My Gandhi Memoir

From Sabarmati to Dandi-for a Grain of Salt

by Henry Sanders

It is a chilly March morning in Sabarmati, India. There is a knock on the front door of my house. I am lying on my meditation bed when I hear the banging. My maid answers the door on my behalf.

“Hello. We are here for Mr. Mahatma Karamchand Gandhi. He told us to come to his house on the twelfth. Today is the twelfth,” the men outside say. They sounded anxious, but also very excited.

“What is the occasion?” my maid asks skeptically.

“Did the Mahatma say nothing of the event? You now…‘The March’?” they reply-this time sounding very worried.

“I will have him speak to you. Just wait here. I will get him” she prepares to close the door on them.

“No need to, Miss Chakrabarti,” I interrupt. The men outside the door gasp and cluster around me.

“We don’t mean to be a hinderance to you Mahatama, but we all wish to go on the march with you,” they say as though they are in front of their favorite celebrity.

I was wearing a single piece of cloth that was covering my entire body. I had some withered and worn sandals on my feet and a staff in my left hand. I was ready for the march; and so were twenty of my closest followers.

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We have been traveling for the past 18 days and we have finally reached the town of Ankleshwar. Only 100 miles outside our destination town of Dandi, I have seen my crowds go from twenty people to five people to a hundred people. This march has received global coverage. Writers from all over have come to interview me about the march and why I started it. So why did I start the Salt March? What was I hoping to accomplish with it?

Ever since I was a born in 1862, the british government has had all ownership of India. This has caused a problem to many Indian people in many different ways. However, one of the worst  things that the English men have inflicted on  the Indian population are the taxes. The English government has taxed everything from shoes to food to salt. They have made being an Indian more expensive and difficult than it should be. So, my idea for the Salt March was to walk the 240 miles to Dandi. Dandi is where the salt works lie. Upon arrival, I will reach down and grab a handful of salt. This is a nonviolent protest and also a call to action for people all over the world to see.

I get out of my tent at the break of dawn. Twenty people hear me. They get out of their tents and follow me on the path. The path towards freedom.

“Mahatma. Mahatma. When is the march going to end?” a reporter asks me.

“The march will end when the English men agree to stop punishing the Indian people.”

“But sir…” the reporter persistently asks, stuffing his microphone in my face like he’s force feeding a pig.

“Enough. Now, we walk.”

As we walked, the group and I would sing songs, laugh, tell stories, pray. This march was a joyous occasion, not a glum protest. It is a peaceful march, meant to do nothing but receive recognition for our cause. There are only two men that have been with me for the entire trek. They asked not to have their names revealed in any speech or letter I was going to write that spoke of them. That is the only cowardly thing they have ever done. They are great men. Men who want nothing but to do right by their country.

As I look back at the withered crowd singing and telling stories, I can’t help but bless the Indian people and know that deep down, even if I die, this nonviolent way of life will succeed me. We are a gentle people, a kind people. Whatever happens to the protest is now in the hands of Rama. You, my friends, have done all there is to do.

The dirt road ahead of us is long and winding, but we will never give up-not on the march, not ever.

Three hours into the morning, we stop by a willow tree-pick up new followers, loose old ones. We will pray for the next fifteen minutes, then we will walk. We pray for you, Rama. We walk for the Indian people.