We set out, then, Ganapathi, seventy-eight of us, volunteers called from all over the country, on the Great Mango March. What a brilliant sense of the theatrical Ganga had. Mangoes could be found anywhere, but it was not enough for Ganga to march to the nearest tree and pluck its fruit: he knew that would not make good copy. He wanted to give the reporters with him something to report, and he wanted to inflate the issue to one of national importance by keeping it in the news for as long as possible. What better way to do that than by a 288-mile march from the ashram to the grove of a landlord with Kaurava Party sympathies who had refrained so far from registering his trees? Would not the impact of this padayatra exceed even that of his actual violation of the mango laws? And if the British arrested him en route, wouldn’t that be even better?
It was brilliant, Ganapathi, what your generation would call a low-risk strategy. Don’t ever forget, young man, that we were not led by a saint with his head in the clouds, but by a master tactician with his feet on the ground.
Look at the newsreels of that time, Ganapathi. The black-and-white film is grainy, even scratched, the people in it move with unnaturally rapid jerkiness, and the commentator sounds like an announcer at a school sports meet, but despite it all you can capture some of the magic of the march. There is Gangaji himself at the head of the procession, bald, more or less toothless, holding a stave taller than himself, his bony legs and shoulders barely covered by his habitual undress, looking far too old and frail for this kind of thing, yet marching with a firm and confident stride accentuated by the erratic speed of the celluloid. There is Sarah-behn by his side in her white, thin-bordered sari, looking prim and determined, and Mahadeva Menon, for all the world like a Kerala karanavar on an inspection-tour of his paddy-fields; and behind them the rest of us, in homespun khadi and cheap leather chappals, showing no sign of fear or fatigue. Indeed, there is nothing grim about our procession, none of the earnest tragedy that marks the efforts of doomed idealists. Instead, Gangaji’s grinning waves of benediction, the banners of welcome strung across the roads at every village through which we pass, the scenes of smiling women in gaily coloured saris emerging in the blazing heat to sprinkle water on our dusty paths, the cameos of little children shyly thrusting bunches of marigolds into our hands, the waves of fresh volunteers joining us at every stop to swell our tide of marchers into a flood, all this speaks of the joyousness of our spirit as we march on.
Twelve miles a day, Ganapathi, for twenty-four days, and yet there was no sign of weariness, neither in Ganga, nor in the women, nor in my own ageless legs. Nor was there any sign of the police, though Gangaji confidently asserted to the journalists at each halt for refreshment that he expected to be arrested any day. It was, of course, another clever ploy from the master tactician. The very prediction of imminent arrest kept the police away and simultaneously encouraged, indeed obliged, the journalists to stay on. But Gangaji knew perfectly well that he would not be arrested, indeed could not be arrested, for he had as yet broken no law.
At last we arrived at the mango grove, still unescorted by police, but with notebooks and cameras much in evidence. The landlord came forth to greet us; ladies of his household stepped forward with little brass pitchers to wash our feet. Gangaji walked on, towards the oldest and biggest tree in the grove. For a moment I feared that we would lose him in the crush of humanity, that the sheer numbers around him would swallow up the dramatic impact of what he was about to do.
But once again artifice came to the aid of Truth. The landlord’s workers had erected a little platform for Gangaji, to be ascended by seven simple wooden steps. As silence settled expectantly around him, the Mahaguru, his little rimless spectacles firmly on his nose, his staff in his right hand, slowly, deliberately, mounted each step. At the top of the rough-hewn ladder, standing squarely on the little platform, he paused. Then, with a decisive gesture, he reached out a bony hand toward a ripe, luscious Langda mango dangling from the branch nearest him and wrenched it from its stalk. As the crowd erupted in a crescendo of cheering, he turned to them, his hand upraised, the golden-red symbol of his defiance blazing its message of triumph.
What poetry there was in that moment, Ganapathi! In that fruit, Ganga seemed to be holding the forces of nature in his hands, recalling the fertile strength of the Indian soil from which had sprung the Indian soul, reaffirming the fullness of the nation’s past and the seed of the people’s future. The cameras clicked, and whirred, and flashed, and Ganga stood alone, the sun glinting off his glasses, his hand raised for freedom.
