M. K. Gandhi; An Indian Patriot in South Africa

Joseph J. Doke

• Publisher: Obscure Press
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781846649745, 9781443740647
• eBook ISBN: 9781528769723
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Political Biographies
• Index: Politics & International Relations

M. K. Gandhi An Indian Patriot in South Africa Originally published in 1909, this, the first biography of Gandhi, was written when he was in South Africa, fighting for human rights for the Indian settlers. Contents Include: The Batteries on the Reef, The Man Himself, A Compact, The White City, His Parents, Early Days, Changes, Life in London, Disillusioned, The Awakening of Natal, A Stormy Experience, The Heart Of The Trouble, Plague Days, A Dreamer Of Dreams, The Zulu Rebellion, The Great Struggle, The Other Side, Passive Resistance, Religious Views Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. Obscure Press are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

M. K. GANDHI:
An Indian Patriot in South Africa

CHAPTER I

THE BATTERIES ON THE REEF

October, 1908. This is written in Johannesburg. The Fort, used as the prison, with its great mounds of earth, originally piled up by the Dutch after the Jameson Raid, and garrisoned to overawe the City, crowns the hill above. The pleasure grounds of “The Wanderers” lie below, while between and over the lines of gum-trees which guard “The Wanderers”, one can see the towers and roofs of Johannesburg. The distant scene is mellowed by a haze of smoke, and the sounds of the City hardly reach so far as this. But even now the roar of the Batteries along the Reef, like the roar of surf breaking on a distant shore, attracts the ear. At night it comes nearer. On some cold nights when the wind blows from the Mines, the sound is like the roll of thunder, as though the rocks and sands and surf were battling with each other for victory down there on “The Wanderers”. That roar never ceases. On calm, hot, sunny days it almost dies; it sinks away into a lazy hum like the drone of bees in the clover. But it is always there. The Batteries of the Reef are never still. Night and day, and every night and every day, without rest, the crushing of the great machinery goes on; and the rocks and stones and sand yield their golden treasure in response.

This is a strange City. In many respects a wonderful City. So young, and yet so old. The problems of vice and poverty which perplex those aggregates of humanity, whose experiences cover ten centuries, are all here. A young form, and a jaded heart. Then the population is so diverse. The other day an accident happened just in front of me, and a small crowd gathered. It was an ordinary crowd in a very ordinary street. As I reached it, a young Italian Priest mounted his bicycle and rode away. A Chinese followed. The few who remained were nearly all of different nationalities. A tall Indian, probably a Pathan, some Kaffirs, and two white people—one Dutch, the other a Jew. It is this cosmopolitan character of the population which forms at once the attractiveness and perplexity of the place. There is no cohesion, there is no monotony.

Problems, which are essentially problems of Johannesburg, appear on every hand—race, colour, education, crime, religion—each in turn presents its own peculiar difficulties, and clamours to be solved. Surely of all places this is the most perplexing, and perhaps the most fascinating. Few live here long without loving it. But amidst the many questions which have appeared in the City since its foundation, there is one which stands out in curious and unique relief, and has done so for a long time. That is, the Passive Resistance movement of the Asiatics.

For some eighteen months, the Asiatic community, which numbers throughout the Transvaal about 10,000, naturally a loyal and law abiding community, has been in revolt against the Government. The Asiatic Law Amendment Act, which was built on the theory that the Asiatics had inaugurated a wide-spread fraudulent traffic in “permits,” and was consequently a criminal community, to be legislated against as criminals, awakened intense indignation amongst them. They clamoured for proof of this traffic but were refused. They appealed to have the charges investigated by a Judge of the Supreme Court, but the appeal was ignored. They had no parliamentary vote, and no representation in Parliament, so nothing remained but either to give the outward sign of the criminal in registration—which was the impression of the digits—or resist the Law. They decided on resistance. Fortunately, their leader was a refined, gentle, chivalrous man, a disciple of Tolstoi, and the resistance took the form of “Passive Resistance”. Since then, Johannesburg has been a battle-ground on which issues, which will affect the whole Empire, have been fought out, and the battle is still raging. Now, as I write, the authorities are sending numbers of Indian hawkers to imprisonment in the Fort, for carrying on their trade without a licence. Of course, they applied for a licence, and tendered their money, but because they would not register under insufferable conditions, their money was returned, and they are being prosecuted and sentenced to seven and fourteen days with hard labour in the Fort for a breach of the Law. We can see them frequently marching up the dusty road in batches—handcuffed and guarded—the Passive Resisters of Johannesburg.

