Making of the Mahatma
By Khushwant Singh

WHAT moulded Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi from a coolie barrister into a Mahatma were his years in South Africa. He returned to India with the halo of saintliness. He shed all his clothes except a short knee-length dhoti to lead a peaceful revolution against British imperialism. To Winston Churchill, he became "the naked fakeer"; to all Indians Bapu Gandhi, Father of the Nation who led his country from slavery to freedom.

Most of us are familiar with the many a satyagrahs and fast he undertook on different issues starting with the passive resistance movement in north Bihar, for the rights of Dalits to enter temples and be treated as equals, to put an end to Hindu-Muslim riots wherever they occurred, to protest against the division of the country ending with his assassination at the hands of Nathu Ram Godse. Those who have not read his My Experiments with Truth know little about his early life in Porbander and Rajkot nor of what he suffered in South Africa at the hands of Whites, both of English and Dutch extraction. That lacunae has been filled by Raja Rao in his The Great Indian Way: A Life of Mahatma Gandhi (Vision Books). Unfortunately he has chosen to devote nine-tenth of his biography to Gandhi’s ancestry and childhood in Gujarat and his years in South Africa leaving a bare one-tenth to his work in India. Consequently, we learn a great deal about what went into the making of the Mahatma but very little of what the Mahatma made of his country. A great pity because it will take a genius of the calibre of Raja Rao to tell the full story.

The Gandhis were devout Vaishnavites, strict vegetarians and teetotallers who observed Hindu rituals in minute detail. Mohandas was married off while still a boy at school. He made a feeble attempt to break out of the orthodoxy imposed on him by trying out meat, alcohol and visiting a brothel. He rejected them for ever. The first traumatic experience in his life was the death of his sick father while he was copulating with his young wife in the next room. That made sex sinful for him. When he left to study law in London, his mother made him take a vow that he would not eat meat, drink alcohol or fornicate. Despite difficulties and temptations, he fulfilled his vows. It was in England that he came close to Christian teaching; though profoundly influenced, he resisted pressures to convert to Christianity.

Back home in India his attempts to practice law in Rajkot and Bombay were abysmal failures. He accepted a brief from a leading Muslim trading family with extensive business in South Africa in its disputes with an equally affluent Muslim family. He did not shine as a barrister but as a peace-maker. He made a settlement between the two which both accepted with good grace. He read the Koran and studied the Muslim way of life. While Christians professed equality, they practised cruel discrimination against the Blacks and Asians in their colonies. On the other hand, Muslims largely practised what they professed: brotherhood with other Muslims, unwavering faith in one Allah and the divinity of His messenger, Prophet Mohammed. He learnt to admire all religions: Jainism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity and Islam. The combination made a heady cocktail which he summed up in the slogan Sarva Dharmo Samabhav — equal respect for all faiths.

The second traumatic experience of his life was being kicked out of a first-class railway compartment by a White passenger and the railway guard. Although he was dressed in a black frock coat, striped trousers and a turban, held a valid ticket and seat reservation, he was a mere "coolie" as all Indians were known. He spent the night in the waiting room shivering in the cold. And thinking about the plight of his countrymen in the Anglo-Dutch colony. He evolved the technique of passive resistance as a weapon against injustice. He was roughed up and jailed many times. He stood his ground with great dignity. He was acknowledged leader of the Asian community, including the Chinese and Malays. He won over many Whites to his side who supported him to abrogate the Black laws. Amongst others were General Smuts and Winston Churchill.

Gandhi was the most unusual saint-politician of our times. I can’t think of another writer who could have done him more justice than Raja Rao. Despite his quaint style of writing, there is a musical quality to his prose which makes it very readable. I only wish he had not been in so much of a hurry to end this otherwise truly moving saga of a great soul.

On losing a friend

Everytime I go to Kasauli, which is at least three times during the summer months, I find one or more of its old residents has passed away. Since the civilian population of Kasauli consists largely of retired old people, this is not very surprising. Also, most of these friendships are summer phenomenons: one learns to live without them for the rest of the year. Time and distance lessen the impact of death. Not so in the case of Chajjoo Ram who I had known for over 50 years. Even when I was not in Kasauli, I kept in close touch by telephone and correspondence through his two sons, Thakur Das and Prem, their sons and daughters. In the half century I learnt to have respect and affection for Chajjoo Ram. His going left a big void in my life.

