It is Sunday, 18 January. It is also the birthday of Guru Gobind Singh, the last of the Sikhs’ ten Gurus. The Mussalmans had killed his father, his sons, thousands of his followers and then murdered him. We had planned to celebrate the day by driving every remaining Muslim out of Delhi. Our chief had said, ‘Once we start it, the Sikhs are sure to join us.’ But as I said, the Ganga is flowing the wrong way. There are hundreds of thousands of Sikhs at Gurdwara Rikabganj where the Guru’s father’s body was cremated a hundred-and-seventy-two years ago. Amongst them are hundreds of Mussalmans paying homage to the Sikh’s holy book. The Old Fox says it is an auspicious day and since he’s got what he wanted he is going to break his fast. At 12.45 a.m. he takes a glass of orange-juice from the hands of the goatee-bearded Maulana Azad, says ‘Ram, Ram’ and drinks it up. The hypocrite! So the work we have done over the months, the blood we have spilled is undone by the Old Man in six days!

You can see how he enjoys his victory! Nehru comes running to congratulate him. He replies: ‘Live long and continue to be the Jawahar (jewel) of India.’ He has the sahib editor rung up to give up his fast because the battle has been won. In the afternoon, Mussalman women draped in their tent-like burqas arrive in shoals and say, ‘We’ve been fasting with you.’ The old fellow grins. ‘Oh, have you? Let me see your faces. No woman veils her face before her father. I am your Bapu.’ The burqa flaps are thrown back. The old lecher has a good look at the sallow-faced Mussalmannis. ‘This shows what real love can do,’ he says, very pleased with himself.

He rubs more salt in our wounds. He tells us Hindus and Sikhs to read the Quran.

In the afternoon the sky clouds over and it begins to rain. The gods in heaven shed tears at the fate of Bharat.

I don’t remember who started it but the boys are saying that the gods desire human sacrifice before they will restore dharma to its rightful place. The chief says that such honour is reserved for a Karmayogi who the Gita says must act without expectation of reward. What reward can anyone expect for such sacrifice except the gallows? However none of the Delhi boys is considered good enough for the task. One tried and failed.

It is two days after Gandhi has given up his fast. The prayer meeting is over. The Old Fox is at his usual buk buk about loving everyone including those who hate you and poke your mothers and sisters. There is a loud puttaakha. It must be the fart of a passing motor car, I say to myself. But there is smoke and Gandhi chelas running about as if Hanumanji has set fire to their tails. ‘Listen! Listen everybody!’ screams Gandhi. ‘If we panic like this over nothing, what shall be our plight if something really happens?’