Gandhi Chapter 3 CHILD MARRIAGE

Much as I wish that I had not to write this chapter, I know that I shall have to swallow many
such bitter draughts in the course of this narrative. And I cannot do otherwise if I claim to be a
worshipper of Truth. It is my painful duty to have to record here my marriage at the age of
thirteen. As I see the youngsters of the same age about me who are under my care and think of
my own marriage, I am inclined to pity myself and to congratulate them on having escaped my lot.
I can see no moral argument in support of such a preposterously early marriage.

Let the reader make no mistake. I was married, not betrothed. For in Kathiawad there are two
distinct rites, betrothal, and marriage. Betrothal is a preliminary promise on the part of the parents
of the boy and the girl to join them in marriage, and it is not inviolable. The death of the boy
entails no widowhood on the girl. It is an agreement purely between the parents, and the children
have no concern with it. Often they are not even informed of it. It appears that I was betrothed
thrice, though without my knowledge. I was told that two girls chosen for me had died in turn, and
therefore I infer that I was betrothed three times. I have a faint recollection, however, that the third
betrothal took place in my seventh year. But I do not recollect having been informed about it. In
the present chapter, I am talking about my marriage, of which I have the clearest recollection.
It will be remembered that we were three brothers. The first was already married. The elders
decided to marry my second brother, who was two or three years my senior, a cousin, possibly a
year older, and me, all at the same time. In doing so there was no thought of our welfare, much
less our wishes. It was purely a question of their own convenience and economy.

Marriage among Hindus is no simple matter. The parents of the bride and the bridegroom often
bring themselves to ruin over it. They waste their substance, they waste their time. Months are
taken up over the preparations in making clothes and ornaments and in preparing budgets for
dinners. Each tries to outdo the other in the number and variety of courses to be prepared.
Women, whether they have a voice or no, sing themselves hoarse, even get ill, and disturb the
peace of their neighbors. these in their turn quietly put up with all the turmoil and bustle all the
dirt and filth, representing the remains of the feasts, because they know that a time will come
when they also will be behaving in the same manner.

It would be better, though my elders, to have all this bother over at one and the same time. Less
expense and greater eclat. For money could be freely spent if it had only to be spent once instead
of thrice. My father and my uncle were both old, and we were the last children they had to marry.
they likely wanted to have the last best time of their lives. Because of all these
considerations, a triple wedding was decided upon, and as I have said before, months were taken
up in preparation for it.

It was only through these preparations that we got a warning of the coming event. I do not think it
meant to be anything more than the prospect of good clothes to wear, drum beating, marriage
processions, rich dinners, and a strange girl to play with. The carnal desire came later. I propose
to draw the curtain over my shame, except for a few details worth recording. To these, I shall
come later. But even they have little to do with the central idea I have kept before me in writing
this story.

So my brother and I were both taken to Porbandar from Rajkot. There are some amusing details
of the preliminaries to the final drama e.g. smearing our bodies all over with turmeric paste but I
must omit them.

My father was a Diwan, but nevertheless a servant, and all the more so because he was in favor
of the Thakore Saheb. The latter would not let him go until the last moment. And when he did
so, he ordered my father special stagecoaches, reducing the journey by two days. But the
fates had willed otherwise. Porbandar is 120 miles from Rajkot, a cart journey of five days. My
father did the distance in three, but the coach toppled over in the third stage, and he sustained
severe injuries. 

He arrived bandaged all over. Both his and our interest in the coming event was
half destroyed, but the ceremony had to be gone through. For how could the marriage dates be
changed? However, I forgot my grief over my father's injuries in the childish amusement of the
wedding.

I was devoted to my parents. but no less was I devoted to the passions that flesh is heir to. I had
yet to learn that all happiness and pleasure should be sacrificed in devoted service to my parents.
And yet, as though by way of punishment for my desire for pleasures, an incident happened,
which has ever since rankled in my mind and which I will relate later. Nishkulanand sings:
'Renunciation of objects, without the renunciation of desires, is short-lived, however hard you may
try.' Whenever I sing this song or hear it sung, this bitter untoward incident rushes to my memory
and fills me with shame. 

My father put on a brave face despite his injuries and took full part in the wedding. As I think of
it, I can even today call before my mind's eye the places where he sat as he went through the
different details of the ceremony.

 Little did I dream then that one day I should severely criticize my
father for having married me as a child. Everything on that day seemed to me own right and
proper and pleasing. There was also my own eagerness to get married. And as everything that
my father did then struck me as beyond reproach, the recollection of those things is fresh in my memory. I can picture to myself, even today, how we sat on our wedding dais, how we performed

the Saptapadi how we, the newly wedded husband and wife, but the sweet Kansar into each
other's mouth, and how we began to live together. And oh! that first night. Two innocent children

all unwittingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life. My brother's wife had thoroughly coached
me about my behavior on the first night. I do not know who had coached my wife. I have never
asked her about it, nor am I inclined to do so now. The reader may be sure that we were too
nervous to face each other. We were certainly too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to
say? The coaching could not carry me far. But no coaching is really necessary for such matters.
The impressions of the former birth are potent enough to make all coaching superfluous. We
gradually began to know each other and to speak freely together. We were the same age. but I
took no time in assuming the authority of a husband.