by M K Gandhi
My mother had strong common sense. She was well informed about all matters of State,M8 and ladies of the courtM9 thought highly of her intelligence. Often I would accompany her, exercising the privilege of childhood, and I still remember many lively discussions she had with the widowed mother of the Thakore Saheb.29 Of these parents I was born at Porbandar, otherwise known as Sudamapuri, on30 the 2nd October, 1869. I passed my childhood in Porbandar. I recollect having been put to school.31 It was with some difficulty that I got through the multiplication tables. The fact that I recollect nothing more of those days than having32 learnt, in company with other boys, to call our teacher all kinds of names,M10 would strongly suggest that my intellect must have been sluggish, and my memory raw.33
II
CHILDHOOD
I must have been about seven when my father left Porbandar for Rajkot to become a member of the Rajasthanik Court. There I was put into34 a primary35 M1 school, and I can well recollect those days, including the names and other particulars of the teachers who taught me. As at Porbandar, so here, there is hardly anything to note about my studies. I could only have been a mediocre student. From this36 school I went to the suburban school37 and thence to the high school,38 having already reached my twelfth year. I do not remember having ever told a lie during this short period, either to my teachers or to my school-mates.M2 I used to be very shy and avoided all company.39 My books and my lessons were my sole companions. To be at school at the stroke of the hour and to run back home as soon as the school closed—that was my daily habit. I literally ran back, because I could not bear to talk to anybody. I was even afraid lest anyone should poke fun at me.
There is an incident which occurred at the examination during my first year at the high school and which40 is worth recording. Mr. Giles, the Educational Inspector, had come on a visit of inspection. He had set us41 five words to write as a spelling exercise. One of the words was ‘kettle’. I had misspelt it. The teacher42 tried to prompt me with the point of his boot, but I would not be prompted. It was beyond me to see that he wanted me to copy the spelling from my neighbour’s slate, for I had thought that the teacher was there to supervise us against copying. The result was that all the boys, except myself, were found to have spelt every43 word correctly. Only I had been stupid. The teacher tried later to bring this stupidity home to me, but without effect. I never could learn the art of ‘copying’.
Yet the incident did not in the least diminish my respect for my teacher. I was by nature, blind to the faults of elders. Later I came to know of many other failings of this teacher, but my regard for him remained the same. For I had learnt to carry out the orders of elders, not to scan their actions.M3
Two other incidents belonging to the same period have always clung to my memory. As a rule I had a distaste forM4 any reading44 beyond my school books. The daily lessons had to be done, because I disliked being taken to task by my teacher as much as I disliked deceiving him. Therefore I would do the lessons, but often without my mind in them. Thus when even the lessons could not be done properly, there was of course no question of any extra reading. But somehow my eyes fell on a book purchased by my father. It was Shravana Pitribhakti Nataka (a play about Shravana’s devotion to his parents45). I read it with intense interest. There came to our place about the same time itinerant showmen.46 One of the pictures I was shown was of Shravana carrying, by means of slings fitted for his shoulders, his blind parents on a pilgrimage. The book and the picture left an indelible impression on my mind. ‘Here is an example for you to copy,’ I said to myself. The agonized lament of the parents over Shravana’s death is still fresh in my memory. The melting tune47 moved me deeply,48 and I played it on a concertinaM5 which my father had purchased for me.
There was a similar incident connected with another play. Just about this time, I had secured my father’s49 permission to see a play performed by a certain dramatic company. This play-Harishchandra50-captured my heart. I could never be tired of seeing it. But how often should I be permitted to go? It haunted me and I must have acted Harishchandra to myself times without number.M6 ‘Why should not all be truthful like Harishchandra?’ was the question I asked myself day and night. To follow truth and to go through all the ordeals Harishchandra went through was the one ideal it inspired in me. I literally believed in the storyM7 of Harishchandra. The thought of it all often made me weep. My common sense tells me today that Harishchandra could not have been a historical character. Still both Harishchandra and Shravana are living realities for me,51 and I am sure I should be moved52 as before if I were to read those plays again53 today.
III
CHILD MARRIAGE
Much as I wish that I had not54 to write this chapter, I know that I shall have to swallow many such bitter draughts in the course of this narrative. And I cannot do otherwise, if I claim to be a worshipper of Truth. It is my painful duty to have to record here my marriage at the age of thirteen.55 As I see the youngsters of the same ageM1 about me who are under my care, and think of my own marriage, I am inclined to pity myself and to congratulate them on having escaped my lot. I can see no moral argument in support of such a preposterously early marriage.M2
Let the reader make no mistake. I was married, not betrothed. For in Kathiawad there are two distinct rites—betrothal and marriage. Betrothal is a preliminary promise on the part of the parents of the boy and the girl to join them in marriage, and it is not inviolable. The death of the boy entails no widowhood on the girl. It is an agreement purely between the parents, and the children have no concern with it. Often they are not even informed of it. It appears that56 I was betrothed thrice, though without my knowledge. I was told that two girls chosen for me had died in turn, and therefore I infer that I was betrothed three times. I have a faint recollection, however, that the third betrothal took place in my seventh year. But I do not recollect having been informed about it.57 In the present chapter I am talking about my marriage, of which I have the clearest recollection.
