Massive crowds were converging from all directions onto the Opera House intersection, where the bus had eventually been stalled—from Chowpatty, from Charni Road, from Grant Road. The sea of humanity narrowed itself into a rope-like stream and made its way over French Bridge. Caught up in the frenzy of the moment, he joined in, shouting slogans: ‘Boycott British Goods!’ Suddenly, there was a surge in the movement of the massive crowd. Screams rent the air as the crowd turned back in an attempt to flee in the opposite direction. It was not clear why. British Tommies appeared out of the mist, many of them on horseback. Menacingly, one of them galloped in Ebrahim’s direction. Trying to get out of the way of the officer’s swaying truncheon, Ebrahim stumbled and fell, hitting his head on the sidewalk, his debate papers scattering in all directions.

A few passersby rushed forward to help him up. ‘He’s bleeding!’ said someone. Incensed, a Parsi gentleman in a pheta screamed after the officer, ‘Go home! Ghere jao, mother fuckers! Suna tumne, we want Home Rule!’ Then, turning to Ebrahim, he dabbed the wound with his kerchief and began tying it like a bandage across his forehead. ‘‘Don’t worry! Not a deep wound, Dikra! Aisa hota hai . . . Azadi ke leye, buddha, baccha, sab ko khoon bahana padta hai! Shaheed hona padta hai! Aaj tumhari baari thi! Aaj tum asli desh bhakt ho! Jao! Mummy Daddy ko dikhao! Woh itna khush hone wale hai!’ (Son, such incidents happen! In order to win freedom, young and old alike must be prepared to shed their blood! Become martyrs! Today, it was your turn! From today onwards, you will be counted as a true patriot! Go! Show your wounds to your parents! They will be proud of you!)

Ebrahim swelled with pride. For the first time, he was mistaken for a Hindustani, not a Parsi or a Jew! He was thrilled! ‘Thank you, Uncle, thank you!’ stuttered Ebrahim, overcome with emotion. Forgetting his head injury, he was at once energized and forged ahead.

For the first time, the thought momentarily flashed through his mind—how desperately he wanted to belong, to feel part of a larger movement, a cause like this one! The cosy comfort and pristine world of contentment that his family had always provided him with had indeed given him a sense of security, but he had always sensed that they lived isolated lives. As children, they were constantly reminded not to mingle, not to participate in any kind of politics… because that would implicate them and complicate their lives. Ebrahim had never really been able to understand what exactly it was that they should fear. Yes, he did remember the great transformation that took place while they were in school after World War II began in 1939. Many of the Jesuit priests at St Vincent’s High School were foreigners—Italian, American, Swiss and German. All of a sudden, one day, the German priests were picked up and taken off to internment camps! As children, they had watched this happen with almost a sense of bereavement and, of course, fear.

But today, at Gowalia Tank, people’s spirits were uplifted, they appeared undaunted. Their multiple voices merged into a full-throated, unified and defiant call! Ebrahim was elated, his spirits buoyed. He had lost track of time. What time was it? He looked in vain for his wristwatch, but it was gone! It must have been snitched in the chaos. It was long past the time for the debate, long past the time he was to meet Fr Duhr at Xaviers’. After hectically trying to find a way out of this avalanche of humanity, he finally succumbed, allowing himself to fully experience these glorious moments, where it was not about him but something much, much larger, something beyond himself or his immediate family.

And then miraculously, through the mist of white clothing, there in the distance, sitting calmly on the dais, was the iconic Mahatma Gandhi—sacred, still, silent, composed. He was carefully spinning his charkha (wheel) with complete focus, unperturbed by the commotion around. No one disturbed him from his sadhana, the spinning wheel creating the movement of life, yet steady on its fulcrum. Ebrahim was quite close now and totally transfixed. The sea of white around the Mahatma was like a shining light, a halo—pure and undiluted. Aruna Asaf Ali sat quietly to one side, not betraying her steely determination to make today’s rally a meaningful event in their journey towards freedom.

The microphone was tapped and the Mahatma was asked to address the gathering. The raucousness and sloganeering died down and a hush descended over the entire maidan.

