“So we have done?” said Sir Pherozeshah Mehta.
“No, no, there is still the resolution on South Africa. Mr. Gandhi has been waiting long,” cried out Gokhale.
“Have you seen the resolution?” asked Sir Pherozeshah.
“Of course.”
“Do you like it?”
“It is quite good.”
“Well then, let us have it, Gandhi.”
I read it trembling.
Gokhale supported it.
“Unanimously passed,” cried out everyone.
“You will have five minutes to speak to it, Gandhi,” said Mr. Wacha.
The procedure was far from pleasing to me. No one had troubled to understand the resolution, everyone was in a hurry to go and, because Gokhale had seen the resolution, it was not thought necessary for the rest to see it or understand it!
The morning found me worrying about my speech. What was I to say in five minutes? I had prepared myself fairly well, but the words would not come to me. I had decided not to read my speech but to speak extempore. But the facility for speaking that I had acquired in South Africa seemed to have left me for the moment.
As soon as it was time for my resolution, Mr. Wacha called out my name. I stood up. My head was reeling. I read the resolution somehow. Someone had printed and distributed amongst the delegates copies of a poem he had written in praise of foreign emigration. I read the poem and referred to the grievances of the settlers in South Africa. Just at this moment Mr. Wacha rang the bell. I was sure I had not yet spoken for five minutes. I did not know that the bell was rung in order to warn me to finish in two minutes more. I had heard others speak for half an hour or three quarters of an hour, and yet no bell was rung for them. I felt hurt and sat down as soon as the bell was rung. But my childlike intellect thought then that the poem contained an answer to Sir Pherozeshah.19 There was no question about the passing of the resolution. In those days there was hardly any difference between visitors and delegates. Everyone raised his hand and all resolutions passed unanimously. My resolution also fared in this wise and so lost all its importance for me. And yet the very fact that it was passed by the Congress was enough to delight my heart. The knowledge that the imprimatur of the Congress meant that of the whole country was enough to delight anyone.
XVI
Lord Curzon’s Durbar
The Congress was over, but as I had to meet the Chamber of Commerce and various people in connection with work in South Africa, I stayed in Calcutta for a month. Rather than stay this time in a hotel, I arranged to get the required introduction for a room in the India Club. Among its members were some prominent Indians, and I looked forward to getting into touch with them and interesting them in the work in South Africa. Gokhale frequently went to this Club to play billiards, and when he knew that I was to stay in Calcutta for some time, he invited me to stay with him. I thankfully accepted the invitation, but did not think it proper to go there by myself. He waited for a day or two and then took me personally. He discovered my reserve and said: “Gandhi, you have to stay in the country, and this sort of reserve will not do. You must get into touch with as many people as possible. I want you to do Congress work.”
I shall record here an incident in the India Club, before I proceed to talk of my stay with Gokhale.
Lord Curzon held his durbar about this time. Some Rajas and Maharajas who had been invited to the durbar were members of the Club. In the Club I always found them wearing fine Bengali dhotis and shirts and scarves. On the durbar day they put on trousers befitting khansamas20 and shining boots. I was pained and inquired of one of them the reason for the change.
“We alone know our unfortunate condition. We alone know the insults we have to put up with, in order that we may possess our wealth and titles,” he replied.
“But what about these khansama turbans and these shining boots?” I asked.
“Do you see any difference between khansamas and us?” he replied, and added, “they are our khansamas, we are Lord Curzon’s khansamas. If I were to absent myself from the levee, I should have to suffer the consequences. If I were to attend it in my usual dress, it would be an offence. And do you think I am going to get any opportunity there of talking to Lord Curzon? Not a bit of it!”
I was moved to pity for this plainspoken friend.
This reminds me of another durbar.
At the time when Lord Hardinge laid the foundation stone of Hindu University, there was a durbar. There were Rajas and Maharajas of course, but Pandit Malaviyaji specially invited me also to attend it, and I did so.
I was distressed to see the Maharajas bedecked like women—silk pyjamas and silk achkans, pearl necklaces round their necks, bracelets on their wrists, pearl and diamond tassels on their turbans and, besides all this,