From then on it was chaos, Ganapathi. The crowd cheered, and yelled, and swarmed around Gangaji as he stepped off the platform. The mango he had plucked, that first fruit of India’s liberation, was instantly auctioned to enthusiastic acclaim, for the princely sum of sixteen hundred rupees. A hundred hands reached for the remaining fruit on that landlord’s branches, plucking, tearing, pulling and inevitably, biting and sucking; before long the spotless white of the satyagrahis’ khadi was stained with the rich yellow of their greed. Stones were flung to bring down less accessible fruit; some fell on stray volunteers, mingling bloodstains with the juice on their tunics. Thus it is, Ganapathi, that the sublime degenerates into the sub-slime; and there too, while I am sounding portentous, lies another metaphor for us, for our nationalist struggle, make of it what you will.
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But such metaphors come too easily to me, Ganapathi, for I was there then, and here I am now. Gangaji, fortunately, saw little of the immediate aftermath of his triumph, for he disappeared into the landlord’s home to rest and refresh himself before the police came.
At last, as expected, they did; and the next day’s newspapers were able to carry, alongside a front-page picture of Gangaji on the platform with his seditious mango held aloft, the news of his arrest and incarceration, along with the offending landlord and scores of volunteers. But Gangaji’s action was the signal for a nationwide defiance of the Mango Act. Kaurava protestors across the country took to emulating their leader; wave after wave of khadi-clad satyagrahis plucked and planted the contraband fruit, openly bought and sold it, and non-violently prevented the government’s mango inspectors from continuing with their work of enumeration and registration. The government’s only response was to arrest the offenders, a course of action that cost them more in trouble, jail-space and unfavourable publicity than the mango revenues were probably worth. The protestors mocked the authorities by organizing elaborate ceremonies to consume the forbidden fruit. (Since the mangoes were plucked rather indiscriminately, this was not always a pleasure for the volunteers. ‘Pretty awful stuff’, Dhritarashtra confided to the policeman who arrested him.) As the mango agitation spread, the British found themselves having to make room for no fewer than 50,000 new political prisoners, jailed for offences even Western journalists found absurd. Ganga had not only made his point, he had held the imperialists up to ridicule. And colonialism, as the poet said, cannot bear very much hilarity.
Even Pandu, who had held himself conspicuously aloof from the agitation, was placed on the defensive: for once it seemed that he had been indisputably wrong in gauging the potential of one of Ganga’s ideas. But then suddenly everything came unstuck.
Gangaji was still in prison when reports came in of what had happened in Chaurasta. In this small provincial town the mango agitation had, quite simply, got out of hand. The business of plucking and consuming forbidden fruit undoubtedly contains elements that appeal to the hooligan fringe that lurks at the edge of any mass movement. In Chaurasta the local Kaurava organizers had chosen their volunteers carelessly, or allowed too many outsiders to join them; whatever the reason, their civil disobedience became very uncivil indeed. Stones were being flung at fruit on the highest branches when the police, arrived on the spot to make their routine arrests. The protestors, instead of submitting quietly to the guardians of the law, aimed their stones at the uniformed targets instead. The police - all Indians, mind you - turned their lathis on the satyagrahis; in
the ensuing unequal battle a number of ribs and skulls were cracked and several bones and noses broken before the demonstrators were hauled off to prison. Word of the ‘outrage’ spread quickly, and by nightfall a howling mob had gathered outside the police thana, shouting, ‘Khoon ka badla khoon’ - blood for blood, a slogan we were to hear later, in your own days, Ganapathi, from much the same sort of people and with equally tragic results.
It was late, and the thana was occupied by just two young policemen - Indians, Hindi-speakers. One of them, foolishly enough, stepped out to ask the crowd to disperse. Those were his last words; he was dragged into the mob and beaten and kicked to death. His terrified colleague inside was desperately trying to summon reinforcements when the screaming horde burst in and tore him literally to pieces. As they left, their bloodlust slaked, the mob set fire to the thana, with the dead or dying policemen still inside it.
