Independence to Freedom: “…musa mihi causas memora…”

By Viram Jasani

This is a story of migration from rural Gujarat to Nairobi, Kenya and the impact of the struggles for independence from British rule on a traditional Hindu Gujarati family, and finally to London in 1949.

Here, the family navigated a life in between two cultures maintaining and imbibing the best of both. Hemkunver lived a life of bhakti – devotion. Manilal, her husband, followed a life of engaging with the world but spiritually grounded in his love for Indian classical music and philosophy. These characteristics were passed on to the main protagonist Viram, who from a very early age fell in love with Indian classical music. His abilities and interests were varied though – so he did not mind playing his sitar with jazz, or playing with Jimmy Page on Led Zeppelin or composing for films, TV and radio, whilst also developing a successful career in business. His desire to create awareness for one of the most sophisticated music systems of the world, led him to become an authority as a performer, advocate and producer of Indian music throughout the UK and Europe, creating around one hundred iconic events per year. He overcame the prejudice he faced from the British arts elite and jealous Indians by embarking on a journey into Vedantic philosophy to find his freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398486553

Viram Jasani

Viram Jasani was born in Kenya in 1945. He came to England with his family in 1949. Growing up in London, the dilemmas, and conflicts of living in two cultures were all too apparent. However, he resolved these through his deep passion for Indian classical music and Vedantic philosophy. Viram became a leading authority on Indian music through his work as a performer, a powerful advocate and becoming the major producer of Indian music in the UK. He graduated from St Andrews University in 1967, and the School of Oriental and African Studies, London, in 1969. The author was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society for the Arts (FRSA) in 1993, winner of the Asian Voice Asian Achievers Award 2003, winner of the HSBC Indo-British Award in 2003 for promoting good relations between India and the UK, and awarded an Honorary doctorate from the University of York in 2007.

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About the Author

Viram Jasani was born in Kenya in 1945. He came to England with his family in 1949. Growing up in London, the dilemmas, and conflicts of living in two cultures were all too apparent. However, he resolved these through his deep passion for Indian classical music and Vedantic philosophy. Viram became a leading authority on Indian music through his work as a performer, a powerful advocate and becoming the major producer of Indian music in the UK. He graduated from St Andrews University in 1967, and the School of Oriental and African Studies, London, in 1969. The author was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society for the Arts (FRSA) in 1993, winner of the Asian Voice Asian Achievers Award 2003, winner of the HSBC Indo-British Award in 2003 for promoting good relations between India and the UK, and awarded an Honorary doctorate from the University of York in 2007.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my beloved wife, Mira, and my parents, Hemkunver and Manilal Jasani.

Copyright Information ©

Viram Jasani 2023

The right of Viram Jasani to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398486546 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398486553 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge the following people for their wise counsel and help in correcting grammatical and spelling errors and providing literary suggestions and their huge encouragement to complete the book:

Nirmala and Raju Pisavadia

Dr. Mukundrai Jasani (my cousin)

Stuart and Sheena Dean

Mira Manek – my wife.

Front cover is a photograph taken and edited by Rajendra Pisavadia of an original MADUBANI painting from East India of the Goddess KALI.

Courtesy Viram Jasani and The Kapil Jariwala Gallery, London

1. Karsan Baroth

The Jasani family’s early 20th century, the story of Karsan Baroth, chivalrous baharvatiya—a Robin Hood character who took refuge in my grandparents’ house in Atkot—protecting poor farmers from British police—a tragedy for Karsan Baroth.

Lacrimae rerum…

Captain Pilchard cocked his rifle and took aim at Jogi when a blow to the back of his head from a heavy rustic wooden staff knocked him out just in time. Of the other members of his small platoon—all Indians—two managed to drag him away from the fight and out of further harm’s way and then for some inexplicable reason other than fear, they ran away.

The remaining four members of the platoon continued to fight the band of four Baharvatiyas, while protecting a strong case in which was kept all the money they had forcibly collected from a nearby village as unpaid tax! The Baharvatiyas simply wanted to take the money and return it to the villagers from whom it was stolen. That is what they did with Karsan as their leader—rob the rich to give back to the poor.

Dust was flying everywhere. Swords and lathis (batons) clashed. The Baharvatiyas had leapt off their horses and were engaged in hand-to hand fighting—punching, kicking, parrying with their heavy wooden staffs, hurting their enemy, getting hurt themselves, both sides screaming obscenities at each other.

Karsan was very strong and fast. Leaping and running around his enemy, he struck them from behind. Suddenly he felt the sharp tip of a sword cut his arm and blood oozed out making his white cotton tunic red. This angered him. He yelled at his assailant and struck him a hefty blow on the shoulder rendering him unable to stand. Their purpose was never to kill but to disable to achieve their objective. Karsan grabbed the money chest and passed it to Ravi, shouting, Take this and ride like you’ve never ridden before—you know where to take it—run run!

