When shall I know that state supreme,
When will the knots, outer and inner, snap?
When shall I, breaking the bonds that bind us fast,
Tread the path trodden by the wise and the great?
Withdrawing the mind from all interests,
Using this body solely for self-control,
He desires nothing to serve any ulterior end of his own,
Seeing nothing in the body to bring on a trace of the darkness of ignorance.45
His teacher’s example lay before Gandhi. And there were others. In the Hindu as well as the Jain tradition, renouncers were respected, admired, even venerated. The forgoing of the pleasures of the flesh – both sexual and culinary – was seen as a step towards a purer, more morally meaningful life.46
The decision to stop having sex led to a wider reconsideration of his respective callings. When the Bambatha Rebellion broke out, Gandhi had to rush to Natal to raise the ambulance corps. He decided that in his absence Kasturba and the children would be better off at Phoenix, where they would have friends and relations around them, than in the anonymity of an ever larger city. This meant the dismantling of a spacious, well-furnished, smoothly functioning home in Johannesburg. The patriarch who was the architect of the break-up saw it as necessary and inevitable. As he later recalled, ‘it became my conviction that procreation and the consequent care of children were inconsistent with public service … [I]f I wanted to devote myself to the service of the community in this manner I must relinquish the desire for children and wealth and live the life of a vanaprastha – of one retired from household service.’47
In its classical, so to say Brahmanical version, a man’s raising of a family was followed by a stage where he retreated from social life altogether, by moving to a forest, or vana, where he contemplated the meanings and mysteries of life. In Gandhi’s case, however, he detached himself from the family in order to more actively to engage in society. One wonders if he was at all influenced by the mythical warrior Bhishma, who renounced his kingdom and refused to marry to mark his disregard for power and pleasure. Bhishma’s celibacy was widely regarded as a mark of his moral uprightness and commitment to dharma. Unlike the Brahmanical monks, the warrior-ascetic did not withdraw from society; rather, he worked (and fought) within it, while serving as a touchstone and model for his fellows. That seems to have been Gandhi’s aim, too.
In taking the vow of brahmacharya in 1906, Gandhi may also have been influenced by Tolstoy’s prescriptive essay, ‘The First Step’, which had recently become available in English translation. Here, the Russian sage whom the Indian lawyer so greatly admired wrote, ‘No good life is thinkable without abstinence. Every attainment of a good life must begin through it’ – and then continued:
Abstinence is a man’s liberations from the lusts … But there are many various lusts in man, and for the struggle with them to be successful he must begin with the basal ones, those on which other, more complex ones have grown up … There are complex passions, as the passion for adorning the body, games, amusements, gossiping, curiosity, and many others; and there are basal passions, such as gluttony, idleness, carnal love. In the struggle with the passions it is impossible to begin at the end, with the struggle with the complex passions; we must begin with the basal ones, and that, too, in a definite order. This order is determined both by the essence of the thing and by the tradition of human wisdom.48
By tradition and upbringing Gandhi was not a ‘glutton’ – by which Tolstoy meant a man who feasts largely or exclusively on animal flesh – nor consumed by idleness. As a lifelong vegetarian, and a disciplined, hardworking professional, the one basal passion he had to confront and overcome was that of ‘carnal love’. And so he decided to take the vow of brahmacharya.
9
Trouble in the Transvaal
Once Gandhi had settled Kasturba and the children at Phoenix, he returned to Johannesburg, moving into a smaller house, which he shared with Millie and Henry Polak. This house, in Bellevue East, was half the size of the villa in Troyeville: four rooms rather than eight, each large (or small) enough to accommodate only a double bed.1
With Gandhi scaling back on his law practice, they had to cut back on their expenses, and this modest abode was a beginning. In their new house, noted Millie Polak grimly,
there was no proper plumbing, and a make-shift bath-room had been fixed by previous tenants under the stairs; the waste water from the bath ran down the wall outside into a kind of gutter, which ran along a dark passage, and thus the walls were always damp. These conditions helped to produce big slimy slugs that got into the house.2
Millie wished to make the place more pleasant, but her austere Indian housemate got in the way. Gandhi was content with a bare floor and bare walls, whereas Millie wished to adorn them with nice rugs and pretty pictures. When Millie said a painting would hide the wall’s ugliness, Gandhi asked her to look out of the window and admire the sunset, more beautiful than anything conceived by the hand of man. She persisted, bringing Henry on to her side. Gandhi eventually conceded that a charming interior was not in competition with the glories of nature without.
