It is no surprise that Mandiba and Gandhiji
became close confidantes in heaven. They both stood for doing what is right
even when it was hard, treating every human being with dignity, and believing
that justice must apply to everyone, even those you disagree with.
So they made it a point to meet for tea every
now and then. They would sit quietly under a wide tree, cups in hand, and look
down at the earth below. From there, they could see cities glowing at night,
borders drawn and redrawn, leaders speaking, crowds marching.
Like two old friends who had once carried the
weight of nations on their shoulders, they would talk about the world they had
left behind.
Today was Gandhiji’s turn to host.
He prepared the tea the way it is done on the
streets of India where he once walked. Strong. Boiled with milk. Touched with
ginger. Poured back and forth to cool before serving. The steam rose gently
into the still air of heaven.
Mandiba arrived with his familiar warm smile.
“You look serious today, my friend,” he said,
taking the cup.
Gandhiji nodded. He stirred his tea slowly,
paused for a while, then stirred it again.
“Yes, Mandiba,” he replied softly. “Something
is troubling my heart.”
Mandiba waited, giving Gandhiji the space to
speak when he was ready.
“It is about Modi… and where he is leading
India,” he continued.
“He speaks of Jews finding refuge in India
centuries ago. Of no history of antisemitism in Indian civilisation. Of
cultural respect between Hindus and Jews.” He paused and took a sip of the tea.
It was still too hot.
“That part is true,” he continued. “India gave
refuge. We did not persecute Jews. That is something I am proud of.”
Gandhiji looked at Mandiba’s face, searching
for any reaction. Mandiba, knowing it was not yet his time to speak, simply
said, “Go on.”
“Offering refuge to a persecuted people is
noble. Supporting policies that displace another people is different,” Gandhiji
said, his voice firmer now. Mandiba could feel the pain behind his words.
Mandiba then asked gently, “Have you spoken
with Maulana Azad and Jawaharlal about this?”
“No. Not yet,” Gandhiji replied. “I thought I
would speak to you first. I am sure Maulana would be very unhappy.”
Mandiba pressed his palms together and said,
“Let me play devil’s advocate for a moment.”
“Modi frames it as strategic partnership.
Defense cooperation. Technology. Counter-terrorism. Especially after October
7.”
He took a sip of tea before continuing.
“The world changed after October 7. Security
language now dominates.”
He looked at Gandhiji carefully.
“When you spoke of Palestine, there was no
state of Israel yet. It was before the Nakbah. But Israel exists now. That is
reality. The question is how to secure justice within that reality.”
Gandhiji looked down, sad but steady.
“I know that after me, Jawaharlal supported a
two-state solution. Yet the tone today is no longer what it was under him. Modi
now speaks much more openly in support of Israel.”
He paused.
“You know, Mandiba, if I were still alive, I
would never agree to taking land away from the Palestinians. I was clear then,
and I am just as sure now. A homeland cannot be imposed through power. Empire
cannot manufacture moral legitimacy.”
Mandiba gave a gentle smile.
“You were always harder on governments than I
was.”
Gandhiji laughed softly.
“I condemned violence in my time. I would
condemn the killing of civilians today, whoever commits it. But justice cannot
be selective.”
“I would drink to that,” Mandiba said, lifting
his cup. They gently touched their cups together and sipped. Then they sat in
silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.
Mandiba finally broke the silence.
“Do you think India has betrayed you?”
There was a long pause. Gandhiji took his
time.
“No nation is permanently pure,” he said
slowly. “But when the oppressed look for a moral voice and do not clearly hear
it from India… that troubles me.”
Mandela waited.
Gandhiji’s final words were calm, but heavy.
“I am not proud of the India I died for with
its current behaviour.”
Peace, anas
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