was still dangerous, though outwardly calm. Pyarelal was wondering whether, after all, the campaign in Noakhali had not been a failure. There were so many evilly disposed people in the area, so many cutthroats were threatening and terrorizing the population. Perhaps it would be necessary to arrange an exchange of populations. Gandhi refused to yield, saying the people of Noakhali should be encouraged to stay in order to preserve their self-respect and honor, and as for those who were evilly disposed they must be met with courage and good faith, without bitterness or anger, until their misdeeds were brought home to them. There could be no question of retreat. Ahimsa alone could lead the way to peace. “Even in an armed conflict whole battalions are wiped out,” he said, “and it is the same in non-violent war.” Saying this, he urged Pyarelal to leave immediately for Noakhali, but a moment later he changed his mind, saying he would prefer Pyarelal to leave for Noakhali only after he himself had left Delhi. Pyarelal was struck by Gandhi’s indecision, for it was never his habit to change his plans or to delay a man’s return to his post of duty.
At 10:30 A.M. Gandhi rested for a while on his cot, practicing the writing of Bengali, and then dozed off to sleep, only to awaken a little later to go to the bathroom. He was so weak after the fast that he rarely walked about unattended, but he seemed determined to celebrate his new-found energy. Manubehn saw him and said: “Bapuji, how strange you look walking by yourself!” He laughed and said: “I look well, don’t I? ‘Walk alone. Walk alone.’” These last words were from the song written by Tagore, which had comforted him during his tour of Noakhali.
As always there were visitors, conferences, delegations, reports to be heard, decisions to be made. Dr. Gopichand Bhargava came to discuss the possibility of securing a building in Delhi for a nursing home and orphanage, and someone suggested a Muslim orphanage might be available. Gandhi said he would discuss the question when the Maulanas came to visit him, but when they arrived to discuss how long he should remain in Delhi—for his presence was a pledge of peace with the Muslims—he forgot all about the orphanage. He seemed to be a prey to indecision. When the Maulanas asked him when he would return to Delhi, he said: “I expect to return on the 14th, but it is all in the lap of God. I do not even know whether I shall be leaving here the day after tomorrow.” To one of his secretaries he said: “Bring me my important papers. I must reply to them today, because I may not be alive tomorrow.” This was the fourth or fifth time he had hinted at his approaching death.
Meanwhile the conferences continued. Mahadev Desai had left a voluminous diary, which had never been edited, nor was there any comprehensive biography of the man who had been Gandhi’s principal secretary for so many years. It was generally agreed that both the diary and the biography should be published, but no decision had been reached with the Navajivan Press, a considerable sum of money was in dispute, the man who had been selected to edit the manuscripts had fallen ill, and it was necessary to appoint a successor. Gandhi was disturbed by the quarrels over the diary and the biography, but characteristically took the blame on his own shoulders.
“Everywhere I look I find people quarreling, as the Yadavas quarreled among themselves to their own ruin,” he said. “Nobody seems to realize that by quarreling among ourselves, we are doing great harm to society. You are not to blame, the fault lies with me, and if God has blinded me in these matters, then what can anyone else do? But I must remove these faults while I can, if I am to be saved from the curses of coming generations. I shall be grateful to God if I can do this much.”
So in weariness and fret the long morning passed, with few decisions made, few letters answered, and time running out. Nothing had happened during the day to allay his fears, and there was much to remind him that he had failed to turn the tide. If his own disciples were quarrelsome, how could he expect others to obey the laws of peace? The high officers of the government regarded him as the supreme arbitrator, the reconciler of all conflicts, and he had only to announce that something should be done for the government to hasten to do his bidding; and he liked the obedience of the government as little as he liked the quarrels of his disciples. Talking with Dr. Bhargava about the need for an orphanage, he said: “How long will the government act in fear of me? They should do things on their own initiative, not in fear of me.” They would not be in fear of him for very much longer.
In the afternoon he had his abdominal mudpack and dictated so
me letters. When the mudpack was removed, there were more visitors. Dr. De Silva, from Ceylon, came with his daughter, who received an autograph, which was perhaps the last he ever wrote. Then came a French photographer who presented him with an album of photographs, followed by the American photographer, Margaret Bourke-White, who interviewed him but took no photographs. Altogether some thirty people had met him during the day, and there were more to come.