At the beginning of the year, there were over two hundred in the gaols at one time. Since then, there have been readjustments—a compromise—a promise made and evaded by the Government—a new Bill, with new insufferable conditions—and once more, that patient, dignified, persistent Passive Resistance, so that the number threatens again to rise as high.

Johannesburg is very apathetic about it. The “colour prejudice,” which is intensely strong with a majority of the white population, makes this spot a difficult battleground on which to fight out such issues. Then we have so many conflicting interests—trade considerations, political interests, racial antipathies, and no one knows what besides. So Johannesburg as a whole looks with apathy on the action of the Government, and with unconcern on the sufferings of the men—while those who pity and sympathise hardly dare speak their thoughts.

And so the Batteries thunder on—political greed, injustice, racial prejudice, and the selfishness of trade; the crushing Batteries of the Reef, hammering and pounding under their enormous weight, the helpless Asiatic community. Sometimes the sound of it dies away to a whisper—again it rises to a roar—but it never ceases—and the result? Well, we shall see. But the leader himself has no doubt of the issue. I said yesterday to him: “My friend, it is likely to be a long struggle—England is careless, and the Government here is like iron.” “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, “if the trial is long, my people will be purified by it, and victory is sure to come.” Yes, the work of the Batteries is to find the gold.

CHAPTER II

THE MAN HIMSELF

It was late in December, 1907, when I saw Mr. Gandhi for the first time. Rumour had been very busy with his name. The Passive Resistance movement had come into prominence. Some small stir had been made in the newspapers by the imprisonment of a Pundit, and in one way or another, Mr. Gandhi’s name had been bandied from lip to lip. One evening, a friend raised the Asiatic Question at the supper-table, and as we were comparatively new to Johannesburg, although not new to the country, he told us what he thought of the Indians. His account was so strange and so completely opposed to all our previous experience, that it made us curious, and more than anything else decided me to interview the leader.

The office, at the corner of Rissik and Anderson Streets, I found to be like other offices. It was intended for work and not for show. The windows and door were adorned with the name of the occupant with the denomination of Attorney attached to it. The first room was given up to a lady-typist; the second, into which I was ushered, was the SANCTUM SANCTORUM. It was meagrely furnished and dusty. A few pictures were scattered along the walls. They were chiefly photographs of no great merit. The Indian Stretcher-bearer Corps was in evidence—photographs of Mrs. Besant, Sir William Wilson Hunter, and Justice Ranade—several separate Indian portraits—and a beautiful picture of Jesus Christ. Some indifferent chairs, and shelves filled with law books completed the inventory.

All this I confess to have noted afterwards. Just then, my whole attention was centred in the man who greeted me, and in an effort to readjust my ideas to unexpected experiences. Having travelled in India, I had almost unconsciously selected some typical face and form as likely to confront me, probably a tall and stately figure, and a bold, masterful face, in harmony with the influence which he seemed to exert in Johannesburg. Perhaps a bearing haughty and aggressive. Instead of this, to my surprise, a small, lithe, spare figure stood before me, and a refined, earnest face looked into mine. The skin was dark, the eyes dark, but the smile which lighted up the face, and that direct tearless glance, simply took one’s heart by storm. I judged him to be of some thirty-eight years of age, which proved correct. But the strain of his work showed its traces in the sprinkling of silver hairs on his head. He spoke English perfectly, and was evidently a man of great culture.

