Kinjal Ben stood up on her toes to look at herself closely for the first time in weeks in the forsaken oval mirror on the wall. She dipped her middle finger in her little sindoor pot and planted a big circular bindi in the middle of her broad forehead. Suddenly, her face shone, radiated by the little circular mirrors of the embroidery around her outfit’s neckline, and her brown eyes, lined with thick kajal, sparkled. Smiling at herself, she picked up her ornate silver hairpin and secured it among her tight braids. Nobody would notice it under the odhni covering her head, but she was sure that even a glimpse of it would tickle her husband. After all, Jignesh had given her this gift on their wedding night.

Jignesh was being released after a sentence of five months in prison for marching against the government’s practice of land grabbing and inflated agricultural taxes. Her father-in-law Radhey Shyam Parekh, Sasu Ma, Radha Rani, Bade Kakaji and other menfolk from their hamlet had left before dawn for the neighbouring Bardoli to escort him home with the sound of trumpets and great fanfare.

For the last four years, Jignesh had played a leading role in organising camps for impoverished farmers in Surat and Bardoli. Under the leadership of Vallabhbhai Patel, he had also helped in selecting the most prominent workers to serve as Senapatis. Jignesh had been assigned the responsibility of gathering the peasants together and apprising them of the irrational land revenue laws and the subsequent high taxes imposed on them, especially during severe droughts and repeated cycles of crop failure. Enduring the hardships of reviving barren lands, menfolk were struggling to keep their home fires burning. They were unable to comply with the laws and pay the taxes, but the government showed no consideration at all. The peasants revolted against these arbitrary regulations and the oppressive behaviours of the tax collectors. In return, the officials confiscated their lands and seized their cattle. Many of the protestors had to protect their cattle by keeping them hidden inside their houses.

Jignesh helped the peasants when government officials impounded their land and snatched their cattle. He appealed to the people who gave in to the pressure of government notices to stay strong, prompted the farmers not to yield before authority, and not to submit to the unfair demands of the British government. Night after night, he would go from door to door, assuring people that the government would have to change their policy if they remained firm and returned their lands and their cattle. People of different communities and religions banded together in this crusade against oppression.

Jignesh even brought landless farmers of the rural hinterland into his campaign, persuading them to embrace the principles of Mahatma Gandhi and Vallabhbhai Patel. He stressed that protesting against unjust laws in a non-violent manner would force the officials to realise how prejudiced and unfair their practices were.

One night, as he was distributing notices of the campaign, Jignesh was arrested by government officials determined to crack down on the rebels.

For Kinjal, the last five months had been the longest period of separation from her husband since their marriage. It wasn’t just Kinjal who was looking forward to his return – the entire household was bustling with renewed energy, waiting to welcome the oldest son of the Parekh family back home. Everything in the house was polished and decked up, as if for a festival – even the corner leaf mat reserved for Paati, the mother goat from their herd, and her week-old kid.

Kinjal had cooked her husband’s favourite bhakri-shak and khichdi. During mealtimes, he would always want a second helping, pleading with her by sniffing hungrily and casting zealous glances at her. As she paused dreamily on those bright memories, her hand slid through her hair to feel the silver clip, and she quickly hid it under her odhni again, as if keeping a sacred secret safe.

She had arranged the latest posters and pamphlets along with his logbooks for him to examine on a pile of tin boxes – a makeshift study table arrangement – and carefully secured the liberty literature inside a trunk. In the family, only her husband, Bade Kakaji and she could read and keep everyone updated on what was happening around them. During her husband’s absence, Kinjal had kept herself well informed about the ongoing land revenue raids and the atrocities committed by the officers. She felt herself getting increasingly drawn to the principles of satyagraha, like many others, given the growing popularity of non-violent protests and demonstrations, even as arrests of emerging leaders kept happening. There was a lot to share with her husband, she thought, smiling to herself. Just then, her sister-in-law, Jigna, ran into the house, screaming, “Mota Bhabhi, Mota Bhabhi!”

