The crowd is bigger than ever. The regulars strut about looking very important; besides them there are lots of others including whites and some Negroes as well. Though it is still Monday, Gandhi is yakking away. I push through the crowd and get nearer him. Lots of chaps scribbling in their notebooks. Lots of questions to flatter the Old Man to show how concerned they are.

His son, Dev Das, is also there and the two go at each other. The son calls the father impotent. The father calls the son’s thinking impotent and superficial, then tells him to mind his own business. You can see the father and son don’t like each other. Gandhi does not like any of his three sons.

‘I claim that God has inspired this fast,’ repeats the old humbug many times to many people. ‘No human agency has ever been known to thwart nor will it ever thwart Divine Will.’

I do not think this is worth reporting so I go home to get a good night’s sleep.

Next morning there are more policemen and soldiers about Birla House than ever before. And more newspaper chaps. And Nehru and Patel and Maulana Azad and Sheikh Abdullah of Kashmir. I gather they are planning demonstrations in Gandhi’s favour. I rush to the headquarters, make my report and am back in Birla House.

There is a prayer meeting at 11.30 a.m. It begins with the Old Man’s (and my) favourite hymn:

He who feels the pain of others
Is truly a man of God.

Susheilaji sings something in English. I don’t like the way she imitates white women’s whoo, whoo, whoo. Then comes the hymn about God being both Ishwar and Allah. The Old Man speaks into the microphone. He tells the Muslims he is fasting for them. He tells the Kaskmiris he is fasting for Kashmir. And he tells God he is fasting because God told him to fast. Even now he is on lime and orange-juice.

In the evening our chief sends three busloads of refugees to Birla House. They march up from one end of the road chanting ‘Khoon ka badla khoon sey lengey (We will avenge blood with blood).’ Nehru looks up but says nothing. They chant: ‘Gandhi Buddha murdabad (Death to Old Gandhi).’ Nehru becomes like one possessed of the jinn. He rushes towards them flailing his arms. ‘Who dares to say Gandhi murdabad?’ he demands. ‘Let him who dares repeat those words in my presence. He will have to kill me first.’ He vents him temper, glowering at everyone. Then he drives off in his limousine, followed by a jeepload of armed policemen.