It will be remembered that we were three brothers. The first was already married. The elders decided to marry my second brother, who was two or three years my senior, a cousin,58 possibly a year older, and me, all at the same time. In doing so there was no thought of our welfare, much less our wishes. It was purely a question of their own convenience and economy.
Marriage among Hindus is no simple matter. The parents of the bride and the bridegroom often bring themselves to ruin over it. They waste their substance, they waste their time. Months are taken up over the preparations—in making clothes and ornaments and in preparing budgets for dinners.M3 Each tries to outdo the other in the number and variety of courses to be prepared. Women, whether they have a voice or no, sing themselves hoarse, even get ill, and disturb the peace of their neighbours. These in their turn quietly put up with all the turmoil and bustle, all the dirt and filth, representing the remains of the feasts, because they know that a time will come when they also will be behaving in the same manner.
It would be better, thought my elders, to have all this bother over at one and the same time.M4 Less expense and greater éclat.M5 For money could be freely spent if it had only to be spent once instead of thrice.M6 My father and my uncle were both old, and we were the last children they had to marry. It is likely that they wanted to have the last best time of their lives. In view of all these considerations, a triple wedding was decided upon, and as I have said before, months were taken up in preparation for it.
It was only through these preparations that we got warning of the coming event.M7 I do not think it meant to me anything more than the prospect of good clothes to wear, drum beating, marriage processions, rich dinners and a strange girl to play with. The carnal desire came later.59 I propose to draw the curtain over my shame, except for a few details worth recording. To these I shall come later. But even theyM8 have little to do with the central idea I have kept before me in writing this story.
So my brother and I were both taken to Porbandar from Rajkot. There are
some amusing details of the preliminaries to the final drama—e.g., smearing our bodies all over with turmeric paste—but I must omit them.
My father was a Diwan, but nevertheless a servant, and all the more so because he was in favour with the Thakore Saheb.M9 The latter would not let him go until the last moment. And when he did so, he ordered for my father special stage-coaches, reducing the journey by two days. But the fates had willed otherwise. Porbandar is 120 miles from Rajkot—a cart journey of five days. My father did the distance in three, but the coach toppled over in the third stage, and he sustained severe injuries. He arrived bandaged all over.M10 Both his and our interest in the coming event was half destroyed, but the ceremony had to be gone through. For how could the marriage dates be changed? However, I forgot my grief over my father’s injuries in the childish amusement of the wedding.
I was devoted to my parents. But no less was I devoted to the passions that flesh is heir to.M11 I had yet to learn that all happiness and pleasure should be sacrificed in devoted service to my parents. And yet, as though by way of punishment for my desire for pleasures, an incident happened, which has ever since rankled in my mind and which60 I will relate later.61 Nishkulanand62 sings: ‘Renunciation of objects, without the renunciation of desires, is short-lived, however hard you may try.’ Whenever I sing this song or hear it sung, this bitter untoward incident rushes to my memory and fills me with shame.
My father put on a brave face in spite of his injuries, and took full part in the wedding. As I think of it, I can even today call before my mind’s eye the places where he sat as he went through the different details of the ceremony. Little did I dream then that one day I should severely criticize my father for having married me as a child. Everything on that day seemed to me right and proper and pleasing. There was also my own eagerness to get married. And as everything that my father did then struck me as beyond reproach, the recollection of those things is fresh in my memory. I can picture to myself, even today, how we sat on our wedding dais, how we performed the Saptapadi,63 how we,64 the newly wedded husband and wife, put the sweet kansar65 into each other’s mouth, and how we began to live together, and oh! that first night. Two innocent children all unwittingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life. My brother’s wife had thoroughly coached me about my behaviour on the first night. I do not know who had coached my wife.66 I have never asked her about it, nor am I inclined to do so now.M12 The reader may be sure that we were too nervous to face each other.M13 We were certainly too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to say? The coaching could not carry me far. But no coaching is really necessary in such matters.M14 The impressions of the former birth are potent enough to make all coaching superfluous. We gradually began to know each other, and to speak freely together. We wereM15 the same age. But I took no time in assuming the authority of a husband.M16
IV
PLAYING THE HUSBAND
About the time of my marriage, little pamphlets costing a pice, or a pie (I now forget how much), used to be issued, in which conjugal love, thrift, child marriages, and other such subjects were discussed. Whenever I came across any of these, I used to go through them cover to cover, and it was a habit with me to forget what I did not like, and to carry out in practice whatever I liked. Lifelong faithfulness to the wife, inculcated in these booklets as the duty of the husband, remained permanently imprinted on my heart. Furthermore, the passion for truth was innate in me,M1 and to be false to her was therefore out of the question.67 And then there was very little chance of my being faithless at that tender age.
