Mahondas Gandhi woke up at dinner
in old Delhi with Barack Obama. Mandela
had arranged it, since Obama
was unsettled by the recent raid in Yemen
in which his US commandos killed
ten Yemenis, a child and, of course,
the hostages. ‘One hostage – the South African –’
said Obama, ‘was being released next day
through a patient NGO but, anyway, I thought
it would be like Bin Laden and I’d gain
some respect after losing Congress. I think I’ve lost
my way, Mr Gandhi, and I’d lost
my hope of meeting you.’ He hated,
instantly, his own success at charm.
Gandhi shared an orange, to explain: ‘The problem
with a just war is that you have to win.
My philosophy allows the possibility
of loss, indeed it welcomes
losses, sometimes as a reason to go on.’
There are no eyes kinder than the Indian.
‘But I have to go on’, said Obama. His
hands tightened together, became
linked fists on the tablecloth. ‘I span
the tablecloth’, soothed Gandhi proudly,
fingers playing at his mouth as soft as moths.
They drank the milk of his little goat,
who nestled at his feet. ‘I bring her everywhere,’
said Mahondas – ‘she is my companion,
and, too, I do not trust in other milk. You are
a little frightened, too, I think,
of strangers?’ Obama thought: well, yes,
but you were shot by one. He just said,
‘Everyone is strange to an American. I
wish sometimes I had been Kenyan: they seem
so much more resigned to the human race. Instead,
I find I’m wedging China.’
Charm, charm, that’s all I’ve ever done
and maybe some mild medical reform. ‘I
wanted to be Roosevelt, but I’m the man
who finally shot Bin Laden. No one
says Roosevelt was the man who finally
shot Hitler.’ ‘But he did,’ said Gandhi,
‘allow Pearl Harbour. That is a little like
what I did. Violence that they try
against you turns into a weapon
you can use against them, always.’ ‘But
doesn’t that create it, make a space
for it to happen?’ The milk was as sweet
as human milk, and the fruit
they ate more fine than any final meat.
‘You may be
a bright man, but you do not spin’, said Gandhi.