BY G. VENKATACHALAM

Sabarmati is a river in Gujerat that skirts along the historic city of Ahmedabad, spanned by long iron bridges, and treacherous during the floods. On its right bank are the palatial mansions of mill-owners and the beautiful gardens of Shahibagh, and on the left are the ruins of ancient mosques, the forbidding walls of the Central Prison and also the quiet, unassuming ashram of the apostle of ahimsa, Mahatma Gandhi, who is so much before the world's eye today. The ashram is a small settlement of a few houses and a small acreage of grounds, with nothing to attract one's attention except the unique personality that lives there. There are no imposing buildings, no well-laid out gardens, no interesting library, no attractive features of a comfortable life. Everywhere there is stern asceticism staring you in the face, a silent echo of the recluse that resides there. You look in vain for any bright spot to cheer you up-the cool shade of a tree, the green lawn of a flower bed, the chirping of sweet-throated birds, smooth steps at the river ghat, peals of temple bells or even the laughter of children. No, everything has an austere look, and you sit down to think furiously how on earth this spot has become so world-famous and why so many make pilgrimage to this place. A day's stay within its compound dispels your wonder, and you begin to notice that behind all these sombre appearances and rude exterior, there is an attraction about the place, a quietness about its abode, an intense activity within its precincts, that are overpowering and compelling.

It is the Personality of "the great little man" standing at the white gate of Truth, waving his flag for the toll of service and sacrifice from his fellowmen in the cause of humanity. His presence in that little ashram makes it live and beautiful, and his child-like, sweet, innocent smile with which he greets you unceremoniously makes you feel "at home" at the very outset. His simplicity, directness and naturalness–so rare in the generality of mankind–disarms you and you see in those merry eyes and toothless smile, a confidant, a friend, a helper, a true comrade. His greatness is his transparent sincerity, his guileless laughter, his deep sympathy and understanding. He does not stand aloof, nor is his greatness remote and unapproachable. He is a Bania, it is true; he is shrewd, there is no doubt; he is clever, it is apparent; he is dominating, his gestures betray it; he is tyrannical, that is obvious; but withal he is supremely great because he is true to himself. A few minutes’ conversation with him convinces you of his intellectual powers and moral fervour. He has a logical mind and hence his utterances are limpid-clear; he feels strongly and therefore he speaks and writes so forcefully, so directly and to the point. "Camouflage" is a word unknown in his dictionary; "quackery" he detests from the bottom of his heart. He is a saint, per se, but a practical one at that, one whose saintliness is not of external appearances or of a secluded cloister type, but of an inward life and of ceaseless activities in the public affairs of men.

Ceremonies, worship, religion, formalities and conventions do not bind him, and he is truly religious since he has transcended all religious limitations. His religion is the service of his fellowmen, and his worship, his constant endeavour to experiment with truth. "My Experiments with Truth" is a revelation of his inward struggle "to know himself." His politics is merely an attempt at translation of his ideal, ahimsa, in relation to human affairs. He is not so much concerned with winning Swaraj for his country as establishing ahimsa in the world. That seems to be his mission.

Forces of circumstances have, however, placed him in his present position which he neither envies nor regrets. He is an idealist at heart and is more concerned with the general welfare of humanity at large than with anyone particular section thereof; but, here again, it is the poverty of India that has made him a politician and not so much his consuming love for his Motherland. Gandhi is a Force today, not merely a Personality, because he embodies in himself the ideals and aspirations of a struggling humanity–the search for Truth and Knowledge. He has evolved a new technique to adjust political problems and to solve social evils, and how far it is a remedy for the world's problems time alone will show. He is no superman, no avatar, not even a mystic who has "realised life", but just a man with a vision and a will to carve out a destiny for himself. He is no inspired messenger, no prophet of a new age. He is, if anything, an intensely human person, a man with common failings as well as uncommon traits, wise enough to know his own strength and weakness, which he has often confessed. His "Himalayan blunders" are records of his incessant struggle with life and his efforts to triumph over difficulties. Gandhi, the man, is a lovable friend. To know him is to trust him.

My first visit to Sabarmati Ashram in 1921 was discouraging, if not quite disappointing. It was the days of the Non-Co-operation Movement, and Gandhiji was to be seen everywhere in India except at his ashram. In one month in that year, I crossed him at Salem in the south, sighted him in Bombay in the west and heard him at Lucknow in the north. He is a tireless traveller and his only compeer in this respect in India is Annie Besant. Even Mrs. Gandhi was not in the ashram to look after your physical well-being, as she often does when guests arrive there; and in those days there were no Oxford men doing secretarial work or admiral's daughters spinning or carding in primitive methods. Just a few students and helpers, all so uninteresting and dull.

My next visit was under the most happy circumstances. I was going to Lucknow to attend the All-India Musical Conference, and I was taking a good collection of Indian paintings with me. I was invited by Devadas Gandhi to spend a few days at the ashram on my way, and as luck would have it, Mahatmajee was there, and I had the privilege of being an inmate of their simple household for a week. Kasturi Bai Gandhi cooked our food and served us like a mother; Gandhiji ever busy at his charka wheel whenever be is not writing or seeing visitors. At his request, I arranged a small exhibition of the paintings and he enjoyed seeing them. He is very critical and sensitive to beauty, but hides his aesthetical nature under the cloak of asceticism.

