2. CHILDHOOD :

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY:
THE STORY OF MY EXPERIMENTS WITH TRUTH

by Mohandas K. Gandhi

PART ONE

2. CHILDHOOD :



I must have been about seven when my father left Porbandar for Rajkot, to become a member
of the Rajasthanik Court. There I was put into a primary school, and I can well recollect those
days, including the names and other particulars of the teachers who taught me. As at Porbandar,
so here, there is hardly anything to note about my studies. I could have been only a mediocre
student. From this school I went to the suburban school and thence to the high school, having
already reached my twelfth year. I do not remember having ever told a lie, during this short
period, either to my teachers or to my schoolmates. I used to be very shy and avoided all
company. My books and my lessons were my sole companions. To be at school at that stroke of
the hour and to run back home as soon as school closed--that was my daily habit. I literally ran
back, because I could not bear to talk to anybody. I was even afraid lest anyone should poke fun
at me.



There is an incident which occured at the examination during my first year at the high school,
and which is worth recording. Mr. Giles, the Educational Inspector, had come on a visit of
inspection. He had set us five words to write as a spelling exercise. One of the words was 'kettle'.
I had mis-spelt it. The teacher tried to prompt me with the point of his boot, but I would not be
prompted. It was beyond me to see that he wanted me to copy the spelling from my neighbour's
slate, for I had thought that the teacher was there to supervise us against copying. The result that
all the boys except myself were found to have spelt every word correctly. Only I had been stupid.
The teacher tried later to bring this stupidity home to me, but without effect. I never could learn
the art of 'copying'.



Yet the incident did not in the least diminish my respect for my teacher. I was, by nature, blind
to the faults of elders. Later I came to know many other failings of this teacher, but my regard for
him remained the same. For I had learnt to carry out the orders of elders, not to scan their
actions.



Two other incidents belonging to the same period have always clung to my memory. As a rule I
had a distaste for any reading beyond my school books. The daily lessons had to be done,
because I disliked being taken to task by my teacher as much as I disliked deceiving him.
Therefore I would do the lessons, but often without my mind in them. Thus when even the
lessons could not be done properly, there was of course no question of any extra reading. But
somehow my eyes fell on a book purchased by my father. It was Shravana Pitribhakti Nataka (a
play about Shravana's devotion to this parents). I read it with intense interest. There came to our
place about the same time [some] itinerant showmen. One of the pictures I was shown was of
Shravana carrying, by means of slings fitted for his shoulders, his blind parents on a pilgrimage.
The book and the picture left an indelible impression on my mind. 'Here is an example for you to
copy,' I said to myself. The agonized lament of the parents over Shravana's death is still fresh in
my memory. The melting tune moved me deeply, and I played it on a concertina which my father
had purchased for me.



There was a similar incident connected with another play. Just about this time, I had secured
my father's permission to see a play performed by a certain dramatic company. This play--
Harishchandra--captured my heart. I could never be tired of seeing it. But how often should I be
permitted to go? It haunted me and I must have acted Harishchandra to myself times without
number. 'Why should not all be truthful like Harishchandra?' was the question I asked myself day
and night. To follow truth and to go through all the ordeals Harishchandra went through was the
one ideal it inspired in me. I literally believed in the story of Harishchandra. The thought of it all
often made me weep. My commonsense tells me today that Harishchandra could not have been
a historical character. Still both Harishchandra and Shravana are living realities for me, and I am
sure I should be moved as before if I were to read those plays again today.