Ravi placed the chest on his horse, quickly securing it, then galloped away stirring up more dust. By now Karsan, Jogi and Umesh were extremely fired up for the fight; with terrifying anger in their eyes, yelling at their enemy and swinging their swords with the certainty that if any one of the remaining platoons approached them, they would have had a sword plunged into their chest at the very least. Such was the fury in the faces of Karsan, Yogi and Umesh that the enemy fled to save themselves. Pilchard in the meantime had recovered a little but was hardly able to stand.

Oh! How Karsan wanted to just cut his head off but something within him stopped him from such cruelty even though in his mind he would have been justified. They had met before.

Pilchard was a sorry sight; Karsan slapped the captain’s horse which then ran off.

Pilchard’s weapons were removed from him including his bullet belt and his leather pouch with his orders. Jogi wanted to remove his clothes and send him packing naked. Karsan decided not to do that but allowed his arch enemy the dignity to keep his clothes and find his own way back to his HQ.

Karsan, Jogi and Umesh rode off as fast as their steeds could take them— covered in dust with blood-spattered clothes but were still utterly fired up. After some time, they stopped and Karsan bade his friends farewell saying he needed to go to his village—but warning them to keep their heads down and go with great care.

The glow of the setting sun spread across the sky and receding, just tinged the dry landscape red as it gave way to night—sunset—the moment when the soul meets nature in a most profound and moving rendezvous. Not far behind, Karsan, sitting tall on his horse but clearly weary and his horse’s hooves creating smaller and smaller clouds of dust behind them was entering the village of Atkot. In the evening light you could just make out his sword in its scabbard by his side with his rifle along with the bullet belt across his back. He had covered his face with the end of his traditional paghdi or saafa (large turban tied in a shape typical of that part of Gujarat known as Kathiawar) to protect himself from the dust on his long journey as well as any unwanted attention in the village.

He created a striking silhouette but a closer look revealed dusty clothes, with patches of dried blood on his tunic. His face was scarred, sunburned and weather worn. His eyes though were impressive—sharp and clear, highlighted with kohl (kajal) as was the tradition even with men—the white cornea made his deep brown pupils stand out enhancing his piercing gaze. His nose was beautifully shaped with flared nostrils beneath which sat a magnificent thick black moustache curling at each end. The gold ring in his right ear completed his noble, fearless, and chivalrous appearance. You could not fail to be impressed by him.

He passed an open grain store which normally would have been full to the brim with produce but the combination of a poor monsoon that year yielding very disappointing crops to market, and theft by the British to ship back to Europe, had left stocks very depleted. The store was guarded by a couple of local villagers sitting on their haunches and leaning on their dusty rifles—their heads drooping in lazy slumber—so early in the evening! He rode passed a bullock cart on which sat a farmer smoking a pipe as he wended his way slowly back home. To his left and some distance away, a Rabari farmer and his wife were making their way to their cottage, just visible. The farmer held his heavy staff behind and across his upper back with both arms resting on it in front, he wore a bright red saafa; his wife was wearing a characteristic Rabari dress—blouse and skirt (ghaghro) black but with bright red and yellow stitched design with small glass mirrors, carrying on her head two clay pots resting on an indhoni (cloth stabilising ring). Our rider stopped to watch them for a few seconds as their image grew smaller and smaller into the distance.

He continued passed some houses now dimly lit with oil lamps with their white-washed walls against which were piles of cow dung hand shaped into flat round pats. The few narrow streets of the village were gradually becoming enshrouded in darkness with people scurrying around some closing their shops others lighting lamps to carry on working a little longer before retiring for the evening. Mothers called for their young ones to get back home for dinner.

A young lad was hurriedly driving his small herd of goats back home along the road, the bells around their necks produced a familiar and comforting hollow sound and told of their presence. On seeing Karsan, the boy made way for the horseman as he rode slowly along the dusty village road. Away to his right he could just see a group of cowherds who had already secured their animals into their byres for the night and were relaxing around a fire—sitting on their haunches smoking bidis (small cigarettes made from untreated tobacco leaves rolled and filled with rough tobacco) placed in between the index and second fingers and making a bowl out of the palms of both hands, they drew in the smoke from an aperture between both thumbs as was the characteristic manner of the folk culture of the land. The air was tinged with the pungent smell of the village, the lingering daytime heat, cow dung, little bidi cigarettes and agarbatti (joss-sticks) and the evening cooking; the congenial murmur of their gossip with the occasional laughter meant that another long dusty day had come to an end, but which also hid the underlying tensions and fears of life.

A couple of street dogs ran barking threateningly towards the rider protecting their territory but gave way deferring to someone they recognised was clearly totally unafraid, purposeful, and familiar; the dogs knew their place and instead demurring escorted the rider in support.

Women could be seen preparing the sagris used for cooking the evening meal. Dried cow dung and wood were being lit on round grates and smoke from the fires gently rose into the sky adding to the bucolic scene.

