© Karan Thapar, 2006
Cartoons © Sudhir Tailang, 2006
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
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mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without the prior
permission of the publisher. The inclusion of all articles in this book is with
due permission from Hindustan Times.
ISBN: 978-81-8328-445-5
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For Mummy, who made this possible half a century ago !
Introduction
I suppose I should start with hello. Although I’ve been part of the column
Sunday Sentiments in Hindustan Times, it’s quite possible we haven’t met.
Hitherto, I’ve lived in a different neighbourhood. My home was the Sunday
magazine and although it altered considerably in the half decade I knew, I
did not budge. Instead I chose to develop with it. From a diary, to a set of
different stories, to a single idiosyncratic piece, I metamorphosed and put
down roots. Ultimately, I came to belong. Let me therefore use this first
knock on your door to introduce myself.
I’m a bit of an odd ball. That may sound affected but it’s true. I try to
be unclassifiable, different and readable. Sometimes amusing, occasionally
passionate, often provoking but always myself. Consequently, there are
days when you will like me and nod in vigorous agreement but others when
you might want to crumple the page and even throw the paper away. Since I
aim to be noticed I can’t say I’m displeased with either response. It’s your
indifference I dread. To be passed over, as your eyes flick away from my
column, would be a sentence I would find difficult to accept.
Yet I do more than simply cry out for attention. I also try to please. Not
in the gross way of our false and flattering politicians nor with the slime
and oily metaphors of Uriah Heep — I’m too proud for that — but by trying
to engage your mind and tickle your wit. As I have read all of PG
Wodehouse, whose wit is delightful, I too have absorbed his structures
consciously or unconsciously! And if it trickles into my writing, it is often
unconscious.
However, a word of caution. My arguments are rarely profound and
my humour might take a little getting used to. I’m not an original thinker
and usually don’t understand an original thought. But I’m good at repeating
what’s been said before and occasionally end up saying it better. Once
you’ve learnt to laugh with me, I’m sure we’ll get on well. I believe that if
you make the effort to read me I, in turn, must ensure you don’t feel its
wasted.
My world, as you’ll discover, is not filled with Vajpayee and Advani,
Sonia or Chandrababu Naidu. Though they do make an occasional
appearance, they live in its periphery. I meet celebrities occasionally in
closely defined, formal circumstances, can’t profess to know them and they
are not friends. My central characters are the more ordinary people of my
daily existence like Pritam, Pappu and Pertie, Ashok and Aru and, of
course, Nisha and Mummy. The things they do might not make headlines
but they’re more relevant and interesting. Even if they don’t matter in the
big scheme of India on a Sunday morning, they can be great fun.
I should also make a small admission. I can be rather obsessed with
myself. Not uncritical, of course, nor even, I hope, uninteresting but I, me
and myself are never far from my concerns. There are shades of my
personality in my writing and even in front of the camera, I am a different
person from programme to programme. So as the and the personalities
topics unfold, you will get to know me. Quite literally. In fact, sometimes
warts and all.
And now, like a new next-door neighbour who is hesitantly calling on
you, I’m anxiously waiting to see if you will let me in. This, actually, is a
test for both of us. Are you a welcoming reader who, gingerly perhaps but
with an open mind, reaches out to embrace the new or are you a creature of
tired habit, scared to experiment and unwilling to meet strangers?
Through this book Sunday Sentiments, we’ll both find out.
Contents
Introduction
Portals of Power
1. As I Remember Him
2. Three Men in A Boat
3. The Man in a Bib
4. An Odd Sort of Hero
5. An Interesting Man
6. General Musharraf ’s Tie and Shah Rukh’s Photograph
7. Hamid Karzai and the Things He Said Nine Years Ago
8. Au Revoir Ashraf
9. Generals Zia and Ershad
10. The Shrinking of Mr. Vajpayee
11. The Smarter Sex
In the Frame
1. Mr. Birla and Mr. Laxman
2. The Man Behind the Masterpiece
3. The Little Things One Remembers
4. The Dalai Lama and the Cricket Captain
5. The Impact of Hrithik Roshan
6. Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and Sanjay Dutt for New Year’s Eve
7. The Eyes That Spoke To Me
8. If Generals Are in the News Then Try and Beat This One
9. Shah Rukh, Mummy and Me
10. An Important Quality that Fardeen and Aishwarya Share
11. I Say Mr. Laxman!
12. Keep Kicking, Khushwant – We Like It!
13. A Reverie at a Book-Reading
Stop Over
1. My Big Time in Barcelona
2. Lessons From Colombo
3. Marriage – Sri Lankan Style
4. A Farewell to Afghanistan
5. The Subtle Charm of Sri Lanka
6. Pictures of Pakistan
7. A Kuala Lampur Diary
8. What the Story of Delhi Means to Me
9. Oh, To Be in England !
10. The Bit in Between
11. When the Words of the Song Proved Untrue
12. The Music of the Ritz
In Good Company
1. The Wisdom of Pritam
2. The Man Who Sold Me A Jacket
3. The Queen and I
4. Either Fear is the Key or the Price is not Right
Beyond Bylines
1. Photographs Tell A Story Words Cannot Express
2. In Vino Veritas !
3. A Lady, A School and My Favourite Ice-cream
4. When a Dream Come True Becomes A Dream Turned Sour
5. Lesson for the New Year
6. Of Course it’s An Act – But Can You See Through It?
7. The Rakshas Explains
8. The Most Difficult Thing
Point of View
1. In Defence of Politicians
2. Oops, Excuse Me !
3. The New Rhetoric
4. Why Won’t He Speak English?
5. Sex, Hypocrisy and Morality
6. The Problem of Pakistan
7. Not Quite a Coup But Definitely the Next Best Thing
8. Lessons One May Have to Learn Again
9. The Third World War
10. Boot is on the Other Foot !
11. One Simple Question
12. The Case for Wit
13. The Right to be Wrong
The Close Circle
1. The Tie that Really Binds
2. On Kissing Women
3. Presentation Before the Queen
4. Are You Married?
5. Baba Gajju and House of Mewar
6. When a Pink Pig Means “I’m Sorry”
Portals of Power
1
As I Remember Him
I can’t claim to have known Madhav Rao Scindia well. Although we met
frequently, there was a hint of reserve that surrounded him. He was friendly
but never familiar. Open and candid, without wearing his emotions on his
sleeve. But he had a loud, infectious laugh. At such times, his eyes would
twinkle and shine. It reminded me of the little boy in the Asian Paints
advertisement. A combination of mischief and innocence, playfulness and
fun.
Sitting in a Doordarshan studio as the 1998 election results started
coming in, I mentioned this to him during a commercial break.
“You are the second person to have said this.” He replied, laughing as
he spoke.
“Who was the first?”
“My wife. But she meant it as a compliment.”
In a sense, that remark was typical of our relationship. Mr. Scindia,
that’s what I called him, always thought I had a trick up my sleeve. I don’t
think he distrusted me. I don’t think he was the sort to distrust people. But
in my case, he was never sure if there wasn’t more to what I was saying, a
devious strategy behind a thinly-disguised opening tactic. I can’t say I
blame him for his suspicions. Not that I was guilty but unwittingly, I had
given him occasion to think so.
The story of that incident is the tale I want to recount today. It catches
some of the greatness of Madhav Rao Scindia but also a little of his
touching human frailty. He knew his weaknesses, he never shied away from
admitting them and he was never too big to apologise for them. At the time,
he was a minister — one of the gods of the Indian political firmament and I,
a mere journalist on a poorly-viewed video magazine.
It happened in 1995. After an absence of eighteen months, Scindia had
just returned to the cabinet as Human Resource Development Minister. I
approached him for an interview for Eyewitness (the video magazine). I
wanted his first interview but he was reluctant.
“What can I say?” He asked. “I’ve only just taken over. Surely we
should wait a while.”
Scindia had a point but I was scared that if we waited, others would
pip me to the prize. So I insisted. In doing so, I gave him every assurance I
could that the interview would go well. My object was to persuade him and
I had few qualms about what I had to do. After a while, to be honest, after
several phone calls and a little friendly intervention from my then boss,
Shobhana Bhartia, he agreed.
I can still vividly recall what he was wearing as he arrived at our
studios at Jamia. It was around six in the evening and shadows were starting
to fall across the Jamia forecourt. There was a hint of chill in the air.
Scindia had on a deep blue shirt with sleeves slightly rolled up. On top, he
was wearing a grey collarless bandhgala jacket. Its buttons had been left
jauntily undone. He looked informal but by no means casual.
His appearance was very different to the sort of ministers we had
grown accustomed to. In those days, white kurta-pyjamas or dhotis were de
rigueur. They shuffled in looking ill at ease and made you feel very similar.
Scindia looked like one of us.
As he settled into the chair in studio, chatting to the make-up lady who
powdered his face, I dashed to collect my jacket.
“Achche lag rahe hein.” said one of the cameramen out of Scindia’s
earshot. “Akhir mantri ho to aisa ho.”
The interview was a five-minute affair and it was inconsequential.
Except for an accidental last question. Without intending any malice, I
asked him – almost as a way of signing off – if he wanted to be Prime
Minister. It was an innocent question and I did not realise it would cause
him problems. But it did.
Scindia prevaricated. Being an honest man, his prevarication showed. I
pounced on it. But that only made his predicament worse. Afterwards, he
asked me if we could delete this last exchange.
“Why?” I asked. It didn’t seem worth worrying about.
“You see, it’s not the question but the answer. If I say ‘yes’, people will
accuse me of being greedy. If I say ‘no’, they’ll claim I’m a hypocrite. It’s
one of those that damn you either way.”
I could see what he meant. The problem is the hypocrisy we practise
and it’s one that many journalists (including me) are guilty of. So I agreed
to drop the last question.
Now, Mr. Scindia hardly knew me and therefore he had no reason to
believe that I would not let him down. After all, it isn’t unheard of for
journalists to betray their promises or even record and transmit
conversations that are supposed to be off record. As a newly-reinstated
cabinet minister, he could not afford to take a risk. So he telephoned my
boss and tipped her off.
That night, Mrs. Bhartia rang me. Unaware that I had already agreed to
Scindia’s request, she asked me to drop the question. She was embarrassed
that an interview she had persuaded Scindia to agree to had ended badly. In
her place, I too would have felt the same. But I wasn’t in her place. I was in
my own and like any prickly journalist, I resented being asked to drop
something. The paradox that I had already agreed to do just this hardly
mattered. That was voluntary and this was not. As a result, Mrs. Bhartia and
I had our first and only quarrel.
The next day, I left for Mumbai. Although two thousand miles from
Delhi, I was full of self-righteous anger and injured pride. I was smarting.
But I had a surprise in store for me that would soothe my ruffled feathers
and show me how silly I was being.
As I checked into the Oberoi I was told there was a message waiting.
Mr. Scindia had telephoned. With trepidation, I returned his call. I needn’t
have worried.
“Karan.” He started, “are you about to bang the phone down on me?”
“Why?” I stammered unsure of how to handle this change of tone and
style.
“Because I’ve been a fool. I made you and Shobhana quarrel. I gather
it’s the only time you have fought with her. I’m really sorry.”
I was not used to ministers apologising. I still am not. It’s a strangely
warm and flattering feeling but it leaves you embarrassed. So I tried to stop
him. There was no need for him to go on. But he was a far bigger and more
large-hearted man than that.
“No, let me explain.” Scindia insisted. “You see it’s important for me
that nothing goes wrong this time round. That’s why I panicked. I shouldn’t
have and I was wrong to do so. But I did.Will you forgive me?”
We didn’t go on to become friends. This is not a fairytale with one of
those gold- tinted endings. But thereafter Scindia always had my respect. I
only wish I could have convinced him to appear more frequently on our
programmes.To the end, he retained a little of his suspicions. But then in his
position, I would have too.
2
Three Men in A Boat
Occasionally, television interviewers meet interesting people. It’s one of the
advantages of the job. Last week, I met three. For good or ill, they left a
lasting impression.Two of them were Nobel laureates, the third, a spiritual
guru. Each in his own way said or did things that are difficult to forget.
Amartya Sen was a guest on one of our shows. But it wasn’t what he
said on air so much as his casual comments in the car that linger in my
memory. They were made to my colleague, Vishal Pant.
Sen was talking about the present day Trimurti of Indian politics —
Vajpayee, Advani and Sonia. He met them in 1999 when he came to receive
the Bharat Ratna.
“He was looking forward to the meetings with Vajpayee and Sonia.”
Vishal reported. “They’re people he wanted to meet. But he said he was
apprehensive about Advani. He thought they would clash.”
It turned out very differently. The meeting with Vajpayee lasted an
hour but felt like three or four.
“Apparently Vajpayee said absolutely nothing.” Vishal told me. But
that was not all. Sen’s comments went further. “He added that Vajpayee
probably had nothing to say. He was simply filling time. Their meeting was
a failure.”
“What about Sonia?” I asked.
“The same if not worse. Sen tried to talk to her about politics but found she
had no interest in the subject whatsoever. He made a witty comment about
the two of them.”
“What did he say?”
“They deserve each other!”
“And Advani?” If Sen found Vajpayee and Sonia depressing, Advani
could hardly have lifted his spirits.
“Advani started off by talking about one of Sen’s books. Sen thought
he was being polite. But when Advani went on, Sen interrupted and told
him he had written several articles very critical of Advani and totally
opposed to his views. Sen thought this was the honest thing to say. But do
you know what Advani said?”
I waited. I was pretty sure a quarrel would have ensued. That had to be
the point of the story.
“I’ve read them all,” Advani had replied. “That’s why I want to talk to
you.”
Vishal was smiling as he spoke. He could sense the delicious irony
behind it. “Sen said the meeting lasted an hour and a half. It was the only
one he enjoyed.”
By a strange coincidence, I met Vidia Naipaul the next day.We were
guests at Navin Chawla’s. It was a dinner for Navin’s agent Gillon Aitken.
When Naipaul arrived, his wife walked up and started talking. Moments
later, Naipaul joined us. It was a pleasant conversation. There was nothing
remarkable about it. But there was a brief interlude with one of Navin’s
waiters that is worth recounting. I shall tell it without comment or
conclusion.
“What will you drink, Sir?”
“What sort of gin do you have?”
“London.”
“Do you have Bombay gin?”
“No, Sir.”
“What make of tonic do you have?”
I didn’t hear the answer but Naipaul turned to ask what I thought of it.
I smiled not knowing what to say. The waiter assured him it was a good
brand. Naipaul was not convinced.
“What whisky do you have?”
“Black Label.”
That’s what he finally took but after a sip he visibly wrinkled his nose
and left the glass untouched. I got the distinct impression he thought it was
spurious. His wife, however, quaffed copious quantities without complaint
or hesitation.
The third person was Sri Sri Ravishankar. In case, you don’t know,
he’s a big spiritual guru. I’m sceptical of such men. I tend to think of them
as frauds. That was my attitude to Sri Sri as well. (Incidentally, I’m not sure
how else to abbreviate his name). But was I wrong?
Sri Sri, whose father calls him Guruji, is supposed to have spoken to
his mother from the womb during the eighth month of her pregnancy. His
father claims it’s a fact. I asked if it was true. He said he didn’t know but he
didn’t deny it. In fact, he even suggested that because he was very attached
to her, it could be true.
He was more forthcoming when I mentioned another of his ‘miracles’.
His father says that Sri Sri knew the Bhagwad Gita when he was just three
years old though no one had taught it to him. If that was so, I asked, how
did he account for it?
“That’s a fact.” He said. “Consciousness is quite old. This is not the
only time we are here.There are impressions from the past.”
“Are you saying that at the age of three or four, the Bhagavad Gita you
knew was actually a memory from a previous life?”
“Ha.” He said in Hindi. “It’s an impression on the consciousness from
the past.”
Hmmmm? Judge for yourself.
3
The Man in a Bib
It was his nickname that first alerted me to the fact that Pakistan’s Foreign
Minister is a rather special politician. In Islamabad, they call him the fivepiece man. It’s an affectionate reference to his immaculate suits. Even in the
heat of summer, he wears a waistcoat. The other two pieces are his
matching tie and kerchief. So when he walked into his office last Sunday
afternoon for an interview for SAB TV, I knew what to expect. What I had
not anticipated was that he can cut quite a dash.
“Look out for his ties.” I had been advised by one of his officials.
“He’s very fond of them and they’re always striking.”
The tip was accurate. Last weekend, the tie was burnt-ochre, a striking
contrast with his navy blue suit. But it was his cufflinks that actually caught
my eye. Made of gold, they were set with a row of diamonds at one corner
and a large ruby at the other. They weren’t discreet yet nor were they
distasteful.
But there was more to his apparel than what immediately met the eye.
Underneath the waistcoat, he had on black silk braces. It’s an old fashioned
touch most natty dressers have dispensed with. I caught a peek when they
slid out from under his waistcoat shoulder. If my guess is right, I’d say they
were Ferragamo.
As Mr. Kasuri settled into his armchair, I found myself warming to the
man.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” He said gently rubbing his
manicured hands. “I only got back at 3.00 in the morning from Tehran.”
Most politicians would have refused to give an interview eight hours
later. This one was different.
“All right.” He said when I insisted we do the interview the same day.
“But then lunch will have to be afterwards and that could mean it won’t
happen much before 3.00 pm.”
I readily agreed. To be honest, I had not expected to be fed. It’s never
happened before. But the chance of an informal lunch with the Pakistan
Foreign Minister after the proper interview was an invitation no journalist
could refuse.
As the cameramen got ready to roll, I briefly ran the Minister’s
background through my mind. Kasuri, as his name suggests, comes from
Kasur, a part of Pakistani Punjab that borders Firozpur. His father was a
lawyer. The son graduated from Cambridge but opted for politics. I know
many others with similar pedigrees but few, if any, have fought elections
and become ministers. So how does this bird of fine plumage fit into
General Musharraf’s regime? And what sort of views does he hold? I was
soon to discover a second reason why he’s a special politician.
Kasuri is a large man. A bit like a teddy bear, if you know what I
mean. He keeps his cool and even when provoked, he cleverly prefaces his
riposte with a warning : “I did not want to say this but you’ve left me no
option.” The packaging takes the sting out of the reply. It’s a clever ploy
which allows him to make his point without giving offence. I’m surprised
politicians don’t use it more often.
Inevitably, we talked about cross-border terrorism. He didn’t deny it
was happening, simply that his government was not behind it. “We are
doing our best to stop it.” He claimed. “But it’s a porous border and despite
our efforts some things get through.” He said nine out of ten infiltrators are
stopped. The tenth becomes the terrorist we encounter in India.
“This is why talks are so important.” He continued. “When talks start,
they will strengthen our hands to tell the Kashmiris to stop. The talks will
offer hope and we can use that to point out that now they don’t have to kill
themselves. There’s another option on offer.”
When I pointed out that Pakistan’s handling of Al-Qaeda suspects
wanted by Washington was markedly different to those on India’s list of 20,
he neither denied the fact nor squirmed with embarrassment. Instead, he
met the charge head on.
“Look at the history of tension between our two countries. On the
other hand, America has been our ally for fifty years. At the moment, it’s
inconceivable that our agencies can share information and work as closely
as they do with America. But, Inshallah, that will happen soon.”
Previous Pakistani foreign ministers would have replied very
differently. India has not given us any proof, they would have claimed. Or
these guys are not in Pakistan. Or even, no formal list has been given. And
just as their evasiveness would have hinted at their insincerity, so Kasuri’s
honesty spoke of his credibility.
At the end of the interview, I put to him the doubts we, in India, often
express. Men like Kasuri and Prime Minister Jamali may be nice guys but
do they count? Power lies with Musharraf and his ministers are only
puppets.
The question brought a big smile to his face. I couldn’t help think that
he looks most like a teddy when he’s smiling. But the answer was neither
soft nor cuddly.
“The army in Pakistan has a role to play. Our history makes that
obvious. But that doesn’t mean they run the place and others don’t count.
And let me tell you the day I cannot agree with the General, I’ll resign. That
may not be a wise thing for a politician to say but it’s the truth.”
Afterwards, as we sat down to lunch in the Foreign Minister’s private
dining room, he saw me staring at the wine glasses brimming with magenta
liquid. He must have fathomed my thoughts.
“Coke.” He laughed. “but it looks better in those glasses.”
“And the taste?”
“Unfortunately, that stays the same!”
I wasn’t the least surprised when he tucked his napkin into his collar. I’ve
often wanted to do the same but never dared. But then, my ties can’t
compete. Of course, the Foreign Minister was aware that some of his guests
were staring at him. After all, a man in a bib is not a common sight. But
Kasuri wasn’t the least bit self-conscious. I suspect he likes the attention.
Most of the time, he deserves it too.
4
An Odd Sort of Hero
“I’m not sure what to make of Veer Savarkar.” Gauri suddenly said last
Sunday.
“What do you mean?” I replied. It was a strange comment
unconnected with our previous conversation.
