She knew him way before he became the Mahatma. In ways no one else did or could. As he metamorphosed from a lusty teenager to the great barrister Mohandas to the experimenter with truths, she facilitated the process in ways no one else did or could. She was his other half — better, conflicted, often bitter, but always spirited. In her fictional work, The Secret Diary of Kasturba, author Neelima Dalmia Adhar chronicles the life of Kasturba Gandhi. Here’s an excerpt 

I discovered I was pregnant with Mohandas’ third child. It was the last quarter of 1897. Running Beach Grove Villa in my current condition had become a tough challenge. I felt constantly tired and irritable, yearning to be in the comfort of my home in India, with my adoring family beside me. Yet I could neither complain nor slacken the efficiency of managing my ever-growing household.

The year had begun with many a conflict that had taken root in my mind. I had begun to resent the foul directive that Mohandas had imposed on all the inhabitants of Beach Grove Villa. We had been ordered, not just to clean our own chamber pots every day, but also to extend this service to other residents whose pots had not been tended to or cleaned properly. Every morning I had to fight down a wave of revulsion at the loathsome chore he had forced upon us. I was nauseated as much with the thought of doing this reviling job with my own hands as I was in the first trimester of my third pregnancy. I felt humiliated. How dare he subject me to this vile torture?

All my life I had looked upon the cleaning of toilet pots as the lowliest of jobs; a task that condemned those who did it as subhumans, unfit to even reside inside the city limits where decent folks lived. I knew that even their shadows were unclean and deemed you ritually impure if they were to fall upon you. These wretched cleaners were allowed into our homes only in the thick of the night, so that no one set sight on their ill-omened faces while they went about their jobs of removing night soil from the homes of the upper castes. And now Mohandas tells me to defile myself and clean my own toilet and if need be, other’s toilets as well! How dare he?

I felt my unborn child kick hard at the walls of my womb. Another wave of nausea hit my throat and I ran out into the garden for a breath of fresh air. A rancid stench persisted in my breath and my heart raced uncontrollably. I sat on a low chair facing the sea, till the melody of the rising and falling waves lulled me to sleep.

A few days later, a new Christian house guest moved into Beach Grove Villa. The atmosphere of our open and always welcoming home must have lured him to stay, but I felt a sharp twinge of loathing. That lowly malech! I couldn’t bear to be eating from the same plate as him. And what if he touched the faucets of my kitchen and polluted them? My mind was running wild; I was frustrated and helpless at not being able to stymie his invasion into my sacred space.

Sure enough, the first assault to my battered nerves happened within twenty-four hours of his arrival. Unaware or probably unmindful of the rules of Beach Grove Villa , he had left his unemptied chamber pot under his bed and was gone for the day. I was furious. I knew Mohandas would pick up the dirty pot of the stranger, empty it out, clean it and place it back for him to soil again. To prevent him from the humiliation, suppressing my own outrage and spilling tears, I yanked out the filthy pot, holding my breath as I dragged it down the stairs and emptied it out into the main collection trough.

I wasn’t aware that Mohandas had been watching me and had heard my loud rumblings as I lugged the pot downstairs with anger pouring out of my eyes.

“Ek toh malech! Upar se uska pot mai uthaaon? I, Kastur, the beloved wife of the great barrister Mohandas, have to lower myself to this level and pick up the pot of this lowly beast!” I kept grumbling loudly.

“Wait!” I was taken aback to see Mohandas. “What did you just say, Kastur? Lowering yourself, are you? I will not stand this nonsense in my house!” Mohandas’ sharp voice rang out, piercing me like an arrow. “If you want to do this task of emptying chamber pots, do so with grace and I must see a smile on your face,” he said. “Or else, get out.”

My patience snapped.

“Keep your damn house to yourself and let me go! I do not want to live with you and your wretched ideals. Let me go!” I shouted back. Mohandas grabbed my hand. His fingers tightened against my glass bangles that broke, digging into my wrist, forming red welts from which blood oozed out.

“What are you doing? Have you no shame?” I pulled my hands back and cried. “Have all your senses deserted you? Is this what you have brought me to South Africa for? And now you want to throw me out? But where can I go? I have no one here to turn to. Who is there to protect me from your cruelty?” I screamed loudly.

By then, Mohandas had dragged me by my arm, and taken me right outside the gate of Beach Grove Villa.

“Behave yourself!” I hollered. “I’m not here to take your beatings, Mohandas. You are a cruel beast! God, how I hate you! Shut the gates and let’s go in before we become a spectacle for the entire neighbourhood.”

I edged into the gates and stumbled in a heap inside the boundary wall of the house. I picked myself up and ran in, weeping hysterically, “Where can I go? I have no one in South Africa whom I can turn to. I know you want me dead!”

Waves of severe nausea and the pain of humiliation were pounding at my chest. I ran into the bathroom and crawled under the faucet directing a sharp stream of water onto my body and began to scrub vigorously. I felt a sharp stinging pain where the glass had cut open the skin. I let the water drizzle over my hands till the bleeding stopped. I then lay down on my bed. The little foetus in my belly lay still as I stretched supine trying desperately to expel that horrific stench of the chamber pot that had suffused my entire being.

The persistent putrid stink, the nasty gash on my wrist, where Mohandas had grabbed me and dragged me to the gate, the rap on my dignity and the sting of salty tears on my chapped face kept me awake all night.

Indeed I was no saint, but Mohandas had become an abusive and cruel husband who had lost all regard for the one person he claimed to have loved the most. I felt suffocated and trapped.

“Sadist! Sadist! Sadist! Why don’t you kill me once and for all?” Those silent reverberating shrieks did not cease until long after.

Extracted from The Secret Diary of Kasturba;
Published by Tranquebar; Price: Rs 699; Pages 393