But the lesson of faithfulnessM2 had also an untoward effect. ‘If I should be pledged to be faithful to my wife, she also should be pledged to be faithful to me,’ I said to myself.M3 The thought made me a jealous husband. Her duty was easily converted into my right to exact faithfulness from her, and if it had to be exacted, I should be watchfully tenacious of the right.M4 I had absolutely no reason to suspect my wife’s fidelity, but jealousy does not wait for reasons. I must needs be forever on the look-out regarding her movements, and therefore she could not go anywhere without my permission. This sowed the seeds of a bitter quarrel between us. The restraint was virtually a sort of imprisonment. And Kasturbai was not the girl to brook any such thing.M5 She made it a point to go out whenever and wherever she liked.68 More restraint on my part resulted in more liberty being taken by herM6 and in my getting more and more cross. Refusal to speak to one another thus became the order of the day with us, married children. I think it was quite innocent of Kasturbai to have taken those liberties with my restrictions. How could a guileless girl brook any restraint on going to the temple or on going on visits to friends? If I had the right to impose restrictions on her, had not she also a similar right? All this is clear to me today. But at that time I had to make good my authority as a husband!
Let not the reader think, however, that ours was a life of unrelieved bitterness. For my severities were all based on love. I wanted to make my wife an ideal wife. My ambitionM7 was to make69 her live a pure life, learn what I learnt, and identify her life and thought with mine.M8
I do not know whether Kasturbai had any such ambition.M9 She was illiterate. By nature she was simple, independent, persevering and, with me at least, reticent. She was not impatient ofM10 her ignorance and I do not recollect my studies having ever spurred her to go in for a similar adventure. I fancy, therefore, that my ambitionM11 was all one-sided. My passion was entirely centred on one woman, and I wanted it to be reciprocated. But even if there were no reciprocity, it could not be all unrelieved misery because there was active love on one side at least.
I must say I was passionately fond of her. Even at school I used to think of her, and the thought of nightfall and our subsequent meeting was ever haunting me. Separation was unbearable. I used to keep her awake till late in the night with my idle talk.M12 If with this devouring passion there had not been in me a burning attachment to duty, I should either have fallen a prey to disease and premature death, or have sunk into a burdensome existence. But the appointed tasks had to be gone through every morning, and lying to anyone was out of the question. It was this last thingM13 that saved me from many a pitfall.
I have already said that Kasturbai was illiterate. I was very anxious to teach her, but lustful love left me no time.M14 For one thing the teaching had to be done against her will, and that too at night. I dared not meetM15 her in the presence of the elders, much less talk to her.M16 Kathiawad had then, and to a certain extent has even today, its own peculiar, useless and barbarous purdah. Circumstances were thus unfavourable.70 I must therefore confess that most of my efforts to instruct Kasturbai in our youth were unsuccessful. And when I awoke from the sleep of lust, I had already launched forth into public life, which did not leave me much spare time. I failed likewise to instruct her through private tutors. As a result, Kasturbai can now with difficulty write simple letters and understand simple Gujarati. I am sure that, had my love for her been absolutely untainted with lust, she would be71 a learned lady today; for I could then have conquered her dislike for studies. I know that nothing is impossible for pure love.
I have mentioned one circumstance that more or less saved me from the disasters of lustful love. There is another worth noting. Numerous examples have convinced me that God ultimately saves him whose motive is pure. Along with the cruel custom of child marriages, Hindu society has another custom which to a certain extent diminishes the evils of the former. Parents do not allow youngM17 couples to stay together long. The child-wife spends more than half her time at her father’s place. Such was the case with us. That is to say, during the first five years of our married life (from the age of 13 to 18),M18 we could not72 have lived together longer than an aggregate period of three years. We would hardly have spent six73 months together, when there would be a call to my wife from her parents. Such calls were very unwelcome74 in those days, but they saved us both. At the age of eighteen I went to England, and this meant a long and healthy spell of s
eparation. Even after my return from England we hardly stayed together longer than six months. For I had to run up and down between Rajkot and Bombay.75 Then came the call from South Africa, and that found me already fairly free from the76 carnal appetite.M19
V
AT THE HIGH SCHOOL
I have already said that I was learning at the high school when I was married. We three brothers were learning at the same school. The eldest brother was in a much higher class, and the brother who was married at the same time as I was, only one class ahead of me. Marriage resulted in both of us wasting a year. Indeed the result was even worse for my brother, for he gave up studies altogether.77 Heaven knows how many youths are in78 the same plight as he. Only in our present79 Hindu society do studies and marriage go thus hand in hand.