The next day the Deputy Governor of Ganga’s prison came into his cell with a newspaper: the headlines were bigger than any other so far devoted to the mango agitation. The official, a pugnacious Ulsterman, threw the paper on to a table in front of his prisoner. ‘Is this the non-violent lesson you are trying to teach the British, Mr Datta?’ he asked heavily.
Ganga read the article without a word, passing over a photograph of himself with the caption: ‘”Mahaguru” Ganga Datta: instigator?’ At the end, he let the paper drop from his hand, and the prison official was surprised to see that the Great Teacher’s eyes were brimming with sorrow.
‘I shall suspend the agitation,’ he announced dully.
‘You’ll what?’ asked the incredulous Irishman.
‘I shall suspend the mango agitation forthwith,’ Gangaji said. ‘If you will provide me with the facilities to make a public announcement, I shall do so immediately.’ He saw the expression on his jailor’s face and half-smiled. ‘My people,’ he explained sorrowfully, almost to himself, ‘have not understood me.’
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Nor did they when the announcement came. Gangaji, in a British prison, calling off the most successful movement of mass civil disobedience the country had ever seen, all because of one incident? It was bewildering. To some, it was a betrayal.
‘He has cracked under pressure,’ Pandu concluded, addressing a meeting of those members of the High Command who were still outside prison. ‘The British have got to him at last. Either that, or he has simply become a weak old man and lost the stomach to continue the fight.’
‘Whichever it is,’ someone interjected, ‘he has let us down.’
‘Now, wait a minute,’ I said mildly (yes, Ganapathi, I had, with my usual slipperiness, evaded the clutches of the police myself). ‘What’s all this talk about letting you down? I didn’t see any of you amongst the massed ranks of the mango marchers. You, for instance, Pandu - I thought you were against the whole business.’
‘I was,’ Pandu acknowledged without shame. ‘But I don’t mind admitting I misjudged the impact the agitation would have. The Mango March did fire the people’s imagination; it stirred them up as few things before have ever done. In every corner of the country, in every little village, people who had never been political came out in support of the cause. Gangaji had struck a chord that I’m not even sure he expected to strike. Which Indian does not love mangoes? We had found an issue around which the whole country was rallying, and which was seriously embarrassing the British. And then what does he go and do? He personally, unilaterally, calls the whole thing off. Without even consulting any of us.’
‘He didn’t need to consult any of us to start the agitation,’ I pointed out.
‘That’s what’s wrong with our entire way of running this party,’ Pandu declaimed bitterly. ‘Is this a Kaurava movement, or a one-man show?’
There was, of course, no answer to the question, and no one ventured any, least of all me. But it had planted a doubt in the minds of the Kaurava High Command that would, Pandu knew, sprout richly for him one day.
‘If you admit his judgement was right in starting the agitation,’ I said in my best elder-statesman voice, ‘admit that he may be right in calling it off too. Perhaps in time we will recognize that the principle of non-violence is more important than any single agitation.’
‘Two lives,’ Pandu said with uncharacteristic callousness. ‘Two miserable policemen. Do you know how many Indian lives the British have taken in the last two centuries?’
‘I believe I have an idea,’ I replied quietly, ‘and I also believe that is not the point. What Gangaji is showing the world through non-violence is a new weapon - one which can only be blunted if we go back to the old weapons. We cannot point to the injustice of British rule if our opposition to it takes equally unjust forms. That is why Gangaji has decided to call off the agitation. I should not have thought it would be necessary to explain this to leading members of the Kaurava Party.’
Dissent, Ganapathi, is like a Gurkha’s kukri: once it emerges from its sheath it must draw blood before it can be put away again. I knew that blood would inevitably have to be drawn, and I felt the pain of the knife already, knowing that it was my blood that coursed through the veins of both potential victims: my blind son and my pale son, condemned to fight on history’s battlefield.
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With the agitation suspended, the British, immensely relieved, dropped all charges and released the prisoners. In a gesture interpreted variously as one of appreciation, of consolation and of contempt, depending on who was analysing its implications, the Viceroy (‘Dear Friend’) invited Gangaji to tea.