“Well, I can make out that the BJP is using him for political purposes
and that Congress is caught up in contradictions responding to that. But
what about Veer Savarkar himself?”
“What about him?” I was still at a loss.
“Does his portrait deserve to hang in Parliament? No one seems to
answer that question and yet that’s what it’s supposedly all about!”
I’m afraid I did not have the answer. I struggled manfully but my
vague replies only exposed the fact I did not know. And the reason was I
did not know the facts. Yet the surprising thing is they aren’t difficult to
ascertain and even less to interpret. If you do the necessary homework, the
conclusion is obvious. So today, albeit belatedly, I want to answer Gauri’s
question.
Whether Veer Savarkar’s portrait deserves to hang in the Central Hall
of Parliament depends upon the answer to three further questions. What was
his contribution to the freedom struggle? What sort of India did he strive
for? And was he involved (as was contemporaneously alleged) in the
conspiracy to kill Gandhi?
In his mid-twenties, Savarkar was deservedly considered a hero. His
book, The First War of Independence, published in 1908 when he was just
24, was the first to interpret the events of 1857 as a struggle for freedom.
Till then, the British view that it was a mutiny was widely accepted.
His early actions were also valorous. After he was accused of
involvement in the murder of the British Collector of Nasik, his daring
escape from captivity at Marseilles in 1911 was inspiring. Whatever the
British view, this was stirring stuff. His critics wouldn’t disagree.
Things changed, however, after his re-arrest and imprisonment in The
Andaman’s. Over the next two decades, his valorous heroism gave way to
timorous pleas for clemency. The first came less than six months after his
incarceration. A second followed roughly two years later. A third 12 years
after that. In fact, there could have been more. We just don’t know about
them. In his appeal for clemency of 1913, this is what he wrote:
“If the government in their manifold beneficence and mercy release
me, I for one cannot but be the staunchest advocate of constitutional
progress and loyalty to the English government.”
That’s not all. If, in his youth, he had been a shining example for
others to follow now, in his desperation to be released, he was even
prepared to lead in the opposite direction.
“My conversion to the constitutional line would bring back all those
misled young men in India and abroad who were once looking up to me as
their guide. I am ready to serve the government in any capacity they like,
for as my conversion is conscientious so I hope my future conduct would
be. By keeping me in jail nothing can be got in comparison to what would
be otherwise. The Mighty alone can afford to be merciful and therefore
where else can the prodigal son return but to the parental doors of the
government?”
It’s a strange freedom fighter who refers to himself as the prodigal son
and his captors as the parent government. Perhaps this explains the ultimate
promise made to the Governor of Bombay which finally secured his release.
He swore to forsake all political activity, whether in public or private, and
confine himself to Ratnagiri District. It was on this voluntary assurance of
good behaviour, a bond he willingly entered into, that he was paroled.These
conditions applied for the next 12 years.
Compare Savarkar to Nelson Mandela or even our own Bhagat Singh
and Chandrashekhar Azad and he makes an odd sort of hero. If he struggled
for freedom after his arrest it was, in fact, for his own. I can’t understand
why we call him ‘Veer’. Except that he was tireless in securing his own
release and there was little he did not promise to obtain it.
When Bhagat Singh, Surya Sen, B.K. Dutt and Jatin Das don’t have
portraits hanging in Parliament, you may well question if Savarkar deserves
such an honour.
Let’s now turn to the sort of India that Savarkar strived to create and
whether that accords with the concept we believe we have achieved. When
you do, I’m afraid you’ll find that his views are closer to Jinnah than
Gandhi. And in 1939, in his Presidential Address to the Hindu Mahasabha,
he accepted as much. This is what he said :
“I’ve no quarrel with Mr. Jinnah’s two nation theory. We, Hindus, are a
nation by ourselves and it’s a historical fact that Hindus and Muslims are
two nations.”
In fact, Savarkar actually enunciated his thesis before Jinnah did. He
first did so in 1937. Jinnah and the Muslim League formally took a similar
position in 1940.
But those who know Savarkar’s writings can point to worse.
According to Prof. Mridula Mukherjee of Jawaharlal Nehru University, in
his 1938 Presidential Address to the Hindu Mahasabha, Savarkar even
suggested that, under certain circumstances, India should treat its Muslims
as Hitler had treated German Jews.
So, if Savarkar is deemed a great champion of India’s freedom, his
India is not the India our forefathers struggled for. Nor is it the country
enshrined in our constitution.
Finally, the issue that is most contentious of all: the question of
Savarkar’s involvement in the conspiracy to murder Gandhi. Here the facts
are unclear and therefore potentially misleading.
However, one thing is clear : Savarkar was acquitted by the Sessions
Court that tried the Gandhi murder case. To therefore hold him ‘guilty’
would make a mockery of our system of justice. Acquittal has to be
tantamount to innocence.
But today it’s not Savarkar’s guilt we’re discussing. The issue is
whether it’s appropriate to hang his portrait in Parliament. And when it’s a
matter of suitability, other factors are relevant. Three of them are worth
recalling.
Digambar Badge, an approver in the Gandhi case, gave evidence of
Savarkar’s close connection with Nathuram Godse and Narayan Apte. The
judge did not doubt Badge’s veracity. But because Badge was an approver,
further corroboration was required. This was not forthcoming. Then, in
1969, when the Justice Jeevan Lal Kapur Commission of Inquiry into the
conspiracy to murder Gandhi published its report, it quoted two close
Savarkar aides (Kasar, his bodyguard, and Damle, his secretary) to prove
his connections with Godse. Kapur’s conclusion was damning: “All these
facts taken together were destructive of any theory other than the
conspiracy to murder by Savarkar and his group.”
Most recently, in 1973, a letter written by Vallabhai Patel to Nehru (in
February 1948) was published. It refers to the many hours Patel as Home
Minister had spent investigating Gandhi’s death. This is what he wrote: “It
was a fanatical wing of the Hindu Mahasabha directly under Savarkar that
(hatched) the conspiracy and saw it through.”
Of course, none of this can, nor should it be used to, prove Savarkar’s
guilt. The sessions judge settled that once and for all. But it does make you
wonder whether the right verdict should have been ‘not proven’ rather than
‘not guilty’. And if that question occurs to you, then you may well ask
whether such a man’s portrait should hang in Parliament.
However, the fact is it does and bang opposite that of the Father of the
Nation. Yet Savarkar stood for a very different type of nation and there are
unresolved questions about his alleged role in the assassination of the
Father.
Sadly, I knew none of this when Gauri asked her question. But if I had,
would she have been impressed?
5
An Interesting Man
If you suffer from high blood pressure, don’t read on. If you’re prejudiced
against Muslims or Pakistan, skip to the next article. And if you lost
property at partition or, worse, your family was rent asunder, throw this
page away. I don’t think you’ll like what I’m about to write.
My subject is Mohammad Ali Jinnah and I’ve come to the conclusion
that regardless of his impact on Indian unity, in personal terms, he was an
appealing character. He’s a more natural icon for today’s modern,
materialist, image-conscious generation than Nehru or Gandhi. And the
surprising thing is that if you overlook his responsibility for Pakistan he
was equally secular.
First, some of the facts. Jinnah opposed the partition of Bengal. In
1906, he refused to join the Muslim League. He called its demand for
separate electorates poisonous. In 1920, when Gandhi launched the Khilafat
movement, Jinnah warned of the danger of mixing politics with religion. He
was the only Muslim to vote against Gandhi’s resolution.
Now jump to 1947. I know that between 1920, when he walked out of
Congress, unhappy over Gandhi’s deliberate intertwining of religion with
politics, and 1947, when he created Pakistan, Jinnah did much the same but
to far worse effect. However, I want to draw your attention to his
Presidential Speech to the Pakistan Constituent Assembly on 11th August
1947. Speaking to the new citizens of Pakistan, he said:
“You are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques
or to any other place of worship in this State of Pakistan. You may belong
to any religion or caste or creed that has nothing to do with the business of
the State. ... We are starting with this fundamental principle that we are all
citizens and equal citizens of one State. ... Now I think we should keep that
in front of us as our ideal and you will find that in course of time Hindus
would cease to be Hindus and Muslims would cease to be Muslims, not in
the religious sense, because that is the personal faith of each individual, but
in the political sense as citizens of the State.”
It’s no secret that today’s Pakistan would embarrass Jinnah. He might
not even own up to it. But politics is only half my point and very much the
lesser half. It’s his personality that I really want to recall. ‘Jin’, as his wife
called him, was a remarkable man.
Again, the facts first. He was a self-made millionaire. He did not
inherit his wealth. In the 1930s, he was one of London’s leading lawyers.
No other Indian has achieved this distinction before or after. He was a natty
dresser. His double-breasted suits and co-respondent shoes were the height
of fashion. His Bombay home on Napean Sea Road was one of the finest.
The one in Delhi which he bought is still the most striking.
And now, a few different facts. Jinnah spoke no Urdu. English was the
only language he knew. I’m not sure about Kutchi. Perhaps he forgot it but
then, wouldn’t you? He smoked, he drank and he ate pork. He married a
young Parsi girl and even though they separated, no one ever questioned his
love for Ruttie. He was never more proud than when she visited his
chambers, her décolletage plunging to eye-popping levels, and perched
herself playfully on his table bearing ham sandwiches for lunch.
It was this individualism, this defiance of convention, this
determination to be himself that I admire. Even the little distortions Jinnah
engineered to enhance himself seem endearing. He was born Jinnahbhai. He
disliked the name so much he abbreviated it to Jinnah. He was born on the
20th October 1875. When he discovered Christmas was a better birthday, he
switched to that.
Was he vain? Of course. Had he reason to be? Undoubtedly. But
Jinnah also had a modern outlook, an open mind, a secular way of thinking
and, most importantly, he practised it. Many of us who claim to be free
thinkers live lives best hidden behind closed doors.
Am I wrong in believing Jinnah seems better suited to lead the
modern, materialist, economically liberal, ambitious and thrusting country
we have today become than, say, Nehru or Vajpayee? Perhaps. But let me
end with my friend M.J.Akbar’s question from his new book “The Shade of
Swords”:
“How did a non-practising, chain-smoking Muslim lawyer, who liked
a drink, barely knew the basics of Islam, could speak no language other
than English, preferred to dress in an immaculate suit, almost settled down
in England, snubbed mullahs for dreaming of an Islamic state, abhorred
Gandhi for his hymn-chanting politics, and dreamt of becoming an Indian
Ataturk, single-handedly create Pakistan?”
The answer could be troubling.
6
General Musharraf’s Tie and
Shah Rukh’s Photograph
Sometimes the most unlikely things can leave a lasting impression. You
don’t expect them, you certainly can’t plan for them but when they occur
they change everything. In a flash, all that has happened before alters and
all that is to follow is conditioned. Last week, this happened on two
consecutive days but in two separate countries and with two quite different
people. One of them was General Musharraf. The other was Shah Rukh
Khan.
I was in Islamabad to interview Pakistan’s Chief Executive. As an
Indian interviewer, my first objective was to get him to accept he is a
military dictator and that his claim to be restoring democracy is codswallop.
The other was to talk to him about how his actions or lack of them were the
real problem in Indo-Pakistan relations.
As you can imagine, it’s not the sort of task that will endear the
interviewer to the interviewee and I must admit there was a certain
apprehension in my heart. I wasn’t scared or worried but I felt that things
might not go well. After all, you can’t sit in a man’s drawing room and call
him a tanashah to his face and not annoy or at least upset him. When that
inevitably happens, the air equally inexorably turns frosty.
Well, I did my bit. I called the General a dictator, I told him that in
Indian eyes, his sincerity and credibility were utterly suspect and I claimed
to have discovered the contradictions that bedevil him. He is an army chief
who has overthrown an elected Prime Minister in the name of democracy
yet wants his protestations to be taken at face value even though he is not
prepared to do very much to prove his credentials. As I put it to him, what
could be more bizarre than that?
The General simply smiled. In fact, it wasn’t long before I noticed he
was unperturbed. Of course, he defended himself, always fluently often
ably and even nodded in agreement with some of the comments I made. By
taking my critique on the chin and showing no anger, he cleverly defused it.
During the commercial break, instinctively feeling I needed to make
small talk to keep a relationship going, I complimented the General on his
tie. I had not expected any response leave aside the one I got.
“Do you really like it?” He asked, a smile lighting up his face and his
voice revealing the same innocent pleasure that you or I would feel if
someone had admired our clothes.
“Yes I do.” I said. “It’s very attractive.”
Then the interview re-started. Part two was on Kashmir which means
the disagreements were sharper and the potential for acrimony greater. Half
an hour later, when we ended, the tie was the last thing on my mind. My
thoughts were on making a polite but fast getaway.
“I’d like you to have this.” General Musharraf suddenly said undoing
his tie. “Please let me give it to you.”
“Sir, sir, sir.” I stammered. “That was only an innocent remark. I
wasn’t hinting or anything.”
“I know.” He replied. “It’s my gesture of conciliation to you.”
“Thank you.” I said still shaken. Then looking at the gold tie-pin and
chain now dangling on his shirt, I added with a laugh, “I should have
admired the gold chain. Maybe you would have given that to me as well.”
The General roared.
“Ha.” He said, “Aur agar aap ko jootie pasand aaie hoti to woh bhi
mil jaati!”
In a flash, the tension evaporated and the mood was full of bonhomie.
The spontaneous gesture of gifting his tie had brought about a sea change. It
wasn’t only I who felt it. My colleagues, who had come with me from
India, were equally aware of the altered atmosphere and the fact that
General Musharraf deserved credit for it. Their verdict said it all:
“Banda sahi hei. Burra nahin. Dil ka saaf hei.”
Back in Delhi the next day, but in altogether different circumstances,
much the same thing happened with Shah Rukh Khan. We were chatting
over a cup of tea before an interview. Such conversations are never easy.
Neither side knows each other, both are self-conscious and there’s a
tendency to try too hard. Silence would be better if one had the guts or
wisdom for it.
“The one thing I can’t stand is posing for photographers.” said Shah
Rukh. “It makes me feel silly and look stupid. That’s why you never see
pictures of me posing with actresses. I always refuse.”
Shah Rukh had sensed that there were several photographers waiting,
professionals, amateurs and of course, anxious fans. His unprompted
statement was a clever form of advance warning.
It had its effect and all around faces fell. I knew that there would be a
high level of disappointment I would have to contend with but my hands
were tied by Shah Rukh’s sentiments.
So when the interview ended, the photographers were only permitted
to click whilst I talked to him. That way he wouldn’t be posing and they
would get a brief if limited opportunity to take their pictures. The problem
was I was in the frame or at least difficult to exclude without spoiling it.
“Sir.” said the BBC’s photographer, “just one by the wall beside the
logo.”
“You want me to pose?” Shah Rukh said, his voice betraying his
mounting dread.
“Ha Sir, ek yahan pe aur phir ek do wahan pe.”
I expected an explosion but instead he got up like a lamb and
complied. No doubt, he looked uncomfortable but he fulfilled every
instruction from the man without demur. Everyone of them was a request to
pose. Shah Rukh tried to look natural but it was painfully, self-consciously
obvious he was hating every minute of it. Soon other photographers joined
in and a regular photo session began.
“Arre yaar kya kamal ka aadmi hei.” One of the photographers said
once Shah Rukh had gone. “Aap vaise hi ghabra rahe the. Star aadmi hei.
Meine camera kholi aur dekha kya pose diya.”
Thank you, Shah Rukh for saving the day. And thank you, General
Musharraf. Every time. I wear your tie, I shall fondly remember my visit to
your home, Army House in Rawalpindi.
7
Hamid Karzai and the Things
He Said Nine Years Ago
I remember clearly my first meeting with Hamid Karzai. It had an
incongruity which today seems a bit like farce. But it also reveals
something of the open and accommodating character of the man. It left an
indelible impression which even nine years later is still vivid.
It happened in May 1992. The Mujahideen government, then under the
interim leadership of Sibghatullah Mojadedi, had taken over a couple of
months earlier. Hamid Karzai was the Deputy Foreign Minister. I had
arrived in Kabul just the day before, after an absence of four or five years.
The last time I visited, Najibullah was in power. The new rulers were
unknown to me.
It was a bright sunny morning as the crew and I walked up the
sweeping stairs into the large entrance hall of the white marble foreign
office. Outside, the crocuses were in full bloom. Further a field, the streets
of Shari-e-Nau were busy with traffic. But inside, the building seemed
empty. There wasn’t a person to be seen nor a sound that you could hear.
After the noise and confusion of government offices in Delhi, this was both
attractive and unsettling.
We paused uncertain what to do next. There was a small reception but
it was unmanned. All the doors leading off the hall were shut.
A grand staircase in front seemed to beckon. After a bit, we started
climbing. It was the only thing to do.
The first floor landing was similarly deserted and by now the building
was starting to feel haunted. Kapil, our cameraman, wandered down one of
the corridors knocking on doors. Ganesh and Nirmal went in the other
direction. They found people in offices on both sides but no one who could
help. The occupants were sipping green tea and did not wish to be
disturbed. At best, they asked us to join them.
Finally, it was on the second or may be the third floor that I bumped
into a tall bald man in a grey shalwar kameez. He was striding down the
corridor as we walked in the other direction. I approached him asking if he
could tell me where the minister was.
“He’s here.” He said.
I don’t think I believed him. I repeated the question, slowly and
deliberately in case he hadn’t heard me correctly the first time round.
“Yes, Sir.” He began again and this time I realised he spoke
impeccable english although with an unmistakable trace of an American
accent. “I am the Foreign Minister. How can I help you?”
He was smiling and his eyes suggested that he too could see the
humour behind this strange encounter. I still don’t know why he did not
question the fact that four unknown Indians were wandering aimlessly
through his ministry. Perhaps he chose to overlook it or may be in the
confusion that characterised Kabul, this was not so strange.
“I want to interview you.” I said, quickly gathering my wits.
“And who might you be?” He asked politely.
I suddenly remembered I had not introduced myself. Then I realised I
was standing in crushed jeans with a grubby money belt tied around my
waist. I hardly looked like a journalist and certainly not the sort one would
wish to be interviewed by.
Fortunately, Karzai chose to overlook my appearance because without
demur, he granted an interview for the next day. But as we were about to
leave, he called us back and offered tea. We accepted with alacrity.
He led the way to his office where he poured four cups and personally
handed them out. Normally, the presence of a minister can be intimidating
but not Hamid Karzai. At the time, he was probably 37 or 38 years old,
informal, chatty and friendly. I can’t remember the details of our
conversation but it ranged across many subjects. Karzai was variously
witty, frank and thoughtful.
When Kapil started speaking about the firing which lit up the night sky
all around our hotel, Karzai laughed and said it probably reminded us of
Diwali.
“A real live one.” Kapil said.
“And a dangerous one too.” Karzai added.“When the shooting is on,
you should stay indoors. It’s not bravery to go out but folly.”
It was a similar display of commonsense which stood out when we
interviewed him the next day. The room where we set up our camera was
bare. He sat beside the radiator. This time, he wore a navy blue tweed jacket
over a similar coloured shalwar kameez. His sartorial style suggested an
easy blend of Afghan tradition and sensible western clothing.
Some of the things he said nine years ago make a lot of sense even
today. I asked him how Afghanistan could overcome its ethnic divisions.
Most politicians would have spoken at length to establish their
thoughtfulness. Not Hamid Karzai.
“We have to survive our divisions.” was his succinct reply.
“You mean you don’t have a choice?”
“Do we?”
A little later I asked him how the government would interpret and
implement the new hijab laws which decreed what women could do and
how they should behave. Traditionally, Afghan women have been at the
forefront of professions such as teaching, nursing and medicine. The
Mujahideen government even inherited a fair number of women civil
servants. Putting them behind the veil would be difficult and controversial.
Once again, Karzai had sensible views.
“Who will determine what is possible under the new hijab laws?” I
asked.
“Commonsense.” He replied smiling. There was no need to say more.
Yet there were moments when the same refreshing candour meant
Hamid Karzai did not hesitate to express views that might worry us in
India. Because he took over as interim head of the new Afghan government
yesterday, they are worth quoting in full.
The context was set by Karzai’s belief that India let down the Afghan
people by supporting the Soviet invasion of December 1979. That, of
course, is an opinion most Afghans share. But Hamid Karzai went further.
To begin with, he seemed to suggest that Afghanistan’s relations with
India would be affected by the treatment of Indian Muslims.
“Our relations with India will very much be affected, in a good way or
bad way, depending on how the Muslim community in India are treated.”
“At the moment, how do you think it’s treated?”
“I have no comments now. But we hope that since there’s a very large
Muslim community in India and since India itself is a very big and
democratic country that the Muslims in India will be looked after in a very
good way, and that their rights will be given to them.”
Later in the same interview, Karzai appeared to support what he called
the Kashmir struggle.
“We support every movement that is just.”