Some houses were made from clay and had small ornately carved wooden shuttered windows—one or two larger houses were brick built but had an aged and mature patina but rarely more than one floor high. While most of the buildings were washed with white, one or two were coloured ochre. The ubiquitous pats of cow dung were left to dry to be used as fuel even on roof tops. The dusty earthen road allowed the horse to walk slowly almost without making any sound. In the distance music could be heard—the familiar singing of a family of wandering minstrels and devotees with their manjira (cymbals) and ektara (one stringed plucked lute). It was becoming dark now and the night sky was beginning to unveil her incredible display of bright sparkling jewels.

From an open door of a nearby house, the fragrance of agarbatti (joss sticks) lit by a woman about to start her evening puja (prayers) wafted towards Karsan.

This immediately invoked memories of his own home and family at prayers. He stopped and looking up into the sky, was overcome by the vastness; his thoughts went to the might of the one creator of all that beauty—the creator whom Indians since ancient times sought to understand and to be one with. The fragrance of sandalwood from the joss sticks inspired a deep intuitive insight into the nature of things—an awareness of that beauty that was everywhere and in every aspect of our world—the total peace that we all longed for—the desire to be at one with that Creator, to reach final bliss. But it also reminded him of the desperately sad circumstances that he—like the entire population of India—had found themselves in for more than two hundred years under British rule. His heart longed for something he could not describe.

Oh! to be free to pursue that goal by whatever means that our culture and traditions, centuries old, had evolved to teach us; how can the British with their Indian lackeys try to stop me in my love for and pursuit of that peace?

He remembered with a heavy heart his family and his home.

Who are these foreigners who tell me that I am not free to pursue my own destiny, my own need to find myself and my God, not to speak my own language and speak only English. How dare they try to take away my identity—my culture—my land, my people? How dare they try to control me, my family, my friends. What gave the English the right to do this with such cruel force?

These sudden flashes of thought aroused a deep anger in him. The calming fragrance of the agarbatti (joss sticks) however, invoking the spirituality in him, drew him towards the open door startling the lady inside whom he could now see as the oil lamps lit up her room. On realising that his approach had startled her, he immediately calmed her apologising for his unannounced appearance speaking in the eloquent dignified and polite language characteristic of his background; staying on his horse he respectfully asked for permission to join her prayer as she rang a small hand-held brass bell:

"Aum namaha Shivay Aum namaha Shivay.

Aum trayambakam yaja mahe, sugandhim pushtivardhanam, uruvarukam eva bandhanath mrityur mokshiya mamrutat…" (I beseech you, Oh Shiva, Lord of the three worlds (with three eyes) so fragrant and powerful, release me from the cycle of birth and death as you would let a ripe fruit fall away gently from its branch…); he briefly prayed to Lord Shiva with her and then carried on to his destination.

He rode passed a large peepal tree around which a characteristic mud and stone circular platform had been built. This provided a place for people to sit on and gossip and while away the day smoking their bidis and drinking chai (tea) under the leafy shade. Sure enough, a couple of villagers were sitting there; the sunlight had faded and the road was quiet. What could they have been discussing?

Karsan eventually reached a house with tall double carved wooden gates which were open, outside which were some young boys playing by the light of oil lamps. There were also two young men of the house standing there, smoking bidis. The huge doors opened on to a large courtyard. A very wide low house stood at one end with a veranda and a couple of smaller buildings opposite and to one side. These housed stores of grain along with the huge millstones used to grind that into flour. At the very far end behind the main house there were more low buildings. In one of them the family cow and two goats were chewing on straw and other foods that had been left for them. Various plants were growing in pots including the sacred TULSI at which clearly some prayers were said regularly evidenced by tell-tale red markings of kumkum around the pots.

Young Durlabhji recognised Karsan and shouted out: Bapuji—ba—Karsan has come—quick …

He ran to Karsan with a couple of smaller children following, all shouting excitedly: Karsan has come! Karsan has come…

Durlabhji went up to the horseman—and took the horse’s bridle and the reins from him and in spite of having been riding for many hours and from far, he elegantly but carefully dismounted leaving his faithful steed to Durlabhji who urged, Karsan… please let me look after your horse—I will brush it down and give it water and some food! It was an honour for Durlabhji to do this and he felt so proud to help his hero.

Karsan readily consented as he knew that Durlabhji was a bit like him—wild but good hearted—and would take good care of his horse. Durlabhji admired the Rajput and always wanted to be like him after all, he had met him many times whenever he came to their house and spoke about his adventures. He even grew a huge moustache to emulate Karsan’s!

Narayanji Jasani was watching him enter the courtyard from his vantage position right opposite the big gates sitting on his charpai with its four ornately carved and colourfully painted legs. Narayanji had one leg over the edge of the charpai with the other leg tucked under him sitting in a half cross-legged position. He was not wearing his traditional pagri thus revealing a man with strong handsome features, grand but greying moustache and still with a good crop of hair on his head—wearing his favourite white kurta and dhoti. His wife Ambama had just lit the "Sagri" to prepare the evening dinner. No one could ever mistake Ambama; she was short and strong with bold features and with small tattoos on her arms and face, she stood with a straight back and had powerful and piercing eyes analysing everyone and everything! A staunch traditionalist, Ambama covered her head with her white cotton"sadlo" (Gujarati style of wearing a sari) She would give birth to twelve children—seven boys and five girls. A devotee of Shiva and Mother Kali she always gave the impression of being stubborn—but perhaps not so much as her husband Narayanji! Both husband and wife could stand their ground in most situations but at the same time were highly principled and steeped in their heritage. They had a clear view of how their children should behave and how they expected others to behave.

Karsan—the epitome of a Rajput warrior—walked over to where Narayanji was sitting on his charpai.

"Kali ma ki jai Bapuji, Jai Mataji Ba," he said, greeting the couple and bowing down touching their feet in respect (Mataji refers to the female deity especially KALI who was the family deity of the Jasani clan. Some people use the greeting Jai Sri Krishna—a reflection of the strong Vaishnavite following of that region). Karsan bowed giving pranam—pressing the palms of his hands together—to the young girls of the family greeting them with such respect as was typical of his own noble and honourable background.

"Padharo (welcome) Aavo Karsan padharo—come—sit and have some food with us. It is good to see you after a long time. You are looking tired and have clearly been riding for some time—I can see blood on your clothes—what happened? Where have you been?" enquired Narayanji in a manner which showed his affection and concern for Karsan.

Harilal—fetch some water and towels for Karsan… be quick about it, shouted Ambama to her second eldest son. He went to the well and filled a large clay pitcher and poured cool water out for Karsan and removing his pagdi he washed his face and hands and feet. Karsan was grateful for the refreshing treat after a long eventful day.

He sat on a small low wooden platform (patlo) placed on a rug on the ground in front of Narayanji and near the sagri. Ambama was cooking Karsan’s favourite food—bajra na rotla (like a chapati but made from the locally grown and ground millet flour), kadhi (a soup made from gram flour and yogurt and spices), bharta (made from aubergine), maakhan (purified butter from fresh cow’s milk) and a cup of refreshing butter milk known as chhaas. The smell of the cooking was so inviting! Ambama was well known for her recipes and many people came to see her just in the chance that they may be invited to have some food. Her favourite though was Karsan and his small band of three or four baharvatiya (chivalrous outlaws). Whenever they could, they took refuge in the house of Narayanji and Ambama and enjoyed the food to boot! They were frequently being chased by the police as if they were criminals yet all they did was to take the money that the police under instructions from the landowners and British authorities had stolen from villagers and return it to them.

All the men joined them sitting on the ground—Pragji, Harilal, Manilal, Dhirendra and Durlabhji in order of age (the others Vallabhdas and Prabhudas had not been born yet) There were also four daughters of the family (one daughter not yet born) but the women of the family ate separately and after the men had eaten. They helped to cook and serve the dinner and clean the utensils using the charcoal ashes and water and also dirt from the ground and water made an abrasive mixture which cleaned metal utensils very well too.

Not far away a "charan" (singer-poet) was heard singing a doha to a characteristic doleful Kathiawadi melody: "the banks of the Bhadar (river near to Atkot—my grandparents village in Kathiawad) are strewn with broken earthenware pots—the sweet waters of the river now run red with blood—arise oh youth of Gujarat to the sound of the naqara and conch—your sisters and mothers will no longer fill their pitchers from the river, they will no longer fill the urns for you to drink from—they lie fallen to foreigners destroying your life—awaken to the drumming of the naqara and the shrill of the conch shells…"

The men all ate together in thoughtful silence but also eager to listen to Karsan, washed their hands and drank water when they had finished.

A fire was lit near to the charpai—as the evenings could get a little chilly at that time of year. (for us in Europe it would compare to a summer’s evening)

I say, Manilal, Narayanji called out, please light my hookah for me will you?

Thus began my father Manilal’s long years of addiction to smoking as he dutifully prepared the hookah and lit it taking a couple of satisfying puffs to get it going!

Narayanji sat smoking his freshly prepared hookah and asked Karsan: what news?

Things are becoming very very difficult and there is a lot of fighting everywhere, said Karsan, "and a few months ago there was a terrible massacre in the north at Jallianwala Bagh in Punjab by the British. They killed innocent men women and children (1919). There has been a big outcry because of their cruelty with lots of fighting and unrest in the larger cities.

"The zamindar (landowners) and local maharajahs—are cheating the farmers as well as the British and our families suffer. I have just had to flee from a skirmish—we ambushed some police led by a British officer who had extorted money from a small group of farmers and we managed to return the money back to them. We were four of us and I got a little hurt but we got away.