The next argument was about food. Gandhi asked that the household’s diet exclude sugar, since it was made through the exploitation of indentured labourers. He wanted raw onions and milk banned on the grounds that they excited the passions. Millie was fine with giving up sugar and onions, but not milk. If that liquid stimulated the passions, she asked, why was it considered the best food for babies? Gandhi answered that mother’s milk was good for children, but no kind of milk was suitable for adults. Millie commented acidly that one would think they were gourmands; no house in Johannesburg was so concerned with what to eat and especially with what not to eat. ‘A man shall be judged by what comes out of his mouth,’ she told Gandhi, ‘not what by what he puts in it’.
In making a home, Millie Polak had come up against the two stereotypical characteristics of his caste that her Indian housemate, after all these years, still retained. Born a Bania, Gandhi had in most ways radically departed from the conventions and habits of his caste. Banias were notoriously conservative in religious matters; and had a particular dislike of Muslims. Gandhi mixed freely with Muslims and Christians, and even shared homes with them. The dharma of the Bania was making and saving money, but Gandhi exchanged a lucrative profession for social service and had no desire to leave money or property for his children. Banias were averse to political movements – they had stayed away from the Indian National Congress (where Brahmins and Kshatriyas were over-represented). Gandhi, on the other hand, actively sought political engagement. Hetereodox in most matters, there were yet two areas in which Gandhi was still, so to speak, of his caste – in his comparative lack of interest in aesthetics and in his thoroughgoing obsession with food taboos.3
For all their disagreements, Millie retained a healthy respect for her Indian friend. She was particularly struck by how hard he worked. He attended to his clients all day, including Sunday. The Polaks became accustomed to Indians coming in at all hours, seeking the counsel of their lawyer and leader. As Millie remembered, ‘it was not an unusual thing to have four or more men return at midnight with Mr Gandhi, and when all were too worn out to continue to talk, rugs would be thrown down the passage or anywhere else for the visitors to get a few hours’ sleep ere they started to tramp back to town.’4
In discussing Gandhi’s vow of celibacy in the West, one often finds a sense of outrage at his not having consulted his wife. How could he end sexual relations so abruptly? What if she still wanted to continue them? This reaction is very modern (and very Western). It is unlikely that Kasturba was greatly disturbed by Gandhi’s vow of celibacy. What worried her far more was its extension, by which Gandhi sought not just to distance himself from her physically, but also from his children, emotionally.
Kasturba was unhappy at the fraught relations between her husband and their eldest son, Harilal. Gandhi had left home (for London) shortly a
fter Harilal was born. In 1892–3, when he was in Bombay, the children were in Rajkot. Not long after they joined him, Gandhi decided to go to South Africa. The family were reunited in 1896, and travelled together to Durban; but they were separated again in 1902.
