In the weeks that followed Mohandas’ return to Rajkot, the Gandhi household changed drastically. The old celebratory spirit was back. The expiation of the decree that had deemed us outcastes made the family buoyant. Besides, the return of a qualified barrister from England was a matter of great pride and jubilation for us. Things were finally returning to normal.
Even though the influence of western culture had trickled into our home long before Mohandas returned, his homecoming ushered in even greater changes. To begin with, he wanted Harilal and all the other siblings to be raised like English children. He wanted them to be tough and hardy like “white men”. So much so, that a breakfast of porridge made of English oatmeal and cocoa was incorporated into everyone’s meal plan. No longer were the children allowed to walk around bare feet. He bought each one of them new shoes and socks, took them on long walks in the countryside and drew up a strict regimen of exercise that he supervised each day. I offered no resistance to these sweeping changes. It made me happy to see him take charge of the children and groom them in the ways of the western world. Nandkunwer and Ganga were equally pleased and cooperative.
Shortly after, a restlessness resurfaced in Mohandas. In his zeal to modernize the Gandhi household, he now trained his sights back on me. Once again I was going to be subjected to his punishing nocturnal, literacy plan. I dreaded the prospects of these lessons, and his indefatigable fervour made it worse. Much to my dismay, a rigorous timetable to educate me was put into place. Days passed in the tug-of-war of persistence and resistance and woefully other disturbing patterns began to appear. I soon discovered a dominating, suspicious, controlling, jealous husband still lurking beneath the sophisticated veneer of Mohandas’ highly coveted English barrister’s degree. Once in a while, the old fears and accusations of being made a cuckold by a slanderous cheating wife also crept up. Nothing had changed. It was a frightening repeat of the same tortuous exercise. He was the same, persistent, bullying, Mohandas; the same boy who could think of nothing else but teach me to read and write and much the same aborted classroom sessions that ended in lustful nights of sex.
Much as I felt flattered that after all these years he still found me intensely desirable and the need to have me by his side all the time, warmed the cockles of my heart, but his behaviour had begun to border on cruelty. This constant hounding was getting to me. I was feeling suffocated. Surely a “London-returned” barrister should have found something more meaningful to do, than to chase his wife all day and then make false allegations and hurl preposterous charges of infidelity at her. I was being emotionally abused. This was cruelty. I had had enough.
That night, after my usual half-finished lessons that were followed by routine sex, I mustered up the courage to speak.
‘You are so obsessed with English education and inculcating your western ways in the children that you have lost all regard for your brothers and family. Do you need to be reminded that you have duties towards your two uncles? Have you forgotten that they ran up huge debts to help you through your education in London? And now that they are without jobs, isn’t it your duty to help them? You were sent away to England to study, not to turn into a beast, bullying your hapless wife, hounding her all day. Are you so blinded by lust? You have become very selfish, Mohandas! What will it take for you to understand? I don’t want to be literate. Let me be.’
Mohandas’ piercing glare did not unnerve me. I had made my point. The night ended in another round of intense sex, but for the first time in all my married years, I slept peacefully while Mohandas tossed and turned beside me all night...
The next day I woke up in a sombre mood. The air was heavy with a spillover of the previous night’s outburst. Mohandas avoided looking me in the eye. Not a word was exchanged between us and a few hours later I was bundled off on a train to Porbandar, along with my four-year-old Harilal. It was to be my first visit to my parents’ home after the Modh-Banias had revoked their sanction and if this sending away was meant to have been some sort of punishment, Mohandas was grievously mistaken. I suffered no remorse for I had done no wrong; and I was looking forward to being with my parents who had been pining to see us, without fear of violating the religious ban. I felt a sense of exhilaration at leaving Rajkot and Mohandas.
The train raced across the countryside on the new broad gauge railway line. I sat by the window with Harilal in my lap, engrossed in the changing landscape flying past me. My thoughts drifted back to Mohandas. His paranoia and allegations of infidelity had pushed me to the end of my tether. I was not prepared to live in an abusive relationship with a pathologically obsessive man. It was best to let Mohandas fight his own demons alone. This separation should jolt him into sorting out his mind. I breathed easy. The sadistic thrill at being in control was a novel feeling.
The train picked up speed as it raced onwards to Kathiawar, the nearest railway junction to my parental home, and I dozed off with Harilal clinging to my bosom. Secure in the knowledge that this crucial separation from my beloved would soon end, I could dream of a happier tomorrow.