“So you could, if you thought the movement within Kashmir for
independence or even accession to Pakistan is just, support that as well?”
“We’re not trying to interfere with the internal affairs of countries but
we will very much support all over the world any movement that we
consider is just, that is just.”
Finally, when I asked him how long it might take for Indo-Afghan
relations to return to their traditional friendliness, he deliberately and
carefully said it would depend on how things developed. He wasn’t holding
out great hope but he wasn’t quashing it either :
“Will it take time for relations to reach the previous high pitch?”
“Naturally.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“No speculations.”
“Is it a matter of weeks or years?”
“Well, the relations between countries can be a matter of weeks, they
can be a matter of years. It depends on what develops.”
Nine years have passed and much has happened in that period.
Afghanistan has been through the Taliban experience and Karzai is back in
Kabul this time as its new ruler. His agenda is to seek reconciliation and in
the eyes of at least his interior, defence and foreign ministers, India is a
friendly country. Their families live in Delhi. But how much have Hamid
Karzai’s views changed since May 1992? One disquieting thought is that
for the last six years he and his family have lived in Quetta and it’s possible
that memories of — and gratitude to — Pakistan could colour his opinions.
8
Au Revoir Ashraf
I was staring absent-mindedly out of the window when a colleague asked a
question which sparked off a chain of thoughts. News of Ashraf Qazi’s
recall had just been announced and although I had anticipated it, I was still
a little shaken. Even when something is inevitable, you hope it won’t
happen. This was certainly one such occasion.
“Are you upset?” Ashok asked.
I suppose the look on my face gave me away. But until he asked the
question, I did not realise that this was the emotion inside me. I had not
paused to consider how I felt. It seemed irrelevant to the larger events
happening outside. But now that Ashok had drawn my attention to my
feelings, I knew he was right.
Ashraf was a friend I got to know five years ago. Before that, I only
knew him as Abidah’s husband. In fact, on the one previous occasion that
we met in Islamabad in 1989, he seemed stiff; an impression so wrong that
its only purpose is to underline how little I knew him before 1997.
Over the last five years, we became close friends. I found him warm,
supportive, trusting and loyal. He was a bon viveur, the soul of dinner
parties with a manner that put people instantly at ease. If ever a Pakistani
knew how to take the sting out of a tense situation, it was Ashraf. But the
nicest thing was that he combined two welcome but contradictory qualities:
a sharp intelligence with a delightful appetite for good-natured gossip.
Two years ago, he pushed to get me an interview with General
Musharraf. By coincidence, we flew to Pakistan together. Ashraf was
returning to visit his mother.
“How did it go?” He asked the night it happened.
“Okay.” I replied non-committally. I knew he would not like it but I
did not know how to say that. I also knew that the response in India would
be different but I did not want to say that either. Five days after the
interview was broadcast, Ashraf returned. The next morning, he telephoned.
“You know I thought you’d done me in.” He began but he was
laughing. “My heart sank when I saw the interview. Then I read the Times
of India and thank God for their silly criticism. I don’t agree with them but
they may have saved my job!”
Any other High Commissioner would have taken the matter far more
seriously. It could have broken our friendship. Not Ashraf.We went on to
become better and closer friends.
A few months later, we spent a weekend together in Dehra Dun and
Mussoorie. It was the Doon School’s Founder’s Day and I thought Ashraf
ought to see our best school. We drove down together in his Mitsubishi. On
the way back, he was determined to see Haridwar and Rishikesh. For a
while, I lost him in the crowd at Lakshman Jhula but when I found him
again, he was beaming with delight.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“You know that lovely tune we heard in the Mall in Mussoorie? I just
bought it.”
“What tune?” I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“You’re a twit. Wait till I put it on.”
As we drove off, he inserted the tape in the car deck and turned to look
at me as it started to play. It was Jagjit Singh’s Ram Dhun.
“Remember it?”
I could not. I had not heard it as we walked up the Mussoorie Mall.Yet
Ashraf ’s ears had picked it up. He had liked it and now he had made a
point of buying it. We drove back listening to the tape. Each time it ended,
he would rewind and start again.
Last December, the day I was leaving for a brief new year break in
London, Ashraf telephoned at lunch time.
“Let’s have a bite together.” He suggested.
“I can’t. I’m in a dreadful rush and besides you know I hate lunch.”
“Yes I know. But we may never meet again. The way things are
developing I may be gone before you return.”
We spent a couple of hours at the Taj Coffee Shop and I can’t
remember laughing as much on any other occasion. No one would have
guessed that his heart was heavy. He did not want to leave. Initially, even I
could not tell. Fortunately on that occasion, Ashraf ’s fears were mistaken.
Not this time. I was the one who first predicted last Friday that his time was
up. He instantly agreed.
Yesterday, Ashraf went back to Pakistan but I hope it will only be for a
short stay. Officially, he’s just been recalled. Formally, he remains the
Pakistan High Commissioner to India. I pray our relations improve in time
for him to return.
9
Generals Zia and Ershad
Dictators can be fascinating. This is partly because of the absolute power
they possess but also because of their personalities. Only truly extraordinary
people end up in such situations.
In my time, I have known a few. Well, forgive the exaggeration, but
I’ve met two. General Zia of Pakistan was the first. Ershad from
Bangladesh followed in quick succession. I don’t know how they compare
with General Musharraf — may be they don’t — but last week, as the world
deliberated on how to treat the latter, I couldn’t help recall my meeting with
his two predecessors.
“Welcome to Pakistan, Mr. Thapar.” General Zia greeted me as I
stepped across the threshold of Army House in Pindi in 1985. He was at the
peak of his power. I was just 29. He was an absolute ruler pretending to
devolve power to a hand-picked civilian Prime Minister. I was the young
whipper-snapper interviewer seeking to expose the fraud.
I had not expected to be so welcomed and I had certainly not
anticipated that General Zia would ‘recognise’ me. Of course, it had not
occurred to me that the greeting was a well-planned PR exercise.
Consequently, I was completely taken-in. I looked lost for words.
“I served under your father.” The dictator continued. Now this was
always possible — even if I had not thought of it — although later on
reflection, I realised it was unlikely. At the time, however, it completely
stumped me. How do you respond to a man who wields the power of life
and death — and after Bhutto’s hanging death was no empty phrase —
flattering you with such glib and easy references to your Dad?
“Oh.” I muttered. In the circumstances, it was a pretty articulate reply.
With a deftly placed hand across the small of my back, the General
guided me into his drawing room. It was lined with men in uniform. Later, I
noticed they each carried guns. I presumed they were loaded.
After we had made ourselves comfortable, he with his back well
settled-in, me with my bottom perched at the edge of the sofa, he smiled.
General Zia had thirty-two highly whitened teeth.They were in immaculate
order.There was no doubt that his dentist had done a flawless job.
“Are you comfortable?” General Zia finally asked.
“Oh yes.” I replied. I realised I was tongue-tied but I decided to wait
for my fright to thaw. If each reply was longer than the last, I knew I was on
the right track.
“No, I mean your hotel.”
“Ah.” I said. The General looked on expectantly and soon, more out of
embarrassment than conviction, I found myself spinning a story. A man will
say anything to fill a silence and I certainly did.
“My problem is the bathroom shower.” It wasn’t. Honestly, there was
nothing wrong with it. But now that I had claimed so, there was no turning
back. “It doesn’t give out a proper jet of water.”
The General’s smile grew wider. So wide I could see his molars. They
were as white as the incisors at the front.
“I know what you mean.” He replied. “There’s nothing I like more
than a good shower in the morning. Take my advice and complain. When
things don’t work properly, you must never hesitate to complain. I always
do.”
If my wits were working, I would have noticed the irony of a dictator
advising a journalist to complain. But, sadly, they weren’t and I did not.
An hour later and the interview over, I found my calm had returned
and my ability to hold my own in conversation was restored. The man in
front of me was the smartest, the shrewdest operator I had so far
interviewed. He made democrats look silly, in fact inept.
When I said goodbye, the General escorted me to the porch. The car
had been summoned and was waiting. He reached out and opened the door.
“Do look me up the next time you come to town.” General Zia said. It
wasn’t likely but it sounded right.
I climbed in. He shut the door. The car drove off. As it covered the half
circle of the round front garden and then straightened itself for the drive to
the gate, the ADC on the front seat who, like me, was looking the other way
suddenly said :
“Look back Mr.Thapar. The General is waving.”
He was. Under the yellow light of the porch, he stood there in his
black sherwani, his well-creased smile in place, his hand erect waving from
side to side.
It was the perfect gesture of politeness but it gave the game away. The
only way the ADC could have known about it when he, like me, had his
back to the porch was if this sort of thing happened every time.
General Ershad, on the other hand, was very different. He wasn’t
shrewd, he had no concept of PR and until I introduced myself, he had little
idea who I was. In fact, in comparison to Zia, he was a rough stone to the
other man’s polished diamond. But Ershad had sincerity or, at least, his
conversation so suggested. I doubt if it was made up. The man did not look
as if he could make up anything.
As he set on a large powder blue sofa, a foot higher than the rest of us,
patiently waiting for the cameras to roll, I asked if he had a large family.
“Only my son.” He replied and we lapsed into silence. But clearly I
had struck a chord somewhere deep within because minutes later, he opened
up like an over-flowing well.
“He’s five and when my wife and I fight, you know we do fight
sometimes, he comes and sits between us and holds our hands together.
Papa, he says, please don’t fight with Ammi. Now you have to say sorry to
her.”
Ershad’s face softened with the emotion of the story he was telling. A
dictator’s face in repose can be disarming. It almost makes you like him.
“At such times.” He abruptly continued,“I always forgive my wife. It
happened last night. Initially I was not prepared to forgive her but the boy
made me. He’s very intelligent, you know.”
It was the most interesting thing General Ershad said to me that day.
The interview which followed was a bore.
10
The Shrinking of Mr. Vajpayee
I think the first time I spoke to Atal Behari Vajpayee was over the phone in
1984. It was the day Indira Gandhi was assassinated and just after the
troubles had started. Although the Sikh pogrom had not as yet begun, it was
clearly threatened. Fear was in the air.
It must have been past ten at night when I telephoned to interview
him.We were producing a special episode of our programme Eastern Eye.
Last week, as I watched him at the Shah Alam refugee camp in
Ahmedabad, I was reminded of our conversation. It went something like
this.
“What happened this morning was terrible.” said Mr. Vajpayee
referring to Indira Gandhi’s assassination. “But what’s happening now also
needs to be condemned. The attacks on Sikhs, on their properties and their
livelihood, is unwarranted. It cannot be justified. It has to be stopped.”
“Who’s behind this?” I asked. At the time, sitting in London, it was far
from clear.
“I don’t know.” He replied. “But it’s the Government’s responsibility
to maintain law and order and protect lives. If it fails, it will have to be held
to account. It will have to answer to Parliament. To the people of India. The
Government should not forget this.”
Mr. Vajpayee did not name Rajiv Gandhi. I don’t think he even
directed his accusations at members of the Congress Party. But then, that
first night, none of this was as yet clear. Yet Mr. Vajpayee spoke
unequivocally of the government’s responsibility. More importantly, he
made a point of saying that it would be held to account. He even hinted that
he might be the one to do so but no more than that. And all of this was
before the pogrom started. The terrible Sikh killings of the 1st and 2nd
November 1984 had not happened. Not facts but fear alone of what might
happen had put steel in his spine.
How different was the Vajpayee I heard 17 years later in Ahmedabad.
No doubt, he was anguished but he also sounded helpless. Perhaps that’s
understandable. Today he is 77. In October 1984, he was 59. Age has made
him slow, cautious, tired and broken. But what truly shook me was what he
failed to say. There was no mention of holding the government to account.
There was no talk of its duty to protect lives, livelihood and property. No
doubt, he spoke of terrible crimes, even of bringing the guilty to book, but
he made no mention of the government’s responsibilities or of its
accountability.
Why?
I hesitate to answer that question. For this is not a matter of mere facts.
It’s not even an issue of party politics. Accountability goes beyond all that.
Accountability is about justice, about establishing the truth, about righting
wrongs. In my eyes, this was a test of Mr. Vajpayee’s convictions and yes,
I’ll go further, his personal integrity.
Yet Mr. Vajpayee stayed silent. He spoke a lot but about accountability,
he was mute. There was pain in his voice, anguish on his face, suffering in
his sentiments but the ultimate justice of holding responsible those who
failed to protect lives found no mention. Not in his words, not even in his
expression.
But had Mr. Vajpayee spoken, it would not have been the first time he
has taken his party or colleagues to task. He did so after the demolition of
the Babri Masjid in ’92. He did it again after the BJP lost the ‘paanch
pradesh kal saara desh’ elections in ’93. It took many visits to his Raisina
Road residence to obtain those interviews. At first, he wouldn’t agree.
Then, he kept postponing. Maybe he was girding himself, maybe he
was waiting for the right time. But ultimately when he spoke it was with
candour. Even his famous wit could not disguise the sharp thrust of his
comments.
At Ahmedabad, in the Shah Alam refugee camp, Mr. Vajpayee failed
himself. Not by the standards of other politicians, not even by the standards
of his colleagues. Once upon a time, he rose above them and even today, it
would be silly to compare him to others. But judged by his own standards,
he failed.
I don’t want to say more because there can be no greater fall than when
a man falls in his own estimation. And even if Mr. Vajpayee never reads
this column, I feel certain he is aware of his descent, his diminution. In fact,
he must sense it all too keenly.
It’s sad to see a man shrink. No doubt, it happens often but each time,
it disillusions and destroys. As Leader of the Opposition, Vajpayee was a
giant. The Prime Minister is a smaller man.
11
The Smarter Sex
I don’t mean to sound pompous nor tongue in cheek but have you ever
considered the fact that of all God’s creation, women who rise to the top are
truly special? You simply cannot say the same of men. There are loads of
male ministers, company chairmen, even generals and archbishops who are
despairingly ordinary. Shorn of their position, you wouldn’t look at them a
second time. Now consider their female counterparts — Indira Gandhi,
Benazir Bhutto and Chandrika Kumaratunga to choose three — and it
would take quite an effort to avert your gaze.
There are several answers to the question what makes such women
special. The struggle to get to the top in a man’s world is undoubtedly one.
Their own individual character another. In the case of the subcontinental
trio, their birth and its advantages is indisputably part of the ingredients.
And let’s not forget, the pusillanimity of the men who surround them. But I
want to write of something different. An answer that hits you straight
between the eyes although you tend not to notice it perhaps because it’s
politically incorrect to do so.
Let me put it like this: a woman who gets to the top in a man’s world is
far from manly. She’s exceptionally feminine. And she uses the charms of
her sex to enforce her superiority. Perhaps because few men know how to
charm or, foolishly, consider it effeminate, they can never compete.
It might sound odd but Indira Gandhi was the most feminine of the
three. Petite, fragile and soft-spoken, her hands were the give away. They
were delicate. The large man’s watch on her wrist always looked
incongruous.
I recall a meeting during the emergency. At the time, they called her
Empress of India. I was her younger son’s guest for dinner. We were seated
around the table at 1 Safdarjung Road and talking raucously when she
entered. Instantly, a strangled silence descended. It didn’t take Mrs. Gandhi
long to realise she was the cause.
“Oh dear.” She said smiling disarmingly. “I call that the Indira effect.”
None of us — for there were others too — laughed. We were either
self-conscious or simply overwhelmed. Minutes later, she left. Her boiled
eggs and toast followed to the bedroom. As the door shut behind her, the
noise resumed.
Later, when I was leaving, I met her in the corridor. As I stammered a
polite goodbye, she brushed crumbs off my shirt and straightened my collar.
She smiled at my helplessness. It was warm and encouraging. In a similar
position, a man would have been fearsome. His self-image would have
required that. Not Indira Gandhi. I recall my sister remarking on the
paradox as we drove home.
“Who’d think this small feminine creature is also a dictator?” Premila
asked. None of us had an answer.
Benazir Bhutto and Chandrika Kumaratunga are bigger ladies but
they’re equally feminine. Both care about little things, small matters of
detail, a gesture or a thought that shows concern.
The first time I met Benazir as Prime Minister was in March 1989.
After an interview in Islamabad, she invited me to fly to Karachi in her
plane. As we settled down for the three hour flight, a steward began serving
cold drinks.
“No, no, no.” She said stopping him. “He likes PIA tea. Please get Mr.
Thapar a nice hot cup and don’t forget the condensed milk. That’s his
favourite!”
“How do you know I like PIA tea?” I asked astonished. “You said so
the last time and the time before that. You always repeat yourself.” She
laughed at my embarrassment. “I’ve arranged the condensed milk specially
for you!”
Thoughtfulness is typical of her. But what I found remarkable is that
even as Prime Minister, she was not self-conscious about displaying it. A
man would have forgotten or at least pretended he had.
Last September, I met Chandrika Kumaratunga in Colombo and
admired her saree. It was a rich red silk with a deep brown border.
“I’m so glad you like it.” She laughed. “It’s one of my favourites. I
wear it as often as I can.”
Minutes later, as the sound recordist tried in vain to hide the
microphone wire, she swept her pallu to the front.
“Here, let’s cover it like this. Then I can show off the pallu too.”
Turning to me, she continued. “I know I shouldn’t say such things but I love
Indian sarees. I buy mine from Bangalore. They have the nicest.”
Three powerful ladies. Each can make men quail. Yet they’re not
afraid to be themselves, to let their individuality show. Men are troubled by
their gentler side. They quash it. Women use it to their advantage. That’s
why a successful woman is so much smarter than a successful man.
In the Frame
1
Mr. Birla and Mr. Laxman
You would think they would be as different as chalk and cheese. One is a
rich businessman who operates behind closed doors, avoiding publicity and
remaining largely unknown to the common man. His name may be
recognised but not his face. The other is a swarthy batsman, a sporting hero
and of late, an idol of the masses and a public figure. When recognised, he
brings traffic to a stop. Yet for all their differences, they have one quality in
common — the self-effacing shyness of the successful. It’s a winning
quality particularly when, as in their case, it’s coupled with an ability to
laugh at oneself and not take one’s triumphs too seriously. Sadly, few of the
successful have it.
I met both this month in very similar circumstances. They had come
for an interview which, admittedly, meant I got to see them on their best
behaviour. Interviewees rarely, if ever, throw tantrums. But these two would
not know how to even if that is what they wanted to do. I suspect their best
behaviour is the only way they know how to conduct themselves.
It was precisely 6.30 pm in the evening when I met Kumar Mangalam
Birla. I know because I was looking at my watch as I stood in the lobby of
the Oberoi in Mumbai. He was due at 6.30 pm and as I looked up, I saw
him striding towards me. I can’t recall too many ‘important’ people who
arrive on time.Those who do instantly win my respect. Kumar got off to a
flying start.
As we moved to the elevator, I reached for the button but when the
doors opened, it was Kumar who stepped aside waiting for me to get in.
That’s never happened before.
“Are you going to grill me?” He asked as we travelled upwards. His
voice wasn’t hesitant or nervous. Company chairmen rarely are or they’re
trained to disguise it. But his tone sounded genuine. He wasn’t making
conversation nor flattering me by playing to the popular image of the stern
interrogator.
“Oh come off it.” I said, as I’ve had to say many times before. “I may
look like a rakshas but I assure you I don’t behave like one.”
“Oh no no no.” Kumar replied. “That’s not what I meant.”
No one else has retracted as he did and I liked him all the more for it.
At best, others have smiled. In fact, Maureen Wadia muttered, “Let’s see.”
But Kumar was embarrassed that I had interpreted his concern as a
comment on my behaviour.
“I’m just nervous.” He said. “I hate interviews and I don’t know why
I’ve agreed to this one. I’ll be terrible.”
The interview was conducted in one of the Oberoi Hotel’s suites. As
we settled down, I offered Kumar something to drink.
“I’d prefer to earn it.” He replied, a small half smile playing on his
face. “I hope you’ll repeat the offer after the interview is over.”
The cameras rolled and as soon as I got my cue, I started on the
introduction. It’s a set-piece which I usually learn by heart. As I’ve also
written it, it should be word perfect. On this occasion, it wasn’t. I meant to
say of Kumar that “his friends say he’s likely to take the family’s fortunes
to fresh heights.” But for some strange reason, I substituted ‘likely’ with
‘liable’.
“Why liable?” Kumar asked tentatively, after it was over. “Sounds odd,
don’t you think?”
In fact, it sounded like an accusation rather than a compliment. It
wasn’t odd. It was wrong and even though unintendedly so, possibly
insulting.
“Why didn’t you point it out earlier?” I said after I had apologised for
the silly mistake.
“Well,” Kumar replied, with a slightly sheepish smile, “I thought I
better check you didn’t mean it before I claimed you’d made a mistake.”
Kumar had more than earned his drink. As we re-wound the tape and
watched the interview that had just finished, I asked what he would have.
He opted for a Diet Coke. It came in a can. Someone looked frantically for
a clean glass. Unfortunately, rooms that have just recorded TV interviews
do not have clean glasses lying around.
