Daughter Of Midnight - The Child Bride of Gandhi. Arun Gandhi
had been at the time of his father’s death, she worried about his reaction to his mother’s death and to receiving the news so abruptly at the moment of his homecoming.
Kasturbai herself knew how irreplaceable Putliba’s love and guidance was. Under her mother-in-law’s wing she had felt secure and protected, confident and capable. Without Putliba she was bereft, overwhelmed by sorrow and uncertainty. Wouldn’t Mohandas feel the same? Everyone was expecting so much of him. But would he be able, after so sad a homecoming, to take hold and take charge of a family that was rapidly crumbling?
All Kasturbai could do was to wait patiently for his return. Wait and hope, and prepare to welcome him back into the household in Rajkot.
The family was aware that highly educated young men returning from England with Western mannerisms and dress usually wanted to make changes in the ancient Indian atmosphere of their own households. Anticipating this, Lakshimidas had instructed his wife Nandkunwarben to prepare for Mohandas’ return by purchasing English crockery and fine chinaware to replace the brass thalis (plates) and vadkas (bowls), on which the family meals were customarily served. He also bought chairs so they could all eat at a table, instead of sitting on floors, Indian fashion.
When the S.S. Assam steamed into Bombay’s magnificent deepwater harbour in mid-August, Lakshimidas was waiting on the dock at Ballard Pier. He had travelled alone from Rajkot to meet Mohandas, but as he watched the disembarking passengers, he almost failed to recognise his young, westernised brother in his English outfit. His joy at seeing Mohandas, his pride in his brother’s newly acquired prestige as a barrister was tinged with a slight apprehension.
“Will he ever be able to fit into our eastern way of life?” Lakshimidas asked himself as he moved forward to greet Mohandas.
“How is Mother?” Mohandas inquired at once. But Lakshimidas parried the question, and explained that their friend, Dr. P. J. Mehta, who had been the first to welcome Mohandas to London, was now back in Bombay and had invited them to stay with him for a few days before returning to Rajkot.
That evening Mohandas pursued the question again: “How is Mother?” Lakshimidas knew that he could not ignore the question any longer and broke the sad news as gently as he could.
Writing in his autobiography years later, my grandfather still had difficulty describing the “severe shock” of that moment. “I must not dwell upon it,” he wrote. After acknowledging that his sorrow was even greater than at the time of his father’s death, he added: “But I did not give myself up to any wild expression of grief…. I took to life just as though nothing had happened.”
Lakshimidas suggested that they delay their return to Rajkot — it had been Putliba’s last wish that Mohandas seek readmission into the Modh Vania caste, Lakshimidas said. For three years they had lived with the ban without complaint, but the problem had taken on new import, new reality at the time of Putliba’s death. Her funeral ceremony had been curtailed, certain rituals were omitted, some old friends did not attend — much to the dismay of all who loved her. If that could happen to one so faultless as Putliba, what hope was there for the rest of them? The family also worried that Mohandas’ continued excommunication could cloud his future as a lawyer. Lakshimidas had recently gone to the caste elders in Rajkot for advice, and he now described to his younger brother the procedures he must follow to gain expiation for his forbidden foreign sojourn. Mohandas agreed to comply with the elders’ recommendations, even though caste restrictions were no longer a matter of personal concern for him, and never would be again. He would seek readmission for the sake of his family and to honour his mother, not because of any desire to redeem himself.
Leaving Bombay, Lakshimidas and Mohandas set out on a penitential pilgrimage to Nasik, a holy place about a hundred miles to the north-east. There, before invited witnesses, Mohandas dutifully immersed himself in the sacred waters of the Godavari River for a propitiatory bath. From Nasik, they travelled on to Rajkot for the next step in his rehabilitation, a ceremonial dinner arranged by Lakshimidas and Karsandas. Acting on behalf of their younger brother, they had reserved a hall, ordered food prepared, and invited all Rajkot caste elders to attend. Most had accepted. As a further act of penance, Mohandas himself stripped to the waist and served the dinner to the guests. Though this seemed like nonsense to him, Mohandas was coaxed by his brothers to carry out his part in the ceremony. When the Rajkot elders accepted food from him, it signalled the end of his excommunication.
Kasturbai had counted the hours, waiting anxiously for her first glimpse of her husband. But their reunion, when at last it came, was initially awkward and restrained.
She and Mohandas were both 22; they had not seen each other for almost three years. Much had happened in that period. She needed time to become reacquainted with this stranger of a husband. He looked, dressed, even spoke, so differently from the Mohandas she remembered. He had changed in ways she could not comprehend.
Kasturbai had matured into a beautiful woman. Mohandas realised that at once. He was captivated by his wife’s beauty — as he had always been. Perhaps, after three long years of vigilant self-restraint, three years of monitoring all his sexual desires, even his thoughts, he was more attracted to her than ever before.
How could he have forgotten how lovely Kasturbai was? How enchanting she was to behold! Her smooth skin, her large eyes framed by thick lashes, her tiny figure, shapely and supple as ever under the soft folds of her bright-coloured sari! How beguiling it was to watch her comb her long, gleaming black hair; to study the simple grace of her movements; to hear, at her every step, the musical tinkle of the tiny silver bells that encircled her slender bare ankles. Any man would envy him, enjoying the loving devotion of this proud and beautiful creature. And enjoy it he did, to the full. After the austere and lonely years abroad, he deserved a season of self-indulgence at home before facing up to the responsibilities awaiting him. In his wife’s embrace Mohandas could forget all else.
For Kasturbai, too, the years of yearning were over — years of going to bed alone night after night. Only now that Mohandas was home again did she realise how great her loneliness had been. It was reassuring to know that England had not changed him, at least in one respect. He still found her desirable. She was delighted, too, at the pleasure Mohandas took in their son: playing and joking with Harilal, effortlessly winning the little boy’s devotion as well as other children in the household.
For the next few weeks the whole family seemed joyful and carefree — relieved of pent-up tensions. But after a time, Mohandas began to grow restive. He had welcomed the Western touches the family had provided but now declared this was not enough. He bought English cocoa and oatmeal and asked that porridge be served for breakfast. He told Kasturbai that he had decided their son Harilal would henceforth be brought up like an English child: hardy and tough — as all the Gandhi children should be. He bought shoes for the boys and insisted that they no longer go barefoot. He took the children on long walks into the countryside. He made up a schedule of exercises, and conducted calisthenics classes for them every morning.
Kasturbai said nothing. If he wanted it that way there was no reason for her to protest. In fact, she and her sisters-in-law, Nandkunwarben and Gangaben, were happy to have him take the children off their hands for part of the time each day.
But Mohandas’ zeal for giving instruction grew, and it soon extended to Kasturbai. So once again, to Kasturbai’s dismay, the nightly reading lessons began. But once again, to Mohandas’ dismay, his wife displayed absolutely no interest in the project. Worse still, she seemed to have no understanding of why he considered it so important. Kasturbai’s failure to comprehend the dignity of his profession rankled even more than her failure to appreciate his magnanimous aspirations for her.
Mohandas persisted. Kasturbai resisted. And the days passed. Then other familiar and distressing patterns began to emerge. Mohandas’ unfounded jealousies, unfair suspicions, unjust accusations. Kasturbai’s repeated and unequivocal denials.
Kasturbai was alarmed. Mohandas had not changed at all. They seemed to be picking up the threads of life where they left off years ago, when he was a mere schoolboy. But now he was a barrister. Surely a barrister had better ways to spend his time than teaching his wife to read and write, or keeping track of her every