Mahatma
January 30, 1948
Gardens of Birla House, New Delhi
I will soon reach my eightieth year as I write these reflections. The chill of the January breeze seems to whisper of change or closure. My heart has been heavy with the burden of my beloved nation’s suffering, its partition, and the blood that has been spilled in the name of freedom and division alike. Yet, in the quiet of the morning, as I spin the charkha, the simple act of spinning cotton threads is a meditation, a prayer for peace, for unity amidst the stark fragmentation.
In recent days, I have felt the shadow of disquiet following me. The murmurs of discontent and the anguished cries of a country divided have not escaped my ears, nor has the simmering discontent among some who disagree with my methods and my pleas for harmony. There are threats, but they are like the fleeting winds, and I am like the banyan tree rooted in the conviction of non-violence.
Today, the sun rises just as it has every day, but there is a peculiar solemnity in its ascent. The light filters through the trees at Birla House, casting long, thoughtful shadows. I have walked this path many times to pray, meet with those seeking counsel, and share in the silence of the divine. But today, there is a weight in each step, a prescience that clings to the air, as tangible as the scent of the earth after the first rain.
My companions fret over my well-being, their eyes holding unspoken fears. Manu and Abha, ever-present at my side, wear their concern like a cloak. But we cannot let fear dictate our lives. If we succumb to fear, we let it win and erode the foundations of our belief in humanity and its innate capacity for good over evil.
The path to the prayer meeting is familiar, but today, it feels different, as if I am walking it for the first and the last time. I have always known that the path of truth and non-violence is fraught with peril, that it could lead to this juncture where the body may be sacrificed for the soul of a nation to awaken. But is the soul of Bharat truly awakening? This question haunts me, even as I smile and greet those who have come to join in prayer.
As I walk, the verses of the Bhagavad Gita echo in my mind, “For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time. It has not come into being, does not come into being, and will not come into being.” This body is but a vessel, transient and impermanent.
The crowd parts to make way for me, their reverent murmurs a constant undertone. Then, amidst the sea of faces, a man steps forward. Something in his stance, a specific rigidity, draws my attention. Our eyes meet, and in that brief exchange, I see it—the tumultuous storm, the inner conflict, the raging fire that has consumed his peace.
He bows, and I respond with a nod, my hands folded in a namaste, a gesture of peace, an offering of my soul. And in that moment, I feel a strange detachment, as if I am both in the moment and above it, watching as the man’s hand moves, the flash of a weapon, the sound that seems both distant and deafening.
The pain is sharp but fleeting. As I crumple to the ground, the earth catches me, as it has always caught my fallen self in moments of weakness and prayer. I hear the gasps, the cries, but they sound muffled, as if from another world.
“Death for me would be a glorious deliverance rather than that I should be a helpless witness of the destruction of India, Hinduism, Sikhism, and Islam.” My dream is for Hindus, Sikhs, Parsis, Christians, and Muslims of all of India to live together in harmony.
They say in the moment of passing, one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. But all I see is my beloved Kasturba’s face, the faces of my compatriots in struggle, the face of a nation I have loved and served to the best of my ability. And as the shadows claim me, I send a silent prayer into the ether for my country, for the world, “God, take me, but let my nation be free from hate, from violence. Let them have peace.”
The light fades, and in this final surrender, I find a profound truth—that in the end, it is not the body that endures, but the spirit of our actions, the essence of our beliefs, and the unwavering faith in Satyagraha, the force of truth.
May peace be with us all.
A short story by James R. Martin