“Don’t bother.” He said. “It’s more fun straight from the can.”
“Shall I open it?” I asked.
“Do I still look that helpless?” He laughed.
“If helplessness can take me to the top.” Vishal Pant, our producer,
remarked, sensing the need to step into the breach, “I shall pray every night
to be helpless!”
Last Saturday, V.V.S. Laxman followed Kumar. He’s enormously tall,
much more than his actual 6’1" height would suggest. But his face is
covered with a big shy smile. Not a mere creasing of the lips but a fulsome
smile that reveals all 32 teeth. The impression it leaves is of a gentle genial
giant.
“I’m really sorry I’m so late.” Laxman began as soon as he walked in.
In fact, it wasn’t his fault. The traffic at Ashram had held him up and as our
studio at Jamia is on the other side of it, he had no choice but to patiently
wait till the car cleared the confusion.
“He’s really upset about this.” Vishal whispered in my ear. “He feels
he’s kept you waiting. So tell him it doesn’t matter.”
(Actually Vishal advised me to tell him ‘to chill out’ but since I’m not
sure what that means I’ve interpreted it for you. Vishal, of course, is 15
years younger and his slang belongs to a different generation.)
Once again, we got down to the actual business of recording very
quickly. As the microphones were pinned on and the lights adjusted, I leant
across the table to engage Laxman in conversation. I wanted to relax him
before the interview began.
“I suppose you must have countless requests for interviews.”
He smiled. He has perfect teeth, shiny white. When he smiles, his eyes
light up. But he stayed silent.
Oops, I thought, he’s a little tense. I better try and distract him. In such
situations, I tend to waffle, talk aimlessly and ceaselessly in the mistaken
notion that the sound of my prattle is calming.
“I saw your interview with Harsha Bhogle.” I said hoping to remind
him of someone in whose company he had been very relaxed. “It was
great.”
Laxman smiled again – fully, warmly and soundlessly. But he stayed
silent.
Now I was starting to panic. I know nothing about cricket and I could
sense that I would flounder if I had to keep the conversation going all on
my own. Worse, the director refused to start the recording. There was a last
minute fault with one of the machines. So I made desperate attempts at
conversation but they remained in vain.
Then, suddenly, Laxman spoke up. As he did, I noticed his eyes were
gleaming.
“Well, there was this one interview the other day in Hyderabad.” He
started. “The lady asked me what it was like to get a hat-trick. She thought I
was Harbhajan Singh.”
“What did you do?” I asked. Even I can tell the difference between a
bowler and a batsman.
I waited expectantly but the only reply I got was the return of the
smile.
Afterwards, as he was leaving, Vishal teased Laxman. “Who was
worse?” He asked. “Karan or the lady?”
Laxman blanched but he regained his composure quickly.
“The problem is different.” He replied taking the sting out of Vishal’s
tease and the supposed blame on himself. “You see, I’m not that well
known. So you can’t fault anyone.”
Well, Mr. Laxman, you deserve to be and like Mr. Birla, not just for
the qualities that make you successful. The qualities that make both of you
nice people are far more important.
2
The Man Behind the Masterpiece
A book is never as good as its author. And even when it’s a very good book
that only means it’s the work of an exceptional writer. Last week, my old
friend Patwant Singh launched his new effort. Simply called ‘The Sikhs’,
it’s an attempt to explain to the community’s diaspora the history, traditions
and beliefs of the Khalsa. Who and what are the Sikhs? How did they
develop into the people they have become? And what is so special about
them?
I won’t answer any of these questions. If you really want to know, buy
a copy of Patwant’s magnum opus and find out for yourself. But I’ll tell you
about Patwant. He has a flair, a style, an élan, a grandeur and a wickedness,
a selfishness and a delightful self-centredness and a sense of fun that is
unique. The book does little justice to him.
Now P – as we shall hereafter call him – is a man of many opinions,
often expressed at length but never never boringly.When I first met him, I
was 33. As is his wont, he gave me a large whisky, sat me on a chair lower
than his own and pinioned me to the wall with the sheer force of his
conversation. It was a bravura performance. I was dumbstruck. But just
how good it was became clear when P lost his way and forgot what he was
saying.
“You know the problem with me is none other than myself.”
P covered up. “I take such a broad approach I sometimes forget where
I’m going. Now, young man, what was I talking about?”
I had to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea but it was equally true that it
did not matter. For P is a raconteur, a man born to speak and entertain and
the devil take the content.
When P’s book was ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world,
he asked if I would review it.
“Of course, provided you give me a free copy.”
“Ah.” He retorted. “If you promise a good review, I’ll send you one
from the English edition. But if it’s to be in your normal style, you’ll have
to settle for the desi version.”
Last Friday as he presided over his book launch in the ballroom of The
Imperial, I spotted him sitting behind a desk laden with copies of his book.
A queue of people stood in front of him patiently getting their copies
autographed by the great man.
“Bechre ho ya sabnu present ditte jaren?” I asked in Punjabi as I
stepped forward to embrace and congratulate him.
“Mein budda ho sakna.” He shot back, “lekin paagal nahi.”
That’s what I like about Patwant. He can always think of the mot juste
no matter what the occasion or who the person in front of him. So
regardless of whether you buy his book or not, ring up and ask if you can
meet him.And don’t be nervous. If he wants to, he’ll know how to say no
with considerable style.
3
The Little Things One Remembers
As a journalist, I can tell you it’s odd to find one whom everyone admires.
By and large, our fraternity likes to cut people down to size. Enmity or at
least rivalry ensures that we don’t think highly of our own tribe.
The exception is a petite lady from Islamabad whose armoury includes
her intelligence as much as her appearance. She bowls you over when she
first walks in and if you dare to stagger to your feet, her piercing comments
can knock you down all over again. Were she not an old and dear friend, I’d
run from her not just in self-defence but in terror and confusion.
In Islamabad, she is an institution. Visiting journalists flock to her
office to listen and learn. Camera crew queue up for her sound bites. None
are disappointed. The picture of her meticulously coifed presence, her
gesticulating manicured hands with a pencil-thin Cartier cigarette clasped
between her fingers, as she effortlessly explains the complicated nature of
Pakistani politics, is perhaps the most vivid memory journalists carry with
them. None dare visit Pakistan and not meet this oracle.
When four years ago, Benazir Bhutto appointed her Ambassador to
Washington her rivals predicted, it would prove to be her undoing.
Diplomacy and politics is different to journalism and speculation, they
claimed. They were wrong. Washington proved that the lady also has the
little round things that matter.
Last week, Maleeha Lodhi was in town. I bumped into her at the
Pakistan Day reception or, rather, she found me and ensured that she
bumped into me.
“Karan,” She exclaimed. “Your hair has gone white. Does that mean
you’re now an old man or is it another of your acts of desperation?”
We spent the next two evenings together, gossiping, catching up on old
friends, exchanging views on our respective governments and, of course, I
spent a lot of time simply listening and learning. Maleeha knows more than
most people. She also makes things simple to understand, easy to follow
and seemingly comprehensive and conclusive in their feel.
At the end of the second evening, Maleeha looked me straight in the
eye and then quite took my breath away.
“Why haven’t you offered me a paan? You know that the one thing
you cannot get in Pakistan is a decent paan. Instead of all this talk about
Kashmir and Siachen, trade and visas, a simple saada banarsi would have
won the argument hands down.”
It was well past midnight but undaunted we set off. We drove past
sleeping hotels and empty restaurants, shut shops and weary ice-cream
vendors but no one had any idea where a paan could be bought at that hour
of night. I was ready to give up but not Maleeha.
“I’m told there’s a kiosk in a place called Connaught Place where the
owner sells paans at all hours.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
Maleeha only smiled, so obediently, I drove on. Outside the Odeon, I
stopped. She rolled down the car window.
“Bhai sahab. ” She asked of the first man she saw in the sweetest tone
she was capable of. “Yahan koi paan ki dukaan khuli hogi?”
“Ji haan.” The man replied. “Meri dukaan”.
Later, with our mouths full and Maleeha delighted with herself, I asked
how she had known about the paanwallah.
“A visiting journalist I once met in Lahore told me about the shop. I
made a point of remembering because I knew one day it would be useful.
It’s one of the many little facts about India I can never forget.”
4
The Dalai Lama and the
Cricket Captain
What is it that makes a man truly great? The question is as interesting as it
could be misleading. Most of us assume that great men are defined by great
qualities. Not so or, at least, not necessarily so. More often than not it is the
little, inconsequential things that make a man great. Perhaps not
individually on their own but when they are added up, they count for much
much more than the great qualities we keep mistakenly looking for.
Last week, I met two men who are truly great. They are in every other
way poles apart. One is nearly 65, the other is barely 27. The former is
spiritual, the latter athletic. The elder is wise and noble, the younger
enthusiastic and striving. Well, after those broad hints, I guess you can tell
which was the Dalai Lama and which, the cricket captain. Yet, in one very
noticeable way, they were similar.
I met the Dalai Lama in Mcleodganj. This small town is situated on the
mountain tops above Dharamsala. Other than the Dalai Lama and his
entourage, there is nothing else to see, meet or think about. Just as his
physical presence once ruled Tibet, here his very aura dominates
Mcleodganj. I had gone there to interview him.
“The interview is scheduled for 8.30 tomorrow.” His secretary told us.
“In the morning?” I asked unable to accept I had heard correctly.
“Yes.” He continued and then added, “but His Holiness is bound to be
early. He hates to keep people waiting.”
“Oh.”
I am only used to politicians who deliberately come late. They
measure their self-esteem in terms of how much they have delayed you. An
interviewee who does the opposite is not just rare but hard to believe.
We arrived the next morning at 7.15 a.m. It meant getting up at 5.00
a.m. but I was determined to be punctual. At 7.40 a.m., a beige Range
Rover pulled up outside the room where we had set up the cameras. Ten
seconds later, a large smiling man walked in. He was the Dalai Lama.
“I’m early,” He laughed. His eyes lit up and his face creased into the
biggest smile I’ve ever seen. “Do you want me to go away and come
again?”
“Of course not, Sir.”
“I’m sorry.” He continued, “but I did not want to keep you waiting.”
As we settled down to start the interview, I couldn’t help notice that
the Dalai Lama’s right hand was totally exposed. The left was covered by
his deep red robes. But the right hand was bare. Given that Mcleodganj, on
an early march morning is cold and that morning, after a freak hailstorm, it
was in fact freezing, I could not curb my curiosity.
“You must be shivering.” I said.
“You mean this?” The Dalai Lama said holding out his right hand.
“Yes.” I muttered, but by now I was feeling rather silly and my voice
started disappearing inside my throat.
The Dalai Lama sensed my embarrassment and laughed.
“Don’t worry.” He said reassuringly. “If you look carefully, the right
hand is stronger. It’s the same with all Tibetan monks. That’s why we like to
show it!”
I had not expected His Holiness to have a sense of humour. After all,
when you call a man ‘His holiness,’ humour doesn’t fit in with the image
you form of him. Yet the Dalai Lama laughed like a child.
Not the sheepish, half-hearted, wholly embarrassed squawk politicians
manage. Nor the overly loud guffaw that is too garrulous to be genuine and
which men who want to impress put on. But the real thing. When you hear
it, you will recognise its authenticity.
Later when I recalled that six million Tibetans look upon him as god, I
realised how lucky they were to have one who comes on time and has a
sense of humour. I don’t know what I want of mine. To be honest, I haven’t
thought about it. But I can’t help feel that punctuality and wit are two very
desirable qualities.
Yet these are not the big, great values one customarily looks for in the
Dalai Lama.You go in search of bigger things and in their quest, the little
ones that actually matter are ignored. What I discovered were small
seemingly inconsequential qualities. They don’t count in the big scheme of
things. Yet they are far more telling. They are more relevant. Perhaps that’s
why he is a god his people genuinely love.
Oddly enough, the cricket captain is also like god. Not in the spiritual
sense — no, definitely not – but in the way he dominates, absorbs, infuses
and fulfils our lives.
A few days after the Dalai Lama, our cricket captain was to be my next
interviewee. It was a most fortuitous arrangement. My perceptive Assistant
Producer, Vishal Pant, had persuaded Sourav Ganguly to accept long before
anyone had thought he would be captain. When he was elevated, we kept
our fingers crossed he would keep his commitment. He did.
However, the problem was that as captain, Sourav’s time is very
restricted. When would the interview be? It was originally scheduled for the
13th but he was only arriving late that night. The next morning, he was
practising. On the 14th afternoon, there were cricket board meetings and in
the evening a board dinner. On the 15th, was the match with South Africa
and the next day, he was gone. So it looked as if despite his willingness to
stick to his promise, Captain Ganguly was a lot busier than batsman Sourav.
“Don’t worry.” He reassured me on the phone. “What about 1.00
o’clock on the 14th? If you pick me up from Faridabad, I’ll leave practice
early and all you have to do is ensure I get back to the hotel in time for the
board meeting.”
“What about lunch?”
“Now stop trying to find problems with my suggestion and anyway it
won’t be the first time I miss a meal nor will it be the last.”
For Sourav, the interview was a little thing but for us, not just me but
the full team, it was a big event. That’s why his willingness to forego lunch
and curtail practise meant a lot. And we didn’t have to plead to make him
do it. He suggested it himself. The only possible reason was that he wanted
to keep his word.
Like the Dalai Lama, it was the small seemingly inconsequential
details about the encounter with Sourav that were truly impressive. Why?
Because it’s the small stuff most of us identify with. History may be about
great big details but quite often they are beyond one’s reckoning. Sadly,
history books don’t tell you that cricket captains keep their promises or that
Dalai Lamas stick to time and have a sense of humour. They should. It’s the
little things that matter and remember just because they seem little doesn’t
mean they are unimportant. The grand gestures can be deceptive. A little
thoughtfulness is often more meaningful.
5
The Impact of Hrithik Roshan
“Aagaye, aagaye, aagaye!”
The hushed whisper resounded through the corridors of Jamia Millia
Islamia. Excited studio hands rushed in different directions. Women moved
forward, fathers picked up their children whilst the police gently but firmly
pushed everyone back.
“Karan, Karan!” A voice shouted as it came closer. “He’s here!”
The photographers positioned themselves at the entrance, their fingers
fidgeting with their lenses as they checked their apertures and fixtures one
last time. Everyone else fell silent in expectation.
“Aap coat nahin pahenenge?” The man nearest to me asked. I was
standing in white shirtsleeves with a bright blue Hermes tie to set it off. I
thought I looked natty but clearly for ‘his’ arrival this was inappropriate
dressing. I resisted the pressure to put on my jacket. That could wait.
“Bus mere peeche hein, Sir.” Gopal gasped as he ran into the green
room. He had come running before ‘him’ like a Greek herald. His face was
lit up, his eyes shining and his voice feverish with excitement.
It was at this point that I heard ‘his’ footsteps. Firm, hard and
measured. By the sound of it, ‘he’ had a quick well-paced walk. I steeled
myself for the man who would within seconds walk into the room. He was
the reason I was there. He was the cause of the excitement and tension in
the area.
And then, smiling sheepishly, his sea-green eyes appearing coy and his
body looking smaller than it has in any of his films, in walked Hrithik
Roshan.
Well, in the flesh, Hrithik is thinner, fairer, gentler and younger than
you imagine him to be. Altaf in Mission Kashmir is more menacing, Amaan
in Fiza seems bigger, Rohit-Raj in KNPH more adult. Unlike them, Hrithik
seems more human. At times, he even seems fragile.
But in person, Hrithik’s impact is, if anything, much greater. The onscreen star may leave the audience gasping. The real-life actor leaves onlookers pretty well legless. It’s not just teenage girls who swoon, elderly
matrons tend to become unsteady as well. His wide chest, even when
clothed in a thick cashmere jacket, is impressive. Young men stand in awe.
Their elderly fathers break out in wide-mouthed smiles. Hrithik appeals
across the age barrier and to both sexes.
To be honest, until I saw it for myself, I had not realised this would be
the case. On-screen, his biceps remind me of Popeye. Bulging muscles are
not my idea of male beauty. His tank tops offend my sartorial taste and
although he dances like flowing water, I can’t see anyone dancing like that.
So Hrithik, I had decided, was fine for a film but he would not translate
comfortably into reality. I was wrong.
Believe it or not, it was the police who first alerted me about how far
off my judgement was. Before Hrithik’s arrival last Sunday, I contacted
Police Commissioner Ajay Raj Sharma for help. Airports can be difficult
places and I did not want my visiting star needlessly detained before he got
to our studio. In turn, the Commissioner contacted DCP Kamaraj and the
DCP brought in Additional DCP Gogia. As I stood by open-mouthed, they
planned Hrithik’s reception at Palam and subsequent journey to Jamia like
army generals preparing for battle.
“He’s the biggest name today and his presence will evoke interest.”
Mr. Kamaraj explained as he told me about his plans. Policemen in civvies
would meet Hrithik at the airport. They would escort his car to Jamia. Once
there, a discreet contingent of 10 or 15 would be on guard just in case.
A further fifty would be in readiness nearby if required.
“You see, Mr. Thapar.” Mr. Kamaraj concluded, as Mr. Gogia silently
listened nodding agreement, “we can’t take chances. Hrithik is the flavour
of the day and I think his presence will excite people.”
They were right. No doubt, I had approached the police but only as a
formality. In actual fact, I was unsure of their need. I had only anticipated
autograph hunters at the airport. The police, however, had foreseen the full
range of possibilities that might occur.
Back in office that night, the interview over and Hrithik safely in his
hotel, I turned to my producer, Vishal Pant, to ask what he had thought of it
all. I expected a fairly lengthy pause before a tellingly wise answer. Vishal
doesn’t rush to judgement and his pronouncements carry the weight of
careful consideration. But Vishal surprised me.
“Hrithik has presence.” He said without hesitation. “I knew about
everything else but presence can only be felt in person. He has it. Didn’t
you notice it?”
I suppose I did. But hacks are cynics and charisma and presence get
discounted in our disbelieving eyes. Sometimes we lack the sensitivity to
human emotions to properly notice them. That would certainly have been
the case with me were it not for a chance remark by one of Mr. Kamaraj’s
policemen. It opened my eyes as nothing else could have.
It happened as I was escorting Hrithik to the door after the interview. It
was dark, night had fallen and the winter chill had set in.
“Kamal hei sahab.” The policeman said with a big generous smile
around his lips. “Yeh bachcha jadu kar gaya. Chahe log inka interview
nahin samajhein lekin sunke sabke liye mathlab nikl ayega!”
6
Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and
Sanjay Dutt for New Year’s Eve
It’s strange how your memory can play tricks on you. For instance, I always
associate Sanjay Dutt and Sharmila Tagore with each other. There is no
logical reason for this but events have perpetuated the arbitrary connection.
It first happened nine years ago. It happened again last week.
In 1991, Sharmila and I used to together present Eyewitness. We’d set
up studio at Kamani – oh yes, on stage but there was no audience — and
our guests would filter in, one by one, as the day went on. In those days,
television as we now know it did not exist. Video magazines were the
popular substitute. Ours was, initially, the lesser known but it was always
the better one.
“Who do you think we should try for next month?” I asked Sharmila.
She has a keen sense of popular taste and in those days, I would defer to her
judgement.
Her answer was Sanjay Dutt. Saajan and Sadak had been recently
released and Sanjay was a much sought after Bollywood star. I knew little
of this which is why I suppose I was sceptical. But rather than express my
reservations, I decided to telephone Sanjay and discover him for myself. If
he could stand up to a telephone conversation, he was on.
After several phone calls I tracked him down to Calcutta. He was at
the Grand. I got through around 1.00 at night. The hotel operator was
reluctant to connect me but my insistence wore down his hesitation.
“Hi.” I said trying to sound friendly when Sanjay picked up the phone.
By his voice, I could tell he was not asleep.
“Hi.” Sanjay replied.
A long silence followed. Sanjay, I suppose, was waiting for me to
speak. After all, I was the one who had rung up. But I was struggling for
something to say. I could hardly announce that I had rung to check on
him.Yet that was the truth. As a result, I wasn’t sure how to begin.
“Well.” said Sanjay still sounding friendly. As I’ve since discovered,
Sanjay is very tolerant. He also takes everything in his stride. I continued to
keep silent and he said nothing more.
My mind raced over the various possibilities that I could open with.
‘Sharmila has asked me to phone you’ but that would sound like someone’s
secretary. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night’ but that was so clearly
the case he might have agreed and put the phone down. And finally ‘you
don’t know me but I’m Karan Thapar.’ That was the truth but why would it
help engage him in conversation?
Then it hit me. The morning’s papers had been full of a talk Sanjay had
given on drugs. He had spoken to Calcutta University students on the perils
of addiction. This would clearly have to be my opening gambit.
“I’ve rung about drugs.” I spluttered a bit too abruptly to be inviting.