Chajjoo Ram was born in Goal village of Nalagarh district. He was a Kabir panthi. I am not sure when he came to Kasauli. He worked with some Sahibs before my father-in-law, Sir Teja Singh Malik, took him on as caretaker of Sperrin Villa, which he bought from an English spinster and renamed after his wife, Raj Villa. For all practical purposes Raj Villa became Chajjoo Ram’s residence for most of the year. When its owners left for the plains for the winter months, he and his wife Gameero Devi moved into the main house. They looked after it as if it was their own child. One winter, gangs of robbers looted several homes in Kasauli because their caretakers were ordered to stay in servant quarters. They tried to break into Raj Villa as well. But Chajjoo Ram had the presence of mind to shout to his son "Mayree bandook leyaana" (get my gun). He had no gun but the gangsters didn’t take any chances and fled. Once when a forest fire engulfed many houses and came close to Raj Villa, Chajjoo Ram ordered my wife and grand-daughter to go to a safer place; he, his wife, sons and grandchildren stood before the advancing fire armed with buckets of water and sticks and beat it back. Again in November, 1984, following the assassination of Indira Gandhi, an armed mob from nearby Garkhal went on the rampage, looting and setting fire to Sikh property. A few goondas from Kasauli joined them. Kasauli shopkeepers, all Hindus, barricaded their way. Raj Villa was their prime target. Chajjoo Ram and his sons stood guard at the entrance gate. "You will have to kill us before you enter this house," they shouted back. No one dared to take up their challenge.

In the 50 years that Chajjoo Ram lived in Raj Villa, he saw comings and goings of many celebrities: Bhai Vir Singh, Balraj Sahni, Nargis, Sunil and Sanjay Dutt, Salman Haider and his family, Han Sur Ky’s of Myanmar, and last of all, Protima Bedi. He let them in and looked after them because they came armed with letters from my wife or me. Others, including close relations whom he knew, he refused to allow in: no letter, no admission. As a result not one of the thousands of books, paintings, sculptures and valuable artifacts I have collected has been touched.

We called Chajjoo Ram, Mali Ji. The garden was his primary concern. As long as he was alive, Chrysanthe-mums, sun flowers, gladioli and a dozen other varieties of flowers bloomed around the cottage. He and his dogs fought valiantly against marauding troops of monkeys to preserve the little fruit and vegetables he grew. As he grew older, he gave up the battle and set peacefully smoking his hookah in silence. He started to lose weight and apart from putting chairs and table out at dawn and opening windows had little strength left to do any more. Last April, I noticed a lump come up near his neck. Despite many reminders, he was reluctant to go to a doctor. "It does not hurt," he assured me, "It will go away."

It didn’t. The doctor in Kasauli advised him to go to Shimla and have it examined. His son, Prem, went with him. The reports revealed blood cancer. Every week father and son went to Shimla for a blood transfusion. Last month when I was leaving Kasauli, for Delhi, he hobbled down the pathway with a walking stick to see me off. I knew I would not see him any more. I did not. On the morning of Tuesday, September 15, surrounded by his sisters, sons and their families, he left Raj Villa for ever.

Nag pati

Some time back my wife, Savinder, offered me a glass of milk. Generally I don’t take milk, but on that day she compelled me to take milk. When I asked her why she was forcing me to take milk, she politely said: Aaj Nag Panchmi hai.

(Contributed by J.P.S., Kaka, Bhopal)

Taken for a ride

A slightly befuddled Banta came out of a local bar and noticed a taxi. He went round and round and finally got in.

"Take me to Paharganj," Banta told the driver.

"You are in Paharganj," replied the driver.

"Thank you," said Banta, "Here’s the money, and next time please don’t drive so fast."

(Contributed by Shivtar Singh Dalla, Ludhiana)