Brahmacharya, Part I

We now reach the stage in this story when I began seriously to think of taking the brahmacharya vow. I had been wedded to a monogamous ideal ever since my marriage, faithfulness to my wife being part of the love of truth. But it was in South Africa, that I came to realise the importance of observing brahmacharya even with respect to my wife. I cannot definitely say what circumstance or what book it was, that set my thoughts in that direction, but I have a recollection, that the predominant factor was the influence of Raychandbhai, of whom I have already written. I can still recall a conversation that I had with him. On one occasion I spoke to him in high praise of Mrs. Gladstone’s devotion to her husband. I had read somewhere, that Mrs. Gladstone insisted on preparing tea for Mr. Gladstone, even in the House of Commons, and that this had become a rule in the life of this illustrious couple, whose actions were governed by regularity. I spoke of this to the poet, and incidentally eulogised conjugal love. ‘Which of the two do you prize more,’ asked Raychandbhai, ‘the love of Mrs. Gladstone for her husband as his wife, or her devoted service irrespective of her relation to Mr. Gladstone? Supposing she had been his sister, or his devoted servant, and had ministered to him with the same attention, what would you have said? Do we not have instances of such devoted sisters or servants? Supposing you had found the same loving devotion in a male servant, would you have been pleased in the same way as in Mrs. Gladstone’s case? Just examine the view-point suggested by me.’

We now reach the point in this story when I began seriously considering a vow of brahmacharya. Since my marriage, I had held to an ideal of monogamy. Being faithful to my wife was part of my love of truth. But it was in South Africa that I came to understand the importance of practicing brahmacharya even with my wife. I cannot say for certain which circumstance or book turned my thoughts in that direction. But I remember that the strongest influence was Raychandbhai, whom I have already written about. I can still recall a conversation I had with him. Once, I spoke highly of Mrs. Gladstone’s devotion to her husband. I had read somewhere that Mrs. Gladstone insisted on making tea for Mr. Gladstone, even in the House of Commons. This had become a rule in the life of the famous couple, who followed regular routines. I told the poet about this and, in passing, praised the love between husband and wife. ‘Which do you value more,’ asked Raychandbhai, ‘Mrs. Gladstone’s love for her husband as his wife, or her devoted service, regardless of her relationship to Mr. Gladstone? Suppose she had been his sister or his devoted servant, and had cared for him with the same attention. What would you have said? Do we not know of sisters or servants who are devoted in this way? Suppose you had found the same loving devotion in a male servant. Would you have been as pleased as you were in Mrs. Gladstone’s case? Just consider the point of view I am suggesting.’

Raychandbhai was himself married. I have an impression, that at the moment his words sounded harsh, but they gripped me irresistibly. The devotion of a servant was, I felt, a thousand times more praiseworthy than that of a wife to her husband. There was nothing surprising in the wife’s devotion to her husband, as there was an indissoluble bond between them. The devotion was perfectly natural. But it required a special effort to cultivate equal devotion between master and servant. The poet’s point of view began gradually to grow upon me.

Raychandbhai was married himself. I seem to remember that his words sounded harsh at the time, but they held me in their grip. I felt that a servant’s devotion was a thousand times more praiseworthy than a wife’s devotion to her husband. A wife’s devotion to her husband was not surprising, because their bond could not be broken. Her devotion was perfectly natural. But it took special effort to develop the same devotion between a master and a servant. Gradually, I began to appreciate the poet’s point of view.

What then, I asked myself, should be my relation with my wife? Did my faithfulness consist in making my wife the instrument of my lust? So long as I was the slave of lust, my faithfulness was worth nothing. To be fair to my wife, I must say that she was never the temptress. It was therefore the easiest thing for me to take the vow of brahmacharya, if only I willed it. It was my weak will or lustful attachment that was the obstacle.

What, then, I asked myself, should my relationship with my wife be? Was I faithful to her by using her to satisfy my lust? As long as I was a slave to lust, my faithfulness was worth nothing. To be fair to my wife, she never tempted me. So taking the vow of brahmacharya was the easiest thing for me, if only I chose to do so. My weak will or lustful attachment was the obstacle.

Even after my conscience had been roused in the matter I failed twice. I failed, because the motive that actuated the effort was none the highest. My main object was to escape having more children. Whilst in England I had read something about contraceptives. I have already referred to Dr. Allinson’s birth-control propaganda in the chapter on Vegetarianism. If it had some temporary effect on me, Mr. Hills’ opposition to those methods, and his advocacy of internal effort as opposed to outward means, in a word, of self-control, had a far greater effect, which in due time came to be abiding. Seeing, therefore, that I did not desire more children, I began to strive after self-control. There was endless difficulty in the task. We began to sleep in separate beds. I decided to retire to bed only after the day’s work had left me completely exhausted. All these efforts did not seem to bear much fruit, but when I look back upon the past, I feel that the final resolution was the cumulative effect of those unsuccessful strivings.