Asking me to be seated, he listened to an explanation of my visit, noting the points raised with a nod of the head, and a quick “Yes,” until I had done. Then he went straight to the mark. Using his fingers to emphasize his thoughts, he gave the most luminous statement of the Asiatic position, in a few crisp sentences, that I have ever heard. I was anxious to know what the religious elements in the struggle were, and he gave them with convincing clearness, explaining patiently every little involved issue, and satisfying himself that I understood each before dealing with the next. Once, when he paused longer than usual, to see whether I had grasped the thought or had only assented for the sake of courtesy, I closed my note-book, thinking he had finished. “Don’t close it,” he said, “the chief point is yet to come.”

There was a quiet assured strength about him, a greatness of heart, a transparent honesty, that attracted me at once to the Indian leader. We parted friends.

When I think of him now, one or two scenes stand out more vividly than others.

There is the trial in the “B” Criminal Court, a great mass of excited Asiatics crushed in at the door, and spreading to a great crowd outside. The cynical Magistrate, with his face flushed, presiding at the Bench; the horseshoe of legal offices below.

Then I can see again that spare, lithe form responding to the call. “Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,” and taking the prisoner’s place with alacrity to receive a sentence of “two months’ imprisonment” for the sake of his suffering people. Just prior to this, he had addressed these words to the hundreds of Asiatics who had gathered at the Mosque:—“No matter what may be said, I will always repeat that it is a struggle for religious liberty. By religion, I do not mean formal religion, or customary religion, but that religion which underlies all religions, which brings us face to face with our Maker. If you cease to be men, if, on taking a deliberate vow, you break that vow, in order that you may remain in the Transvaal without physical inconvenience, you undoubtedly forsake God. To repeat again the words of me Jew of Nazareth, those who would follow God have to leave the world, and I call upon my countrymen, in this particular instance, to leave the world and cling. to God, as a child clings to its mother’s breast.” Notable and brave words.

Another scene recurs to my mind with equal vividness. The Pathans had attacked him, striking him down and beating him with savage brutality. When he recovered consciousness, he was lying in an office nearby to which he had been carried. I saw him a moment later. He was helpless and bleeding, the doctor was cleansing his wounds, the police officers watching and listening beside him, while he was using what little strength he had to insist that no action should be taken to punish his would-be murderers. “They thought they were doing right,” he said, “and I have no desire to prosecute them”. They were punished, but Mr. Gandhi took no part in it.

These are scenes one can never forget; they serve to reveal the man. Our Indian friend lives on a higher plane than most men do. His actions, like the actions of Mary of Bethany, are often counted eccentric, and not infrequently misunderstood. Those who do not know him think there is some unworthy motive behind, some Oriental “slimness,” to account for such profound unworldliness. But those who know him well are ashamed of themselves in his presence.

Money, I think has no charm for him. His compatriots are angry; they say, “He will take nothing. The money we gave him when he went as our deputy to England he brought back to us again. The presents we made him in Natal, he handed over to our public funds. He is poor because he will be poor.”

They wonder at him, grow angry at his strange unselfishness, and love him with the love of pride and trust. He is one of those outstanding characters, with whom to walk is a liberal education, whom to know is to love.

CHAPTER III

A COMPACT

This morning, as usual, the sanctum was full of Indians when I entered, discussing earnestly the latest phase of the Asiatic difficulty. When, however, it became clear that Mr. Gandhi and I wished for a quiet chat, with the well-bred instinct of Orientals they silently left the room. Mr. Gandhi swung round on his office-chair and faced me, his dark eyes alert and watchful, his hair a little more silvered, I thought, than yesterday, his whole attitude alert and expectant.

