Daughter Of Midnight - The Child Bride of Gandhi. Arun Gandhi
and disenchantment.
He rented rooms and hired a cook — a man so incompetent that Mohandas ended up doing most of the cooking himself. He bought some law books, he studied the Civil Procedure Code and the Evidence Act, and every day he walked the several miles to and from the High Court where he observed the great and famous Bombay lawyers at work. But the court proceedings were so dull that he often fell asleep.
Meanwhile, his brothers were still paying all his expenses, his debts were mounting each month, and a letter from Lakshimidas had brought unexpected news. Kasturbai was expecting another child, my father, Manilal.
This was cause for rejoicing, of course, but it also increased Mohandas’ crushing sense of responsibility. One more child, one more soul to look after. Now, more than ever, he must earn money. But the weeks passed, and Mohandas remained a briefless barrister. As a stopgap measure he applied for a part-time position teaching English at a boys’ high school. The salary listed was only 75 rupees a month, but that was better than nothing. He did not get the job. The school, he was told, hired only graduates of Indian universities. His London Matriculation degree with Latin as his second language did not qualify him for a teaching post.
Then, at last, a petty court case came his way — and without his paying a commission to a tout. Mohandas proudly donned his barrister’s wig and gown for the first time, and appeared for the defendant in a simple case in the Small Claims Court. But when he rose to cross-examine the plaintiff’s witnesses, his old fear of public speaking overcame him. He could not think of a single question, could not utter a single word. A ripple of laughter ran through the courtroom. Humiliated, Mohandas sank into his chair. He advised his poor client to hire another lawyer, refunded the fee of 30 rupees paid in advance, and fled from court, resolving then and there to take no more cases until he had courage enough to conduct them (not until he found himself in South Africa would he find that courage).
Finally, the word came from Rajkot. Lakshimidas could no longer afford to pay Mohandas’ expenses. He urged Mohandas to leave Bombay, return home, and try his luck in Kathiawar, even if it meant doing clerical work. Lakshimidas, himself a petty pleader, could give him some applications and memorials to write, to get him started.
With defeat looming large, Mohandas boarded the train, left the city, and returned to Rajkot to face a joyfully expectant Kasturbai.
The second son of Kasturbai and Mohandas Gandhi, was born in Rajkot on October 28, 1892 — an event I find noteworthy because this child (named Manilal), would grow up to become my father. Manilal’s birth was celebrated with the customary religious festivities. Sweets were distributed; ceremonies performed; gifts received.
Kasturbai visited the temple to give thanks. The arrival of another healthy son was a good omen — a harbinger of better times.
All her concerns for her husband, all the anxieties she had felt over the past many months, were forgotten. Their life seemed to be settling into a comfortable pattern. Mohandas was home in Rajkot, he had opened his own office and was writing enough petitions and memorials for Lakshimidas and his vakil friends, drafting enough briefs for other barristers, to earn the 300-rupees-a-month income that had evaded him in Bombay. For Kasturbai this was success enough. She was no longer beholden to her in-laws. Harilal was lively as ever, Manilal was a calm and lovable baby, and she was content, happier than she had been for years.
But what was contentment for Kasturbai soon became frustration and disillusionment for Mohandas. An embarrassing altercation in the early spring of 1892 left him at odds with his brother, affronted by British officialdom, and chagrined to realise how ignorant he was of the ways of the colonists.
The incident occurred when Lakshimidas, still out of favour with the new British resident in Porbandar because of the crown prince’s misdeeds, persuaded Mohandas to undertake a delicate mission. Lakshimidas learned that Mohandas and this officer, a Mr. Charles Ollivant, had met socially in London once or twice under friendly and agreeable circumstances. As a British administrator on furlough from service to the Empire and about to take up new duties in Kathiawar, Mr. Ollivant had enjoyed conversing with a student from Rajkot. Now Lakshimidas, hoping to regain a place of influence in Porbandar, asked his younger brother to use his influence with his English friend.
Mohandas was reluctant. “It was a trifling friendship,” he told Lakshimidas. “It should not be used for such purposes.
Lakshimidas disagreed. ’You do not know Kathiawar. Only influence counts here. It is not proper for you, a brother, to shirk your duty when you can clearly put in a good word about me to an officer you know.”
This was his older brother’s first request for help of any kind, and Mohandas did not have the heart to decline. Mohandas made the trip from Rajkot to Porbandar and presented himself once again as a supplicant at the door of the British resident.
Predictably, Mr. Ollivant was rude. When Mohandas, after mentioning their meeting in London, began to explain the purpose of his visit, the political agent interrupted him. “Surely you have not come here to abuse our acquaintance,” he said.
Mohandas tried to continue, but Mr. Ollivant interrupted again. “Your brother is an intriguer,” he barked out. “He can expect no more work from Porbandar. If he has anything to say to me let him apply through proper channels.” He asked his caller to leave. “Please hear me out,” Mohandas tried to protest But Mr. Ollivant called a servant and ordered him thrown out — bodily.
Shamed and outraged, Mohandas immediately wrote out a demand for an apology, threatening legal action if it were not forthcoming.
Ollivant’s reply was curt and final. “You are at liberty to proceed as you wish.” But in British India, as Mohandas well knew, the only court of appeals in a princely state such as Porbandar was, of course, the British resident.
Mohandas returned to Rajkot and told his older brother of this latest fiasco. Lakshimidas was grieved. But Mohandas remained aggrieved. He had been physically assaulted! English law should not permit such arrogant abuse of authority! He consulted other lawyers, wondering if he had any recourse. They advised him not to pursue the matter, to do so would mean his ruin. They said he was still fresh from England, still hot-blooded. He did not understand life in his own country. Such incidents were common, they told him. To get along in India, he must learn to pocket the insults of the British officers.
My grandmother knew of Grandfather’s many disappointments and disillusionments. What was there to say? There clearly was no place for him in the petty politics of Kathiawar. He would never follow in his father’s footsteps and become the dewan of Rajkot or Porbandar. Such a dream was no longer attainable, nor was it worth seeking. Even a ministership or a judgeship seemed unlikely for one as inept as he was at playing the local games of intrigue. And his Bombay experience had put his future as a barrister in question.
To Grandmother, to the family, to Mohandas himself, his career appeared to be ending before it began. His failure seemed complete.
The letter, unheralded and unsolicited, arrived in Rajkot in mid-March of 1893. It offered Mohandas instant escape from the professional doldrums, and prospective rescue from a financial quagmire. It brought Kasturbai new hopes — and new uncertainties.
The letter came from a longtime friend of the family, a prosperous Muslim merchant of Porbandar whose shipping and trading firm, Dada Abdullah & Company, flourished in South Africa where there was a sizeable population of Indians. They had heard of Mohandas and his qualifications, and felt the young Indian barrister could be useful to their firm, assisting their South African lawyers in a big case involving a claim of £40,000 against another Indian merchant in South Africa. The whole matter would take about a year for which Mohandas would receive a fee of £105. The firm would pay all his living expenses and provide a first-class, round-trip ticket to Durban, the chief port of the British Crown Colony of Natal.
Seasoned traveller that he had become, Mohandas was immediately intrigued by this chance to get away, to see a new part of the world, have new experiences. Of course, he knew even