Fortunately, Sanjay ignored my indiscretion. He listened attentively as I
scrambled to correct the bad first impression I had made. I explained that I
wanted to invite him to talk about his experiences so that others, younger
people with less strength than him could learn.
“Will you do the interview?” He asked and then added sotto voce “or
will it be Sharmilaji?”
“Sharmila.” I replied sensing that was the correct answer. He accepted
at once.
Ten days later, the interview happened. Sanjay flew to Delhi, drove
down to Kamani and opened his heart to Sharmila. It was one of the best
interviews Eyewitness ever did and it got us nation-wide front page
headlines.
I suppose it was in the aftermath of this that the Sharmila-Sanjay
association was born. Thereafter, whenever I’ve thought of one, memories
of the other always follow. This is how last week’s events took place.They
started when the phone rang.
“We’d like a couple of big stars to end the year with.” The lady from
the BBC instructed me. In case you haven’t noticed, I do a programme on
their channel called Face to Face. Even if others don’t, I enjoy it.
“And who do you have in mind?”
I wasn’t just being polite. The BBC pays the money which gives them
every right to call the tune. More often than not, they are also right.
“Well I don’t know if you can get them but at least you could try,” and
then she paused. It seemed like a challenge. Ask a man a favour, then
question his ability to do it and before you’ve finished, you’ve aroused his
pride. Mine was bristling to prove itself.
“What about Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and Sanjay Dutt for New
Year’s Eve?”
I suppose I should have gasped with horror. After all, they are big
names. Getting hold of one is tough enough. Both would ordinarily be
impossible. Instead I smiled, no, maybe I laughed. This would be a cinch.
It’s always a heady feeling when someone throws a challenge and it turns
out to be the very question you crammed last night.
“Done.” I said with an aplomb bordering arrogance.
I set about inviting them with diligence. At the time, Sharmila was in
London. Even though she would have been jetlagged, she accepted within a
few days of her return. Sanjay was in Mumbai and needs permission to
leave the city. Would he want to? For a mere television interview? Not sure
of his answer, I rang his father. Dutt Sahib has helped me in the past and I
hoped he would again. He did.
“I’ve got Sanjay coming tomorrow.” I said to Sharmila after she had
finished her interview and was preparing to leave.
“Oh do say hello.” She answered.
At the time we were walking towards the front patio at Jamia Millia
Islamia where our studio happens to be. I couldn’t help notice the number
of heads that turned in her direction and stayed turned as she walked past.
The Begum of Pataudi, which is the other name she likes to be known by,
could make a dead man’s head turn. At Jamia, everyone is under 30.
“Guess who was here yesterday?” I said to Sanjay the next day.
Because of the number of his fans, his journey down the same passage was
a bit more traumatic.
“Who?”
“Sharmila. She’s our Christmas special.”
“And I’m the New Year Turkey.” Sanjay spontaneously
quipped.“What a wonderfully gracious lady and, Christ, what a tough act to
follow!”
Now it’s up to you to judge whether the connection I make between
the two of them is justified. It’s not just events and coincidences that draw
them together. To my mind, they seem equally frank, forthright and
touchingly vulnerable. I like such people. I’m sure you will too.
7
The Eyes That Spoke To Me
It may sound middle-aged but it’s very difficult not to be smitten by
Madhuri Dixit when you come face to face with her. I was.
We met at Ramoji Film City, Hyderabad. She was there to complete
Raj Kumar Santoshi’s film Lajja. I went to interview her. As I approached
her room, I could feel a frisson of excitement course through my veins.
There’s something about stars that quickens the flesh. Even past forty, you
are not immune to it.
I knocked on her door. A man who looked like her dresser opened it.
He had a sari neatly folded over his left hand, a bit like a french waiter with
a serviette. I announced myself but he remained non-plussed. In his world,
there was no place for, leave aside recognition of, people like me.
“Madhuriji hein?” I asked sounding needlessly tentative but I suppose
that was inevitable.
“Aap kaun?”
I was about to answer when a voice from inside stopped me.
“Hi.” It trilled. There’s really no other word for it. It was cheerful and
welcoming. “Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Suddenly introduction seemed superfluous. She knew who I was and I
could hardly pretend not to recognise her. As a result, my well-planned
opening gambit was instantly invalidated. I had intended to start with a ‘Hi,
I’m Karan Thapar.’ But now, that would sound stupid. In its place, all I
could come up with was ‘Oh, you’re ready’ and without thinking, I said so.
“What did you expect?” Madhuri replied, laughing as she did.
To be honest, I hadn’t the faintest idea. I had not meant to say what I
had and therefore I had no idea how to continue. I was, you see, star-struck
and a little tongue-tied. After all, what do you say if you come into contact
with Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor or even Meryl Streep? If ‘Hi, I’m
Karan Thapar’ is no longer necessary and there’s no point in asking ‘Excuse
me, are you Elizabeth Taylor?’, what do you say instead?
Once again, Madhuri saved the situation. She spoke first and broke the
silence.
“I don’t know if I’m making a terrible mistake.” She began with a
warm but contradictory smile playing about her lips. And then she asked
with mischief in her eyes, “Are you going to eat me up?”
It wasn’t a question looking for an answer. She knew that too. I smiled
a little sheepishly. In return, she gave me the first of her famous looks.
Over the next few hours, I saw that look several times and on each
occasion, it was to beguile me. Even today I can see it clearly in my mind’s
eye. It is, in fact, my memory of Madhuri. It’s also the secret of her charm.
The reason why white-haired middle-aged men like me – who clearly
should know better – end up hopelessly infatuated.
The famous look is a combination of a smile with the simultaneous
movement of her eyes. In fact, not just her eyes but her eyebrows too. The
result is that long before Madhuri’s voice speaks her face communicates
with you. Usually they say the same thing but just sometimes they can
speak differently too.
“As the baby of the family, were you spoilt?” I asked. She smiled. Her
face gave one answer. Her eyes flashed another. Her laugh conveyed it was
the eyes I should go by.
“Ummmm,” Her voice exclaimed when I asked if it was love at first
sight with Shriram Nene. She was reluctant to answer verbally. Her eyes,
however, were far more eloquent. They had a look that clearly suggested,
‘what do you think?’
But it was when I asked if she was really an introvert that the answer
from her eyes and that spoken by her mouth were most at odds with each
other. “I am.” Her lips said. Her eyes laughed and twinkled with knowing
mischievousness. The more her voice pleaded shyness, the more her eyes
seemed to ask ‘do you really believe that?.’
The interview over, I realised I wasn’t the only one to be hypnotised
by her eyes. An enormous crew of seventeen had crammed onto the little
set to watch the interview. Each and everyone of them had spent the time
transfixed by Madhuri’s talking eyes.
“Aankhe dekhi?” I was asked by our cameraman. Later, most of the
others were to ask similar questions too. The funny thing is each of us
thought we had noticed something special. Something the next man had not
discovered for himself. That’s the real magic of Madhuri’s eyes. They speak
individually even when she is surrounded by a crowd.
Mona Lisa has eyes like that. Look at any of her pictures from any
angle and she seems to be looking back straight at you. But her’s remain
mysterious, even inscrutable and ultimately silent. Madhuri’s are talkative
and they speak volumes. I’d like to believe that last week they were talking
to me.
8
If Generals Are in the News
Then Try and Beat This One
It’s a long time since I was called ‘boy’. If I had been younger, the term
would have made me bristle. But last Saturday, it left me with a warm,
happy feeling. For to be ‘boy’ to someone twice your age is to be spoken to
with affection. Of course, the speaker was one of the grand old men of our
times. That made it really special.
I was interviewing Field Marshal Manekshaw. He told me it was the
first ever television interview he has given about himself. He has an
avuncular and friendly manner, he tells enchanting stories and when he
does, his eyes twinkle with laughter and mischief. This man is made for the
box, I said to myself, yet why is it that we hardly know him? This man is
made for television chat shows so why have they ignored him? This man is
an icon of post-independence India so how is it that we have forgotten him?
The fault lies in ourselves.We have no interest in history, no curiosity
about the past and we are too brash, too narrow, perhaps even too young to
respect, leave aside admire, the charm, manners and style of an age now
over and fading out fast. We are prisoners of the present and limited and
confined by it.
So, this Sunday morning, as we read about other Generals, their armies
and its battles, let me tell you about a man we should never have forgotten.
“Sam Hormusji Framji Jamshedji Manekshaw.That’s a mouthful of a
name. How did you get so many?” I asked.
“Simple.” The FM replied, his eyes lighting up with glee. “I gave them
to myself. When I was a Gentleman Cadet at Dehra Dun, my instructor was
a certain G.F.S. McClaren. I decided then and there that I had to have as
many initials as he did. So I took S from my name, H from my father, F
from his father and J from his father and I became S.H.F.J. Manekshaw.”
Manekshaw is a Parsi born in Amritsar in 1914. His father was briefly
a doctor in the Army Medical Corp. He studied in the city’s Hindu Sabha
College. But what was a Parsi family doing in the Punjab before the First
World War?
“My father wasn’t doing very well in Bombay so they told him to go to
the Punjab. The Punjab? Where is that?” The Field Marshal began. “So my
parents got into a train. In those days, there was an intermediate class for
Parsis and Anglo-Indians. My mother was only 18. When the train pulled
into Amritsar station, my father pushed up the shutter and my poor mother
saw the first sikh in her life. She started howling when she saw his long hair
and long beard. She thought she was in a zoo!”
Manekshaw ran away from home to join the army, got commissioned
in 1934 and was badly injured in Burma where he won the Military Cross.
In the 1960s, he was almost cashiered. Krishna Menon took against him and
ordered a commission of enquiry. Fortunately, he was exonerated and went
on to become Chief. In 1971, he led the Indian Army to victory in
Bangladesh.
At the height of that war when India’s advance on Hilli was effectively
stopped by a daring young Pakistani captain, Manekshaw found time to
congratulate him.
“He fought gallantly and I sent him a letter to say so. Later, when I
visited Pakistan after the war, I told their Chief he should get an award.”
Off camera, I asked him a further question. “Doesn’t it stick in the
throat to compliment the enemy?”
“Nonsense boy.” He replied. “It’s those damned dhotiwallahs that
divide us. They have them too, you know, except their’s is a very funny sort
of dhoti. No, a soldier must respect his enemy and never be scared or shy of
praising him. If my enemy’s good and I still beat him, then I must be
better.”
Now 85 years old, Manekshaw lives in Coonoor.
“I have a happy life. Children, grandchildren and a wife who looks
after me — or at least pretends to.” He joked.
Earlier this year, the Manekshaws celebrated their 60th wedding
anniversary.
“The girls insisted I give Mummy a diamond.” He told me. “It’s
damned expensive I said but they would have none of it. So I gave her one.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said thank you.”And then after a laugh, he added,“but that’s all I
got for the diamond. It did nothing for me.”
The old FM tells wonderful stories and if, like me, you want to hear
more, then look out for the next time I write about him. It will be to tell you
when and where the interview is to be shown.
9
Shah Rukh, Mummy and Me
“For someone who is supposed to be intelligent you, can at times be
incredibly stupid. Don’t you ever pause to think before you shoot your
mouth off?”
That, incidentally, is the sort of thing my closest friends repeatedly say
to me. It’s their way of saying they care. Usually I smile disarmingly and
dismiss the criticism. I’m never offended nor, to be honest, do I take it
seriously.
Last week, however, I realised how right they were. If only I had
listened to them earlier, I would not have made such a prized fool of myself.
But then, we all learn the hard way.
It started when my mobile phone began beeping. I rushed to pick it up
only to find I was in the process of receiving an SMS message. Now, I
receive several, and often they can be perplexing. This one was straight
forward except for the sender’s name. It read : “This is to tell you my
number has changed to x x x . Love. SRK.”
Who, I asked myself, is SRK? The initials meant nothing to me and I
could not think of who they might belong to. The more I tried, the less I
seemed to be able to work things out. So, curious but not wanting to appear
rude, I rang the number given. It was answered by a voicemail.
“Hi.” I started off cheerfully. “Thanks for your message informing me
of your new number but I can’t work out what your initials stand for.
Sorry about this but my mind is a complete blank. So be a sport and
fill in the mystery. Let me know who you are.”
I thought I had been rather clever. To my mind, my message felt like
discretion itself. Polite, witty though self-deprecating yet to the point. In
fact, so pleased was I with myself that I walked out of my office and started
to tell my colleagues what I had just done.
“Christ!” said Vishal, when I finished. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No.” I said a little startled. “Why should I be joking? You can see the
SMS on my mobile. It’s still there.”
“Not the message.” He continued. “It’s your reply I’m talking about.
Surely you know who SRK is?”
“No.” I insisted. “I don’t.”
But strangely I don’t recall Vishal telling me. I’m not sure what
happened but I guess someone or something interrupted us and the subject
slipped from our attention. Anyway, I soon forgot all about it. Until later,
that night.
I was sitting at my mother’s when it happened. The family tends to
congregate around the television pretending to listen to the news. Actually,
instead of listening, we all talk simultaneously – or do I mean quarrel? –
and none of us is any wiser after the broadcast. That night was no different
until the phone rang. I’m not sure how I heard it above the din but what I
did notice is that as the others heard me talking the room hushed to pin drop
silence.
“SRK?” I said. “What do you mean why you’re SRK?”
And then suddenly, like a blow on my head, I recognised the voice.
I’ve heard it a thousand times before. I recalled its particular tone, its
special way of speaking, its half-mocking quality. Oh my God, of course,
this is SRK! It had to be. The initials fit perfectly. Why, why, why had I not
thought of it earlier?
“I’m really sorry, Shah Rukh.” I started to splutter. “I never thought it
was you.You must think I’m an ass. The problem is I know you as Shah
Rukh Khan and not SRK.”
“No, the fault is mine.” The voice from the other side reassuringly
replied. “It’s just that everyone in Mumbai calls me SRK so I assumed the
initials would make sense. But I guess this proves I am not as popular as I
think I am!”
He was being generous and excusing my lapse. But the mistake was
mine. I suddenly realised why Vishal had been so surprised. To him, SRK
made immediate sense and he couldn’t fathom why I was thrown by the
same initials.
I was still apologising when Mummy interrupted me. I was repeating
for the umpteenth time that I was an idiot. Shah Rukh, I suspect, was
beginning to believe me. I can be very convincing when it’s not in my
interest to be. That’s when Mummy spoke up.
“Tell him his mother thinks so too. In fact, not just an idiot but a
complete bloody fool!”
So I did. I interrupted myself and conveyed her message instead.
“Don’t worry, mums always think their sons are idiots.” Shah Rukh
replied. And then, dropping that famous voice almost to a whisper, he
added. “Sometimes they’re right.”
10
An Important Quality that
Fardeen and Aishwarya Share
Do you have little ways of gauging a person? Simple, straightforward but
significant signs that interpret the people you meet? I do. And it’s one of
these that lies at the heart of the story I want to share with you this Sunday
morning.
How a person responds to his or her mistakes is for me a telling test of
character. We all find it easy to be candid and outspoken about other
people’s errors. Usually it’s cost free. But when one is at fault oneself, it is
neither simple nor easy to be frank. And the more important you think you
are, the more difficult it becomes. Whilst we all have our pride, those who
live in the public gaze have in addition position and prestige to worry about.
These are often insuperable obstacles to honesty.
So you can imagine my pleasant surprise — no, let me too be honest,
my delight — when last week, I met two celebrities who overcame their
star status and were unabashedly frank about their lapses. As a result, I’ve
taken a shine to them and in my estimation, they’ve become special people.
The first was Fardeen Khan. He came to our studio a month and a bit
after his arrest for attempting to buy drugs. His plight had been front-page
news. Pictures of him under police escort had been splashed all over our
screens. And as you can guess, no one likes the world to know they’ve been
in jail.
“Are you going to ask him all about it?” was the only question my
colleagues wanted to know.
“I wonder what he’ll say?” Ashok pondered.
“Oh, he’ll go red in the face.” Irene replied.
“Or he’ll refuse to talk.”Vishal suggested.
“Who knows,” added Birendra. “He may even walk out of the
interview if you press too hard.”
I must say I shared some of their concerns. I knew I had to tackle the
issue but I also accepted that it would only be a part of the interview. For
the majority of the time, we would talk about other subjects. Yet if the time
we spent on his troubles made him defensive, it would damage the whole
interview. Once I had pushed him into a shell over the drugs issue, it might
be impossible to lure him out again. So what was I to do?
I did not know and decided to postpone a decision till I met Fardeen. It
seemed the safest but also the most sensible course of action.
On the day Fardeen arrived in a tight-fitting tee shirt, beige trousers,
suede mocassins without socks and a big, warm but sheepish smile. I
mention these details because they made up my mind for me. He looked
casual, chatted easily and I felt relaxed and comfortable in his company. I
decided to risk it and pop all the questions about drugs that ordinarily I
would want to. I felt he would take them well.
I was wrong. Totally wrong.
Fardeen didn’t just take them well. He handled them brilliantly. My
colleagues, who were in the production room, later told me they were
applauding his answers.
What Fardeen did was to be completely honest but, at the same time,
he didn’t indulge in any histrionic displays of guilt.
“I’m old enough to know what I’m doing. It’s not that I do things
without thinking.” He started. “I broke the law, I got caught, I paid the price
for it but now I’ve got to move on.”
I pointed out that the newspapers claimed the police were hoping to
catch a senior politician and a celebrity singer when instead he fell into their
net. Was he caught by accident? Was he the wrong man in the wrong place
at the wrong time? The question was intended to let him off the hook. Most
others – perhaps I included – would have grasped at it. But not Fardeen.
He smiled. He has a full and friendly smile and he uses it a lot.
“No, never.” He answered. “As I said, you’ve got to know what you’re
doing. We’re all old enough and smart enough to know what we’re doing. If
you get caught, you get caught. If it was not today, it could have been
another day. That’s it.”
So was it bad luck? Once again, I was offering him a cop out. Once
again, he refused to accept it.
“Well you can look back and say it was bad luck but, hey, I was
breaking the law and got caught.”
I must say I was flabbergasted. He’s only 27. Men of 72 would have
found it hard to be so candid. But he wasn’t just frank. He took it on the
chin, made no big deal of it and spoke of it in proper perspective. Yes, he’s
made a mistake, a silly stupid mistake and he’s paid for it but it’s not the
end of the world and it’s not something he must run scared of or be
embarrassed about. I agree with him.
The other person whose candour impressed me last week was
Aishwarya Rai. Of course, in her case, the incident was very different. She
wasn’t guilty of any crime or even of a serious lapse. She was simply late
for an interview. Her explanation was foolproof : she was late because she
was unwell. But nonetheless, she was still over two and a half hours late.
Now, I’ve had many interviewees — and many of them big stars —
who’ve been late and thought nothing of it. In fact, not being on time is a
hallmark of success in Bollywood. It’s the sine qua non of being number
one. But Aishwarya was very different. It showed from the moment she
arrived. And I found it admirable.
“You must be so angry!” She started, anxious to get in her explanation
before anything else was said. She hadn’t even stepped out of her car but
she had already started to apologise.
The facts are simple. Aishwarya was due for an interview at the new
ITC hotel in Andheri, the Grand Maratha, at 9.00 a.m. We had flown in
from Delhi the night before. On arrival, I checked with her secretary and he
had said all was well. At 10.30 a.m., we spoke again and he re-confirmed
the arrangement. But at 1.15 p.m., long after I’d turned the lights off and
gone to sleep, he rang to say Aishwarya had fallen ill and wanted to call it
off.
You can imagine how I reacted. I don’t think I slept a wink that night
and right up till 11.00 a.m., I did not know if she would be well enough to
make it. But she did. At 11.30 a.m., her car drove in to the Grand Maratha
and she stepped out.
“I bet you don’t want to know me!” She said with a big smile on her
face.“You must be wondering what sort of girl this is and I can understand
if you are upset. Maybe you don’t even want to interview me any more?”
“Of course I do.” I said loudly just in case my silence conveyed the
opposite. I wanted to interview her more than anything else.
“But honestly, I’m really really really sorry.” She continued. “I’ve
never done this sort of thing before. It’s just that last night I had a terrible
migraine.”
Now in fact the truth is I was a little hurt and my colleagues more so.
But in neither case, anywhere near enough to warrant such generous
behaviour. Her manner not only disarmed us. It won us over.
So, if a grey-haired forty-five year old can turn bashful and look silly
and coy well, believe me, I did.
Later I recalled how frequently I too have pleaded illness to back out
of appointments I’ve decided not to keep. My secretary, poor Aru, has had
to tell lies so often he’s stopped admonishing me. As a result, I’ve come to
think of illness as an excuse not the truth. I suppose that’s why I began by
misjudging Aishwarya. And, who knows, maybe she guessed it too.
Perhaps that’s why she was so fulsome in apology. But it worked. Not just
because it was sincere but also because it was so unusual from a star.
Now you know why I think Fardeen and Aishwarya are special people.
