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STUDENTS' PROJECTS > THE STORY OF MY LIFE > PART VI : BACK IN SOUTH AFRICA > Simple Life

 

26. Simple Life

The washerman's bill was heavy, and as he was besides by no means noted for his punctuality, even two to three dozen shirts and collars proved insufficient for me. Collars had to be changed daily and shirts, if not daily, at least every alternate day. This meant a double expense, which appeared to me unnecessary. So I equipped myself with a washing outfit to save it. I bought a book on washing, studied the art and taught it also to my wife. This no doubt added to my work, but its novelty made it a pleasure. I shall never forget the first collar that I washed myself. I had used more starch than necessary, the iron had not been made hot enough, and for fear of burning the collar I had not pressed it sufficiently. The result was that, though the collar was fairly stiff, the superfluous starch continually dropped off it. I went to court with the collar on, thus inviting the ridicule of brother barristers, but even in those days I could be indifferent to ridicule.

“Well,” said I, “this is my first experience at washing my own collars and hence the loose starch. But it does not trouble me, and then there is the advantage of providing you with so much fun.”

“But surely, there is no lack of laundries here ?” asked a friend. “The laundry bill is very heavy,” said I. “The charge for washing a collar is almost as much as its price, and even then there is the eternal dependence on the washerman. I prefer by far to wash my things myself.”

In the same way, as I freed myself from slavery to the washerman, I threw off dependence on the barber. All people who go to England learn there at least the art of shaving, but none, to my knowledge, learn to cut their own hair. I had to learn that too. I once went to an English hair-cutter in Pretoria. He contemptuously refused to cut my hair. I certainly felt hurt, but immediately purchased a pair of clippers and cut my hair before the mirror. I succeeded more or less in cutting the front hair, but I spoiled the back. The friends in the court shook with laughter.

“What's wrong with your hair, Gandhi? Rats have been at it ?”

“No. The white barber would not condescend to touch my black hair,” said I, “so I preferred to cut it myself, no matter how badly.”

The reply did not surprise the friends.

The barber was not at fault in having refused to cut my hair. There was every chance of his losing his customers, if he should serve black men. We do not allow our barbers to serve our ‘untouchable’ brethren. I got the reward of this in South Africa, not once, but many times, and the conviction that it was the punishment for our own sins saved me from becoming angry.