Declaration of Independence
In famed "Lahore the Golden," capital of the Punjab, ancient seat of the Mogul Sultan "Akbar the Magnificent," there stood on a muddy sidewalk last week, with a grin of amazement and recognition on his round red face, His Majesty's Mr. Constable Sean O'Rourke.
A wild familiar Irish tune was in the air. It shrilled and banged from the oriental instruments of an outlandish procession. First on a white charger rode Pandit Motilal Nehru, President of the Indian National Congress, followed by 20 elephants magnificently caparisoned. Next came famed Mahatma Gandhi, a wizened, self-starved little saint, wearing as his only garment a skimpy loin cloth—the most adored and potent man in India.
Following Mr. Gandhi came a rabble of marchers, many of them as reedy looking as the Mahatma, all stepping briskly to the stirring air which Mr. Constable Sean O'Rourke was now bellowing in a rich Dublin tenor:
. . ." 'Tis the most distrustful country That ever yet was seen! They're hanging men and women For the wearing of the green. "
What could be more appropriate? The Nationalists are in effect the Irish of India—except that they lack Irish brawn and humor.
Now they were marching 80,000 strong to "The Wearing of the Green" out of Lahore and along the green left bank of the River Ravi to an enormous, amazing Congress camp surrounded by a barricade consisting of 13,000 worn-out railway cars.
Even with 500 British special constables skulking outside, the 80,000 Nationalists (physically weak and mentally timid though they are) felt safe behind their barricade. They had met with the announced purpose of committing High Treason en masse, assembled as did 65 American colonists in 1776 to defy a British sovereign with a Declaration of Independence. Only 3,000 of them were official delegates but all 80,000 shrilled applause as Pandit Nehru cried: "We are now in open conspiracy to free India."
Year ago the Nationalists met in Calcutta and resolved this ultimatum: If the British
Parliament does not grant India Dominion status with a legal Indian Parliament before Dec. 31, 1929, then the Indian National Congress will proclaim civil resistance to the British raj (rule).
Since that defy, despite the would-be liberal policy of James Ramsay MacDonald, the Prime Minister's hands have been tied by opposition in the House of Commons, and the British Government has in fact done nothing to meet Indian aspirations. There have been commissions of investigation, soothing statements by the Viceroy, and several bombings, but nothing definite.
With their ultimatum in effect rejected, the Indian National Congress was at zero hour last week when Mr. Gandhi, attended by ascetic gentlemen in white loin cloths and lean ladies in pink girdles, squatted down cross-legged on the rostrum and announced that the executive committee of the Congress had adopted unanimously his draft Declaration of Independence and would put it to vote after suitable debate. As the debate began, the weather turned bitter cold. Mr. Gandhi drew a piece of cloth over his shoulders and sat quiet, knitting something woolen.