Ba, your food is as always so delicious! he said to Ambama as she removed the thali (metal plates) with the help of one of her young daughters.

"Bapuji, farmers are having a difficult time paying the land taxes imposed by the British through their chamchas (lit spoons—servants-gofers!) the Rajahs and other landowners.

How can they pay such high taxes when they earn so little from the produce? The crops have been poor because of the lack of rain but these crooks just will not understand. I have seen with my own eyes the white British officer standing by arrogant, pompous and laughing while the traitorous Indians—police— gangsters—extort money from the poor—and then share that between themselves before it even reaches the British authority who complain that not enough tax is being raised. They are all corrupt! It makes me so angry Bapuji… They are taking our produce and sending it to England.

"You are right to be angry beta (my son), said Narayanji. This country has been looted for decades not just by the British but also by their servants—Indian maharajas and Indian police. They will all have to pay a heavy price one day as our people cannot tolerate this. You know about Gandhi ji who recently came back to India from South Africa don’t you? He is now organising our people in towns as well as in villages and in rural regions—all the farmers and peasants— to protest against the high taxes and refuse to pay them. He is telling everyone to do this without any violence and in silence—he is really putting into practice the idea of ahimsa (non-violence). Karsan, it is going to be a long struggle but at least someone is taking a lead on this for our people. It is very difficult for the British to fight against total non-violence—what a strategy!

"He is talking openly of taking back control of our country—Swatantra! Swaraj! These Britishers are very cruel people—I hope they don’t kill him—he is going to have a really big impact and is becoming a great leader of our country—and he is a Gujarati!" said Narayanji proudly.

Yes, I have heard about him, Bapuji, and I want to go and meet him and ask what I can do to help. He has become leader of the National Congress. Many people have been talking in the cities about fighting for freedom from the British as our local people—farmers, workers, shopkeepers—are all fed up. They are choking us with their oppression they don’t even want us to speak our own language or worship our deities. Did you know that in the East in Bengal, the English are treating our people like animals and with unbelievable cruelty—they are being shipped out to some islands and torturing them. It makes my blood boil Bapuji and I feel so helpless!

Listening to all this, Manilal asked Karsan what made him become a baharvatiya.

Karsan thought for a while before replying as he controlled his emotions. "No one has ever asked me this before Manilal so I have not talked about it very much, and it pains me to even think about it, but since you have asked, it happened like this:

You know I come from a Rajput family and we were living in a village not far from Gondal with all our community. We were quite successful farmers— with cattle—we grew wheat and millet and a little cotton. Our people have lived there for generations working with nature and not against her. We always considered our natural surroundings as God—even if the rains failed, we somehow managed because there was nothing we could do about it—we still prayed to Indra (God of rain). We were content and no one told us how to live. We felt free. We did that in the best way we knew—our culture is very strong and teaches us everything. But the British have tried to change all that. With the help of greedy Indian traitors they have bribed, they have been taking everything away from us.

The land was very kind to us though it was very hard work. In the best of Rajput traditions, my father and mother brought us up to be honourable people— never to lie or cheat—to help others and to believe in and do what was right without being greedy. We worshiped our beloved Lord Shiva who has protected us.

Ours was a small family—just me and my sister and father and mother; but we had lots of uncles and cousins. We lived in peace and were very content; the local landowner and the royalty at Jamnagar were collecting land taxes—and as our produce increased they unfairly started to charge more money. Once when the monsoon was late and when it did finally come there was not much rain— our crops failed. The high land tax still had to be paid leaving everyone in our area to suffer. Eventually, last year many people in our village just could not afford to pay the tax and the authorities refused to listen to us—our pleas to lower the tax fell on deaf selfish ears—so they sent the police with lathis (batons) to forcefully get money and gold and steal the grain that we had managed to harvest and store. Did you know that the British were taking the produce from all the farmers, taking it to Porbandar port and shipping it all to England while people in our country died of hunger? They were not allowed to eat the food they themselves had grown! We responded with all the courage and strength we could muster defending what we believed to be our rights, but that only led to a larger force arriving the next day. We were no match for them with their rifles—and I watched as they violently beat my friends and my family. The British officers just stood by laughing at us while my father got seriously injured when a British officer hit him on the head with the butt of his rifle. We tried to treat his wounds but we could not help him. He died of his injuries a few days later in my arms. My mother lived a little longer as she had also taken a beating trying to protect my father—and she too died in grief. Luckily, I had managed to get away and took my sister from that village to some relatives and I vowed to avenge my parents’ death."

Karsan’s eyes were filled with tears as he recalled the appalling experience he had suffered.

I just want to help as many poor people as I can and if that meant putting my life at risk I did not care. I will fight the terrible injustice imposed on us by the British. I have not killed anyone nor do I intend to but I can certainly try and give the money these crooks steal, back to our people and will do so as long as I live. Young Durlabhji here once opened the gates for me so I could ride in and hide from the police who were following me after a raid. Your parents took me as their own son—but I would never do anything to put Ba and Bapuji at risk— and that is how we became friends. Your father is a very generous man of great principle, Manilal.

