Freedom at Midnight (80 page)

Karkare and Apte gently eased open the door to Retiring Room Six and peered inside. Nathuram Godse was stretched out on his bed at the end of the room sleeping soundly. He seemed to Karkare "without a care in his head or mind." Lying on the floor beside him was the book he had finished reading that evening, his Perry Mason detective story.

THE SECOND CRUCIFIXION

New Delhi, January 30> 1948

The chilly morning of January 30, 1948, began for Gandhi as all his days since South Africa, with a prayer in the dark reaches before the dawn. Cross-legged on his pallet, his back to a cold marble wall, he and the members of his curious little company chanted together for the last time the verses of the celestial song of Hinduism, the Bhagavad Gita. For this Friday, January 30, their morning recitation comprised the first and second of the Gita's eighteen dialogues. Gandhi's high, soft voice blended with those of his followers singing out the familiar stanzas.

For certain is death for the born

and certain is birth for the dead; (

Therefore over the inevitable

Thou shouldst not grieve.

When the prayer was over, Manu led Gandhi into the spare room in which he worked. He dreamed of walking to Pakistan, but he was not yet strong enough to move from one room to another unaided. Sitting down at the J truncated table that served as his writing desk, he told Manu he wanted her to chant for him throughout the day two lines of a hymn: "Whether tired or not, O man, do not take rest!"

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As they had agreed the evening before, Apte and Karkare returned to Retiring Room Number Six at the Old Delhi railroad station shortly after 7 a.m., to find Godse already awake.

"For two hours we were sitting together in the room, having chats, drinking tea and coffee together. We were joking, talking, discussing. Then we started getting serious. The reason for the seriousness was that although Na-thuram had decided to kill Gandhiji that day in the eve-ning, we still had no idea at all how he was going to do it.

"Accordingly, we had to find a plan. We imagined that after the bomb explosion of the twentieth, the place around Gandhiji at Birla House would be heavily guarded, and it would be difficult for us to get an entrance. Probably the people going to the prayer meeting would be searched for arms, and so we knew we must find the safe, sure way to get the gun in and do the deed.

"We discussed for some time, and then Nathuram had this idea. We would go into the street and buy from a photographer one of those old-style cameras on a tripod with a black hood under which the photographer works. We would conceal the pistol inside the base of the camera. Nathuram would set his camera before the microphone where Gandhi would be speaking. He would put the hood over his head, take out the pistol and while Gandhiji was talking, shoot at him from under the concealment of the hood.

"Accordingly, we went down into the street in search of a photographer whose camera we might buy. We found one near the station, but after we studied him for a while, Apte announced it was a bad idea. He said nobody used cameras like that anymore, and anyone going to Gandhiji f s prayer meeting to take his picture would use a small German or American camera.

"We went back to the Retiring Room to think of some other idea. Someone suggested to take a burqa, the garment that is generally used by Moslem women to move about in the streets. There were many Moslem women coming to GandhijVs prayers in those times, because he was their savior. In addition, the women were usually closest to him, so, that way, Nathuram could get in for a close shot. We were very excited by this idea. We went to this bazaar and purchased a burqa, the biggest one we could find. We brought it back to the Retiring Room.

"When Nathuram put it on, he found out instantaneously that the idea would not work at all. The folds kept getting in the way and hindering him. 7 will never be able to take out the pistol/ he said, 7 will be caught in this woman's dress to the eternal shame without having killed Gandhiji.'

"So we now had to think of some other idea. We had wasted most of our morning on bad ideas. We had only six hours left before the time of the killing and we still did not have our plan. Finally, Apte said: Well, Nathuram, sometimes the simplest things are the best.' He said we should dress Nathuram in a kind of grayish military suit very much used by the people at that time. It had a loose shirt which hung at the sides of the pants which would cover the bulk of the pistol on his hip. Somewhat in despair, we decided that was our best idea. Accordingly, we returned to the bazaar and purchased this outfit for Nathuram.

"Then we went back to the street of the cameraman we had seen earlier in the morning, and whose camera we had contemplated buying. There we made the overwhelmingly stupid, amateurish and sentimental gesture of having a pic-ture taken.

