Trysts with the Mahatma

Today marks 73 years of a tragedy. The man who symbolised non-violence was killed by violence. Mahatma Gandhi, the warrior of peace and freedom, lay slain; the radio burst the news to a nation stunned. As a boy, I wept with my family, and country. No dinner was cooked in our home, like millions of others, all mourning the loss of a father.

My connection with Gandhi was emotional. It was 1942. The Japanese had occupied Burma and started bombarding Calcutta. A jute mill, of which my father was the manager, was on the air route of the Japanese bombers. We, children, were shifted to our ancestral village, Pilani, in Rajasthan. I was eight years old. One day, while at school, we heard him make the clarion call for Quit India. He had been arrested. Back home, I asked my illiterate grandmother to make me a flag. She managed to stitch orange, green and white cloth pieces. I drew a charkha in the middle, got a stick and the flag was ready. With my five friends, I started a procession shouting ‘Vande Mataram’, ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai’.

In no time, we gathered over 100 followers. At the market, we were confronted by the police. My grandfather was summoned. After two hours, we were released with a warning. On that day, my commitment to Gandhiji and our freedom movement became unassailable.

We returned to Calcutta in 1944. My father took me to give Gandhiji a donation he had collected. Gandhiji was on his morning walk. Father approached him, concealing the bag. Gandhiji said, ‘Why hide what you want to give?’ We walked two rounds with him. He kept his hand on my shoulder. I felt blessed.

Two years later, he was visiting our town again. After his walk, he would collect money for ‘Harijan Fund’ by signing his pictures that people had to buy for Rs 5 each from the camp shop. He would swiftly pass across the line of people, autographing the pictures. I had bought three photographs, but he signed only one and moved on. I started arguing with volunteers. He heard the commotion and called me. I said, ‘Sir, I had paid for three photographs, but only one was signed.’ He asked, ‘Are you speaking the truth?’ I nodded. He autographed the remaining photos with a personal message, ‘Bapu ne aashirwad’. The inspiration to always tell the truth has never flagged since.

In 1992, as Rotary International president, I was invited as chief guest to a reception at the Town Hall in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa. The Mayor said, ‘Mr President, this is the place where your famed countryman Mahatma Gandhi was unceremoniously pushed from the train to the platform; and now, the city is building a statue in his honour.’ I remember my throat choking.

I have relived my memories of Gandhiji, watching Attenborough’s great movie and reading books and memoirs. Einstein’s words, ‘Generations to come will scarce believe that such a man as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth’, bring tears to my eyes each time I utter them.