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 school-mates. I used to be very shy and avoided all company. My books and my lessons were my sole companions. To be at school at the stroke of the hour and to run back home as soon as the 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 occurred 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 was
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
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 of 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
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
Sharavana's devotion to his parents). I read it with intense interest.
There came to our place about the same time 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.