"We returned to the room to relax and decide on our plan. Nathuram would go first to Birla House, and Apte and I would follow. When the time for the deed had come, one of us would stand on each side of Nathuram. In that way, if anyone tried to interfere with his shooting, we might stop them and Nathuram would have time to take careful aim before shooting. It was by then time to vacate the Retiring Room according to the rules of that place. Nathuram took out the pistol. He carefully put seven bullets inside. Then he placed it on his hip and we left.

"We went down to the waiting room of the railroad station to pass the hours in that anonymous place until it was time to go. After we had been there for some time, Nathuram announced to us that he had a desire for ground nuts, that is, peanuts. It was a petty thing he was asking, and we were feeling so tender-hearted toward him we were butter in his hands. He was about to sacrifice himself. We did not want anything to disturb him or distract him. Whatever he wants, we would do for him.

"Accordingly, Apte went off to search for peanuts. Af-

ter some time he came back, telling that, well, there were no peanuts available in Delhi, would cashew nuts do in place, or almonds do in place?' 9

"Nathuram said, 'No. Bring me some peanuts only*

"We did not want to make him upset in view of the great task that was before him. And so, Apte set off again in search of peanuts. Finally, after some time, he came back with a large bag full of those nuts. Nathuram took it and eagerly began to gobble them up.

"By the time he had finished, it was time for us to leave. We decided to go first to Birla Temple. Apte and myself particularly wanted to pray to the deities there to have darshan. Nathuram, however, was not interested in such things. He went around to the garden behind the temple, near the forest where we had made the practice shooting, to wait for us.

"We removed our shoes at the entrance and went bare-foot. At the entry we rang the brass bell hanging over our head. That is a gesture to alert the gods to our presence. We went first to the central idol, that of Lakshmi Narayan, a deity, a couple, pious to the Hindus. Then we left that altar for the altar of Kali, the Goddess of Destruction, to have our darshan there. First, we bowed our heads in silence with hands folded.

"We threw a few coins at the goddess's feet. Then we gave a few more coins to the Brahman priest who was there. In return, the Brahman gave us some petals of flowers and some dhista, the sacred water of the Jumna. We threw the flowers to the goddess asking her for success in our endeavor. Then we touched our eyes with the pious water of the Jumna.

"Outside, we found Nathuram standing in the garden. He was standing by a statue of Shivaji, the great Hindu warrior. He asked us, 'Did you have your darshan?'

"We said, 'Yes/ and Nathuram said, 'Well, I had my darshan, too.'"

The darshan of Nathuram Godse had not been with any figure in the pantheon of Hinduism's gods inside that sanctuary redolent with jasmine and incense. His deity was that figure there on the pillar above him, the wiry warrior who had driven the Moguls from the hillsides of Poona. It was in his name, and for the dream of a militant Hindu empire that his achievements inspired, that Godse was

prepared to commit, in just one hour's time, a murder that would horrify the world.

The three men strolled in the garden for several minutes. Finally Apte looked at his watch. It was four-thirty.

"Nathuram," he said, "the time has come."

Nathuram glanced at Apte's watch. Then, he looked at his two colleagues. He pressed the palms of his hands together in front of his chest and nodded to them.

"Namaste," he said. "We do not know whether and how we shall ever be together again."

Karkare's regard followed him as he climbed down the steps of the temple and went through the crowd in search of a tonga. He found one, got in and "without looking back proceeded toward Birla House, where Gandhiji was having his prayers."

Mahatma Gandhi had lived his Friday, January 30, in strict accordance with the injunction of the hymn that he had ordered Manu to repeat to him that morning: "O Man, do not take rest!" For the first time since his fast, to the delight of his entourage, he had walked unaided. His weight indicated that he had gained half a pound, proof that the strength was coming back to his slender frame, evidence for Gandhi that God still had great tasks to lay before him.

After his midday rest, he went through a dozen interviews. The most difficult of them was the last one, the one through which he now labored. His interlocutor was one of his oldest and most faithful followers, the taciturn twentieth-century Mogul who had molded Gandhi's Congress, Vallabhbhai Patel. The inevitable conflict between Patel, the tough-minded realist, and Nehru, the socialist idealist, had finally erupted. On Gandhi's little writing desk was a copy of Patel's letter of resignation from Nehru's government. Gandhi and Lord Mountbatten had discussed that quarrel during their conversation before Gandhi's fast. The Governor General had urged Gandhi not to allow Patel to resign.

