He is the Mahatma, a man the world venerates as a prophet of peace. But for Kastur, the child bride who married the boy next door, Mohandas was a sexually driven, self-righteous and overbearing husband.
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was sworn to poverty, celibacy and the cause of India's freedom; Kastur spent sixty-two years of her life juggling the roles of a devoted wife, a satyagrahi and a sacrificing mother, who was eclipsed because of a man who almost became God for India's multitude. Gandhi was an intolerant father to Harilal, his wayward son; Kasturba paid the price for her son's unending misery.
Kastur is long dead, but she lives on in the pages of her diary.
In this gripping tale, Neelima Dalmia Adhar tells her story and what it meant to be Kasturba Gandhi, wife of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.
She lives in Delhi with her husband, children and two grandchildren.
Inside this dank prison where I lie, there is an overpowering smell of death. It nauseates me. It hovers over me like a dark shadow and casts an ashen film over my wasting body. I feel a continuous trembling in my bones, my life ebbing out. My breathing is shallow and weak. A burning fever rages from my toes to my skull. It has set my eyeballs on fire. With each laboured breath, a knife turns inside my ribs and air rushes out in gasping sounds from my slackened mouth.
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