By this time it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, and he had been busy since the early morning. The most important event of the day, the meeting with Patel, was yet to come, and Gandhi prepared for it carefully. It was a question of the ideological differences and rivalry between Patel and Nehru, and at all costs Gandhi wanted to reconcile these two leaders of the government. Earlier in the day someone had shown him a clipping from the London Times, an article suggesting that the conflict between them could no longer be reconciled. Gandhi was determined that there should be no rivalry, that they should work together, and that they should join in a pact of friendship. Patel arrived with his daughter and was immediately ushered into the room, where Gandhi sat at his spinning wheel. Nehru was Prime Minister, Patel was Deputy Prime Minister. There was a time when Gandhi believed that one of them would have to leave the cabinet because they were in danger of destroying the cabinet by their conflicts, but now he pleaded for peace between them, insisting that they were both essential and indispensable, and that India could not bear the burden of a struggle for power. He spoke quietly and earnestly, and he reminded Patel that after the prayer meeting he proposed to seek out Nehru and discuss the whole matter with him; by the end of the day he expected them to reach complete agreement. He was like a father determined to bring peace to his quarreling sons by knocking their heads together.
Once Manubehn entered the room to say that two Congress leaders from Kathiawar had arrived and would like to spend a few minutes with him. Gandhi replied: “Tell them they can talk to me during my walk after the prayer meeting, if I am still alive.” No one took the remark seriously, for he seemed to be saying only that all these meetings and discussions were exhausting him. Manubehn went back to the Kathiawaris to tell them to be ready to talk to Gandhi after the prayer meeting.
The conversation with Patel was then resumed. It was a long and absorbing discussion. Gandhi was determined to put an end to the disunity between them, even if it meant delaying his journey to Sevagram. While talking, he took some food, which consisted of three oranges, fourteen ounces of goat’s milk and fourteen ounces of vegetable soup. He did not notice that he was late for the prayer meeting until Patel’s daughter reminded him that it was past five o’clock.
Patel and his daughter then left Birla House and Gandhi made his way to the prayer meeting. It was now 5:10 P.M. Any unpunctuality displeased him, he felt he had no right to keep people waiting, and he reminded Manubehn and Abhabehn, who were his “walking sticks,” that they had been remiss in their duty. “Nurses must do their duty even though God is present by the patient’s side,” he said. “If the nurse does not attend to the patient regularly at the proper time, then the patient may well die. This is exactly the same. Even a minute’s delay for the prayer meeting causes me great discomfort.”
. . . . . SHOWS PRESENT SCREENED-OFF AREA OF GANDHI MEMORIAL GARDEN.
ALBUQUERQUE ROAD IS NOW KNOWN AS 30 JANUARY ROAD.
Manubehn quickly picked up the spectacle case, rosary, notebook and spittoon, which always accompanied these journeys to a prayer meeting, and taking the side door, they began to walk quickly across the darkening garden, with the two men from Kathiawar following them. It was one of those calm, transparently clear and cool evenings which are common in Delhi in January. The flower beds were glowing, the springy grass on the smooth lawns was cropped, and there was an air of expectancy in the garden, where perhaps a hundred people were gathered for the prayer meeting. Leaning lightly on the two girls, hurrying to make up for lost time, his dark brown head bobbing up and down, Gandhi took the shortcut across the grass and then mounted the six brick steps leading to the terrace where the prayer meetings were held. During the short journey, which took about three minutes, he bantered with the girls. To Abhabehn, who served his supper, he said: “You have been serving me cattle fare.”
Abhabehn was not put out by the remark, and answered: “Ba [Kasturbhai] used to call it horse fare.”
Gandhi was amused, and said: “Is it not grand of me to relish what no one else cares for?”
When he had gone six or seven paces beyond the steps, the crowd opened to enable him to pass through. He made two or three more short steps, and then folded his palms in the traditional namaskar, and he was still standing there, smiling at the crowd, when a man wearing a khaki jacket over a green pullover pushed his way roughly past Manubehn, so that the spectacle case, rosary, notebook and spittoon fell out of her hands, and then he bent down as though performing an obeisance, his head bent, his hands folded over a pistol. Thinking he was about to touch Gandhi’s feet, Manubehn remonstrated with him. “Brother, Bapuji is already late for prayers,” she said. “Why are you bothering him?”