Everyone sat in total silence listening to Karsan, in shock as to what was going on around them in their own country. Narayanji and Ambama had been very protective of their family but were always worried should the time come when they could not provide shelter for their family and that included Karsan.

Karsan asked Narayanji for permission to go to sleep as it had been a long day. Everyone disbanded and went to their rooms—or in some cases just slept on the charpais in the large veranda or in the courtyard under the stars.

Dawn broke out like the opening of petals of cool fresh blue, white and yellow flowers—announced by the birds chirping, cockerels crowing and dogs barking, and daily routines of the village starting up again. The pigeons cooed and cried rhythmically and made soft gurgling sounds, fluttering and pruning their wings. Some of the girls of the house went to the river to fill the earthenware pots with water, the milk was delivered in huge urns on a bullock cart; the vegetable vendor carrying his produce in a large round wicker basket on his head called out making his presence known. The large grinding wheel was started up to grind flour. Children started to play. Some young men washed themselves with water from the large urns—others had gone down to the river to swim and bathe. Manilal especially loved to swim—he was good at it being a strong young man. The sagris were being lit once more to make tea as the heat of the new day gradually embraced the landscape.

Karsan was not to be seen. Where is Karsan? asked Narayanji.

Durlabhji replied, He went away Bapuji, before sunrise and didn’t want to wake anyone up. I helped him with his horse—I wish I could have gone with him Bapuji.

Durlabhji was clearly feeling sad that Karsan had left and was missing his hero.

Although they lived in relative peace, Karsan brought everyone practical news of the wider world and gave everyone a sense of the reality that India was facing and indeed had been facing for decades.

As life in the Jasani household got back to some kind of normality—the sons attending school in Rajkot and then with daughters and some sons getting married, the political troubles in the country increased and became more and more violent with British cruelty not abating to the point of creating deadly famine on a massive scale even when the country had plenty of food. Politicians argued more powerfully for India to be independent from the British and fighting increased. Being Indians of course there was little unity in spite of all of Gandhiji’s efforts: Muslims wanted their own country and Jinnah was their leader. The British of course were masters of divide and rule and constantly played Hindus against Muslims. Perhaps they realised that after two centuries of rule over India, they had now reached a point where they would have to give India up, so typically, why not leave the country in disarray, split and chaotic, so that they could perhaps return as the ‘saviours’ of a land where the people could not govern themselves? Gandhi had his own internal difficulties with Nehru who was more accepting of British thinking than either he or Jinnah were. So much double dealing and the only one to suffer is India.

LAND TAXES OUT! BRITISH OUT. Hundreds of people shouted as they marched in protest in Rajkot, holding banners. Farmers, traders, students, politicians, men and women—everyone had joined the march to voice their very strong opposition against what the British were doing to their country. Almost everyone was dressed in white home spun cloth as they marched along the main road through Rajkot, when suddenly from a side street, a huge company of police—Indians with the white British officers on the side and at the back on horses—dressed in their customary khaki with large heavy batons—"lathis’— moved out in front of the marchers who, except for shouting their slogans, were peaceful and certainly not violent or provocative and carried no weapons.

Unafraid, the protestors marched on into the wave of police who, without any kind of warning immediately lashed out with their "lathis as their British officers shouted: let them have it!"

They aimed at the heads of marchers, at their legs, their backs; the marchers had no defence other than to raise their arms and placards to try and protect themselves. Their white clothes slowly began to turn red as blood poured out of their wounds. Dust was thrown up as screaming people scrambled for shelter and escape. The police were relentless and brutal. What kind of men inflict such violence on defenceless women and children?

I have personally learned one thing about people—especially about Indians—how disloyal they can be. The police had been bribed with small increases in pay—hardly enough to warrant such a display of shameless enmity towards their fellow Indians—but they had families to feed and educate. Some were of course coerced into disloyalty. The result was the same—what should have been done two hundred years before took so long to generate—unity to defeat a common enemy. It took several years before India got its independence from the British. This unity however did not last and to this day—Indians all over the world—still fight and compete with each other—such is their vanity, selfishness and greed. It’s such a shame in a country whose beliefs were deeply rooted in peaceful search for the divine, mankind had sunk so low.

There was loud banging on the big gates of the house catching everyone’s attention.

‘What’s going on?’: asked Narayanji.

Harilal who had opened the gates and saw officers said: ‘Bapuji, some British officers are asking to see you’

let them in—we have nothing to hide or to be afraid of said Narayanji.

The officers—one white and two Indians—entered the compound and walked up to Narayanji and told them that his son Durlabhji had been taken into custody and was being held in Rajkot. Narayanji was completely taken aback by this news and in a state of shock asked why?

