Gandhi bows to Kaki’s tomb. The Mussalmans ask him, ‘Repeat our fateha.’ Gandhi raises his hands, recites: ‘In the name of Allah, The Beneficent, The Merciful.’ That makes him a Mussalman, does it not? If a Hindu were to kill him he would be reducing the population of the enemies of Hinduism by one.

Gandhi asks the Muslims to forgive the Hindus and Sikhs for breaking the marble screen. He tells them he has heard some very good news. One-hundred-and-thirty Hindus and Sikhs have been massacred by Mussalmans at Parachinar near Peshawar in Pakistan. He says it is good news because the Hindus and Sikhs showed ‘non-violent courage.’ I say shabash! Do you need any more evidence of Gandhi being our greatest enemy?

A man who has escaped a massacre of Hindus and Sikhs at Gujarat railway station tells the Old Fellow: ‘You have done enough harm. You have ruined us utterly. You ought now to leave us at once and retire to the Himalayas.’

‘I cannot retire at anybody’s orders,’ replies the Old Man. ‘I have put myself under God’s sole command.’

‘No,’ insists the refugee. ‘It is through us that God speaks to you. Our minds are crazed with grief.’

‘My grief is not less than yours,’ replies the great hypocrite.

How could you put sense into the skull of a man who keeps saying, ‘I am right, everyone else is wrong. Muslims are right, Hindus and Sikhs in the wrong.’ It is Friday. The date, the 30th of January. The day, the month and the year (1948) are printed on my mind like my name Ram Rakha is tattooed on my right arm.

I am sleeping on the sofa I have been using for the last many days. It feels like the coldest night of the year. The lights are switched on at 3 a.m. I get up. I slap my arms across my chest, jump up and down to get the ice out of my limbs. I go and defecate in the dry water drain outside the house. I wash my bottom at a hydrant in the garden and rinse my hands with mud. I tuck them under my armpits to prevent them from freezing. I go to see what the Old Man is up to. I say namaskar. He looks through his glasses and smiles at me. He drinks a glass of hot water spiked with honey and lime-juice. Then another glass of orange-juice. He tells people that he will live to be a hundred-and-twenty-six. That’s all he knows of God’s ways.

Before the sky turns grey he goes through his routine of hymns, recitation from holy books and meditation. With the sun come the crowds. It is a regular mela. Morning turns to afternoon. The crowd becomes bigger. Sardar Patel arrives with his daughter Maniben. He has a scowl on his face. She is pale, thin as a stick and looks as if she has never known a man or how to laugh. They spend a long time arguing about something with the Old Man. Gandhi who is never late is ten minutes behind time.