She had scarcely spoken when three shots rang out in quick succession. The first shot struck Gandhi in the abdomen near the navel, the second and third shots struck him in the chest. Over his white woolen shawl the bloodstains were already spreading when he uttered his last cry: “Hai Rama! Hai Rama!” His hands were still folded together as he fell.
He lay on the grass with his head cradled on the laps of the two girls, his face turning gray and growing visibly thinner with loss of blood. There was a short and savage struggle with the assassin. When he was overpowered, he was taken to a nearby police station. It was learned that his name was Nathuram Vinayak Godse, by profession the editor of an extreme Hindu nationalist newspaper published in Poona.
No one seemed to know what to do. People were shouting and weeping, and suddenly the whole garden was full of people milling about, running in all directions. But among all these people there was no doctor and no attempt was made to staunch the blood flowing from the wounds. In any case a doctor could not have saved him. He had died immediately, and it remained only to carry him to Birla House, where the lights were coming on. So they carried him, very slowly, and about ten minutes passed between the shooting and the time when he was laid on the floor of his own room. Later it was discovered that his sandals and spectacles had vanished.
Patel was one of the first to be summoned. He consoled the distraught members of Gandhi’s family, who still clung to the hope that the lifeless body might be revived. Nehru came, so weighed down with grief that he buried his face in Patel’s lap. About half an hour later Dr. Gopichand Bhargava, who had been Gandhi’s visitor during the morning, examined the body and pronounced that there were no signs of life. Later in the evening the police sent their own medical officer. The two bullets which passed through the body were found in the prayer ground, and a third was still lodged in his lungs.
He had died as he wanted to die, facing his enemy, smiling and saying the name of God.
The Burning
INDIA, because of the great heat and humidity, a man is cremated as soon as possible after his death. A man may die in the early morning and be ashes long before noon. Gandhi was laid on his funeral pyre less than twenty-four hours after his death.
At first there were some suggestions for embalming the body, for it was felt that there were millions of Indians living in remote regions of the country who would want to see him for the last time. It was unfair that the people in Delhi alone should have the privilege of seeing him in death, receiving from him the blessing that comes in the sight of holiness. For perhaps two weeks his embalmed body would be on view; then, at a ceremony attended by people from all over India, there would come the solemn committal to the flames. Nehru approved of the idea; Lord Mountbatten was sympathetic; others murmured their agreement. It was a time of extraordinary confusion, with most of the members of the Congress too grief-stricken
to know what they were saying or doing. While the question was still being discussed, Pyarelal pushed his way through the group surrounding Lord Mountbatten and said: “Your Excellency, it is my duty to tell you that Gandhiji very strongly disapproved of the practice of embalming, and he gave me specific standing instructions that his body should be cremated wherever his death occurred.”
Lord Mountbatten wondered if there were not some extenuating circumstances. If Gandhi had died in extreme old age, full of years and honors, having accomplished all his aims, then perhaps it would be reasonable to obey his orders, but no one could have foreseen the suddenness of his death. Then, too, there were the millions of people who wanted to see Gandhi and who would never see him if he was cremated the following day. He paused, making a gesture of appeal and interrogation with his outstretched hand, but Pyarelal was adamant.
“Gandhiji told me, even in my death I shall chide you if you fail in your duty in this respect.”
“His wishes shall be respected,” said Lord Mountbatten, and there was no further talk of embalming the body.
The body lay on the floor at Birla House, in the room where he had spent his last days. Devadas, the first of his sons to reach his side, asked that the chest should be bared, “for no soldier ever had a finer chest,” and this was done. He lay there, his head supported on a pillow, looking very small and the face strangely thin, for he had lost much blood. Death had smoothed away his few wrinkles. There was the great chest with the bullet wound near the nipple, and the lean, narrow face, the eyelids heavier, the nose and chin sharper than they had been in life. He had died violently, but no agony was written on his calm features; it was the face of a man who had died in the knowledge that he had fulfilled all the tasks that it had been given to him to fulfill. Death had refined the outlines of his face, giving it a strange metallic quality, so that it seemed to be carved out of bronze.