Gandhiji's views on art are "Tolstoyan." "I see what you are aiming at," he discussed with me on that day, "but where does it lead to, and what is its utility? Will it benefit the masses? Will it bring cheer to a deserted home? Will it comfort a suffering man?" This view has really nothing to do with real creative works of art, and I did not dispute his points. All that I understood was that he was keenly appreciative of creative works, himself being a no mean creative artist. His beautiful, simple, chaste prose, both in Gujerati and English, is a work of art. He is an artist in words and hence the eternal charm of his writings. I remember seeing him thrill to the very fibre of his being as he examined the exquisite water-color landscape studies of Venkatappa of Mysore and exchanged thoughts with that great artist. There was a painting of "Ooty in Monsoon"–a mist-covered and rain-drenched hill view–and when he saw it he shivered within himself as if he was feeling the intense cold of the rains.

His external appearance, not beautiful, has yet some attractive qualities, especially it his confiding smile, so spontaneous and natural. His mischievous look when he cuts a joke is very captivating. His stern exterior hides a sweet nature within, which is ever fond of fun and full of humour. Gandhiji is ready-witted and quick at retorts, and as he once said, his humour is the only saving grace in his otherwise over-burdened life, and that is what keeps him going. I can recall to my mind several instances of that side of his nature.

During one of my visits to Ahmedabad, I happened to stay with a mill-owner friend of mine, Sir Chinnubhai, and he took me to the ashram to pay our respects to this "half-naked Fakir." After some conversation with my friend, he turned to me and asked where I was staying. I pointed to the tall white mansion right opposite the ashram, across the river, the residence of Sir Chinnubhai; and Gandhiji winked and said: "Oh, what a fall, my countryman!"

On another occasion, when he was at the Nagpur Congress of 1920, Mon. Paul Richard and myself visited him in his tent, by appointment, and they both seriously discussed about many pressing problems, and in the course of their conversation, this Frenchman remarked: "Mr. Gandhi, do you really think that you are going to fight the mighty British Empire with your puny weapon of Non-Violence?" He quietly replied: "No, I want to fight with the blinding love of Truth."

When Gandhiji was staying in Bangalore at Kumara Park, as the guest of His Highness, during his enforced long illness, Dr. James Cousins, Srimathi Kamaladevi, Fred Harvy and myself called on him to pay our homage. He was at his charka as usual, and Dr. Cousins approached him proudly and said: "Look here, Mahatmajee, I am wearing pure khadi, all hand-spun and hand woven, in Ireland." He gave Dr. Cousins a mischievous smile and whispered: "Yes, for consumption in India." When we were there Kamaladevi and myself noticed a common cigar-box near him where he kept his cotton for spinning, and the next day we visited him we took a beautifully carved sandalwood box for him, and Kamaladevi, quietly, unobserved, replaced his cigar box. The moment he noticed it, a little later, he exclaimed: "Ah, if only all things in India could be replaced so beautifully!", and turning to her he observed: "Yes, I knew you were out for some mischief."

One day in Bombay, at his temporary residence of Vaccha, Gandhi Road, Poet Harindranath, Kamaladevi and myself approached him to "grace with his presence" the opening night of one of Mr. Chattopadhyaya's plays. He listened patiently to our enthusiastic description of the play and its production, and lifting up his head, he smiled and said: "No, I have no graces to offer."

Mahatma Gandhi is a Practical-Idealist, a Social-Democrat at heart. Ideas are valuable to him only to the extent they can be put into practice in daily life; reforms are useful only to the extent they can mitigate human suffering and raise man to his full stature. A passionate lover of Truth, he is often blind and exacting in his demands like young lovers, and his moral tyranny is something bewildering. He is tender and strong like a father; compassionate and cruel like a doctor. He is a believer in the divinity of man and his high destiny and hence his strong protests against machinery and materialism which try to kill the soul. He is no reactionary and an enemy of progress as foolish people think. He is progressivist of a high order, a dreamer of dreams far ahead of his times. His call of "Back to Nature" and his "Economics of Charka" are based upon intimate experience and understanding of the soul-killing effects of modern mechanised civilisation. His is the warning finger of Fate pointing to the abyss toward which humanity is blindly and helplessly drifting with no heed or concern. Gandhiji would stop its certain destruction, if he could, by calling attention to its better nature. Noble and beautiful as are his views, ideals and aspirations, it is not these that have captured the imagination of his countrymen, but his saintly life, austere, simple, fear- less, free and unfettered. It is his loin-cloth, his frugal food, his identity with the masses and the poor, his self-imposed poverty, his adoption of a so-called low caste girl as his daughter, his third-class travelling, his thrift, his self-abnegation and surrender to the country's call,–it is these that have endeared him to the people and made him the idol of the nation. May he long be spared to serve India and the world!

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