“And the lucky winner of our time-travel award is…Anita Naik!” the announcer said, after which followed a round of applause. I was in total shock. Yes, I knew that I had put my name in the drawing for a chance to go back in history for a day to meet someone and tell them about today, but I never thought that I, of all people, would be so fortunate as to win! Who would I pick? That thought had never occurred to me. Thankfully, I had the rest of the day to prepare.

           As my parents drove me to the lab in which the time machine was located the next day, they made suggestions to me. My mom said, “Why don’t you meet your great-grandfather? He was a very intelligent, inspirational—”

           “No.” my dad interrupted. “Pick an old president and ask him how difficult and challenging it was to rule the nation.”

           But I already knew whom I would pick. He wasn’t a celebrity (as far as I knew), and he was not in any way related to me. He wasn’t even from the United States! He depicted nonviolence and through his words won India’s independence from Great Britain, which is why I had always really admired him.

           We entered the lab in which I would depart from, my parents both excited, and myself ambivalent between excitement and nervousness. “Okay, now where would you like to go?” the scientist in charge of operating the machine said exasperatedly, as if he’d done it a million times.

           I stepped into the machine and after a deep, shaky breath, I said, “I’d like to go to the 1940s…to India. I’d like to meet Mahatma Gandhi.”

           ZAP. There was a flash of blinding light, and I soon found myself spinning through time turning faster and faster and faster until I finally hit the dry, rough dirt ground.

           BANG. BOOM. I jumped as I heard the sound of a gun and cannon go off in the near distance. I knew exactly where I was: in the midst of a war. I scrambled to the nearest house and looked around the sunny, deserted area. Suddenly I saw a man right next to me, dressed very plainly in a dirty white robe, sitting and meditating. He looked very thin, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Almost immediately, I recognized who he was. He was Mahatma Gandhi.

           I gasped and nearly froze, but then I remembered my whole purpose for going there. I slowly walked towards the great man and kneeled down next to him. “Please, sir, Mr. Gandhi…” I stammered.

           He slowly opened his eyes and said, “Please. Just call me Bapu.”

           “Well Bapu, I, um…”

           “What is it, beti (child)?” he said calmly.

           “Bapu, where I come from there is a war going on in a faraway country. People argue and kill each other on a daily basis. I fight with my friends about the tiniest things. People bully each other and there seems to be no end to the violence. Bapu, what do I do?” I questioned, nearly in tears. “I want to be like you, thinking nonviolently, but I can’t. I can’t!”

           He slowly turned to look at me. “You can’t, or you won’t? There is a difference, you know. Look at the world around you, and instead of looking at it with hatred, look at  it with love. You love your friends and you love your family, but do you love the world? It is a much more kinder place than it seems.” He smiled, almost to himself. Then he said, “And if that doesn’t work, you can always meditate.” He then closed his eyes and began to meditate again. Then I realized what he said was true. If I looked at the world with a little love, then maybe it would seem a lot nicer.

           I smiled as I sat down next to him. Then, I closed my eyes and began to meditate.

 

 

 

JUST CALL ME, BAPU

Anita N.

NCTE ~ Promising Young Writers