Not because they are rich, successful and popular but because they are
honest and don’t let their pride or position stand in their way.
11
I Say Mr. Laxman!
When a man’s reputation precedes him, you often end up with a misleading
idea of what he must be like. That’s what happened to me with R.K.
Laxman. I’ve spent decades admiring his cartoons and foolishly I thought I
knew him. My image of him was of a tall, garrulous, expansive and
avuncular personality. I’m not sure why I thought of him as tall. But I did. I
also assumed he would be plump.
The person who walked into our make-shift studio at The Grand
Maratha in Mumbai was very different. He’s small – even slender – reticent,
measured and precise in his comments and he doesn’t make you laugh. But
he does make you smile, a thoughtful frequent smile in response to his wry
humour and deep cynicism.
“I say, why do you want to interview me?” He asked.
It took me aback. No doubt he had expressed similar sentiments when
we arranged the interview but to hear them repeated as we sat down for the
recording was surprising. I struggled for something suitable to say. But I
soon realised he didn’t mean it.
“I’ve been thinking of what to say.” He suddenly continued. “There’s
so much. So much has happened but also so much has been forgotten. How
am I to remember everything?”And then, after a pause, he repeated, “I say,
why do you want to interview me?”
This wasn’t reluctance but diffidence. He was shy and I liked him all
the more for it.
“Ready, Mr. Laxman?” I enquired as the cameraman cued me.
He smiled wanly. I assumed that meant yes. But as soon as I began, he
interrupted.
“I say.” He said, using his favourite expression. “Have you got a pill?”
“A pill! What sort of pill?”
“Any will do. A small one or a big one.”And then almost sotto voce,
he added, “I’m not well, I say.”
I’m afraid I burst out laughing. In fact, we all did.
“You’re a hypochondriac!” I exclaimed but I meant it good-naturedly.
I’m one too.
“No.” Laxman replied slowly, his eyes twinkling behind his thick-set
glasses. “Not really. But pills help.”
Surprisingly, the interview started on a cheerful note. I began by
asking how he had conceived of the common man.
“He found me. I didn’t find him.”
Laxman explained how long it takes to depict ordinary Indians. “You
see,” He said. “Common people are not the same. Bengalis don’t look like
Maharashtrians or Tamils. And they, in turn, don’t look like Punjabis or
Kashmiris. It takes an awful lot of time to draw them, I say.”
“So you created the common man to save time?”
“Not at all.” He interjected.“At first I used to draw a crowd but then I
started eliminating people one by one. First this one, then that one, then the
other. In the end there was only one man left, standing and looking back at
me. He was smiling. That was the common man in his striped coat, big
moustache and large glasses.”
Laxman speaks with a flat, almost monotonous, voice. There are few
discernible inflections in his tone. This serves, oddly enough, to emphasise
his dry wit. But it contrasts strongly with his animated eyes. They seem to
have a life of their own. They enlarge, contract, smile or assume a look of
mock horror depending on the response he elicits from you.
Consequently, conversations take place at two levels. First there’s the
verbal exchange. Then there’s the communication from his eyes.
I discovered Laxman’s favourite ‘victim’ was Nehru. In fact. he didn’t
hesitate to add that today’s politicians are less interesting.
“There’s no fun any more, I say.” He told me. “And do you know
why? They have no personality. They’re all the same. They all want to look
like the next fellow.”
“So is the great Mr. Laxman bored?” I found it hard to believe but I
couldn’t resist asking.
“I’m totally bored. With the politics of this country and with
newspapers.”
Suddenly I wasn’t sure how to respond. How do you continue a
conversation with a bored cartoonist? But he stepped in to save me.
“I want to write a book on doctors.” He revealed. I can’t say I was
altogether surprised. I asked if he intended it as an expose.
“I want to write about the pills they give all the time which don’t make
any difference.” Then, dropping his voice although his eyes were sparkling,
he continued. “Doctors don’t know anything, I say.”
“So is this your next big project?”
“Ah… but I hope I get well soon.”
Perhaps he noticed my amused expression because he soon added :
“I’m not well, I say.”
I laughed again but this time he joined me.
“Reading the papers is so boring. I have to do something different.”
12
Keep Kicking, Khushwant –
We Like It!
What is it that makes some people special? It could be their looks,
intelligence, wit, charm or just their magnetic presence. But in the case of a
man I met last week – a man you all know of and no doubt have read
repeatedly – it was his endearing, self-deprecatory manner. This man could
have boasted, loudly and ceaselessly, for his achievements are huge. He
could have assumed airs and pretensions as, no doubt, others often do. He
could have been a bore, prattling on about himself and I would have sat still
and listened. But, instead, he chose to wear his laurels lightly. He made fun
of himself. He laughed and he joked. As a result, he impressed me
enormously.
“Looking at all you’ve been: a lawyer, a diplomat, an author, a scholar,
an MP, an editor and a gossip columnist,” I began, my eyes twinkling with
naughtiness. “Are you a man for all seasons or a jack of all trades?”
“I’m just a dirty old man.” He replied and then Khushwant Singh
threw back his head and laughed. “Or, at least, that’s what most people
think.”
I had met him briefly once before, five years ago, but I did not know
him and I had no idea what to expect. He’s nearly 85, he rises before dawn
and is asleep by 9.00 at night. The sign outside his front door reads ‘Please
don’t ring the bell if you are not expected.’ I thought here was a man who
erects barriers around himself. Such men either have things to hide or, at
least, are difficult to know.
How wrong I was. Just listen to him yourself and see if you disagree.
Speaking of himself, Khushwant, without batting an eyelid, told me,
“Somebody said that you’ve made bullshit into an art form and I thought
that was a correct description.”
He said that years ago he had decided, “we are a nation of
sanctimonious humbugs” whose practice rarely match what we preach. It
was therefore his ambition to prick the bubble of our inflated conceit.
Khushwant says, “Kick them in the arse and they will respect you. I
enjoy provoking my countrymen. They are really so smug, so satisfied and
not at all curious about anything. I think it’s worth provoking them.”
“This riled me very much and I said I’ll cock a snook at this. If I drink,
I’ll drink right in the open and stand for drink as my birth right. If I like
beautiful women, I’ll say that they are beautiful on their face or write about
them, describing them.”
And when, as journalists often do, I asked him how he would meet his
maker and what account he would give of himself, Khushwant side-stepped
the solemnity of my portentous question with the simplicity and candour of
his reply.
“I don’t believe in a maker and he won’t ask me a thing.” He answered
back without a trace of hesitation but a large obvious smile.“When I die, I’ll
die and that’s it. There’s no after-life. There’s nothing further. Death is a full
stop.”
Till then, of course, he intends to go on as he has. So, this Sunday
evening, as he raises his customary glass of scotch, I hope you, will join me
in saying to him, Keep kicking, Khushwant – we like it!
13
A Reverie at a Book-Reading
Sometimes when you meet a person, you can end up seeing them not as
they are but through the prism of memories. In such instances, the past
overwhelms the present. It’s a strange but wonderful experience. Time
somersaults backwards, reality converges with history, and myth and legend
with truth.
As I watched Vikram Seth read extracts of his new novel, I found
myself transported thirty two years back in time. We were both at The Doon
School. Vikram was in A-form and in his penultimate year. I was in D-form
and it was my second term. We were preparing for the school debating
competition. Vikram was Debating Captain at Jaipur House. I was the
youngest, most inexperienced, member of his team.
“Can’t you speak with authority but without shouting?”
Vikram was sitting cross-legged on his chair. He resembled a petite
Buddha with sculpted feet and a small round head. His hair kept falling
across his forehead. As a result, even when he sounded angry, he never
looked it.
I wasn’t sure what he meant. At eleven, the difference between
authority and a loud voice is not obvious. I cleared my throat, stood up
straight and started again.
Vikram closed his eyes. He often does when he is concentrating.
But to speak to a man sitting cross-legged on a chair with his eyes shut
can be disconcerting. Try hard as I did to control my voice, it started to
wander.
“You’re singing or at least you’re sounding very sing-song.” Vikram’s
eyes were now open and staring ferociously. “Remember you won’t win
any extra points by trying to seduce the judges with your voice. Speak
normally, clearly, fluently and you’ll carry conviction.”
Neither then nor now do I know what he meant. ‘Speak like you
normally do’ is an injunction that baffles me. If I don’t speak like myself,
whom do I speak like? Yet when I woke from my reverie it was to find,
three decades later, that Vikram was doing exactly that. Of course, he
wasn’t cross-legged. But the small round head, now slightly balding, was
talking clearly, fluently and the audience was transfixed with conviction.
“What an amazing speaker.” whispered Shobha Deepak Singh in my
ear. She was sitting beside me on the second row of the Habitat Centre
auditorium.Aveek Sircar,Vikram’s publisher, was beside her. Earlier, with
his help, Shobha had got Vikram to autograph her copy of his book.
“He’s just being himself.” Aveek added by way of explanation.
I turned to watch Vikram on the stage but before long, my mind started
wandering again and I soon found myself tumbling back into the past. This
time we were in the Rose Bowl rehearsing for the School’s annual play. It
was Rattigan’s Winslow Boy. I was the brutish lawyer. Vikram was
directing. The year was 1971. It was his year off between A levels and
Oxbridge. It was my last year in School.
Vikram had just explained how he wanted a particular scene done. It
was partly description and partly enactment. Despite his lack of height, he’s
a talented actor. Then, with short quick steps and his head inclined
downwards, he walked towards the audience stands to sit down and watch.
He crossed his legs, cupped his chin in the palm of one hand and rested his
elbow on his raised knee. His other hand held on to his foot.
“Right. Lets see how you do it.”
I started. It was the scene where the lawyer cross-examines the young
boy.Vikram wanted me to pretend to be angry. Yet the anger also had to
sound genuine otherwise the cross examination would not work. Only after
it was over would the truth emerge.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Vikram pronounced. He was not given to
praise easily and I swelled with pride.
Later, rehearsal over, as we walked back, the April night alight with
stars but the air hot and heavy, he came back to the subject.
“The funny thing about anger is that it’s not the shouting that
communicates it. It comes from deeper inside. It’s like love and hate. You
have to feel it to sense it.”And then after a pause, he added,“I suppose all
emotions are the same.”
I returned to the present to find Vikram reading a delicately written
extract from his book. Helen is tipsy but excited. Her words are tumbling
out. Michael, though detached, is not indifferent. His wit is a foil to her
emotion. Their feelings emerge, they grow, they suffuse the context but
rarely are they stated.
I have to read this book, I said to myself. I bought it a couple of weeks
ago. I like to buy new ones as soon as they are out. It’s a sort of oneupmanship I play with myself. But I can be very lazy about reading them.
And Salman Rushdie’s new novel put me off Indian authors.
A week, later I’ve finished the book but the story, its characters and
their world is still with me. Like memories of Doon School, it will merge
into a consciousness that will always be there. Vikram, the stories about
him and now his book will fuse into one. I would not want it otherwise.
If you haven’t, I recommend you read An Equal Music.
Stop Over
1
My Big Time in Barcelona
I always look out of the window when the plane is landing. That’s partly
because I’m scared but also because I’m anxious to see where I’m headed.
However, the half empty Swissair flight to Barcelona offered so much
choice, it was unsettling. As we flew down the Mediterranean coast, just
along the littoral, I couldn’t make up my mind which side I wanted to be on.
On the right, like a colourful spanish sombrero glinting in the early morning
sun, lay the city. On the left, the sea.
It was the colours that helped me decide. Not of the city but the sea.
Looking outwards from the shoreline, the Mediterranean changed along a
spectrum of blues and it happened in steps. Pale topaz, jade green, cobalt,
navy and then, towards the far horizon, deep purple.
“It looked so startling.” I told Alexander Thomson, my host at News
World, the television forum I had been invited to attend.
“Startling is the right word.” He replied. “And the sea food from the
Mediterranean startles the stomach as well. Take my advice : look at the
Mediterranean but don’t be tempted by its fruits de mers!”
It transpires the beautiful Mediterranean is one of the world’s most
polluted seas. Alexander had ignored his own sage advice and was suffering
for it. He was anxious I shouldn’t make the same mistake.
“Don’t worry.” I reassured him. “I’m allergic to shell fish.”
“Lucky you!”
Well, that’s one way of putting it.
Barcelona is a happy city and the Catalan are friendly, welcoming
people.
“What can I do to help you?” asked the lady at the Melia Confort
Hotel reception.
I wasn’t sure what to say. A thousand possible replies flashed through
my mind but I hesitated in case I had misunderstood her. Judging by her
smile, I suspected I had.
“What do you suggest?” I replied. Throwing the ball back in her court
seemed a wise thing to do.
“Well, Sir.” She began, producing a map and a small tourist guide
book. “What about a walk through our city? Barcelona by night is beautiful
and lively.”
Thus it was, I found myself walking the streets. At the city centre is La
Rambla, a wide avenue, brightly-lit, thronged with youthful revellers and
elderly post-prandial perambulators. The actual road, a dual carriageway, is
narrow and cars pass in single file. But the pavements are broad. The
central verge is enormous. It’s full of kiosks selling books, ice cream and
birds.
“Senor, Senor.” A voice rang out. I turned to find one of the stallholders beckoning me. He was surrounded by cages and their inhabitants
were chirruping joyously.
He tried every language — Spanish, French, German — until he
realised I only spoke English. But that didn’t fluster him.
“Buy a bird. They are beautiful.”
“What would I do with a bird?” I asked.
“Ah, Sir.” He answered. “When a man asks such a question, it shows
there is something missing from his life!”
There are three things you have to do in Barcelona. The first is try the
local wine. It’s light, fruity, sparkling and mercifully inexpensive. The
second is taste Catalan cuisine. The bits I liked were either full of garlic and
olive oil or were the longest curliest sausages you have ever seen. But the
third …
The third has to be seen and is hard to describe. It’s Antoni Gaudi’s
incredible architecture. He was either mad or a genius and may be both. His
designs are in all colours and shades, dreaming spires, flying buttresses,
gargoyles and arches, columns and cascades, windows and sheer walls. The
impact is one of awe-inspiring confusion.
I visited The Temple de la Sagrada Familia around midnight. Against
the deep black Mediterranean night, it’s illuminated exterior looked haunted
and hideous. It was so strange I started laughing but no one noticed.
Wandering tourists laughing to themselves as they stare at Gaudi’s
masterpiece is a sight the good people of Barcelona are accustomed to.
That, after all, is everyone’s first response.Yet stay a little longer and you
will soon change your mind.
As I stood and stared, I realised I was looking upon a unique creation.
A challenge to tradition and convention and the loudest possible
proclamation of individuality. If architecture can scream, then this temple
was shouting at all who passed by.
“Look at me.” It seemed to say. “You’ll never see anything like this
again.”
Now, believe it or not, Barcelona has taxies that remind you of India
and is full of Pakistanis. The cabs are black and yellow but thankfully that’s
as far as the resemblance goes. The drivers are polite, they cheerfully point
out the sights and they return every peseta of change owing to you.
The Pakistanis were more mysterious. What were so many of them
doing here? North eastern Spain is not a common port of call for the
average South Asian immigrant.
“Spain mein dus hazaar Pakistani hein.” Abdul Mohammad informed
me. Six thousand of them, he added, lived in Barcelona. He’s from
Sargodha but, as he pointed out, “only originally.” Abdul speaks fluent
Spanish. His English requires help from his Urdu and probably vice versa
too. That’s how deeply integrated he has become in his Catalan
surroundings.
“Jab aye the to paisa kamake lotne ka irada tha.” He said. “But who
wants to go back now?”
We chatted for a while at his ice cream kiosk in old Barcelona. It’s just
off Placa Reial and the locals seemed to be his friends.When I left, I bid
him khuda hafiz. His reply?
“Viva Espanya!”
The last thing I did in Barcelona was to hunt for a souvenir. Not the
conventional picture book of the city nor a little replica of a famous
monument but something that I could wear and, whenever I did, recall my
visit. Clothes matter to me and most of my memories are associated with
them.
It was at the airport that I found what I thought would be suitable. A
dark brown suede belt. Spain is famous for its leather and I have never seen,
leave aside possessed, a suede belt. To be honest, I was looking for
something in black crocodile skin but when I found the suede version, I
realised that crocodile was far too common.
I was lost deep in thought when the shop assistant walked up to me. At
the time, I was standing in front of the mirror admiring myself with the belt
on. It suited me. I was determined to buy it.
“Have you found something you like, Sir?” She asked or at least that’s
how I interpreted her Spanish-accented English.
“Yes, this belt.” I answered.“I’ve always wanted something in Spanish
leather.”
“And you want to buy it?”
“Yes please.”
So I handed her the money and she rolled up the belt and popped it
into the most elegant plastic container I’ve ever seen a belt put into.
“Thank you.” I said.
“Pleasure.” She replied. “If you like Italian things, you must one day
visit our main shop in Milano.”
2
Lessons From Colombo
You only have to cross India’s borders to discover how far behind our
neighbours have left us. Honestly, it makes you feel both sad and jealous.
Last week, I was in Colombo. It’s one of my favourite cities which is
possibly why I never spend time seeing it. I always assume I know the
place. On this occasion, however, I found myself wandering around and
what I saw left me startled.
Colombo has shopping malls like Europe or, at least, Dubai. The
Crescat Boulevard or the Jaic Hilton are sophisticated, opulent, vibrant and
fun. At the former, a Mercedes sports car was on offer to the winners of a
private lottery. At the latter, the wine bar and grill reminded me of New
York. In both places, the shops are imaginative, attractive and no doubt
expensive. Even the supermarkets are a joy to visit.
Yet as I walked through the malls, their marble floors gleaming and
their polished brass and glass shopfronts sparkling, my spirits sank. With
each step, my heart grew heavier. For the more I saw, the more I realised
how different is Delhi, how dirty in comparison looks Mumbai, how old
fashioned and seedy seem Kolkata and Chennai.
Why is it that the biggest, the most powerful and the richest economy
in South Asia stands in such poor comparison to its smaller, less wealthy
neighbours? Why, when the world around us delights in displays of modern
living, do we continue to look medieval and decrepit? What’s wrong with
us?
I recommend that all our MPs, MLAs and mofussil politicians be sent
on a state sponsored two day visit to Colombo to see what our neighbours
have achieved. Perhaps then they’ll realise the damage they’ve done at
home.
3
Marriage – Sri Lankan Style
Sri Lanka does share one of our bad habits. When its people want to get
married, they advertise in the papers. So, if you operate on the principle that
a country’s advertisements tell you a lot about its people, the matrimonial
classifieds in the Colombo press are most revealing.
For a start, their candour can be surprising :
‘A kind, caring, educated partner is sought by a Sinhalese Buddhist
mother for her 46 year old mildly attractive daughter who is a US citizen
with substantial assets. Widower or divorcee acceptable. Horoscope not
required but bio-data necessary.’
On other occasions, the language is startling :
‘A chance to marry even if you are 50. Govi Buddhist Kandiyan
parents want to marry off their 39 year old daughter but beware she looks
younger although your looks should not matter. An honest application
would be appreciated.’
The amazing bit is that Sri Lankans have enormous faith in the reach
of their matrimonial columns. I came across a classified ad put in by a
couple resident in Australia seeking a spouse for their daughter. The only
condition they stipulated was that the applicant had to be an Australian
citizen. Yet the ad was in the Colombo Sunday Observer. I’ve never seen
anything similar in India.
Another difference is that there’s a separate page for potential
bridegrooms-in-need. It’s no less explicit or frank but, I suppose, men,
being men, the required procedure for replying is innovative to say the least
:
‘Computer analyst wants a partner. Age, looks, caste and colour not
important but knowledge and love of the Net essential. Replies only by
email to VASSKOT@hotmail.com’.
If you decide to apply for a lark, do let me know the results.
4
A Farewell to Afghanistan
The Kabul I remember was very different. In fact, Afghanistan itself was
another country. Zahir Shah was on the throne, the hippies had yet to
discover the place and Chicken Street was only famous for its crude
abattoirs. The birds were kept in open street-facing cages. Once a purchase
was concluded, their necks were wrung in front of you and the blood
drained into the open juis (gutters) that lined the street. It was heady stuff
but quite different to the drug trade that took over in later years.
Kabul was a happy city. Innocent and carefree but also a little
deceptive. Behind the huge walls that surrounded each house, ensuring
privacy and protection, lived middle classes at ease with western
sophistication. Women smoked, painted their nails and dressed in the best
of French fashion although they might wear a burkha if they ventured
outdoors. Men wore suits and kissed the hands of the ladies they met.
French was spoken as frequently as English. And it certainly wasn’t
uncommon to see people drinking.
