I was up early and took a tonga with Gandhi’s dentist for Sevagram, the village which is Gandhi’s home when he is not in jail. The dentist said that England had been “an understanding master.” I tried to make him talk about Gandhi. He insisted on talking politics.
The tonga stopped. I jumped out and there stood a tall, brown-and-white figure—Gandhi. I walked towards him with long, quick steps. He held his hand on the shoulders of two women who walked on either side of him. His thin brown legs were bare up to his loincloth. Leather sandals on his feet; a cape of cheesecloth around his shoulders; a folded white kerchief on his head. He said, “Mr. Fischer,” with an English accent, and we shook hands. He greeted the dentist, turned about, and I followed him to a flat, thick board resting on two metal trestles. He sat down, put his hand on the board, and said, “Sit down.” He said, “Jawaharlal has told me about your book and the type
