Part 2: A Prisoner’s Truth
Despite opposition, Gandhi insists on visiting Nathuram Godse in prison. Their meeting is fraught with tension as Godse defends his actions and ideology. Gandhi’s plea for compassion deeply unsettles Godse, but the seeds of hatred run deep.
The clanging of metal gates echoed through the narrow corridors of Tihar Jail as Gandhi walked slowly, his staff clicking softly against the stone floor. Abha and Manu trailed behind, their protests muted by the grim determination etched on Gandhi’s face. Outside, police officers lined the hall, their hands resting nervously on their holstered pistols.
“Bapu,” Manu whispered urgently, glancing at the locked cells around them. “This man does not deserve your mercy. He would kill you again if given the chance.”
“And if I were to deny him compassion,” Gandhi replied without turning, “would I be any less guilty than he?”
Manu fell silent, her fists clenched tightly. Abha placed a calming hand on her shoulder, though her own expression betrayed her unease.
At the end of the corridor, Nathuram Godse sat in a dimly lit cell, his hands bound but his posture defiant. The harsh light of a single bulb cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the unyielding set of his mouth. As Gandhi stepped closer, Godse’s dark eyes locked onto his, unflinching.
The jailer unlocked the cell door, standing back as Gandhi entered. The air inside was heavy, almost stifling, but Gandhi’s expression remained calm.
“Do you know why I am here?” Gandhi asked, his voice gentle.
Godse leaned back, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “To scold me for my sins? Or to lecture me about your sacred ‘truth’?”
“No,” Gandhi replied, lowering himself onto a wooden stool. “I am here to listen.”
Godse’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. He studied Gandhi’s frail figure, his bandaged chest, and the unwavering serenity in his eyes.
“You want to understand me?” Godse said bitterly. “What is there to understand? You are a traitor to Hindus. You have coddled Muslims, weakened our nation, and turned us into slaves under your so-called peace.”
Gandhi nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “And yet, here I sit before you, unharmed by your words. Tell me, Nathuram, do you believe violence has made you stronger?”
“It has made me free,” Godse snapped. “Free from your lies, your cowardice.”
“Is that so?” Gandhi asked, leaning forward slightly. “And yet I see no freedom in your eyes. Only anger. Only pain.”
For a moment, Godse’s jaw tightened, his composure slipping. He looked away, his fists clenching at his sides. “I did what was necessary. Your death would have saved India.”
Gandhi’s gaze softened, and he sighed. “Ah, but you are mistaken. My death would not save India. Nor will your hatred. What you call necessity is merely fear. And fear is the enemy of truth.”
Godse’s voice rose, trembling with emotion. “You think you’re some saint, don’t you? But you’re wrong. You are nothing but a stubborn old man clinging to dreams that will destroy us all.”
Gandhi smiled faintly. “If that is how you see me, Nathuram, then I am grateful. For in your anger, you reveal your own humanity. And where there is humanity, there is hope.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Godse stared at him, his expression unreadable, as though searching for something he could not name. But before he could speak again, the jailer stepped forward.
“Time’s up,” the man said gruffly. “We must go.”
Gandhi rose slowly, his movements deliberate. He turned to Godse one last time, his voice soft. “You are not my enemy, Nathuram. I pray one day you will see that.”
Godse said nothing as Gandhi left the cell, his footsteps fading into the corridor. Alone in the dim light, Godse sat motionless, his mind a storm of thoughts.
Epilogue: The Final Breath
A second assassination attempt succeeds, and Gandhi succumbs to his injuries. His death triggers nationwide mourning but also intensifies divisions within the country. Decades later, his legacy remains contested, a reminder of the fragile balance between love and hate.
Months later, on a cold January evening, the world mourned as Mahatma Gandhi’s life came to an end. The assassin’s second bullet struck true, piercing his chest during a crowded prayer meeting. As he collapsed, his final words were a whispered plea: “He Ram.”
The streets of India erupted in chaos. Crowds gathered outside Birla House, their cries of grief mingling with shouts of anger. In some corners, Gandhi was hailed as a martyr; in others, his death was met with cold indifference. Refugee camps burned, protests erupted, and political factions clashed in the wake of his loss.
In the years that followed, Gandhi’s image became a symbol of both unity and division. Statues were erected in his honor, and his teachings of nonviolence inspired movements across the globe. Yet, within India, his legacy remained a battleground. Some revered him as the Father of the Nation; others condemned him as a misguided idealist.
In a dusty prison cell, Nathuram Godse awaited his execution. As the noose tightened around his neck, he whispered a single line: “History will judge us both.”
Decades later, in a classroom filled with young students, a teacher held up a photograph of Gandhi, his hands clasped in prayer. “What do you see?” she asked.
A boy in the back raised his hand. “I see a man who tried to change the world.”
The teacher nodded, her voice heavy with meaning. “And did he succeed?”
The boy hesitated, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”
The teacher smiled faintly, her gaze drifting to the photograph. “Perhaps that’s the truest answer of all.”
And so, the story of Mahatma Gandhi ended—not as a resolution, but as a question. One that India, and the world, would carry for generations to come.