Harilal was a poor student, and failed to settle down in any of the several schools he studied in. This concerned Gandhi – perhaps because he had once been an indifferent student himself. He had asked Kasturba to bring all their sons to South Africa. However, Harilal stayed behind, ostensibly to appear for his Matriculation. It appears that by now relations between father and first-born were frosty. That, at any rate, is the impression conveyed by a letter written by Gandhi on 28 December 1905, where he told Harilal that he was ‘dissatisfied’ with him for not writing regularly. Whenever he received news from others, he continued, ‘they contain criticism regarding your conduct.’ ‘Your general conduct towards your parents betrays no love for them,’ complained Gandhi.5
The relationship between father and son deteriorated further when Gandhi learned of Harilal’s love for Chanchal,6 the daughter of his friend Haridas Vora. Gandhi thought the couple too young to get married, but his brother Laxmidas, who was in Rajkot, sanctioned the wedding, and the marriage took place on 2 May 1906. When the news reached Gandhi, he wrote to his brother saying that ‘it is well if Harilal is married; it is also well if he is not. For the present at any rate I have ceased to think of him as a son.’7
The harshness of the tone is only partially extenuated by the fact that Harilal was guilty of, as it were, serial disobedience: of not studying properly, of not joining the family in Johannesburg, of not writing letters regularly, and worst of all, of not listening to his father’s advice not to get married. Kasturba was deeply worried about the estrangement between father and son. As an (Indian) mother she was perhaps more forgiving of Harilal’s transgressions. She also saw that Gandhi’s behaviour was not above reproach: that he had alternated between being grossly neglectful and somewhat overbearing. Seeking a rapprochement, she persuaded Harilal to come to South Africa. When he agreed, Gandhi wrote Montford Chamney, the Protector of Asiatics, a long letter, which reveals the three-way tension between husband, wife and first-born. The letter is dated 13 August 1906:
Dear Mr Chamney,
I have to approach you again on another personal matter. My eldest son, Harilal, has left India. He sent a wire to Phoenix from Mombasa of which my nephew has given me information … My boy is to-day over age, that is, he is nearly eighteen. His permit, however, was granted by Captain Fowle when Mrs Gandhi arrived here [in 1904]. On receipt of a cable from Mrs Gandhi I asked for a permit but Mrs Gandhi arrived without my eldest boy and my nephew. My nephew [Chhaganlal] has since come, but my son, Harilal, was not able to do so as he wished to go up for his matriculation examination, and then, unfortunately, he had to be married. He is now on his way. I kept the telegram by me for three days as I was not certain whether I should have my son with me or whether I should send him to Phoenix. I have now come to the conclusion that if you would be good enough to let him come on the strength of the permit having been previously granted or otherwise I should like to keep him under my observation. I have been separated from him now for nearly three years. If you think that you would let him come to me I should thank you to let me have his permit now. His full name is: Harilal Mohandas Gandhi. The permit that was granted by Captain Fowle to Mrs Gandhi was returned to him after her arrival. There was only one document issued for the whole family. I am not certain whether, in the event of your complying with my request, I should have Harilal through from Delagoa Bay or Durban. I should therefore like to have his permit myself so that I can make use of it wherever he has landed. His landing will depend on Mrs Gandhi’s intentions and my movements. The steamer is due at Durban on the 26th inst. It is likely that I shall have to be there at that time. In that event, I should meet my boy there and bring him with me. Otherwise, in order that I may see him earlier I should like him to land at Delagoa Bay and come straight to me.
I am
Yours truly
M. K. Gandhi.8
Gandhi’s writings, whether public or private, were usually lucid and precise – traits that reflected a decade of practice in publishing essays for different journals. This particular letter, however, betrays an uncharacteristic disorder and sentimentalism. It was hardly appropriate that he would reveal to the Protector of Asiatics his disapproval of Harilal’s marriage – or that he would speak so frequently and so possessively of ‘my boy’. This perhaps reveals his own uncertainty about both matters – he needed to reassure himself that he was right to oppose the marriage, and that he really cared about his son.
The confusion about where Harilal would or should land is also revealing. At this point Kasturba was living, with her other sons, at Phoenix. Ships from India came first to the Portuguese-held port of Delagoa Bay before Durban. From Delagoa Bay, Johannesburg was a few hours away by train. It seems that Gandhi and Kasturba were unsure as to which parent the boy should meet first. If he got off the ship at Delagoa Bay, he could go to his father, with whom he wished to be reconciled. On the other hand, if he carried on to Durban he would first meet his mother, who was both his preferred parent and could advise him on how best to mend fences with his father. There was yet a third possibility, hinted at in the letter, which was that Gandhi himself would go to Durban, in which case Harilal would meet both parents at the same time. Where he would finally land would depend largely on what Gandhi delicately referred to as his wife’s ‘intentions’.
