sistent with your size.” When I got to my mango at the end of the meal, he handed me a homespun napkin. I said, “When in Rome I want to do as the Romans do and not be an exception.”
“You are,” he replied, “and besides I have a napkin too.”
At three in the afternoon I walked over to Gandhi’s house for my interview. Desai and an other secretary were on the floor writing replies to letters received by Gandhi. Kurshed took over the fan. I noticed a second decoration in the room: a dull-colored picture of a religious procession painted on the mud wall of the room. Also, on the wall behind Gandhi’s back were shallow reliefs of a palm tree and of a palm leaf on which was in scribed a large figure resembling the Arabic numeral three. This, Desai explained to me, was a religious symbol called “Ohm” which had the same significance as the Greek “logos.”
Gandhi came in, greeted me, and lay down on his bed. “I will take your blows lying down,” he said. The Moslem woman gave him a wet mud pack for his abdomen. He said, “This puts me in touch with my future.” I said nothing, and after a moment he remarked, “I see you missed that one.” I told him I hadn’t missed it, but thought he was too young to think about returning to the dust.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you and I and all of us, some in a hundred and twenty years, but all sooner
