At 9 pm, Mahatmaji’s body was laid on a plain bier and carried to the terrace of Birla House. It was placed at one end, propped up in a slanting position with floodlights on it to make it visible to the crowds below. Then we descended and had his darshan. Cries of ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki jai’ rent the air. People wept, but quietly. After their darshan, they left in an orderly file. People wondered who could have done such a dastardly act. My husband feared that things could get bad for us Punjabis since “it is probable that a Punjabi refugee did this”. When news came that it was a Maharashtrian Hindu who was responsible, there was widespread relief. The next morning we gathered at Birla House along with lakhs of others. At 11.30 am, the cortege was brought out on a gun carriage decorated with flowers and the national and Congress flags. Mahatmaji’s granddaughters, Manu and Abha; Devdas, his son; Gandhiji’s close companions, Sushila Nayar and Sucheta Kirpalani sat by their Bapu, singing his favourite bhajans.

We also sang as we walked behind the cortege pulled by army personnel. Through Queensway, Kingsway, up to the Memorial Arch we went; but we were too tired to continue to the Yamuna Ghat, where Gandhiji was cremated at 4 pm. It was a day of mourning for the world. The following day, we returned to Birla House to see the spot where Gandhiji had fallen to the assassin’s bullets. It had become hallowed ground. My sister collected some of the earth, tying it carefully in her handkerchief. For 13 days we continued to visit Birla House every day for prayers. Mahatmaji was not there, but we could feel his spirit, especially when the congregation sang ‘Ishwar Allah tere Naam, sab ko sanmati de Bhagwan...’

... contd.