‘He was one of several people arrested for being on an illegal march’ came the reply ’but it has been decided to release him as he was most likely an innocent bystander and not a ring leader but you will have to come a collect him said the officer.

The family itself was thrown into a state of distraught experiencing the brutality of British; young Durlabhji was taken by white British officers when he had joined the protest march. He had been badly beaten in captivity; his body was left with severe bruising and marks left by the lathis he was beaten with. The most shameful part of that experience was that the perpetrators of that brutality were Indians under instruction from elitist contemptuous and arrogant white British officers. This had a huge effect on Narayanji and Ambama and their family; the feeling of insecurity and ignominy of being under white rule and irrational unfair treatment and control, was overwhelming.

Narayanji had decided that while the daughters had to be married, the sons should get higher qualifications and seek their fortunes abroad especially in East Africa as many people from Gujarat were emigrating there. They found work on the railways as accountants or administrative clerks or just as labourers and some importantly, set up their own businesses.

It was about three or four years later that more sadness fell upon the household with news that Karsan had been killed.

He and his small band of baharvatiya had been in a skirmish against British police, helping farmers protect their village but being heavily outnumbered got captured. There was no question of giving him any kind of trial or justice or even a chance to speak up for himself—a brave man of honour with a strong sense of fairness was too well known and had to be made an example of.

Karsan along with his friends was brutally hanged on high make-shift gallows and left like that for three days with his hands tied behind his back and his feet tied together.

Such were the British so-called values and way of life, their sense of fair play and ‘justice’. There was widespread anger and hate towards the British throughout the local communities, and deep frustration that they could not do anything to free themselves of such tyranny.

2.Atkot, Kathiawad

My father’s schooling and college—Mr Rao the revolutionary lecturer—meeting my mother—their marriage—family history—emigration to Kenya.

Tell me Manilal why am I reading this strange school report that I received today from your headmaster in Rajkot?

Manilal, smiling, asked:

What does it say? Is there a problem? I have passed all my exams!

Well, it does say that they think you are a clever young man but that you lack discipline! and what’s all this about going out of the school grounds in the evenings without permission?

Well Fathersaid Manilal a little coyly, "you know how much I love music and there is so little of it in our school, so sometimes with a couple of friends, I climb over the school wall and go to the local haveli (music house). Since I love playing the tabla they ask me to play there.

It’s really great fun Father—and no harm is done—I see a lot and meet interesting people but we kids do keep to ourselves a lot"

But that’s where loose ladies sing and dance and people drink—is that what you do?

Well I don’t know about the loose women because we don’t stay very long—and definitely do not associate with any ladies—I play tabla a little and we don’t drink but we have one or two cigarettes…

What! you are smoking?

Manilal had just inadvertently given himself away.

I do not want any more of that nonsense, Manilal—you have a great future ahead of you and I want to talk with you about that—but first can you please light up my hookah!

Manilal smiled broadly at his father—who returned the expression with the faintest of nonchalant smiles as he stroked his moustache.

You know, he said taking a long puff of his newly lit hookah as he sat on his charpai, "many people are going to East Africa from Gujarat and there are some interesting opportunities there—one of my friends has suggested that your elder brother Pragji should go over there and help them out in their cotton ginnery in Uganda.

Things are becoming bad here what with the riots and violence and there is much poverty and it’s not sure what the eventual outcome is going to be, and people are saying there are great opportunities in East Africa, even though that too is under British rule. We Gujaratis have always been very adventurous people Manilal—being close to the sea, we became seafarers and were not frightened of adventure. People looked to make their fortunes in far off places."

I know said Manilal; "but before you find out I may as well let you know. I don’t have to tell you Bapuji how much I love India and our way of life but the thought of being controlled by the British is as abhorrent to me as it is to everyone. I went on one of those marches in Rajkot in support of Gandhi ji in protest against British rule and especially the taxes on salt. There were a lot of Indian police taking orders from the authorities under the British. Bapuji—I am glad that I went because I could see with my own eyes how our own country men have been bought off by the British and fighting against their own brothers and sisters. It made me sick to watch all that and in the process I took a couple of lathi hits on my arm—I now know exactly what Durlabhji went through."

My God Manilal! are you alright? Did they hurt you?

"No, I am alright Bapuji, but the experience certainly opened my eyes. I am so glad that you and Ba gave us all such a wonderful environment to understand about our way of life—however I also firmly believe that we can learn from British culture but remain Indians and be grounded in our own beautiful way of life and thinking—I have been reading some books on Indian philosophy such as Vivekananda, Arvind Ghosh, Radhakrishnan and others—they are simply inspiring. I love this country Bapuji—our language, our folk lore, our music— just look at how wonderful Javerchand Meghani is—yet these foreigners have been trying to control us by removing all contact with our literature and heritage—they are really badmaash (evil).

I love this village and our life but I am torn as I also yearn to travel and see the world so please give me your blessings and tell me more about Africa."