“My friend,” I began “I want to ask you a strange question—how far are you prepared to make a martyr of yourself for the good of the cause?” He looked a little surprised, but said quietly, “I think you should know that by this time”. “No.” I said, “candidly I do not.” “Well,” said he, his face kindling, “it is a matter with me of complete surrender. I am nothing, I am willing to die at any time, or to do anything for the cause”. “Take care,” I rejoined, “perhaps I shall ask something too great.” “You cannot do that,” he replied, calmly. Then I saw my opportunity, and drew the toils about him. “Listen,” I said. “It appears to me that what we are doing now is merely tinkering at the Asiatic settlement—our fight with this Government is only part of a much greater fight, to be fought out on a larger battlefield. “The question of the status of British Indians throughout the whole Empire will have to be solved, and in the settlement of that vast problem, you should have much to say. The question is—how can we best prepare for that future?” He nodded in his own quick, incisive way. I proceeded: “You know very well that, with us Europeans, character and personality are of the first importance. It is so here, and it must be so at home. You yourself are the chief asset of the Indian cause. It is a great thing to know and trust the leader of such a movement.” He was about to speak, but I stopped him. “Let me continue,” I said. “Your position as leader makes your personality of great importance to the cause. It has occurred to me that if I could write a short book—bright, graphic, and reliable—making your personality real to the people of England, it might do something to help the cause in the great struggle that is to come.” The emphatic nods became appreciably weaker, but they did not altogether cease, so I went on: “You will see, however, that my power to do this depends altogether upon yourself. You must tell me about your childhood and youth, allow me to picture your personality, and depict your character, and if I know anything of you. to submit to this will be the severest kind of martyrdom that you can suffer.” “Ah.” he said, as my purpose dawned upon him. “you have caught me completely.” “But,” said I, “would this help your people?” He thought a moment, and then replied, “Yes. in England.” “Well, can you go so far?” “For the cause, I can,” he said. And then, “What do you want me to do? You don’t want me to write anything, do you?” “No,” I replied, “not a word:just let me question you about that Indian city where you were born, that beautiful home of yours far away in the East, the very thoughts of your heart, your struggles and sacrifices and victories. What you cannot tell me, others will help me to discover.” So silently, with a grip of the hand, we confirmed the bond, and this is how this story was born.

CHAPTER IV

THE WHITE CITY

If we begin at the beginning, we must visit, in fancy, a city in Western India, called Porbandar, and try to recall it, as it appeared a generation ago. This was the ancestral home of the Gandhis. Many changes have come since then; even in slow-changing India. Porbandar has changed. The city of yesterday has gone. Its primitive customs, its haughty isolation, its serene atmosphere, have almost vanished. The city of to-day is not Porbandar. It occupies, of course, the old spot close to the sea. It still claims a proud position as “Capital of the Principality of Porbandar, in the sub-province of Kathiawar, in the Province of Gujarat.” It still holds fifty villages in vassalage. And still its Rana Sahib is regarded as “a first-class Power.” But old Hindu Porbandar has gone forever.

In the days of which we write, like most towns in Kathiawar, it was surrounded by substantial walls, some twenty feet thick, and high in proportion. These have since been destroyed. The houses were built chiefly of stone quarried in the neighbourhood. The stone was white and soft—easily worked but hardening under exposure, so that, in time, these buildings became like solid blocks of marble fitted to endure an age. There was some approach also to architectural excellence, and although most of the streets were narrow, and the bazaars crowded, the effect was wonderfully picturesque. That “White City,” with its massive walls seen from a distance, in the coloured glory of the setting Sun, was a vision of beauty never to be forgotten. Unfortunately, there were few trees in Porbandar. The palace and garden of the Rana Sahib were within the walls, but apart from these, the tropic loveliness of those spots.

“. . . . Where the feathery palm-trees rise,

And the dates grow ripe under sunny skies,” had no place in the scene. The only green things which were common in the city were the tulsi-plants, in their pots or tubs, before whi...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Contents
• Introduction
• 1. The Batteries on the Reef
• 2. The Man Himself
• 3. A Compact
• 4. The White City
• 5. His Parents
• 6. Early Days
• 7. Changes
• 8. Life in London (1)
• 9. Life in London (2)
• 10. Disillusioned
• 11. The Awakening of Natal
• 12. A Stormy Experience
• 13. On the Battlefield
• 14. The Heart of the Trouble
• 15. Plague Days
• 16. A Dreamer of Dreams
• 17. The Zulu Rebellion
• 18. The Great Struggle
• 19. The Other Side
• 20. Passive Resistance
• 21. Religious Views
• 22. Postscript
• Appendix: