‘Return Soon’

From Madras I proceeded to Calcutta where I found myself hemmed in by difficulties. I knew no one there. So I took a room in the Great Eastern Hotel. Here I became acquainted with Mr. Ellerthorpe, a representative of the Daily Telegraph. He invited me to the Bengal Club where he was staying. He did not then realise, that an Indian could not be taken to the drawing-room of the Club. Having discovered the restriction, he took me to his room. He expressed his sorrow regarding this prejudice of the local Englishmen, and apologised to me for not having been able to take me to the drawing-room.

From Madras I went to Calcutta, where I found myself surrounded by difficulties. I knew no one there, so I took a room at the Great Eastern Hotel. There I met Mr. Ellerthorpe, a representative of the Daily Telegraph. He invited me to the Bengal Club, where he was staying. He did not realize then that he could not take an Indian into the Club’s drawing-room. When he discovered the restriction, he took me to his room. He said he was sorry about the prejudice of the local Englishmen. He apologized to me for not being able to take me to the drawing-room.

I had, of course, to see Surendranath Banerji, the ‘Idol of Bengal.’ When I met him, he was surrounded by a number of friends. He said:

Of course, I had to see Surendranath Banerji, the ‘Idol of Bengal.’ When I met him, he was surrounded by friends. He said:

‘I am afraid people will not take interest in your work. As you know our difficulties here are by no means few. But you must try as best you can. You will have to enlist the sympathy of Maharajas. Mind you meet the representatives of the British Indian Association. You should meet Raja Sir Pyarimohan Mukarji and Maharaja Tagore. Both are liberal-minded and take a fair share in public work.’

‘I am afraid people may not take an interest in your work. As you know, we have many difficulties here. But you must do your best. You will have to win the support of Maharajas. Be sure to meet the representatives of the British Indian Association. You should meet Raja Sir Pyarimohan Mukarji and Maharaja Tagore. Both are open-minded and do their fair share of public work.’

I met these gentlemen, but without success. Both gave me a cold reception, and said it was no easy thing to call a public meeting in Calcutta, and if anything could be done, it would practically all depend on Surendranath Banerji.

I met with these gentlemen, but without success. Both received me coldly and said that calling a public meeting in Calcutta was not easy. They said that if anything could be done, it would depend almost entirely on Surendranath Banerji.

I saw that my task was becoming more and more difficult. I called at the office of the Amrita Bazar Patrika. The gentleman whom I met there took me to be a wandering Jew. The Bangabasi went even one better. The editor kept me waiting for an hour. He had evidently many interviewers, but he would not so much as look at me, even when he had disposed of the rest. On my venturing* to broach my subject after the long wait, he said: ‘Don’t you see our hands are full? There is no end to the number of visitors like you. You had better go. I am not disposed to listen to you.’ For a moment I felt offended but I quickly understood the editor’s position. I had heard of the fame of the Bangabasi. I could see that there was a regular stream of visitors there. And they were all people acquainted with him. His paper had no lack of topics to discuss, and South Africa was hardly known at that time. However serious a grievance may be in the eyes of the man who suffers from it, he will be but one of the numerous people invading the editor’s office, each with a grievance of his own. How is the editor to meet them all? Moreover, the aggrieved party imagines that the editor is a power in the land. Only he knows that his power can hardly travel beyond the threshold of his office. But I was not discouraged. I kept on seeing editors of other papers. As usual I met the Anglo-Indian editors also. The Statesman and the Englishman realised the importance of the question. I gave them long interviews, and they published them in full.