‘My brothers and sisters’, Gandhiji began, ‘Occasions like the present one do not occur in everybody’s, and but rarely in anybody’s, life. I want you to know and feel that there is nothing but the purest ahimsa in all that I am saying and doing today. The Draft Resolution of the Working Committee is based on ahimsa, the contemplated struggle similarly has its roots in ahimsa. If, therefore, there is anyone among you who has lost faith in ahimsa or is weary of it, let him not vote for this resolution.’

The crowd responded that they were 100 per cent with him. He continued, ‘Ours is not a drive for power but purely a non-violent fight for India’s independence. In a violent struggle, a successful general has often been known to effect a military coup and set up a dictatorship. But under the Congress scheme of things, essentially non-violent as it is, there can be no room for dictatorship… The Congress is unconcerned as to who will rule when freedom is attained. The power, when it comes, will belong to the people of India, and it will be for them to decide in whom they will place their trust.

‘It may be the reins will be placed in the hands of the Parsis, for instance, as I would love to see happen—or they may be handed to some others whose names are not heard of in the Congress today… Ever since its inception, the Congress has kept itself meticulously free of communal taint. It has thought always in terms of the whole nation and has acted accordingly…

‘I believe that in the history of the world, there has not been a more genuinely democratic struggle for freedom than ours. I read Thoma Carlyle’s book, The French Revolution, while I was in prison and Pandit Jawaharlal has told me something about the Russian Revolution. But it is my conviction that, inasmuch as these struggles were fought with the weapon of violence, they failed to realize the democratic ideal. In the democracy that I have envisaged, a democracy established by non-violence, there will be equal freedom for all. Everybody will be their own master. It is to join a struggle for such a democracy that I invite you today. Once you realize this, you will forget the differences between the Hindus and Muslims and only think of yourselves as Indians, engaged in the common struggle for independence.’

Gandhi’s stirring speech continued in this vein. In conclusion, he said, ‘There is a mantra, a short one, that I give you. You should imprint it on your heart and let every breath of yours give an expression to it. The mantra is “Do or Die”.’ The crowd was ecstatic… ‘Do or Die! Do or Die!’ they chanted in unison… surging towards the stage… ‘From now on, there are only two words to offer by way of resistance,’ said Gandhiji. ‘Quit India!’

By now, it was past midnight, and, the entire Congress, to the man, returned to headquarters and passed the famous ‘Quit India’ Resolution. The young Aruna Asaf Ali remained at the site. Unknown to the others, she hoisted the Congress flag, marking the commencement of the nationwide mass movement. The crowd went berserk, as this was the first time the Indian tricolour was being hoisted. Lathi charge was used by the police to disperse the crowds. The crowd refused to budge. Finally, the police began firing tear gas at the assembly. The national flag was pulled down and volunteers who went to its rescue were beaten off mercilessly.

Ebrahim was shaken to the core. Each word Gandhiji had uttered was imprinted in his consciousness. They were so simple, so effective so unpretentious, spoken without any histrionics because truth, he realized, did not require a loud or strident voice. And it was so magical—the manner in which Gandhiji was able to reach out to each and every person in that huge audience. He not only captured their imagination, but more importantly, encouraged them to take action—not just passively applaud him but use their energies positively to transform ideas into words and words into actions.

Isn’t that what was meant to happen in theatre too? Theatre was the field he felt more and more drawn to. It was a field where one could make a difference, where one could directly affect the lives of others and bring people together. That certainly appeared to be the need of the hour. The films he had begun to watch were also filled with a sense of purpose, a spirit

of sacrifice and of serving one’s country. He had read about the selfless work of missionaries in remote parts of Africa with much interest! For Ebrahim, these were examples of what it meant to serve a community—to devote oneself with passion and a tremendous feeling of commitment so that the society around you benefited from your presence, your knowledge, your expertise. On the one hand, there were these stirrings of the Independence movement taking place, while on the other, there was this kind of idealism, all of which made Bombay such an exhilarating place to be in!

With such thoughts crowding his mind, Ebrahim made his way back home, walking through streets that were emptied out by now. There was a lightness in his step—he felt he was shedding his old life and was being nourished, not by the ideals and ideas of his parents and teachers, but directly by participating through his own experiences. This feeling was entirely new to him. His step quickened and he broke into a run, with street after street passing him by in a blur. ‘I love you, Bombay! I just love you!’ he belted out. The exhaustion of the long day simply vanished and he was filled with renewed vigour.

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