Simple Life

I had started on a life of ease and I comfort but the experiment was short-lived. Although I had furnished the house with care, yet it failed to have any hold on me. So no sooner had I launched forth on that life, than I began to cut down expenses. The washerman’s bill was heavy and as also he was by no means noted for his punctuality, even two to three dozen shirts and collars proved insufficient for me. Collars had to be changed daily and shirts if not daily, at least every alternate day. This meant a double expense, which appeared to me unnecessary. So I equipped myself with a washing outfit to save it. I bought a book on washing, studied the art and taught it also to my wife. This no doubt added to my work, but its novelty made it a pleasure.

I had begun a life of ease and comfort, but the experiment was short-lived. Although I had furnished the house with care, it did not hold me. So, soon after starting this new life, I began to cut down expenses. The laundry bill was high, and the washerman was by no means punctual. As a result, even two or three dozen shirts and collars were not enough for me. I had to change collars daily and shirts at least every other day, if not daily. This meant a double expense, which seemed unnecessary to me. So I bought washing equipment to save the expense. I bought a book on washing, studied the skill, and taught it to my wife too. This undoubtedly added to my work, but the novelty made it a pleasure.

I shall never forget the first collar that I washed myself. I had used more starch than necessary, the iron had not been made hot enough and for fear of burning the collar I had not pressed it sufficiently. The result was, that, though the collar was fairly stiff, the superfluous starch continually dropped off it. I went to court with the collar on, thus inviting the ridicule of brother barristers, but even in those days I could be impervious to ridicule.

I will never forget the first collar I washed myself. I had used too much starch, and the iron was not hot enough. I was afraid of burning the collar, so I had not pressed it hard enough. As a result, although the collar was fairly stiff, excess starch kept flaking off. I wore the collar to court, where my fellow barristers made fun of me. But even then, I could remain unaffected by ridicule.

‘Well,’ said I, ‘this is my first experiment at washing my own collars and hence the loose starch. But it does not trouble me and then there is the advantage of providing you with so much fun.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘this is my first attempt at washing my own collars, so the starch is loose. But the loose starch doesn’t bother me. And there’s the added benefit of giving you so much fun.’

‘But surely there is no lack of laundries here?’ asked a friend.

‘But surely there are plenty of laundries here?’ asked a friend.

‘The laundry bill is very heavy,’ said I. ‘The charge for washing a collar is almost as much as its price, and even then there is the eternal dependence on the washerman. I prefer by far to wash my things myself.’

‘The laundry bill is very high,’ I said. ‘Washing a collar costs almost as much as buying one. And even then, I am always dependent on the washerman. I much prefer to wash my clothes myself.’

But I could not make my friends appreciate the beauty of self-help. In course of time I became an expert washerman SO far as my own work went, and my washing was by no means inferior to laundry washing. My collars were no less stiff or shiny than others.’

But I could not get my friends to appreciate the beauty of doing things for themselves. In time, I became an expert at washing my own clothes. My washing was just as good as the laundry’s. My collars were just as stiff and shiny as anyone else’s.’

When Gokhale came to South Africa, he had with him a scarf which was a gift from Mahadeo Govind Ranade. He treasured the memento with the utmost care and used it only on special occasions. One such occasion was the banquet given in his honour by the Johannesburg Indians. The scarf was creased and needed ironing. It was not possible to send it to the laundry and get it back in time. I offered to try my art.

When Gokhale came to South Africa, he brought a scarf that Mahadeo Govind Ranade had given him. He treasured the scarf, took great care of it, and wore it only on special occasions. One such occasion was a banquet held in his honor by the Johannesburg Indians. The scarf was creased and needed ironing. There was not enough time to send it to the laundry and get it back. I offered to try my hand at ironing it.

‘I can trust to your capacity as a lawyer, but not as a washerman,’ said Gokhale. ‘What if you should soil it? Do you know what it means to me?’

‘I can trust your skills as a lawyer, but not as a washerman,’ said Gokhale. ‘What if you get it dirty? Do you know what it means to me?’

With this he narrated, with much joy, the story of the gift. I still insisted, guaranteed good work, got his permission to iron it, and won his certificate. After that I did not mind if the rest of the world refused me its certificate.

He then happily told me the story of the gift. I still insisted and promised to do a good job. He gave me permission to iron it, and I won his approval. After that, I did not mind if the rest of the world withheld its approval.

In the same way as I freed myself from slavery to the washerman, I threw off dependence on the barber. All people who go to England learn there at least the art of shaving, but none, to my knowledge, learn to cut their own hair. I had to learn that too. I once went to an English hair-cutter in Pretoria. He contemptuously refused to cut my hair. I certainly felt hurt, but immediately purchased a pair of clippers and cut my hair before the mirror. I succeeded more or less in cutting the front hair, but I spoiled the back. The friends in the court shook with laughter.

Just as I freed myself from slavery to the washerman, I stopped depending on the barber. All people who go to England learn at least how to shave there. But as far as I know, none learn to cut their own hair. I had to learn that too. Once, I went to an English barber in Pretoria. He refused to cut my hair, treating me with contempt. I was certainly hurt, but I immediately bought a pair of clippers and cut my hair in front of a mirror. I did a more or less adequate job at the front, but I made a mess of the back. My friends at the court shook with laughter.

‘What’s wrong with your hair, Gandhi? Rats have been at it?’

‘What’s wrong with your hair, Gandhi? Did rats get at it?’

‘No. The white barber would not condescend to touch my black hair,’ said I, ‘so I preferred to cut it myself, no matter how badly.’

‘No. The white barber thought touching my black hair was beneath him,’ I said, ‘so I preferred to cut it myself, no matter how badly.’

The reply did not surprise the friends.

The reply did not surprise the friends.

The barber was not at fault in having refused to cut my hair. There was every chance of his losing his custom, if he should serve black men. We do not allow our barbers to serve our untouchable brethren. I got the reward of this in South Africa, not once, but many times, and the conviction that it was the punishment for our own sins saved me from becoming angry.

The barber was not wrong to refuse to cut my hair. He was very likely to lose customers if he served Black men. We do not allow our barbers to serve our untouchable brothers. In South Africa, I suffered the consequences of this, not once, but many times. I believed it was punishment for our own sins, and that kept me from getting angry.

The extreme forms, in which my passion for self-help and simplicity ultimately expressed itself, will be described in their proper place. The seed had been long sown. It only needed watering to take root, to flower and to fructify, and the watering came in due course.

I will describe later the extreme forms my passion for self-help and simplicity eventually took. The seed had been planted long before. It only needed water to take root, flower, and bear fruit. In time, the water came.