I saw that my task was becoming increasingly difficult. I visited the office of the Amrita Bazar Patrika. The gentleman I met there took me for a wandering Jew. The Bangabasi went even further. The editor kept me waiting for an hour. He clearly had many people waiting to see him. But even after he had dealt with the others, he would not so much as look at me. After the long wait, I ventured* to raise my subject. He said: ‘Don’t you see that our hands are full? There is no end to the number of visitors like you. You had better go. I am not inclined to listen to you.’ For a moment, I felt offended, but I quickly understood the editor’s position. I had heard of the Bangabasi’s fame. I could see that there was a steady stream of visitors to its office. And all the visitors knew the editor. His paper had plenty of subjects to discuss, and South Africa was hardly known at the time. However serious a grievance may seem to the person suffering from it, he is just one of many people crowding into the editor’s office. Each has a grievance of his own. How can the editor attend to them all? Moreover, the aggrieved person imagines that the editor is a power in the land. Only the editor knows that his power can hardly reach beyond the door of his office. But I was not discouraged. I continued to see editors of other papers. As usual, I met the Anglo-Indian editors too. The Statesman and the Englishman recognized the importance of the issue. I gave them long interviews, and they published them in full.

Mr. Sanders, editor of the Englishman, claimed me as his own. He placed his office and paper at my disposal. He even allowed me the liberty of making whatever changes I liked in the leading article he had written on the situation, the proof of which he sent me in advance. It is no exaggeration to say, that a friendship grew up between us. He promised to render me all the help he could, carried out the promise to the letter and kept on his correspondence with me until the time when he was seriously ill.

Mr. Sanders, editor of the Englishman, took me under his wing. He put his office and newspaper at my disposal. He even sent me the draft of his editorial on the situation in advance. He allowed me to make any changes I liked. It is no exaggeration to say that we became friends. He promised to give me all the help he could. He kept that promise fully and continued to write to me until he became seriously ill.

Throughout my life I have had the privilege of many such friendships, which have sprung up quite unexpectedly. What Mr. Sanders liked in me was my freedom from exaggeration and my devotion to truth. He subjected me to a searching cross-examination before he began to sympathise with my cause, and he saw, that I had spared neither will nor pains to place before him an impartial statement of the case even of the white man in South Africa and also to appreciate it.

Throughout my life, I have been fortunate to form many such friendships unexpectedly. Mr. Sanders liked that I did not exaggerate and that I was devoted to truth. He questioned me closely before he began to sympathize with my cause. He saw that I had done everything I could to present the white man’s case in South Africa fairly and understand it.

My experience has shown me, that we win justice quickest by rendering justice to the other party.

My experience has shown me that we win justice fastest by treating the other party fairly.

The unexpected help of Mr. Sanders had begun to encourage me to think, that I might succeed, after all, in holding a public meeting in Calcutta, when I received the following cable from Durban: ‘Parliament opens January. Return soon.’

Mr. Sanders’s unexpected help had begun to make me think I might succeed in holding a public meeting in Calcutta after all. Then I received this cable from Durban: ‘Parliament opens January. Return soon.’

So I addressed a letter to the press, in which I explained why I had to leave Calcutta so abruptly, and set off for Bombay. Before starting I wired to the Bombay agent of Dada Abdulla and Co., to arrange for my passage by the first possible boat to South Africa. Dada Abdulla had just then purchased the steamship Courland and he insisted on my travelling on that boat, offering to take me and my family free of charge. I gratefully accepted the offer, and in the beginning of December I set sail a second time for South Africa, now with my wife and two sons, and the only son of my widowed sister. Another steamship Naderi also sailed for Durban at the same time. The agents of the Company were Dada Abdulla and Co. The total number of passengers these boats carried must have been about eight hundred, half of whom were bound for the Transvaal.

So I wrote a letter to the press explaining why I had to leave Calcutta so suddenly. Then I set off for Bombay. Before leaving, I telegraphed the Bombay agent of Dada Abdulla and Co. I asked him to arrange my passage on the first available boat to South Africa. Dada Abdulla had just bought the steamship Courland. He insisted that I travel on it and offered to take my family and me free of charge. I gratefully accepted the offer. In early December, I sailed for South Africa a second time. This time, I took my wife, my two sons, and my widowed sister’s only son. Another steamship, the Naderi, also sailed for Durban at the same time. Dada Abdulla and Co. were the Company’s agents. The two boats must have carried about eight hundred passengers in total, half of whom were going to the Transvaal.