Gandhi's Pilgrimage of Faith: From Darkness to Light

Preface

Preface I have never seen Mahatma Gandhi, nor have I met him in person. I have only heard his voice on All India Radio in the mid-forties, a voice so feeble it was hardly audible. But what a magical effect it had on all its listeners— young and old, men, women, and children! Bapu’s (Bapu: father) was the voice that stirred souls, that inspired the people and spurred the whole nation to action—to launch the first bloodless revolution in history against the mighty British Empire that had ruled over India for 150 years. When the Mahatma spoke, the Indians were awakened and the British alarmed. Gandhi’s voice had the same charisma and character of the man; it made the weak strong and it made the strong softened by kindness. Gandhi’s was the clarion call that awakened the people of India to “do or die” for freedom—to win over the British by suffering for truth, for justice, and for human dignity. Many a poignant memory of my childhood flashes back on my mental screen. The first to come alive in my mind is the year 1942. The Indian independence movement was in full swing. The slogans—“British quit India,” “Mahatma Gandhi ki jay” (“Hail to Mahatma Gandhi”), “Jay Hind” and “Gandhi is our Hero!”—still keep ringing in my ears! Not only the slogans but also the ongoing nonviolent protests and parades, the curfews , and the Indian flag-holding students being shot down by English officers—all come alive from somewhere in the labyrinth of my mind. My second flashback emerges from my preteen years. Like feeling the dizzying raptures of falling in love for the first time, I still feel the thrill of that momentous moment in history when, at the stroke of midnight on August 15, 1947, India became “free at last.” I vividly remember how India, adorned like a young bride, looked stunningly beautiful that night—a night that was impregnated with great expectations of a new dawn awakening for us and for our beloved country! Close to midnight, I joined the teeming millions who milled around the Bhadra Killa (fort) in downtown Ahmedabad (in the Gujarat State in West India) to see the most dazzling display of lights on all the government buildings. The people danced wildly in the streets as the sounds of shahnai (Indian instrument played at all xi auspicious occasions) sweetened the air; the temple bells chimed in harmony as the devotees chanted prayers in Sanskrit and offered coconuts, flowers, and sweets to their deities. The decorated elephants and horses, the trucks, buses, cars, and rickshaws all vied with pedestrians to make their way through the needle-narrow streets, but nothing moved. Traffic stood still. The people, shoving and pushing one another, climbed up the telephone poles or into the treetops for a better view. Some managed to go onto the rooftops of buildings or to hang out from windows. Small children, perched up on their parents’ shoulders, had the best view of the lights, the parades, and the fireworks. Not an inch of space was unoccupied. Only the father of the nation, Mahatma Gandhi himself, stayed away from the Independence Day celebrations; for him it was a “Day of Mourning,” because much against his will and efforts, what he called “the vivisection of his Motherland” or the “partition” took place. Upon Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s insistence, a separate nation of Muslims was carved out of India; it was called Pakistan (Pak: pure, stan: place). The third memory that still stabs my heart is that of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination on January 30, 1948, less than six months after India’s independence. I cannot forget that cold and dark, dreary winter evening when, arriving home from school, I heard my older brother sobbing . I knew in my heart someone must have died. But who? Even though afraid, I asked him what was wrong, and my heart sank as he continued sobbing like an orphaned baby. I ran inside to my mom. Grieving, yet in control, she told me that an extremist Hindu had shot and killed Gandhi just prior to his evening prayer session in New Delhi. The whole country mourned like a widow that night, which seemed longer and darker than any other night in the history of India. At eight o’clock that evening, like millions of other families in India, our family huddled together to hear the national radio broadcast by Jawaharlal Nehru, the first...