The Gandhi Hit

It was all set: the aim was taken, the target was identified, and the plan was going as expected. Everything seemed perfect, but something was drastically wrong. The assassin was the wrong person.

It was a fine Sunday morning- 31st January 1948. It usually is a normal day with common chores of life. But that day was special. The leader of India, Mohandas Gandhi, or better known to most as Mahatma Gandhi, was going to perform his evening prayers. It might not be special to most, but it was for some. A long- awaited conspiracy was going to be implemented.

Two weeks earlier, it was an even better Sunday at an old deserted building in Bombay. Inside of a small room, three men sat on a shabby sofa; one was on the chair in front.
“Janaab, Gandhi bhai is putting us into more and more problems.” said the first man decisively.
“Yes,” added the second one with reassurance, “he has currently won lot of support from the Hindus in Bharat and the Congress party is having their good days.”
“A threat to the Muslim League, I would say.” commented another on the topic.
The man on the chair was a stout but fierce looking fellow. Having a vivid personality, he was a member of the league but was indeed a corruptible one. It was known to everybody that he could resort to all sorts of tricks to achieve victory. Yet he was enduring something, but certainly he had something nasty in mind.
I was sitting outside the room, but was able to view the whole scene inside, and knew that shortly, someone was going to call me in.
“Maybe you’re right, and something has to be done about this.” answered the stout man for the first time, with a rather husky tone.
Immediately, I was called in, and it was easy to figure out why.
“Good morning, Mr. Imtiaz Gohar.” he said looking towards me, “You have to do a quite simple job for us. You see it might not be a tough task for you, but a rather important one for the country. On 31st of January, Gandhi Bhai is going to come for the evening prayers in the Birla House. He will be there with a considerable amount of people around him. Now comes your part. You will climb up the building next to it, so as to get a clear view of Mr. Gandhi.” He paused for a while to take a dramatic break.
“And then shoot him.” He added abruptly, which seemed to bring a sudden end to the plan. Of course, as a contract killer, this was a part of my profession, but why it hit me that way was probably because it was the first time I was going for such a great leader, a great personality, who seemed to be loved my masses.
“You see, it is not that easy after all.” He warned me with an alerting expression. “You will have to go all the way to the building top and stay there. Unpacking all your needed equipment, you will place your sniper there and aim at him. Beware; I want you to shoot him in the head. That bastard deserves a bloody head shot. Remember: make sure nobody sees you in any way, and you should not get caught at any cost. There will be enough security there, so take care. If, by any chance, you get caught, you should not reveal anything about us. This is the last time we are meeting and you will get your money after the job is done.”
After such a long description, all I got to say was a little “Yes, sir” to confirm my approval and understanding of the plan. Somewhere inside my mind, I sensed that this was not going to be an easy one.

That night, I drank till late night, and tried to recall boss’ exact words. The morning of the next day, I had to leave for New Delhi, where I would need to prepare for the plan and receive the weapon. In some way, I felt I was the victim instead of Gandhi- the victim of the long-raging rivalry between the Congress Party and the Muslim League. Being in need of money, I knew it was not a matter of choice for me. But taking the life of such a peace-loving person was surely not the cost.

The day had arrived- 31st January 1948, the big day for me. I was there at the coffee shop next to the Birla House, waiting for everybody to arrive. Gradually, night dawned upon the illuminated day, and the time for me to go approached. At first, I saw a clique of men going towards the Birla house, passing close from me, and I could hear them talk about Gandhi’s arrival soon. Quickly I began walking towards the building next to the Birla House. On my way, I could see a car in which Gandhi and some guards arrived. The plan had just begun.

It didn’t take me long to reach the top. From there, the aerial view seemed just perfect for the killing to take place. I could see the Gandhi-supporters gathered around the house, making an empty circle in between for the man himself to arrive. In moments, Gandhi arrived. As usual, he was wearing a dhoti and a white shawl on his body. He looked weak, probably because of the 6 day fast he had just broken two weeks ago. Soon, he was in the circle. This was the time. I quickly unpacked the sniper from my bag and placed it precisely on the boundary of the building, where it was facing Gandhi. Now, the prayer was about to start. I took out a revolver and kept it in my pockets, just in case. Bending forward, I placed my eyes on the lens and began taking my aim.

I could see Gandhi standing there but his view was partially blocked by some onlookers, so I adjusted myself. Slowly and carefully, I aimed at his head, as I was told. Gandhi was looking at his watch and said something, when a man in his path saluted him. Thus, Gandhi put his hand up to give him a blessing, which revealed his chest completely when his shawl went up. My fingers moved closer to the trigger, and everything seemed perfect, until the unthinkable occurred. A fairly stout man, in a black jacket, came forward out of the blue, and shot Gandhi. There were three shots, right into Mahatma Gandhi's chest. Gandhi immediately collapsed on the ground.

I was right there, at the top of the building, my fingers on the trigger, my aim on Gandhi, but I had not done a thing. The whole plan turned into a failure in seconds. Soon, the Gandhi-worshippers pounced on the assailant and bloodied him. Gandhi’s eyes were closed, and I was sure he was not going to live long. In my opinion, death was instantaneous, but to my surprise, he was still faintly alive, and immediately, people hurried and took him inside. Staying right in the position, I was one second short of success. I went back, still not being able to believe what had happened in just a matter of ten seconds.

The assassination of Mahatma Gandhi was followed by continual raging riots all over India. Many believed it was the work it was the work of the Muslims, but the killer revealed something else. Newspapers reported that after getting caught, he gave many aliases to people, but was actually booked under the name, Nathuram. Later, police revealed that some Hindus strongly disagreed with Gandhi’s hatred of violence, and he was among them. After the killing, he tried to kill himself but people took away his pistol and took him to a secret place to prevent lynching.

As for Gandhi, he was taken inside the Birla house to the second floor where he died shortly. He had received a death from his own people, a betrayal from the Hindus. Indeed the Muslim league had made the plan, but the opposition’s one was successful. In a way, our plan was successful too. Our target was eliminated and nobody suspected us. I didn’t contact boss after that, presuming the results beforehand. A man of such strength of character and such a great peace-lover had just received such a violent death. I regretted it myself, and cried that day on his death. Life continued the same way, more and more killings took place, and I was never suspected. But somewhere in my heart, I was deeply affected by this saying: A business that makes nothing but money is a poor kind of business.