Yes of course I will do that, but let me say that before you get any ideas of travelling, I want you first to go to Bombay and study commerce and then get married! Both your mother and I have been talking about this and feel it’s better for you to marry and settle down.

Bapuji, what do you mean by settle down?

There was no reply from Narayanji as he continued to puff on his hookah as if he did not hear the question.

Bombay

Manilal liked the idea of studying in Bombay and responded enthusiastically. He made preparations to join a college there and find lodgings. He registered into Sydenham College in Bombay and started on his course in commerce. He was able to get rooms at the Lohana Hostel where the principal was P.D. Chandarana.

He was not too sure about the idea of marrying at such an early age—he really wanted to see the world first to satisfy his own spirit of adventure.

Sydenham College was close to the Victoria Railway Terminus—so was quite central. This gave Manilal a wonderful chance to see Bombay and experience the Victorian and colonial architecture and palm trees and above all the ambience of the city of Bombay with its shops, horse-drawn carriages, old cars, the way people dressed—especially the English and some well-to-do Indians. Poverty was very much in evidence and he became only too aware of the stark difference between the haves and the have-nots. It was definitely not as crowded and busy as Bombay was to become later but it did give him a taste of city life.

He was enjoying being there—a far cry from his own village of Atkot. He made some good friends and was able to keep himself busy.

He especially took advantage of the music concerts that were put on and became acquainted with Narayan Rao Vyas a rising star in classical singing.

His freedom gave him the chance to smoke—his favourite cigarette brand being Gold Flake—away from the watchful eyes of his parents.

Mr Rao was a teacher at the college and was a Maharashtrian academic. He had a reputation of being outspoken and was involved with some clandestine groups working towards the removal of the British from India. However, these were just rumours until one day:

Mr Rao, asked Manilal in one seminar at the college: you have talked a lot about the organisation of administration in a country—its infrastructure, its finances, education and also poverty and wealth and so on, but what’s the point of all that when control of these things is not in our hands? I mean what’s the point when the British are taking our money, our assets and our very liberty that you say we have, to do all these things? You talk about organisation and management of labour—all I can see is that the hard work of Indian people is benefitting only the British and their Indian supporters—and the workers and general public here remain much worse off.

The young Manilal had quite a strong socialist leaning which on the surface conflicted in later years with his much more capitalist activities. At heart though he was a socialist in the sense that he wanted a far better and fairer system of distribution of wealth of a nation. His sociable, generous and friendly adventurous nature had brought him into contact with people much worse off than him making him very sympathetic to ideas of equality. He was also developing very serious ideas of patriotism and his love for his motherland.

One or two of Manilal’s new friends in the college showed their interest in and approval of Manilal’s question.

Mr Rao replied: "You are absolutely correct to raise these questions. I have to be a little careful how I reply to you because if it appears that I am teaching subversive anti-British ideas, we both could be in trouble. We are not living in a free society in which we can run our own lives or even think freely—even in this institution. The British started by sending missionaries here and building churches converting people to Christianity—especially the poor, displaced and uneducated—an easy target. There was a clear plan to make Hinduism a secondary faith in our own country, the birthplace and home of Hinduism! Then they set up a trading company here which made and took vast sums of money out of our country. Can you imagine, this company had its own army made up of Indian soldiers and police. So, we were not being allowed to know about our own heritage let alone have any control over it. All we have been doing is helping the British run their lives and getting little to nothing back in return!

Let me give you an example—take infrastructure.

The British always talk about building the railways which are supposed to be of great benefit to India. Well, how was all that financed? Where were the engines, the tracks and engineering products made? By whom? What were the railways actually for? What was the position and role of Indians in that?

Well, the railways were paid for by looting and taxing the Indian population—whether poor—farmers—civil servants or people trying to set up businesses—so Indians paid. The stuff of the railways is all made in England and then shipped to India so the manufacturing process had no benefit whatsoever for Indians but fuelled the so-called British Industrial Revolution at our cost. We simply gave our labour to install the entire system here. The British then moved their own people—especially troops—around on the railways. They moved weapons and artillery and soldiers so for them the railways were of great strategic importance in controlling India—they got us to mine and dig, cultivate and harvest and the raw materials and crops were then transported abroad. The railways only benefitted the British and not to any significant extent the Indians. Do you see? They were used against Indians even though we paid for them and built them. Yes, they employed some educated Indians and made them managers, but these people had absolutely no power but were simply puppets. The industrial revolution in England was a direct result of their control of India which provided a captive market. Textiles is another area, but I won’t go into that today. The British extended this policy to East Africa by encouraging Indians to go there to work on the railways there at the same time they were destroying the poor African population and their heritage"

This is a totally ridiculous state of affairs Sir, said Manilal.

"How were they able to do that—especially with so few of them in our country? India is our country—what on earth gives the English the right to come here and rule over us