After a short tour in South India, I reached Bombay, I think on the 4th of April, having received a wire from Sjt. Shankarlal Banker asking me to be present there for the 6th of April celebrations. But in the meanwhile, Delhi had already observed the hartal on the 30th March. The word of the late Swami Shraddhanandji and Hakim Ajmal Khan Saheb was the law there. The wire about the postponement of the hartal till the 6th of April had reached there too late. Delhi had never witnessed a hartal like that before. Hindus and Musalmans seemed united like one man. Swami Shraddhanandji was invited to deliver a speech in the Jumma Masjid which he did. All this was more than the authorities could bear. The police checked the hartal procession as it was proceeding towards the railway station, and opened fire, causing several allies, and the reign of repression commenced in Delhi. Shraddhanandji urgently summoned me to Delhi. I wired back, saying I would start for Delhi immediately after the 6th of April celebrations were over in Bombay. The story of happenings in Delhi was repeated with variations in Lahore and Amritsar. From Amritsar Drs. Satyapal and Kitchlu had sent me a pressing invitation to go there. I was altogether unacquainted with them at that time, but I communicated to them my intention to visit Amritsar after Delhi. On the morning of the 6th, the citizens of Bombay flocked in their thousands to the Chowpati for a bath in the sea, after which they moved on in a procession to Thakurdvar. The procession included a fair sprinkling of women and children, while the Musalmans joined it in large numbers. From Thakurdvar some of us who were in the procession was taken by the Musalman friends to a mosque nearby, where MrsNaidu and myself were persuaded to deliver speeches. Sjt. Vithaldas Jerajani proposed that we should then and there administer the Swadeshi and Hindu-Muslim unity pledges to the people, but I resisted the proposal on the ground that pledges should not be administered or taken in a precipitate hurry, and that we should be satisfied with what was already being done by the people. A pledge once taken, I argued, must not be broken afterwards; therefore the implications of the Swadeshi pledge needed to be clearly understood, and the grave responsibility entailed by the pledge regarding Hindu-Muslim unity fully realized by all concerned. In the end, I suggested that those who wanted to take the pledges should again assemble on the following morning for the purpose. Needless to say, the hartal in Bombay was a complete success. Full preparation had been made for starting civil disobedience. Two or three things had been discussed in this connection. It was decided that civil disobedience might be offered in respect of such laws only as easily lent themselves to being disobeyed by the masses. The salt tax was extremely unpopular and a powerful movement had been for some time past going on to secure its repeal. I, therefore, suggested that the people might prepare salt from seawater in their own houses in disregard of the salt laws. My other suggestion was about the sale of proscribed literature. Two of my books, viz., Hind Swaraj and Sarvodaya (Gujarati adaptation of Ruskin’s Unto This Last), which had been already proscribed, came in handy for this purpose. To print and sell them openly seemed to be the easiest way of offering civil disobedience. A sufficient number of copies of the books was therefore printed, and it was arranged to sell them at the end of the monster meeting that was to be held that evening after the breaking of the fast. On the evening of the 6th, an army of volunteers issued forth accordingly with this prohibited literature to sell it among the people. Both Shrimati Sarojini Devi and I went out in cars. All the copies were soon sold out. The proceeds of the sale were to be utilized for furthering the civil disobedience campaign. Both these books were priced at four annas per copy, but I hardly remember anybody having purchased them from me at their face value merely. Quite a large number of people simply poured out all the cash that was in their pockets to purchase their copy. Five and ten-rupee notes just flew out to cover the price of a single copy, while in one case I remember having sold a copy for fifty rupees! It was duly explained to the people that they were liable to be arrested and imprisoned for purchasing the proscribed literature. But for the moment they had shed all fear of jail-going. It was subsequently learnt that the Government had conveniently taken the view that the books that had been proscribed by it had not been sold, and that what we had sold was not held as coming under the definition of proscribed literature. The reprint was held by the Government to be a new edition of the books that had been proscribed, and to sell them did not constitute an offence under the law. This news caused general disappointment. The next morning another meeting was held for the administration of the pledges about Swadeshi and Hindu-Muslim unity. Vithaldas Jerajani for the first time realized that all is not gold that glitters. Only a handful of persons came. I distinctly remember some of the sisters who were present on that occasion. The men who attended were also very few. I had already drafted the pledge and brought it with me. I thoroughly explained its meaning to those present before I administered it to them. The paucity of the attendance neither pained nor surprised me, for I have noticed this characteristic difference in the popular attitude partiality for exciting work, dislike for quiet constructive effort. The difference has persisted to this day. But I shall have to devote to this subject a chapter by itself. To return to the story. On the night of the 7th, I started for Delhi and Amritsar. On reaching Mathura on the 8th I first heard rumours about my probable arrest. At the next stoppage after Mathura, Acharya Gidvani came to meet me, and gave me definite news that I was to be arrested, and offered his services to me if I should need them. I thanked him for the offer, assuring him that I would not fail to avail myself of it, if and when I felt it necessary. Before the train had reached Palwal railway station, I was served with a written order to the effect that I was prohibited from entering the boundary of Punjab, as my presence there was likely to result in a disturbance of the peace. I was asked by the police to get down from the train. I refused to do so saying, ‘I want to go to Punjab in response to a pressing invitation not to foment unrest, but to allay it. I am therefore sorry that I can’t comply with this order.’ At last, the train reached Palwal. Mahadev was with me. I asked him to proceed to Delhi to convey to Swami Shraddhanandji the news about what had happened and to ask the people to remain calm. He was to explain why I had decided to disobey the order served upon me and suffer the penalty for disobeying it, and also why it would spell victory for our side if we could maintain perfect peace despite any punishment that might be inflicted upon me. At Palwal railway station I was taken out of the train and put under police custody. A train from Delhi came in a short time. I was made to enter a third-class carriage, the police party accompanying. On reaching Mathura, I was taken to the police barracks, but no police officer could tell me as to what they proposed to do with me or where I was to be taken next. Early at 4 o’clock the next morning I was waked up and put in a goods train that was going towards Bombay. At noon I was again made to get down at Sawai Madhopur. Mr Bowring, Inspector of Police, who arrived by the mail train from Lahore, now took charge of me. I was put in a first-class compartment with him. And from an ordinary prisoner, I became a ‘gentleman’ prisoner. The officer commenced a long panegyric of Sir Michael O’Dwyr. Sir Michael had nothing against me personally, he went on, only he apprehended a disturbance of the peace if I entered Punjab and so on. In the end, he requested me to return to Bombay of my own accord and agree not to cross the frontier of Punjab. I replied that I could not possibly comply with the order and that I was not prepared of my own accord to go back. Whereupon the officer, seeing no other course, told me that he would have to enforce the law against me. ‘But what do you want to do with me?’ I asked him. He replied that he did not know, but was awaiting further orders. ‘For the present,’ he said, I am taking you to Bombay.’ We reached Surat. Here I was made over to the charge of another police officer. ‘You are now free,’ the officer told me when we had reached Bombay. ‘It would however be better,’ he added, ‘if you get down near the Marine Lines where I shall get the train stopped for you. At Colaba, there is likely to be a big crowd.’ I told him that I would be glad to follow his wish. He was pleased and thanked me for it. Accordingly, I alighted at the Marine Lines. The carriage of a friend just happened to be passing by. It took me and left me at Revashankar Jhaveri’s place. The friend told me that the news of my arrest had incensed the people and roused them to a pitch of mad frenzy. ‘An outbreak is apprehended every minute near Pydhuni, the Magistrate and the police have already arrived there,’ he added. Scarcely had I reached my destination, when Umar Sobani and Anasuyabehn arrived and asked me to the motor to Pydhuni at once. ‘The people have become impatient, and are very much excited,’ they said, ‘we cannot pacify them. Your presence alone can do it.’ I got into the car. Near Pydhuni I saw that a huge crowd had gathered. On seeing me the people went mad with joy. A procession was immediately formed, and the sky was rent with the shouts of Vande Mataram and Allah Akbar. At Pydhuni we sighted a body of mounted police. Brickbats were raining down from above. I besought the crowd to be calm, but it seemed as if we should not be able to escape the shower of brickbats. As the procession issued out of Abdur Rahman Street and was about to proceed towards the Crawford Market, it suddenly found itself confronted by a body of the mounted police, who had arrived there to prevent it from proceeding further in the direction of the Fort. The crowd was densely packed. It had almost broken through the police cordon. There was hardly any chance of my voice being heard in that vast concourse. Just then the officer in charge of the mounted police gave the order to disperse the crowd, and at once the mounted party charged upon the crowd brandishing their lances as they went. For a moment I felt that I would be hurt. But my apprehension was groundless, the lances just grazed the car as the lancers swiftly passed by. The ranks of the people were soon broken, and they were thrown into utter confusion, which was soon converted into a rout. Some got trampled underfoot, others were badly mauled and crushed. In that seething mass of humanity there was hardly any room for the horses to pass, nor was there an exit by which the people could disperse. So the lancers blindly cut their way through the crowd. I hardly imagine they could see what they were doing. The whole thing presented a most dreadful spectacle. The horsemen and the people were mixed in mad confusion. Thus the crowd was dispersed and its progress checked. Our motor was allowed to proceed. I had it stopped before the Commissioner’s office and got down to complain to him about the conduct of the police. ~ THAT MEMORABLE WEEK

