South Africa holds a special place in my heart as the land that prepared Mahatma Gandhi for the nobler tasks that lay ahead. As lawyer Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, he spent two decades in Durban, and that is where Gandhi was born.
When he returned to India, of all his sons, Manilal, his second born, made the biggest sacrifice, to be away from his parents and siblings and carry on his father’s mission in South Africa. Later, Ela Gandhi (Manilal’s youngest child) continued the fight for peace and justice in South Africa.
She even lost one of her sons in the struggle against apartheid. She has served as a Member of Parliament (1994-2004), and presently chairs various committees and runs a range of community projects in South Africa. When I expressed a desire to meet her during my recent visit to Durban, she graciously invited me over for breakfast.
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Clad in a grey salwar kameez, Ela welcomes me into her spacious, elegant apartment in the upmarket Glenwood neighbourhood. The lavish breakfast she has laid out offers interesting diversity. The ‘patrel in a pastry’ steals my heart, and she willingly shares the recipe. Patrel, the typical Gujarati dish made from colocasia leaves, is shallow fried and then baked in a pastry case. Alu parathas and upma, muffins, toast, butter, fruit, the mix reflects Ela’s pragmatic personality, and the energy and attitude that keep her going fabulously at 77. She venerates her grandfather with the kind of deep respect shown by Indians and Africans towards elders.
She talks of the Phoenix Settlement, a project close to her heart, where Gandhi ran his successful anti-discrimination activities at the turn of the last century. “He chose to live among the poorest of the poor in Phoenix in the midst of the African community (when no Indians were living there), leaving behind his beautiful home and comfortable life in Durban,” Ela says proudly.
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“He wasn’t born a Mahatma. He came here with many prejudices; never appreciated women until he interacted with a number of strong women here in South Africa, like, for instance, his secretary (Sonja Schlesin, a Jewish woman), a feminist who chided him for his attitude towards the opposite sex. People deify him, but he was a mere human being like anybody else. The beginning of his transition took place here. He came wearing a suit and tie and left in ordinary clothes.”
Her face lights up when I ask of her earliest memories of her grandfather. “I was only seven years old when I first met him. My parents had gone back to India during 1946-47 and we spent about three months in his Sevagram ashram. He would spend an hour with us, every day, and tell many stories. It was a time when he was the busiest and the saddest, as the Hindu-Muslim riots were taking place. By then, the Partition had been decided upon, and the Constitution was being framed. In spite of his busy schedule, he made time for us. And when we returned in December 1947, by January, he had written two letters to me. To think that he could write to a seven-year-old showed his absolute interest in us, his grandchildren. He would give us his undivided attention: when he spoke to us, it was not flippant conversation but always a meaningful discussion.”
“Even as a seven-year-old, I was inspired by two of his teachings: those of truth and repentance. If I have to cite an example, it happened in 1948, after we came back from India. Sugar fields surrounded the Phoenix Settlement where we lived. One day, when my parents were out and I was alone at home, a huge crowd from the community came to me; there was a wild cat on the tree opposite our house and a farmer was concerned that the cat would eat his chickens. He wanted to kill the cat but wasn’t allowed to use a gun on the Settlement. He asked me for permission to use the gun to kill the cat. I said, ‘Ok, kill it’, because I was scared too; they told me the wild cat was going to bite me. They shot down the cat and left.”
“When my parents returned, I told them what happened. My mother told me I was wrong to have given permission to kill a cat. I realised my mistake and cried. My mother said, ‘You don’t have to cry but repent and ask god for forgiveness. And remember not to do it again.’ So I decided at that age, on my own, that I would fast for a few days.”
“One day, we were sitting and talking when I said to Bapuji, ‘You should not call this Sevagram but ‘kola gram’ (kola is pumpkin in Gujarati).’ He laughed and asked, ‘Why do you say so.’ I said, ‘We eat only pumpkin here day and night, that’s why.’ When he went to the prayer meeting that evening, he announced, ‘A child told me that every day they serve pumpkin here. You should have variety, eat all vegetables, why do you make it difficult for people by giving them only pumpkin every day?’”
“He gave so much importance to a child’s opinion even though he had more serious things to think about: this was when he was in serious discussions with Nehru and Patel.”
Never meek
Gazing at the panoramic view of Durban from her 12th floor apartment, Ela says wistfully, “I don’t have any memories of my grandmother as she passed away when I was just 4 or 5. I feel that Kasturba was not given the importance she deserved. There are no books on her or records that speak about her contribution, but Bapuji said that he learnt how to be brave from her. She was courageous, stubborn, and didn’t always obey him. She was never meek, as perceived by many. He writes in his book that he used to want to dominate her, but she would never allow that.”
As we go over the historic photographs on her walls, Ela recalls each one with fondness, pain and nostalgia: her parents, her sister Sita, significant moments from the freedom struggle. We talk of Partition. I wonder aloud if India and Pakistan will ever be friendly again. “If there can be hope for Palestine and Israel, why not for Pakistan and India,” she asks.
Two of Ela’s children live in Durban (a son and a daughter) while two other daughters live in Johannesburg and Pretoria. “Everyone is settled here in South Africa, which is good. My son Kidar always loves to go to India,” she says with a smile.
“I feel I have two homes: South Africa and India. In 1947, when I was in Akola, a small town in Maharashtra, I was asked to raise the Indian flag in my school. I still remember, as a seven-year-old, I raised the flag and sang ‘Jhanda Uncha Rahe Hamara’. When it comes to South Africa, I feel the same patriotism. So, my love is for both countries.”
Yes, while one gave her roots, the other gave her space to grow. Here or there, she’s always a Gandhi first.
A compulsive traveller, the author goes wherever the strong wind and her upturned umbrella take her.