The December Dream
When the trees danced to the tune of the wind, the dead moon cast no light and its body hid in the dark clouds. The wind howled as the fog spread over like growing despair and the cold wind of December knocked on the footsteps of my door growing louder each time it was denied entry. Two men sat under a grand chandelier of sparkling rubies and diamonds, a roaring fire just a few feet in front of them. One of the men was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi; the other was me, sitting across from him on a red cherry wood mahogany table—both of us wearing classic Indian attire. We were discussing his desire for the freedom of India—which intrigued me, since many have perfectly as if we could read each other’s minds. The cold of the marble floor touched both of our feet but we remained silent and unmoving, too caught up in our discussion, as if immune to everything else outside the room. I asked him about the hardships he had faced when fighting for India. He answered back after a slow sip of his hot and steamy tomato soup, “The troubles were many.” His short answer left my mouth agape and my mind pensive. I decided to change the subject since I could see he was troubled. I said, “We both know how famous you were as a nonviolent protestor, but before that did you have any dreams or hopes? Did you think that your future would have been different if you decided not to even question the British Empire?” He replied, “Yes. In fact, I wanted to be a lawyer. I studied law in London and was on a course to practice in South America until I encountered so much discrimination there against Indian people.”
At this point, I was distracted by the sizzling sound of Chicken Tequila fettuccini— its aroma called out to me as birds to nectar. As one of my auxiliary placed the fettuccini on the table, Gandhi politely declined since he was a vegetarian. I had prepared a special dish in advance for him called “Rajma Chawal,” one of the Indian food specialties. He was very appreciative and the many exotic spices within the dish.
The discussion continued, me asking the questions, him answering. Some might say that it was an interrogation, but for me it was a talk about his lifetime, like those of a teacher and pupil. We could hear the rain thumping on my château’s door. After our dinner, the talk went on for hours. When I looked at him, I could tell that Gandhi was getting irritated. He wanted to keep his life private, but there was one more question in my mind that I was dying to ask. I finally picked up the courage and questioned, “Is there anything in your life that you remember and regret?” Gandhi looked up and at once I realized that I had made a huge blunder, and there was no way I could take it back. I remained in silence and something about the situation told me not to break it. Then out of the blue Gandhi shed a tear that flowed down his face and fell on to the marble floor. Then Gandhi spoke with his voice cracking, “Yes, I regret not having any time for my children and wife. If only I could go back I would forget everything and take care of my family.” Gandhi told me he had to leave abruptly, but I persuaded him to talk just a little more about a different subject, and eat dessert to which he unreservedly agreed.
As the night carried on, I learned many things about Gandhi that I did not know before. This turned out to be a great gift from a very prestigious man. After our deliciously appetizing desserts, it was time to say a languishing farewell. Gandhi was already outside. He smiled at me as I ran after him, but Gandhi had vanished. He had disappeared into the misty fog—like a ghost from the past. Then the dream ended.