The day after he wrote to Chamney, Gandhi phoned to urge him to grant the request. (Telephones were then relatively new, and rare, in South Africa; that the father resorted to its use shows how keen he was to have his son join him.) The appeal was successful, for the official replied promptly and with an untypical softness of tone. Within twenty-fours he had posted Gandhi a letter of authorization, which noted that, as a special exception, ‘it will not be necessary for him [Harilal] to report himself at this office. I will have his form of application filled in at Johannesburg after his arrival.’ Chamney added that ‘of course you will understand that the granting of this permit is not in any sense a precedent.’
There was a further request to be made. According to the rules, Harilal had to enter the Transvaal within two weeks of obtaining the permit. On 17 August, Gandhi wrote to Chamney asking that this period be extended to a month, ‘as Mr Harilal is at present in Durban and might be there for some time’. It seems that Kasturba had decided that she would keep her boy for a while at Phoenix before sending him on to confront his father.9 The reunion, when it did finally take place, was without acrimony. After they met, Gandhi wrote to Chhaganlal that ‘I am really delighted with Harilal’s taking a deck passage and managing everything himself.’10 One trusts the praise was passed on to the boy himself.
Now in his mid-thirties, Mohandas Gandhi was no longer interested in becoming a successful, prosperous, or famous lawyer. He would work to earn a living, and to subsidize his other, to him more significant, activities. Obligations to his family were likewise undertaken more out of duty than conviction. He could not entirely and permanently separate himself from his children; however, in times of political tension or controversy they took second place.
In August 1906, even as Gandhi was seeking to reconcile with Harilal, the Transvaal Government introduced a new ‘Asiatic Ordinance’. This required every Indian resident in Transvaal to register afresh, regardless of age or gender. The certificates of registration had to be carried at all times; and produced on demand. Those not carrying them were liable for arrest, imprisonment, and even expulsion from the province.11
In Natal, too, Indians could not vote and could not own property in some places. They were subjects rather than full-fledged citizens. However, Indians in Natal did not have to carry identification papers at all times and in all places. The Transvaal Government argued that this new measure was necessary to forestall impersonation and frau
d, and to remove the fear among ‘the [white] people of the Colony’ that ‘a general influx of Asiatics would displace many of the Europeans at present employed in trade and commerce, and would end in converting the Colony into an Asiatic, rather than an European, community.’12
The Ordinance had been drafted by the Assistant Colonial Secretary of the Transvaal, Lionel Curtis, a protégé of Lord Milner’s, educated at Oxford. Curtis’s views on race relations, writes his (generally sympathetic) biographer, were ‘a conventional amalgam of prejudice, bad history, half-baked Darwinism, and spurious geography producing an elementary blueprint for a system of residential segregation and economic integration’. Curtis argued that ‘if the temperate zones are reserved for the white so should the tropical zones be reserved for the Asiatic’. Self-government by and for Indians he dismissed as ‘no more in the nature of the people, than it is in the nature of a billiard cue to stand on end without support’.13
The Ordinance was intended by Curtis to ‘shut the gate against the influx of an Asiatic population’, and thereby ‘guard the Transvaal as a white reserve’.14 He was proud of the legislation. It was, he told an admiring audience in Johannesburg, the most important thing he had done. He believed the Ordinance would ‘if temperately, cautiously and continually worked … keep the Transvaal a white man’s country, so far as the circumstances of the country allow. It would save the country from the fate which has overtaken Mauritius and Jamaica.’ Then he added a note of self-congratulation: ‘A debt of gratitude, the fulness of which the people of this country will never know, is due to [my] office.’15