"You can't let him go," Mountbatten had warned. "You can't let Nehru go either. India needs both of them, and they've got to learn to work together."

Gandhi agreed. He convinced Patel to withhold his

resignation. The three of them—he, Patel and Nehru— would sit down together once again as they had in the old times, during the critical moments in the freedom struggle. Together, the three of them would thrash the matter out.

While he talked, Abha brought his evening meal of goat's milk, vegetable juice and oranges. As soon as he had finished that austere repast he called for his spinning wheel. Still carrying on his animated dialogue with Patel, he began to turn the creaking wooden device which symbolized him to millions around the world, ever faithful to those principles that had governed his life, his dictum that "bread taken without labor is stolen bread."

The killers were already wandering in the gardens beyond the room where Gandhi turned his wheel. Five minutes after Nathuram, Apte and Karkare had in their turn taken a tonga to Birla House.

"To our relief and surprise" Karkare remembered, "we found the entrance of Birla House posed no problems at all. The guard had been increased, but no one was searching the crowd coming inside for weapons. We were relieved. We knew then that Nathuram had made his entrance safely. We walked out to the garden, and there we saw Nathuram mingling with the crowds. He seemed composed and good-spirited. We, of course, did not speak to one another. The crowd was scattered around the lawn. As five o'clock and the time for the prayers drew near, the people began to move together. We took our places on either side of Nathuram. We did not speak or glance at him so as not to reveal our secret. He was so much in himself, he seemed to have forgotten us, to have forgotten we were there.

"Our plan was to kill Gandhi after he had sat down on the little prayer-meeting platform facing the crowd. To do it, we stationed ourselves at the outer rim of the crowd toward the right as we faced the platform. It would mean an accurate shot of about thirty-five feet. Sizing up the distance, I silently wondered, Can Nathuram do it? He was not an experienced or particularly good shot. Will he be nervous and lose his aim, I wondered? I glanced at Nathuram. He was staring straight ahead, seemingly calm, all wrapped up in himself. I glanced at my watch. Gandhiji

was coming late. I began to wonder why. I was a bit nervous."

Manu and Abha were nervous, too. It was already ten minutes past five. The gentle dictator who ran their lives hated nothing so much as being late, and above all being late for his evening prayers. The tone of his talk with Patel had seemed so grave, however, that neither of them had dared interrupt to remind him of the time. Finally, Manu caught his eye and gestured at her watch.

Gandhi glanced down at his old Ingersoll, then almost leaped from his pallet. "Oh," he said to Patel "you must let me go. It is time for me to go to God's meeting."

As he emerged from the office into the garden, the little cortege that always escorted Gandhi to the prayer grounds formed up for lie last time. Two of its members were missing. Sushila Nayar, the doctor, who usually walked right in front of Gandhi, was still in Pakistan. The police officer whom the bedridden D. W. Mehra had assigned to replace him at Gandhi's side was not there either. He had been summoned to an urgent meeting in downtown Delhi to discuss police arrangements for a general strike of Delhi's utilities workers scheduled for the next day.

As she did each evening, Manu gathered his spittoon, his eyeglasses, the notebook in which he had written the text of his address. She and Abha moved up to offer him their shoulders in their familiar role as his walking sticks. Resting a hand on each girl, Gandhi set out.

Because they were late, he decided to cut directly across the lawn to the prayer ground instead of walking under the rows of bougainvillea of Birla's arbor. All the way across the lawn he scolded the girls for allowing him to be late.

"You are my watches," he said. "Why should I consult a watch? I do not like this delay at all. I cannot tolerate even one minute's delay at prayer."

He was still chatting away when they reached the flight of four sandstone steps leading up to the prayer ground, where the crowds waited. The setting sun picked out the familiar brown head with its last rays. Gandhi slid his arms from the shoulders of the two girls, clasped his palms in greeting to the crowd, and shuffled unaided up the steps. At the instant he reached the top steps, Karkare