“What is it … I’m coming!” answered Kinjal, picking up her two-year-old son, Vishwa, from the bed and running out through the thatched veranda to the courtyard. Jigna was standing by the open wooden door of the entrance.

“Bapuji, Haresh Bhai, Banevi …” Jigna murmured, staring into the distance, pointing to the men trudging homeward wearily on the sun-soaked path.

“Already!” Kinjal wondered and ran out of the main door. She could see the small cluster of family members and the neighbours who had gone along to fetch her husband some distance away. Peering at each person, she searched for Jignesh, but she couldn’t spot him. Pulling up her child and settling him on her torso, she hurried towards the gathering, her eyes skimming through every face again as the realisation of his absence froze her heart. She ran recklessly, stopping right in front of her father-in-law. “Bapuji!” she called in a shaky voice.

“All is well, my dhikri!” he said and quickly reported, “they refused his release today.”

Her eyes widened, raising a torrent of questions, but soon lowered, feeling let down with despair. Bapuji patted her head fondly, explaining, “He was detained because he let out the herd of confiscated cattle to graze earlier than usual.”

“No … what! Shame on the police,” she blurted out. For a moment, she remained silent, then said, “In one sweep, they grabbed away the cattle from grazing. Our Kajri is in custody, and Narayan Bhai’s Shyama, Dhara Ben’s Jooni, Hetal Kaki’s Gulabi … and … a—” She stuttered with loud hiccups and finally burst into tears.

“Shush, my valiant dhikri!” Bapuji said affectionately. “Come, come, Jignesh will come back soon, they can’t hold him forever. These are mere displays of frustration by the gora sahibs against the strength of our will.”

The group quietly dispersed to their homes in the little hamlet atop the rocky mound amidst the long stretches of barren fields. Kinjal waited on the track at the head of the incline for her Sasu Ma and Kaki Ma, who trailed slowly into the house, crestfallen. Inside, the cheer that had infused everything minutes ago lay deflated.

A distant rickety clatter of horse hooves appeared, paused for a while, and then faded away gradually. Kinjal did not care. At that moment, even the strange sound of horse hooves echoing through the wilderness of her village did not attract her attention. But soon, she heard hurried footsteps racing closer. Now alert, she stepped out into the courtyard. The wooden doors burst open, and Kakaji and Mamaji stumbled in, panting heavily from their run from the main road.

“Mota Bhai, Mota Bhai, they have found us, they have found us, finally,” cried Kakaji frantically.

“What … What happened?” asked Bapuji.

“My friend, Chotelal from Navsari, is an Arzi-nawiz. He drafts applications and official documents at the Bardoli courts. He’s the one who told me the details. He dropped us down the road in his horse-cart,’ said Kakaji. ‘He said that the cultivated rural land around Mahuva, our little hamlet, right up to Tarkeshwar will be confiscated under the land revenue rules, and the property, the homes you live in, will be seized until all the dues are paid.”

“The only solution is to vacate our village before they come,” said Bapuji. “If they don’t find the residents, how will they give the court notices for seizing our farms, our crops and our homes …”

“They can’t stick notices on our houses because they won’t know which house belongs to whom. None of us pastes our titles or names on our houses, since all the neighbours know who lives where,” said Kakaji.

“They’ll be here tomorrow, so we have to leave tonight,” warned Mamaji.

“Where will we hide?” asked Jigna’s mother from the kitchen door, sounding panicked. She hurriedly joined the menfolk in the veranda, nervously twisting the end of her odhni around her fingers. Bapuji stepped closer to her, massaging her shoulders to soothe her. Kinjal immediately stepped forward from the corner, where she had been pouring water for her father-in-law to wash his feet after his journey.

Excerpted with permission from Warriors of Non-Violence: Stories of Freedom Fighters Who Chose Peace, Ira Saxena, HarperCollins India.

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