My father was the Indian Ambassador and we lived on the same street
as the American Embassy which was burnt down last week. Except at the
time, it did not exist. Our house faced a vast open expanse of barren land
but visible at the far end was the Pakistan Ambassador’s residence. Along
side was the home of Marshall Shah Wali, the King’s uncle. Such
geography might seem unlikely today but in the middle ‘60s, it was
unremarkable. It also led to close and lasting friendships. General Yousuf,
the Pakistan Ambassador, and Daddy were colleagues from the days of the
old British Indian Army. Not surprisingly, the families became firm friends.
Abidah, their younger daughter, taught me tennis. She would wear a white
pleated skirt for our lessons and beat me without consideration for my age. I
was nine.
My parents got to know the Royal Family quite well. Abidah and my
sisters became better friends with the princes. There were five of them.
When, towards the end of our stay, when Daddy had a heart attack, he was
surprised by how often the younger princes would visit. “I had no idea they
were so fond of me.” He once remarked. My sisters found it difficult to
suppress their laughter. Mummy had to bell the cat.
The King also had two daughters. The younger one, Mariam, was a
part time nurse at Kabul Hospital. Fate was to be less kind to her. In
keeping with Afghan custom, she married her first cousin only to find that
in 1973, her father-in-law would overthrow her father. For the last thirty
years, she has lived torn between her parents in exile in Rome and her
husband in London (after his father, Daud, was himself deposed in 1978).
Her life is a sad illustration of the greater tragedy that has befallen her
country.
Of course, in 1964, all of this lay in the future.At the time
Afghanistan’s politics seemed stable, even placid. My world was my
school. Known by its acronym AISK, the American School was a
microcosm of Kabul’s international society. There were Polish, German,
Yugoslav, Iraqi, Turkish, French, Italian, Pakistani and even a few Japanese
kids but Afghan children dominated. We hankered after peanut butter
sandwiches and rich chocolate brownies. We read Superman and Archie
comics. We played American football. ‘Aw shucks’ and ‘Gee whizz” were
our favourite phrases.
My accent drove my mother up the wall. “No darling.” She would
correct me when I got home. “It’s aluminium”. I can still recall her lips
mouthing each syllable as she pronounced the word meticulously.
But aloominum sounded more catchy to my ears and I was determined
to be American.
It was a time of innocent pleasures. The Spinzar Hotel, run by an
elderly Swiss couple, was famed for its patisserie. The éclairs were
everyone’s favourite. However, the younger set preferred the Khyber
Restaurant at Pashtoonistan Square. It was large, self-service and cafeteria
style but it was the happening place in town. Lemon meringue pie and
baclava were the most popular choice. It never occurred to us that they
symbolised two aspects of Afghanistan’s life that would soon be crushed.
On summer weekends, we would head for Kargah, a deep-water iceblue lake a half hour drive from Kabul. Here there was always laughter and
music. Carefree bathers would lounge in their swimsuits. Bikinis were the
rage, sun tanning was de rigueur. Only the enthusiastic would actually
swim.
The nearby hill resort of Paghman was the rival attraction. Rich
Afghans maintained holiday villas on its fruit tree lined slopes. On Friday
evenings, as the weekly holiday came to a close, sipping green tea whilst a
cool mountain breeze blew past was a popular pastime. Nothing much
happened nor was it expected to. The pace of life was restful and easy,
uneventful but full of fun.
Not all of Afghanistan was equally developed. When we visited
Bamiyan, the hotel was a poorly converted former stable. For heating, we
were given the braziers on which the kebabs had been cooked for dinner.
My mother’s request for a hot water bottle confounded the staff. After much
explanation, they gave her an old whisky bottle filled with scalding water.
But the Buddhas were a joy to behold. As the morning mist lifted after
breakfast, you could see them standing like strong silent sentinels. To a nine
year old, they appeared incredibly big.
I remember our holiday in Kunduz and Mazar-i-Sharif, now in the
hands of the Northern Alliance. The high point of the journey was the
Russian built Salang pass. It cut through the Hindu Kush mountains and
what emerged on the other side was a different world. Here the water was
so cold, you could chill your beer in minutes in the cascading mountain
streams. When we set off from Kunduz for Mazar, the road soon petered out
into dry deciduous savannah. We drove for hours across this landscape with
nothing but telegraph poles to guide us. It was jeep country but Daddy’s
ambassadorial cadillac covered it uncomplainingly.
I wasn’t impressed by Ghazni, Kandahar or Herat. No doubt, they are
old cities, rich with heritage and culture, but they are also hot, dusty, flyridden places and the air smells of sweat. It’s fitting that the Taliban should
have made Kandahar their spiritual capital.
Looking back on my memories, one strange fact stands out. I can’t
recall being scared in Afghanistan. This emotion, so common in childhood,
is strangely missing. I was often scolded, and even occasionally slapped.
Consequently, I can remember times of anger, pain, remorse, tears and a lot
of sulking. But I don’t recall fear. I can’t explain its absence. It’s simply a
fact.
If at all, there was fear in our lives it came from the constant
anticipation of earthquakes. Kabul, a valley surrounded by the Hindu Kush
range, is prone to them. Everyone seemed to have his or her favourite
earthquake story and none of us tired of hearing it. But in the ‘60s, at least,
earthquakes only frightened us. They caused little damage.
When I returned to Kabul as an adult in the 1980s, just after the Soviet
invasion and thereafter repeatedly till the Taliban took over, I found that this
fear had been forgotten. A more genuine one had taken its place. The
constant rumble of guns. Now people were truly scared.
I don’t know when the Afghanistan I have described passed into
history. Perhaps in ’73 when Zahir Shah was deposed or in ’78 when Daud,
his brother-in-law, was removed? But there were remnants that lingered on
through the communist presidencies of Tarakki, Amin and Karmal. Even
Najibullah’s Kabul retained recognisable echoes of the past. Maybe it was
with the Mujahideen that it finally ended?
After the Taliban, of course, only memories survive.
5
The Subtle Charm of Sri Lanka
Saturdays are sleepy in Colombo. The streets are bare, the shops deserted
and the birds make more noise than the traffic. Even the security seems
relaxed. The guards appear to slouch, their guns by their side. It was a
restful atmosphere to prepare for an interview with President Kumaratunga.
Nirmal, our director, thought otherwise.
“What’s the matter?” He asked the officials at the President’s large
white house. “Why is everything so quiet?”
“It’s Saturday. What else do you expect?”
But this only further confused Nirmal. The problem was that it was so
different to Delhi.
“In my country,” He replied, beaming with pride, “Saturday is a day
when everyone goes out. The streets are packed, the shops are crammed and
everything is full of activity.”
“Ah.” said the Sri Lankan official visibly unimpressed. “Not in my
country. Saturday is a holiday and we prefer to take the day off.”
“So what do you do?”
“That’s not important.” The official replied. Now he was smiling. “It’s
what we don’t do that is important.”
“What’s that?” Nirmal’s curiosity was irresistibly aroused.
“We don’t work and we don’t rush around pretending to work.”
Once upon a time, it was known as the Isle of Serendip. The word
‘serendipity’ is derived from it. So it’s not surprising to find the people
friendly, gentle, smiling and, yes, laid-back. Things happen effortlessly and,
in the Lanka Oberoi Hotel, very efficiently. Yet there’s no sense of urgency.
No hurry. No visible tension. Not even when you remind people of the
LTTE and the terrible attack on Bandaranaiake Airport in July.
“It was bad, very bad.” The Lobby Manager told me. “But the most
frightened were the foreign tourists.They were scared they would not get
home!”
But is the city itself frightened? Far from it. A peaceful calm prevails
even at the airport itself. We arrived at the ungodly hour of 3.30 a.m. — a
time I would have thought terrorists would be at their most dangerous but I
hardly spotted a guard. Of course, there were a few but they were chatting
with friends, they seemed relaxed and far from apprehensive.
Now you could argue that this is proof of carelessness. Ceaseless vigil
is the price of safety (as much as liberty). And all of that is true. But
overdoing it simply makes people nervous. It takes the fun out of existence.
And that would be an LTTE victory.
The smile on Sri Lankan faces, their ready laughter and their
continuing carefree ways may not count for much when the bombs go off
but I would rather live amidst such people.
I dined with the Editor of The Sunday Leader and as he held forth on
the President’s troubles, I realised I was in the presence of a formidable
intellect. Quite honestly, Lasantha Wickrematunga has few peers in India.
His presentation of the political crisis that has engulfed this island for two
months and more was a tour de force.
He’s not one of her admirers and I am not revealing any secret when I
say so. The case he builds against her is irresistible. Not because the facts
he relies upon cannot be denied or questioned. But because he uses the
President’s own commitments and promises to nail her performance.
In 1994, when Chandrika Kumaratunga was elected Prime Minister
and, four months later, Executive President. It was with the promise she
would solve the Tamil problem and abolish the “evil powers” of the
Executive Presidency. Within week, she declared a truce with the LTTE and
promised to change the constitution by July 1995. Alas, nothing came of
both gestures. When the LTTE proved to be a tough nut to crack politically,
she decided to do so militarily, forgetting in the process her promise of
negotiations. And when abolishing the Presidency translated into giving up
powers that she, by then herself enjoyed, she sought ways to avoid doing
so. Her option was a transitional clause that retained the powers whilst she
held office abolishing them only when her successor is sworn-in. Not
surprisingly, the opposition refused.
“So how would you sum her up?” I asked Lasantha as he stirred his
coffee. His slow, measured, circular movements continued for a while
before he spoke. When he did so, it was without any triumphalism.
“Well, once upon a time, she was thought of as the solution to Sri
Lanka’s problems. Today, she is very possibly the problem itself.”
Monday dawned bright and early and to Nirmal’s relief, the roads were
clogged with traffic. But the real surprise was the security at the President’s
House. It was comprehensive but unobtrusive. We were frisked but the
guards on duty kept smiling. It wasn’t long before we were ushered into
President Kumaratunga’s office. Then a long, interminable wait started to
unfold.
She was over two and a half hours late. I had been told she would be.
Virtually the first thing I was told about her is that she is never on time. But
two and a half hours is more than I had anticipated.
What only a few had mentioned was that I would not hold this against
her. As the hours ticked by, I was convinced they were wrong. When she
arrived and introduced herself, I saw how correct they were.
The lady is a charmer. Her warm, broad, full and vibrant smile is
irresistible. Her conversation is a delight. From memory, this is how it went:
“I’m sorry I’m so horribly late.” She explained as she finally walked
in. “You see, I have a dog problem.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I smiled indulgently.
“He keeps Indian time.” The President continued. “So I’m always half
an hour late.”
“Ah.” I said but I probably sounded unconvinced which perhaps
provoked the final bon mot.
“You’re lucky he’s not Pakistani. In that case, I’d still be coming!”
The President has an eclectic collection of books in her office. All
three volumes of Atal Behari Vajpayee’s Lok Sabha speeches, all three
volumes of Gopal’s biography of Nehru, a copy of the Indian Constitution
and a copy of T.N. Seshan’s ‘The Degeneration of India’. I reached for the
latter to find it appeared unread. I wasn’t surprised.
But what truly surprised me was her answer when I complimented her
sari.
“It’s from Bangalore.” She said.“I love Indian saris. They are so
beautiful. I wear them all the time.”
6
Pictures of Pakistan
A visit to Pakistan is a revealing experience. It’s different to what you
imagine. Most Indians arrive with a certain trepidation. Many of us are
uncertain of how we will be received, suspicious of the country, or simply
prejudiced. So the first surprise is the welcome.
Because we look like them, they don’t know you are Indian until you
reveal your identity. When you do, they respond with a mixture of curiosity,
attentiveness and affection. They go out of their way to be nice. The impact
is both immediate and overwhelming.
It’s amusing to witness. Last week, I saw how the response of my
colleague Ashok Upadhyay changed in the course of a single day. He
arrived early in the morning unsure of what awaited him. For the first few
hours, he was tentative, even tense. Being Bihari, he doesn’t share my
Punjabi propensity to warm to things Pakistani. If anything, he’s suspicious
of it. So the more I seemed to relax, the more reserved he became.
By lunch, however, Ashok’s manner had begun to change. He was
chatting to waiters and taxi drivers with easy familiarity. In the afternoon,
he started to notice striking similarities between both countries: yellow and
black taxis, trees half-painted white and people lounging in parks under
shady trees. By the evening, he was praising Pakistanis for wearing
shalwar-kameez. In this sartorial uniformity, he seemed to see equality and
unity.
I noticed the change but did not realise how profoundly it had altered
Ashok’s attitude. At dinner, I discovered the depth of the transformation.
“You know.” He said, in the same chatty voice he uses in Delhi when
he is visibly relaxed and carefree. “Pakistan is just like India. I feel
completely at home.”
I smiled. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“The only difference.” He continued. “Are the road signs in Urdu.”
“Oh there’s one more.” I added.“There are no cows wandering around
the city.”
“Ummm.” Ashok muttered, his expression metamorphosing into a rare
look of mischief. “Not of the bovine variety but what about the human
ones?”
The other surprise is how critical Pakistanis are of their country and
their politicians. Most of us in India would not have thought so. We tend to
see them through the prism of their military dictatorship. It can be terribly
misleading.
The Pakistani papers are at least as critical of their government as ours
are of Mr.Vajpayee’s. Their news channels question, probe, embarrass,
expose as effectively and as regularly as do NDTV, Star or Aaj Tak. And
the ordinary man in Islamabad is as contemptuous of his netas as we, in
Delhi, are of ours. General Musharraf is not excluded. No doubt, his charm
and financial probity are admired but the political mess he finds himself in
as he struggles to retain his army uniform along side his civilian presidency
is the subject of ceaseless comment. Much of it is ridicule.
“I had no idea that freedom of speech was so passionately upheld in
your country.” Ashok commented to a retired Pakistani ambassador at a
dinner in Islamabad.
The man roared with delight. He had noticed the tone of amazement in
Ashok’s voice and it amused him. He gulped generously from the large
whisky in his right hand as he avuncularly slapped Ashok across the
shoulders with the other.
“Arre yaar.” He laughed. “In Pakistan, the issue is not freedom of
speech. Here the big question is freedom after speech!”
If, like me, you believe it’s the little things that count then Pakistanis
have a penchant for paying attention to the smallest courtesies. Tea,
sandwiches and biscuits are offered at every meeting. Each time you say
‘thank you,’ you’re bound to receive a ‘welcome sir’ in quick response.
And whenever Pakistanis agree to do something, they unfailingly add
‘Inshallah’.
Yet the touch that quite literally took my breath away was after our
interview with Khurshid Kasuri, the Foreign Minister. I haven’t experienced
anything like this before.
I arranged the interview a month earlier. At the time, Mr. Kasuri
insisted we lunch with him before departing.
“Tell me.” He asked. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
I said I would cheerfully eat a horse but added that Ashok was a strict
vegetarian.
“Glad you told me.” He said. I didn’t think he would remember and I
certainly didn’t imagine how meticulously he would handle the
arrangements.
Now Pakistanis love their meat.Their dal is mixed with mutton whilst
their subzees are usually stuffed with keema. In fact, they abhor plain
vegetables. Yet at lunch the menu was entirely vegetarian. From soup to
savoury, we went through four courses, it was carefully planned to avoid
anything that might bhrasht Ashok’s dharma. Even the Minister turned
herbivorous!
7
A Kuala Lampur Diary
I had no idea it could be so traumatic to leave India. One usually looks
forward to it. With eager anticipation, you count the days. Going abroad,
after all, is fun. But these days, the hurtful part is the shock of how far
behind the world outside has left us. We dream of economic liberalisation
and development hastened by NRI funds. The reality, however, is different.
Last week, I visited Malaysia and found out for myself. This diary is
therefore as much a record of my sense of wonder and amazement as it is of
my inescapable feelings of discontent.
With hindsight, the airport at Kuala Lampur is a perfect indication of
what to expect. It makes Changi at Singapore look old-fashioned whilst in
comparison, Heathrow, JFK and even Charles de Gaulle feel grimy and
tired. But when you first arrive, you don’t yet know this.
“It makes me feel sick.” said M.J. Akbar. He meant sick with envy. We
had arrived together from Delhi. MJ was, I presume, on work. I had come
to judge the Asian Television Awards.
The airport comprises three satellite terminals linked by a monorail to
a central building. The whole thing is built of chrome and glass. It’s large,
bright and airy and it gleams. It’s located 70 kilometres from the city centre
but the five lane highway into town is a dream drive. The S320 Mercedes
covered the distance in just 40 minutes. If this is my introduction to KL, I
said to myself, I can’t wait to see what the city itself has to offer. Airports
reflect a city’s character even if they are designed as attempts to flatter and
deceive. Palam is exactly what you would expect the airport in Delhi to be
like once you have experienced the city. Would KL the town live up to its
airport?
What I saw of KL was small, smart, stylish and occasionally very
sophisticated. It’s a modern city but still unaware of its developed character.
In places, it resembles Singapore but its ambience is less rushed and more
friendly. At night, the lights of Jalan Bukit Bintang invite you to stop by for
coffee or ice cream. Like Paris, you sit outside savouring the cool night
breeze. During the day, the shops in the twin tower complex or Star Hill are
a shopper’s delight. From Audemars Piguet to Zegna, it’s all there —
although surprisingly you won’t find Church’s shoes nor Lacoste shirts. But
the truly amazing part is the service in the hotels. I was staying at the RitzCarlton. Usually that’s not a hotel I would choose. I used to think of it as
fussy and over decorated. I was wrong. It’s elegant yet comforting. But
what I was most wrong about was how welcoming it proved to be. The
doorman who greeted me when I first arrived knew my name. I never found
out how. And thereafter everyone I met, from the elevator operator to the
housekeeping lady, seemed to know it as well. Of course, it was a PR trick
but it’s one that works. “Welcome back Mr. Thapar” is a lovely greeting
when you return to the hotel after a long day at work.
Lee Kuan Yew’s autobiography is the big reading sensation in this part
of the world. No doubt the Malaysians are a lot less keen on it than their
neighbours and former compatriots across the Straits. But that was only to
be expected. Nonetheless, the Malays have by no means overlooked it. Both
the second volume — which is new — and the older first one are displayed
prominently in all the bookshops. They are big, heavy books although the
style is easy and the content gripping and controversial. Much like the
author, they cannot be ignored.
On the flight in, I read a large extract serialised in The Straits Times. It
described how Lee Kuan Yew realised that Singapore needed a new
generation of politicians to succeed him. It happened when he noticed that
his ministers were using electric heaters under the cabinet table to warm
their feet. And can you guess how he found the replacements? Unhappy
with the available selection of MPs, he organised a talent search amongst
the top echelons of academia and business. Of this lot, those who showed
promise were further tested by psychologists to ascertain their suitability.
What was he looking for? Not simply talent or a successful track
record.That was to be assumed. No, he wanted character. He defined it in
terms of the ability to take initiatives including well-planned risks. The
ability to play safe was simply not considered.
When the Malaysians constructed the Petronas Towers, their aim was
to build higher than New York’s World Trade Centre or Toronto’s Sears
Tower. Now, I’m told, the good burghers of Shanghai are planning their
own highrise to outdo KL. This architectural one up-manship may be
foolish but it certainly is fun. I’ve been to all three and I’ve little hesitation
in stating that the KL twin towers look the prettiest. By day, they all seem
alike. But at night, KL steals a march on its competitors. Bathed in white
light, each floor of the Petronas Towers looks like a diamond choker
sparkling on the neck of a well-dressed woman. The sad part is you cannot
go all the way to the top. But give the Malaysians time. I’m sure it won’t
take them long to create their own equivalent of New York’s Windows of
the World. The only problem is you might end up seeing the bright lights of
Singapore. I doubt if the locals would want that.
8
What the Story of Delhi
Means to Me
For years I’ve wanted to know the story of Delhi but haven’t really
bothered to find out. When you live amidst history, you begin to take it for
granted. Worse, I am guilty of comparing Delhi to Canberra, Ottawa or
Washington, as if that were pertinent. No doubt, every time I have done so I
have known I was wrong but that did not deter me. In my ignorance, I
thought I was making a valuable point. Until, of course, the one occasion
when I got badly caught out.
“Tell me about Delhi.” said the pretty young lady sitting beside me on
the Air India flight from London. It was sometime in the late 1980s and I
was coming home on holiday. She was very attractive and I was hoping to
strike up a conversation. “I believe it’s an ancient city with a terrific
history.”
“It is, it is.” I replied enthusiastically but not knowing any of it I could
hardly continue. So I tried to deflect the subject.“It’s also a lot like
Canberra, Ottawa and Washington.”
“Oh God, surely not.” She said, sounding crestfallen.
“Oh yes.” I insisted but having said so I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Well, I hope you are wrong.”
There the conversation ended. For rest of the eight hour flight, all my
other opening gambits met with a polite rebuff. My lack of knowledge of
Delhi had put a firm stop to my efforts to ingratiate myself.
