All his actions revealed the depth of conviction he had: the strict silence he observed once a week, communicating only in writing even when he was participating in an international consultation; waiting for the inner voice to speak before directing the national movement he was building; ordering withdrawal from all political actions and apologizing to the nation for the government when an upsurge of national pride seemed to infringe on the value systems he propagated.

I had the privilege of attending the evening prayer meetings that were held at the Birla house at the close of his earthly life—the place at which he was assassinated a few days later. At exactly 5:00p.m. he would walk out of the house, supported on both sides by two ladies who were his disciples. He would sit in a yoga posture at a low table spread with a plain khadi sheet. He would remain very quiet and allow the choir to sing one of his favourite bhajans accompanied by Indian musical instruments. Then a passage from scripture would then be read—from the Bible, Gita, or Koran. Gandhi would give a simple and clear exposition of the passage—applying it to himself as much as to others. There would be a short period of silence. Then there would be a chance for people to ask Gandhi questions.

While I was attending the meeting, the questions were raised mainly by deeply agitated Hindus who had lost everything, including their dear ones, in the violence they had suffered. They would ask Gandhi permission to declare war. With raised hands he would plead with them to have restraint, to forgive, and to love. It was clear that he spoke with great pain, his shoulders drooping as if he were carrying all their burdens himself. It was the same impression that I had had when I had seen him in the midst of violence in Calcutta a few months prior to this, before his walk through Navakali. The message was the same, “Love one another.” I was reminded of John, the beloved disciple of Jesus, giving the same message centuries earlier.

The two pivots around which Gandhi’s life revolved were faith in truth and nonviolence. For him both were identical. Truth to him, though he tried to deny it, was more personal than theoretical. He spoke of being led by truth, turning his soul to listen to the truth speaking, etc. He refused to give it a name, but Paul would have easily named it as he did in Athens long ago.

It was the same with nonviolence. It was not merely a political weapon but a philosophy of life. His whole life was dedicated to passive resistance and nonviolence—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Violence to him was a lie, a denial of truth.

Gandhi was transparent; there were no secrets with him. The police officer whose duty it was to watch him all the time and report to the authorities every move he made or planned to make in the political field, had the easiest of jobs, as Gandhi himself would call him and tell him all his plans in advance.

Gandhi’s simplicity was also a reflection of his nonviolence, because he felt that if he used anything more than was absolutely necessary, he would be robbing from a poorer brother or sister. Thus, when the King of England insisted on seeing him, Gandhi said he would go to Buckingham Palace in his usual attire—“the half-naked fakir.” When a journalist accosted him, asking him whether he did not feel ashamed, he replied promptly, “Your king is wearing more than double of what is needed, so I must go naked, as he has robbed me of my clothes.”

Insistence on an hour of manual labor daily by all his numerous followers was another of his expressions of nonviolence. The immediate effect of this was to end India’s dependence on British textiles, because of the production and use of khadi, the Indian homespun cloth. Gandhi taught that no one had the right to eat unless he had made himself one with the toiling masses, whose sweat and blood had produced the food.

To organize the uneducated and hard-pressed masses into a political force that threatened the mighty British Empire on moral and spiritual grounds was no small achievement.

Gandhi died as he lived: an offering at the altar of truth and nonviolence. I was in Delhi at the time, and witnessed the transformation that this sacrifice brought among the warring factions. While I was working in a refugee camp in Kurushetra, I was often perplexed by the bitter cry I heard daily for vengeance against the cruelties suffered. The news of Gandhi’s death brought about a radical change. Everybody was weeping and there was silence. “He has paid by his life for our bitterness,” was the unanimous cry. No shop opened that day in Delhi or the rest of India. People who had been hiding for fear of violence came out and embraced one another as brothers and sisters.

The change was not superficial, soon to be forgotten. That death has left an indelible mark on the history of our nation. I, too, shed tears of my own, not only because of Gandhi's death, but also because I was reminded intensely of another innocent death two thousand years ago, by which abundant life, a life of love and forgiveness, was made available to me, too.

Rev. Oommen, 84, is an Indian pastor who worked with Mahatma Gandhi and has devoted his life to serving the poor of India, particularly the tribal peoples. He lives in Vellore, where he works as a hospital chaplain