Even after my conscience had been awakened on this matter, I failed twice. I failed because my reason for trying was not the highest. My main aim was to avoid having more children. While in England, I had read something about contraceptives. I have already mentioned Dr. Allinson’s birth-control campaign in the chapter on Vegetarianism. His campaign had some temporary effect on me. But Mr. Hills’ opposition to those methods had a far greater effect. He advocated inner effort rather than external methods, in short, self-control. In time, his influence became lasting. So, because I did not want more children, I began to work on self-control. The task was endlessly difficult. We began to sleep in separate beds. I decided to go to bed only after the day’s work had left me completely exhausted. All these efforts did not seem to produce much result. But when I look back, I feel that my final resolution grew out of those unsuccessful efforts taken together.

The final resolution could only be made as late as 1906. Satyagraha had not then been started. I had not the least notion of its coming. I was practising in Johannesburg at the time of the Zulu ‘Rebellion’ in Natal, which came soon after the Boer War. I felt, that I must offer my services to the Natal Government on that occasion. The offer was accepted, as we shall see in another chapter. But the work set me furiously thinking in the direction of self-control, and according to my wont I discussed my thoughts with my co-workers. It became my conviction, that procreation and the consequent care of children were inconsistent with public service. I had to break up my household at Johannesburg to be able to serve during the ‘Rebellion.’ Within one month of offering my services, I had to give up the house I had SO carefully furnished. I took my wife and children to Phoenix and led the Indian ambulance corps attached to the Natal forces. During the difficult marches that had then to be performed, the idea flashed upon me, that if I wanted to devote myself to the service of the community in this manner, I must relinquish the desire for children and wealth, and must live the life of a vanaprastha,—of one retired from household cares.

I could not make the final decision until 1906. Satyagraha had not yet begun, and I had no idea it was coming. I was practising in Johannesburg during the Zulu ‘Rebellion’ in Natal, which came soon after the Boer War. I felt that I must offer my services to the Natal Government. The government accepted my offer, as we shall see in another chapter. But the work made me think intensely about self-control. As was my habit, I discussed my thoughts with my co-workers. I became convinced that having children and the care they required were incompatible with public service. I had to give up my household in Johannesburg so that I could serve during the ‘Rebellion.’ Within a month of offering my services, I had to give up the house I had furnished so carefully. I took my wife and children to Phoenix and led the Indian ambulance corps attached to the Natal forces. During the difficult marches we had to make, an idea came to me. If I wanted to devote myself to serving the community in this way, I had to give up the desire for children and wealth. I had to live the life of a vanaprastha, someone retired from household cares.

The ‘Rebellion’ did not occupy me for more than six weeks, but this brief period proved to be a very important epoch in my life. The importance of vows grew upon me more clearly than ever before. I realised, that a vow far from closing the door to real freedom opened it. Up to this time I had not met with success because the will had been lacking, because I had had no faith in myself, no faith in the grace of God, and therefore my mind had been tossed on the boisterous sea of doubt. I realised, that in refusing to take a vow man was drawn into temptation, and that to be bound by a vow was like a passage from libertinism to a real monogamous marriage. ‘I believe in effort, I do not want to bind myself with vows’ is the mentality of weakness and betrays a subtle desire for the thing to be avoided. Or where can be the difficulty in making a final decision? I vow to flee from the serpent which I know will bite me, I do not simply make an effort to flee from him. I know that mere effort may mean certain death. Mere effort means ignorance of the certain fact, that the serpent is bound to kill me. The fact, therefore, that I could rest content with an effort only, means that I have not yet clearly realised the necessity of definite action. ‘But supposing my views are changed in the future, how can I bind myself by a vow?’ Such a doubt often deters us. But that doubt also betrays a lack of clear perception, that a particular thing must be renounced. That is why Nishkulanand has sung:

The ‘Rebellion’ occupied me for no more than six weeks, but that brief period was very important in my life. The importance of vows became clearer to me than ever before. I realized that a vow, far from closing the door to real freedom, opened it. Until then, I had not succeeded because I had lacked the will. I had no faith in myself or in the grace of God. As a result, my mind had been tossed on a stormy sea of doubt. I realized that refusing to make a vow drew a person into temptation. Being bound by a vow was like moving from sexual license to a true monogamous marriage. ‘I believe in making an effort. I do not want to bind myself with vows.’ This is the thinking of a weak person. It reveals a subtle desire for the very thing one wants to avoid. Otherwise, what difficulty can there be in making a final decision? I vow to flee from a snake I know will bite me. I do not simply make an effort to flee from it. I know that merely making an effort may mean certain death. Merely making an effort means not knowing for certain that the snake is bound to kill me. So if I can be content merely to make an effort, I have not yet clearly realized the need for definite action. ‘But suppose my views change in the future. How can I bind myself with a vow?’ Such a doubt often holds us back. But it also reveals that we do not clearly see that a particular thing must be given up. That is why Nishkulanand has sung:

‘Renunciation without aversion is not lasting.’

‘Giving something up does not last unless you feel aversion to it.’

Where therefore the desire is gone, a vow of renunciation is the natural and inevitable fruit.

Therefore, when desire is gone, a vow to give it up follows naturally and inevitably.