Members of the family who realised Karamchand’s health was failing rapidly began to call on the family. One day Karamchand’s cousin was visiting. That night he said to Mohan: “Don’t worry about your father. I will sit by his side.” Thus relieved of his nightly duties shortly after ten o’clock on November 16, 1885, Mohan rushed into his bedroom and woke up Kasturbai. She usually waited up for her husband, but this night she dropped off to sleep early, exhausted from the day’s activities.
Mohandas undressed and slipped into bed beside her. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The voice of the servant called Mohan urgently. “Come quickly! Your father is dying!” Mohan leaped out of bed, flung on his clothes and raced back to his father’s room. He was too late. Karamchand lay still and lifeless.
A great wave of grief swept over Mohan. He would have to live with the shameful knowledge that during the moment of his father’s death he lay wrapped in the embrace of his pregnant wife.
On November 20, four days after the death of Karamchand Gandhi, Kasturbai delivered a child prematurely. In a few days the child died.
“The poor mite that was born to my wife scarcely breathed for more than three or four days,” so my grandfather wrote years later in his autobiography. Then passing his own moral judgment, he added, “Nothing else could be expected.”
Mohan was convinced that the death of his and Kasturbai’s firstborn child, the baby son they had longed for, was a punishment for his reckless self-indulgence, his uncontrollable desire for his pregnant wife. He blamed only himself — never Kasturbai. In his words Kasturbai “never played the temptress.” The memory of circumstances surrounding these successive family tragedies of death, birth and death would haunt my grandfather for as long as he lived, altering his thoughts and actions in unforeseen ways.
Life was forever changed for Kasturbai, too, in ways we can only imagine. No bells were rung, no songs were sung, no gifts arrived for the tiny infant she knew so briefly. But as far as I can discover, she never discussed the matter with anyone. I believe even after she became the mother of four sons, Ba carried in her heart a burden of silent sorrow for her lost firstborn son.
In the late spring, Kasturbai returned to Porbandar for another of her periodic visits. Her parents were concerned about their daughter’s health after the experience of a premature birth. This was to be the longest separation since their marriage. Kasturbai needed a change.
There had been another subtle alteration in their relationship. Mohan was now concentrating on his studies with a disconcerting new urgency she did not yet understand.
In Porbandar, Kasturbai quickly recovered her old optimism and self-confidence. She visited the Gandhi home in Porbandar and played with the children of Mohan’s brothers and cousins. This helped her heal the wounds of her own loss.
In Rajkot, meanwhile, decisions were being made that would affect the future course of Kasturbai’s life. The Gandhi family’s fortunes were in decline following the death of Karamchand. The dewan had set aside no money for his family’s future, and the small pension he had been receiving from the ruler of Rajkot no longer arrived; the household was now wholly dependent on the earnings of Mohandas’ older brothers. As sons of a Prime Minister, they would have been candidates for appointment to the post held by their father. But times had changed. With the British dictating all such appointments neither 26-year-old Lakshimidas Gandhi nor 19-year-old Karsandas Gandhi had the knowledge or the proficiency in English which the post now required.
Lakshimidas, who by virtue of seniority was the new head of the household, held a minor job as a law clerk. Karsandas was a sub-inspector of the royal Rajkot police. Neither position commanded a large income or much prestige. All the family’s expectations for the future were now concentrated on Mohan. His mother Putliba, especially, was determined that her youngest son should eventually become a dewan in the family tradition. That meant he must not only finish high school with good marks, but must also become the first in his family to go to college and obtain a degree.
Mohan adopted these ambitions as his own. By the time Kasturbai returned to Rajkot at the end of the year his scholastic ranking was so improved that his small scholarship of four rupees [about 21p today], had been increased to ten rupees which he dutifully turned over to Lakshimidas, the head of the family. In his final year of high school, he was doing even better. He spent much of his time preparing for the college matriculation examinations, tests which required a solid command of written and spoken English which Mohandas lacked since he had learned his high school English from Indian teachers. These teachers, themselves, were markedly deficient in the subject.
None of this mattered to Kasturbai. The kind of learning her husband was acquiring was far less important to her than the kind of man he was becoming. Mohan seemed increasingly sure of himself. His gawky awkwardness was giving way to an alert self-awareness; his quickness of movement appeared to be fuelled by some inexhaustible store of energy. His shyness remained, but now he seemed rooted more in deliberation than in diffidence. Mohan, in short, was growing up. That pleased her. One other thing was clear: he was still in love with her, still eager for her embraces. But Kasturbai, perceptive as always, sensed that she was no longer the be-all and end-all of her husband’s thoughts and endeavours. For reasons she could not explain, that pleased her, too.
In November, 1887, shortly after his 18th birthday, Mohandas confidently travelled alone by bullock-cart to Ahmadabad, the largest city in the Kathiawar region, to take the matriculation examinations. He managed to pass, without much distinction, but still doing better than most: 2,200 of the 3,000 students who took the examinations failed. He applied for admission to Samaldas College in the princely state of Bhavnagar, some 90 miles southeast of Rajkot. Samaldas was a small, new college chosen by the family in preference to Bombay University because it was closer to home and less costly. Admitted for the term beginning in January of 1888, Mohan set off for a new life; this time travelling part way by camel-cart and part way by train. In Bhavnagar, in rented lodgings, he lived alone for the first time in his life.
Before leaving for college, Mohan learned that Kasturbai was pregnant again. During her second pregnancy, Kasturbai tried to keep her hopes and fears in balance. She accompanied her mother-in-law to the temple almost daily to pray for the birth of a healthy child — if possible, a son. She missed Mohan, thought of him every day, but she was not lonely. Her oldest sister-in-law Nandkunwarba was pregnant also, and the two developed a closeness they had not known previously. That spring Nandkunwarba and Lakshimidas became parents of their first child, a daughter. The family celebrated with restraint — they were all still awaiting the arrival of a Gandhi son and heir.
The months passed but not quickly enough for Mohan. He had realised almost from the day of his arrival at Samaldas College that he was floundering. He understood little that was said in classes. Lessons were conducted in English; his marks were abominable; he was fighting loneliness, frustration, and an oppressive awareness that he was soon to assume the responsibilities of parenthood. When his first term ended in May, he quit college and went home to Kasturbai determined never to return to Samaldas College.
With the baby due soon Kasturbai was pleased to have him home again. This time there had been no talk of her going to her parents’ home in Porbandar for the birth — perhaps fearing the journey would be too difficult. In any case, Kasturbai was thankful. The thought of having Mohan on hand to greet their newborn and join in all the celebrations took away the last of her foreboding.
But his return to Rajkot had plunged the rest of the family into crisis. Their plans for the future were now in jeopardy. The family consulted Mavji Dave, an old friend of Karamchand who, since the dewan’s death, had become the family’s most trusted adviser. A learned Brahmin, in tune with the times, Mavji Dave made a startling suggestion: Mohan must go to England to study law.
Such an idea would never have occurred to anyone in the Gandhi family. Sending Mohan to Bhavnagar, barely 100 miles away, had been a financial strain. How could they even think of England? Apart from the expense involved, a member of an orthodox Hindu family