So I went to Commissioner Mr Griffith’s office. All about the staircase leading to the office I saw soldiers armed from top to toe, as though for military action. The verandah was all astir. When I was admitted to the office, I saw Mr Bowring sitting with Mr Griffith. I described to the Commissioner the scenes I had witnessed. He replied briefly: ‘I did not want the procession to proceed to the Fort, as a disturbance was inevitable there. And as I saw that the people would not listen to persuasion, I could not help ordering the mounted police to charge through the crowd.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘you knew what the consequences must be. The horses were bound to trample on the people. I think it was quite unnecessary to send that contingent of mounted men.’ ‘You cannot judge that,’ said Mr Griffith. ‘We police officers know better than you the effect of your teaching on the people. If we did not start with drastic measures, the situation would pass out of our hands. I tell you that the people are sure to go out of your control. Disobedience of law will quickly appeal to them; it is beyond them to understand the duty of keeping peaceful. I do not doubt your intentions, but the people will not understand them. They will follow their instinct.’ ‘It is there that I join issue with you,’ I replied. ‘The people are not by nature violent but peaceful.’ And thus we argued at length. Ultimately Mr Griffith said, ‘But suppose you were convinced that your teaching had been lost on the people, what would you do?’ ‘I should suspend civil disobedience if I were so convinced.’ ‘What do you mean? You told Mr Bowring that you would proceed to the moment you were released.’ ‘Yes, I wanted to do so by the next available train. But it is out of the question today.’ ‘If you will be patient, the conviction is sure to grow on you. Do you know what is happening in Ahmedabad? And what has happened in Amritsar? People have everywhere gone nearly mad. I am not yet in possession of all the facts. The telegraph wires have been cut in some places. I put it to you that the responsibility for all these disturbances lies on you.’ ‘I assure you I should readily take it upon myself wherever I discovered it. But I should be deeply pained and surprised if I found that there were disturbances in Ahmedabad. I cannot answer Amritsar. I have never been there, no one knows me there. But even about Punjab, I am certain of this much that, had not the Punjab Government prevented my entry into Punjab, I should have been considerably helpful in keeping the peace there. By preventing me they gave the people unnecessary provocation.’ And so we argued on and on. We couldn’t agree. I told him that I intended to address a meeting on Chaupati and to ask the people to keep the peace, and took leave of him. The meeting was held on the Chaupati sands. I spoke at length on the duty of non-violence and the limitations of Satyagraha and said: ‘Satyagraha is essentially a weapon of the truthful. A Satyagrahi is pledged to non-violence, and, unless people observe it in thought, word and deed, I cannot offer mass Satyagraha.’ Anasuyabehn, too, had received news of disturbances in Ahmedabad. Someone had spread a rumour that she also had been arrested. The mill- hands had gone mad over her rumoured arrest, struck work and committed acts of violence, and a sergeant had been done to death. I proceeded to Ahmedabad. I learnt that an attempt had been made to pull up the rails near the Nadiad railway station, that a Government officer had been murdered in Viramgam, and that Ahmedabad was under martial law. The people were terror-stricken. They had indulged in acts of violence and were being made to pay for them with interest. A police officer was waiting at the station to escort me to Mr Pratt, the Commissioner. I found him in a state of rage. I spoke to him gently and expressed my regret for the disturbances. I suggested that martial law was unnecessary, and declared my readiness to co-operate in all efforts to restore peace. I asked for permission to hold a public meeting on the grounds of the Sabarmati Ashram. The proposal appealed to him, and the meeting was held, I think, on Sunday, the 13th of April, and martial law was withdrawn the same day or the day after. Addressing the meeting, I tried to bring home to the people the sense of their wrong, declared a penitential fast of three days for myself, appealed to the people to go on a similar fast for a day, and suggested to those who had been guilty of acts of violence to confess their guilt. I saw my duty as clear as daylight. It was unbearable for me to find that the labourers, amongst whom I had spent a good deal of my time, whom I had served, and from whom I had expected better things, had taken part in the riots, and I felt I was a sharer in their guilt. Just as I suggested to the people to confess their guilt, I suggested to the Government to condone the crimes. Neither accepted my suggestion. The late Sir Ramanbhai and other citizens of Ahmedabad came to me with an appeal to suspend Satyagraha. The appeal was needless, for I had already made up my mind to suspend Satyagraha so long as people had not learnt the lesson of peace. The friends went away happy. There were, however, others who were unhappy over the decision. They felt that, if I expected peace everywhere and regarded it as a condition precedent to launching Satyagraha, mass Satyagraha would be an impossibility. I was sorry to disagree with them. If those amongst whom I worked, and whom I expected to be prepared for non-violence and self-suffering, could not be non-violent, Satyagraha was certainly impossible. I was firmly of opinion that those who wanted to lead the people to Satyagraha ought to be able to keep the people within the limited non-violence expected of them. I hold the same opinion even today. ~ THAT MEMORABLE WEEK!