To everyone’s surprise but my own, Gangaji accepted the invitation. He entered the cavernous living-room of the viceregal palace swaddled in his habitual white, and found himself being greeted by our old friend Sir Richard, now Principal Private Secretary to His Majesty’s representative in India.
‘His Excellency will be with us shortly,’ Sir Richard said, ushering him to a chair without the trace of a welcome on his lips.
Gangaji sat comfortably, his long spindly legs resisting the temptation to cross themselves on the Viceroy’s brocade cushions. Sarah-behn, who accompanied him to most of his meetings, stood a few paces away behind a sofa. Sir Richard, regarding her with distaste, and standing himself, found it more convenient not to offer her a seat.
‘While we are waiting, Mr Datta, may I offer you some tea?’ he asked his patron’s guest.
‘Thank you,’ Gangaji replied equably, ‘but I have brought my own.’ He moved his head in the direction of Sarah-behn, who held a stainless steel tiffin-carrier in her hand. ‘Goat’s milk,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘That is what I drink at this time.’
Sir Richard opened his mouth as if to speak, then - defeated by the occasion - shut it again. The ormolu clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence.
‘I hope I have not come too early,’ Gangaji said at last.
‘No, not at all,’ Sir Richard found himself forced to reply. ‘His Excellency has . . . er . . . been unavoidably detained.’
‘Unavoidably detained,’ Gangaji repeated. ‘Unavoidably detained.’ He savoured the words, seeming to taste each syllable as he uttered it. ‘Another one of your fine British phrases, suitable for so many occasions, is it not? I wish I knew some of these myself. I always listen carefully to my English friends, like His Excellency or indeed you, Sir Richard’ - Sir Richard coughed unaccountably - ‘and I always intend to use these phrases myself, but somehow they never come out of my mouth at the right time.’ He laughed, shaking his head, as Sir Richard reddened dangerously. ‘I often say to Sarah- behn, we Indians will never learn this English language properly.’
Sir Richard did not know if his leg was being pulled, but he did know that he did not care too much for the trend of the conversation. He took a deep breath, as much to control himself as to punctuate his next utterance: ‘I trust you are not greatly inconvenienced, Mr Datta. I am confident that His Excellency will be with us shortly.’
Gangaji laughed. ‘Me? No, no, oh dear, not
at all inconvenienced,’ he chortled. ‘I am sitting in this comfortable chair, in this comfortable room, large enough to accommodate a small train, with an eminent representative of His Majesty’s government - you, Sir Richard - offering me tea. Why should I be inconvenienced?’ He paused, waving a casual hand at his companion. ‘Now she, Sarah-behn, she is not sitting in a comfortable chair. Perhaps if you asked her she might give you a different answer.’
It was, of course, Ganapathi, simply brilliant: it left the hapless Sir Richard no choice but to turn hastily and proffer a seat to the renegade Englishwoman. This, Sarah-behn, her expression unchanged, calmly took, smoothing down the folds of her sari and placing the tiffin-carrier with an audible clink at her feel.
‘My goat’s milk,’ Gangaji said unnecessarily. ‘She takes good care of it for me. It was all her idea, you know.’
‘Indeed.’ Sir Richard’s tone was distant. He could not bring himself to feign interest in the dietary predilections of this oddly matched pair.
‘Oh, yes.’ Gangaji warmed to his theme. ‘You see, I had this terrible dream one night.’
‘A dream,’ Sir Richard echoed dully.
‘That’s right. I dreamt a cow spoke to me.’
‘A cow?’
‘A large, sad-eyed white cow, with a long downturned mouth. “Don’t let them do this to me, Mahaguru!” she was crying. And then I saw she was standing and swaying terribly, and there were all sorts of people crouching on the floor beneath her, boys and girls and children and adults and peasants and clerks, all tugging and pulling at her udders, milking her as she cried piteously to me.’
A choking sound emerged from Sir Richard.
The Great Indian Novel Page 14