Last week, I discovered just how horribly wrong I was. Pavan Varma
has written The Millennium Book On New Delhi and last Sunday, he sent
me a copy. At first glance, it looks like a sumptuous coffee table adornment,
not that I have anything against them but as I sat flicking through its pages,
admiring the photographs whilst dipping into the articles, I discovered that
the book contains one of the most readable histories of Delhi. I now know
how the city got its name, the story behind its origins, how many ‘cities’ the
metropolis comprises and a lot else besides. I owe it all to Khushwant
Singh. For he has written the article on which my eyes first fell and I have
read it – no, devoured it – with gratitude and glee.
So permit me to show off.
The origin of Delhi lies in myth, which is so much nicer than boring
fact. Once when the Ganges was in spate — today it’s too polluted to make
that effort — the river threw up the Shastras. (Incidentally, the phrase
‘threw up’ is Khushwant’s although I doubt if he meant it as a pun!). The
site is marked by a temple which came to be called Nigambodh. Yes, the
very ghat where you and I will perhaps one day be despatched hopefully
heavenwards. “This” adds Khushwant, “was a good enough reason for our
ancestors to choose Delhi as the abode of God. Thus arose the first city of
Delhi, Indraprastha, the abode of Indra, lord of the firmament.” Today, the
Purana Quila stands supposedly at the same spot.
Indraprastha was followed by several successor cities before we come
to our beloved New Delhi. The number is uncertain : some say seven,
claiming New Delhi as the eighth, whilst others say fifteen. In Khushwant’s
essay, I counted fourteen. They are Indraprastha, Yoginikpura, Lal Kot, Siri,
Kilokheri, Chiragh, Jahanpanah, Tughlaqabad, Firuzabad, Qila Feroze
Shah, Mubarakabad, Din Panah, Shahjahanabad and, of course, New Delhi.
But which was the 15th? Irritatingly, I still don’t know.
However the bit I like best is Khushwant’s account of how Delhi
acquired its “odd-sounding name … pronounced by the literati as ‘Dehlee’
and by the hoi-polloi as ‘Dillee’.” There are several versions. It could be a
derivative of the Persian word ‘Dehleez,’ meaning threshold, because the
city was the gateway to the Gangetic plains. Another version is that it flows
from the word Daidalas, the name given to the city by the Alexandrian
geographer, Ptolemy. However Ferishta, the 16th century Persian historian,
claims the name is traceable to a certain Rajan Dhilu who once ruled over
the city. Whilst some scholars connect the name to the famous iron pillar
close to the Qutub Minar. I am not sure if I fully understand this connection.
As Khushwant writes, “the pillar was designed as the standard of Lord
Vishnu and was meant to be implanted deep into the hood of the cobra
which bears the earth on its head.” It was said that anyone who tampered
with it would be cursed. A foolish Tomar Rajput king, who wanted proof
that the pillar was in fact imbedded in the serpent’s head, had it dug up.
When it was, the base was found to be covered with blood. The Tomar king
lost his throne and his dynasty died with him. It’s a wonderful story but, for
the life of me, I cannot fathom the connection with Delhi. Is it to suggest
that Delhi is a city of blood? Sadly, at times it has been.
Perhaps one day Khushwant will explain things — and also give me
the missing fifteenth name — but even if he chooses to leave me less than
fully knowledgeable, the next time I sit beside a pretty face on Air India I
shall have fewer problems keeping the conversation going. `Wish me luck!
9
Oh, To Be in England !
What makes England special? That was a question put to me the other day
as I sat watching the World Cup. It immediately caught my fancy and since
cricket is a tiresome game that I only watch when there’s nothing else to
distract me, I found my mind wandering in search of an answer to this
intriguing enquiry.
I suppose there could be a thousand plausible answers. Each
anglophile must have his or her own. And then there’s the possibility that
there is, in fact, nothing special about the old sceptred isle but I, at least,
find that so risible as to dismiss it altogether.
No, England is special in two senses. No other country, particularly
none of such geographical insignificance, has a history of world domination
that has lasted so long and that will continue for the foreseeable future. In
the last century, the sun never set on its empire. Now that it has, the peoples
of the world can’t stop speaking or wanting to learn its language.
Yet it’s the other sense of special that appeals to me. The English have
a sense of humour like none other.They’re not strictly funny. They don’t
really laugh at jokes. But they are exceptionally witty. They play with
words and ideas to change their meaning and produce clever results. It’s
more funny-peculiar than funny ha ha. If our cricket team and the other
visitors keep their eyes open, they’ll pick it up. Keeping their ears open
won’t help because the accents will undoubtedly throw them.
Let me give you a few examples. In 1975, when Sanjay Gandhi first
entered politics, although he wouldn’t admit it and no one in India dared ask
any question for fear of his mother’s Emergency, The Economist captured
the essence of the situation with a headline that was unbeatable: “In India,
the son also rise.”
A few months later, when Prime Minister Callaghan’s son-in-law Peter
Jay was appointed British Ambassador to Washington, with shouts of
nepotism and cronyism resounding through Westminster, The Economist
found the perfect way of alleging corruption without actually saying it. The
magazine’s front page carried a picture of Peter Jay with the caption
“Britain’s Son Jay.”
However, my favourite examples come from the early 1980s. At the
time, there was — as oddly there is again today — a battle royal between
the big papers. At both ends of the spectrum, broadsheet and tabloid, there
were fights to the death under way. It inspired the best advertising slogans
I’ve ever come across.
With The Times, then under Lord Thomson, shut down for thirteen
months, leaving its loyal readers in the lurch, its arch-rival The Daily
Telegraph hit upon the ad of the decade. It produced a picture of a goldenhaired little girl, tucked up in bed, sleeping safely and securely, with her
arm wrapped around not a teddy bear but R2D2, the loveable robot from
Starwars. The caption at the bottom read “Times change, values don’t: The
Daily Telegraph.”
Even better was the punch delivered by the tabloid, Evening News to
its competitor, The Evening Standard. As day after day the paper failed to
steal The Standard’s readership, in desperation it plastered London with
posters which sought to cleverly quash its opponent. “When you’re tired of
the standard approach, it’s time for The Evening News.” It was brilliant but,
sadly, it did not work. The Evening News died within months. The Standard,
now alone, is today London’s afternoon paper without rival.
What these headlines and ads have in common is that they are clever
yet pertinent, they make their point but they are not cruel and because they
make you smile, you also remember them. Only the English use their
language to such great effect. In fact, I’m not sure if you can pun in Hindi at
all. For me, its this wit — so different to the loud humour of America or the
laboured jokeyness of the French — that makes the English truly special.
And if you don’t agree with me, then permit me to suggest a term
borrowed from the annals of the good Reverend Spooner by which I would
be happy to be known. Just call me a shining wit !
10
The Bit in Between
Dr. Johnson once said when a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life. Let
me add a corollary: To appreciate London to the full, you have to overindulge yourself. Which is why I call it the wicked city.
There’s much to recommend this most civilized of capitals and, odd
though it may seem, food is one of them. I love eating out in London and
last weekend, I did a lot of it.
Now as far as I’m concerned, there are two types of eating out that I
enjoy. The first is junk food and London is the trash-meal capital of the
world. My favourite is a place called Tootsies in Holland Park. Here the
burgers come with thirty-two different toppings and the wine is so rough
you could smoothen it with a carpenter’s plane.
I always have my burger well done with a double helping of blue
cheese sauce. But the piece de resistance is the thick chocolate cake with
hot fudge and shaving foam. Since it comes out of an aerosol and rises in
concentric circles, a cow would have to contort its udders to produce the
same effect.
It’s the sort of meal that produces ulcers and stomach-aches but that’s
only afterwards. At the time, it sends pangs of envy through the diners on
the next door table.
Odd isn’t it, but the sine qua non of progress is a fondness for fast
food, served in noisy joints, by cheeky waitresses, amidst too many diners
none of whom one would particularly care to meet again. Tootsies is just
that but it’s also great fun. And if you think I’m spinning a fast one just
listen to your young son. If he could find a Tootsies in Delhi, he’d never
walk out of the place.
The other way of eating out is a proper dinner in a decent home. My
friend the Countess of Keeling was kind enough to host one for me. Perhaps
because her title is false, her hospitality is particularly lavish.
On the night in question I was fed and watered to distinction or do I
mean extinction? Vichyssoise, roast lamb, cranberry jelly, duchesse
potatoes, courgettes, broccolli and an old-fashioned creme brulee with a
hard and difficult-to-crack top. Such cooking is the best foundation for postprandial banter and this was no exception.
“What will you have next?” Gauri’s husband, David politely asked. “I
can offer you a good cigar and an old brandy”.
“What more could I possibly want?”
It was meant to be a rhetorical question but it set us thinking. A man
likes his food hot, his brandy old, his cigar moist, his wine dry and his
women fresh. Going by that description, it’s heaven. But get the adjectives
mixed-up and the result is disastrous.
“Ah.” said David, very much in the same mood as I was. “A drink
before and a cigarette after are three of the best things in life. The question
is what’s the bit in between?”
11
When the Words of the
Song Proved Untrue
There was a time when the better capitals of Europe were known by the
rhyming couplets of hit songs. Arrividerci Roma, I Love Paris and London
Town were amongst the more popular. But one of the jolliest was Wonderful
Copenhagen. It conjured up a vision of a happy, rollicking city and one
where strangers were always welcome. After all, it was, as the song
claimed, “the city of my dreams”.
Well, the song lied. Copenhagen does not welcome strangers and
Danes are not kind to them. Their doors, even on a cold winter’s night in
November, stay firmly shut. I discovered this depressing truth last week
when mischance left me stranded at the city’s airport. No amount of
pleading would melt their stony hearts and no matter how often I recalled
the misleading words of the old song nothing, absolutely nothing, changed.
I realise that what I am about to recount is just a personal complaint
and I suppose we all have similar ones. But those of you who travel
frequently by air will know that mishaps at airports, like bad service on
board a plane, can be particularly galling. I don’t know why it hurts so
much except to guess that it could be because it costs a lot. It happened to
me last Sunday and even though seven days have lapsed, I am still
smarting.
I was on my way back from Barcelona and decided to break journey in
London. I have always considered it the most civilised city in the world and
value every second I spend there. So, being greedy, I decided to catch the
SAS flight out. Because it leaves at the end of the day, you manage a few
extra hours. That, however, was my big mistake.
The problem is SAS connects to Delhi via Copenhagen. Instead of
flying south, you head north-east into Scandinavia. It’s definitely the wrong
way home but at the time, I did not care. Copenhagen, I said to myself, is
“wonderful” and I would be happy to see it if only from the airport!
The plane arrived on time and I had an hour to change to the Delhi
flight. But when I stepped out, I discovered the onward connection was
cancelled.
“Why?” I asked. International flights are no doubt often late but they
are rarely cancelled.
“Technical problems.” The lady at the SAS counter replied before
lapsing into sullen silence.
“Well, can’t you put it right?”
“We would if we could.” And then after a while she added, “Sir”.
“And don’t you have more planes? If this one isn’t working, use
another one instead.”
This suggestion was greeted with silence. No smile, no sheepish grin,
not even a look of helpful concern. Just cold, hard, unremitting silence.
By now, I had been joined by a handful of the other Delhi-bound
passengers. Perhaps there were ten of us, perhaps fifteen, may be twenty. At
the SAS counter, it looked like a small crowd. We had never met each other
before and had no reason to except that we were stranded in Copenhagen
for no fault of our own.
Soon a male manager arrived at the counter. He took charge and
informed us that we would be booked on the first flight to a European
destination with an onward connection to Delhi.
“When will that be?” Someone asked. It was 9.15 at night local time
and at worst, we anticipated hanging around for another hour or two.
“Tomorrow morning,” came the reply.
“Tomorrow!”
“Sorry, but there’s no flight before that. The first one is at 6.45 a.m.”
The news was a blow. It meant that whatever I had gained by staying
on a few extra hours in London, I had more than lost by the enforced delay
in Copenhagen. Instead of getting back in time for work on Monday
morning, I would just about get home in the early hours of Tuesday.
It took a while for the impact to sink in. A journey interrupted half way
can be distressing. Worse, it can also be demoralising. On this occasion, it
was clearly both.
“Well, when will you take us to a hotel?” If we had to spend the night
in Copenhagen, the sooner we got to bed the better.
It was a normal question. Airline crew anywhere in the world would
have anticipated it. Passengers with journeys broken against their will
always want a bed for the night. But somehow the staff at SAS were
thrown.
“Hotel?” They asked. “Sorry, Sir, we can’t take you to one.”
It transpired that the immigration police would not permit passengers
without visas into town and as everyone stranded was enroute to Delhi,
none of us had one. Why should we have? We were on our way to Delhi
and could not have anticipated a break of journey in Copenhagen. More
perplexing was the fact the police could not be persuaded to change their
mind and, to be honest, most of the SAS staff were not even prepared to try.
They were perfectly happy to let us doss down on airport sofas or possibly
the floor.
Faced with such adversity, most of my stranded compatriots smiled,
shrugged their weary shoulders, perhaps the odd few might have muttered
into their overcoats, and then slowly shuffled off towards a bar or a corner
that could provide a makeshift bed for the night. They accepted the
inexplicable rudeness of the Danes with only polite demur. Whilst in my
heart I applauded this, I did not have it in me to imitate them.
I shouted. I suppose I was tired but I don’t know if that is sufficient
excuse. Anyway, I accused the Danes of being inhospitable, barbaric,
uncivilised and boorish. The staff at the SAS counter looked startled. I
quoted the wretched words of the song and told them they made me
laugh.The staff looked sick. I claimed that had I been Swiss or American —
two countries whose citizens, unlike those of the European Union, don’t
have free access to Denmark — the police would have found a way to let
me in. But because I was Indian or brown-skinned, I and the others were
being incarcerated at the airport. The staff looked down at their shoes. Their
faces turned red. I knew I was right. So did they.
“Sir.” One of the ladies behind the counter suddenly spoke after a long
and miserable silence. There was something about her voice that made me
pay attention.
“There are two staff rooms attached to the first class lounge. If you
want, we can put you up there?”
She meant well and I accepted without hesitation. But it had taken a
fight to get to this point. What should have been given by right was now
offered as a reward or perhaps as a way of winning my silence. The room
was comfortable, even well-appointed, but it didn’t make up for the insult
of being refused access to a hotel. And it certainly did not assuage the
anguish of being boxed inside the terminal building.
Next morning, the relief on our faces as we prepared to depart must
have been visible for all to see. Not a single passenger was prepared to hide
it. We weren’t just glad to be going home, we were particularly happy to be
leaving Copenhagen.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” said the SAS staff at the departure lounge. “I’m sorry
your stay in Copenhagen was so unsatisfactory.” One day, no doubt, I’ll be
ready to accept that apology. But not as yet.
12
The Music of the Ritz
In fact, music is in the air in London at the moment. ‘Mamma Mia’, the
Abba Musical, is the biggest hit in the West End whilst the re-opening of
the Opera House at Covent Garden has the cognascenti flocking to hear
PLACIDO DOMENGO. However, my taste of music was not just different
and less elevated but also quite fortuitous.
I was lunching with an old friend from Pakistan at The Ritz when I
suddenly began to listen to the tune being played out on the piano in the
foyer.
Now the Ritz is...well, its ritzy. That’s where the word comes from.
People dress their best to visit and it certainly isn’t cheap. The song I had
identified was not one of the usual numbers you would expect to hear.
It was ‘Yeh dilagi’ from the less than memorable Kajol and Saif Ali
Khan film. On the piano, without the words to distract you, the tune is quite
a rollicking number. Within minutes, the other diners had heard it too and
then, slowly but quite visibly, their feet or their fingers started to tap out the
tune.
When I asked the Major D’omo who was playing, he smiled
knowingly and replied:
“The piannist is Italian, Sir but not the tune. That’s an Indian number.
Its a favourite of the hotel.”
In Good Company
1
The Wisdom of Pritam
No man is a hero to his barber and I certainly am not. I’ve known Pritam
since my late teens and over the decades I’ve learnt to listen attentively
when he talks. He’s by no means garrulous. Nor is he taciturn. As he snips
and cuts, he enjoys talking but it’s a measured well thought-out flow.
“Apne Bangaruji ko bahut khichaya.” Pritam admonished when I
dropped by on Monday. We meet every three weeks and over the years, I
have become a regular. He, in turn, watches most of the interviews I do.
“Lekin yeh bhi hei ki unke paas kuch kahne ko nahin tha. Bechara,
kahe bhi kya sakta hei!”
But after this opening remark on Monday, Pritam was silent for a
disconcertingly long time. He cut my hair in friendly silence. I was
intrigued by his manner. Had I upset him? Had he misunderstood the
Bangaru Laxman interview? I wasn’t sure but I waited patiently to find out.
After a bit Pritam broke his silence.
“Such poocho to bahut hi kum log chor hein.” He said. “Asl mein chor
banaiye jaate hein. Ya moke ke karan ya majboori ke.”
His comments made me sit up sharply and think. How would I have
reacted if someone came to me with a brown paper bag full of old hundred
rupee notes and asked for a favour that was well within my powers to do
with little risk of being caught out or embarrassed? Would I agree?
After all, the money would be tempting and if I was confident I could
get away with it I might be foolhardy enough to say yes.
The thought was so shocking I started to sweat. The barber’s shop at
the Taj Mahal Hotel is usually over-cool but suddenly I was feeling
distinctly hot. I realised I was scared of myself, unsure of my response and
worried by what I might do if thus tempted.
“Kya hua?” Pritam asked. He had noticed that I was strangely
disconcerted.
“Kuch nahin.” I replied and immediately started chatting aimlessly to
fill the pause and change the mood.
After a while, my confidence returned. No, I said, forcing myself to
forget the earlier experience, I would be certain to refuse. I have everything
I want and I would not be tempted by a little more no matter how easily it
was offered. Men like me, I said to myself, feeling comfortable once again,
don’t do such things.
But Pritam’s innocent remarks had set off a process that could not be
stopped or easily calmed. Is it right to tempt merely to test? Is it fair? Would
it be a legitimate test? And if so, of what? Of resistance to temptation? Of
bribery? Of character?
I don’t know the answers and let me not pretend I do but I do think this
is one of the issues that arise out of and demand attention after the recent
Tehelka revelations. Sadly, no one seems to be raising it. That’s probably
because we’re all feeling very comfortable this Sunday morning. But I’ve
come across a paragraph from a Madras High Court judgement of 1952 that
seems to put the matter in some perspective. I read it in The Indian Express.
I think it’s worth repeating.
“Where a man has not demanded a bribe and he’s only suspected to be
in the habit of taking bribes and he’s tempted with a bribe just to see
whether he would accept, that would be an illegitimate trap.”
There’s a lot of truth in that yet this paragraph can’t by any means be
the full answer. When arms dealers seek to bribe to get their way, it is
temptation that they rely upon. Men and women in government and the
bureaucracy don’t have a stamp on their forehead that reads ‘I can be
bribed, please try me.’ It’s a hit and miss process. Yet when arms dealers
score, it’s entirely because they have struck a rich vein of temptation. So if
arms dealers can seek to tempt to bribe, why can’t Tehelka seek to tempt to
catch out those who can be bribed? What other way could Tehelka have
used?
If this suggests that the debate about the ethics of the Tehelka approach
is a difficult one, it’s not because the issues are difficult but because human
beings themselves are complicated and difficult – no, impossible – to
simplify. I don’t know how I will respond till I am tested and, quite frankly,
I hope that will never happen. I’d like to live with the belief that my answer
would be no.
Till then, of course, I have the right to cast the first stone and as a
journalist I usually do. But now each time I aim and throw Pritam’s
wretched words echo in my ears : “Such poocho to bahut hi kum log chor
hein. Asl mein chor banaiye jaate hein. Ya moke ke karan ya majboori ke.”
Oh dear, thank god, I don’t have to return to Pritam for a haircut for
another three weeks. What will he say next time to disturb my comfortable
and easy assumptions? And does he ever realise how deep is the impact his
passing words often have?
May be I’ll let my hair grow long instead.
2
The Man Who Sold Me A Jacket
Buying a jacket is usually rather mundane business. Even if you are fussy,
as I am, or indecisive, as I am too, it only becomes prolonged and difficult.
It is unlikely to be thrilling.
However, if the shop you choose is Brooks Brothers on Connecticut
Avenue in Washington, you’re in for a surprise. It’s not the wares on offer
so much as the salesman that I refer to. He’s a gentleman of the old school
with more than just a touch of class. But let me say no more, in case I spoil
my story.
“I’m looking for a light jacket.” I said as I walked in last week.
“Something I can wear in a hot country.”
The shop attendant — but this will be the only time I shall thus refer to
him — observed me closely. In turn, I couldn’t help notice him. He had on
an immaculate three-piece suit. It was the sort of faded grey Prince of Wales
check common place in the English south counties. But it was his waistcoat
that caught my eye. It had lapels, a style that was the height of fashion in
the 1920s.
“And which hot country do you have in mind, Sir?” His accent was
British. He spoke with the slight stammer of the upper class.
“New Delhi.” I replied, confidant he would know nothing of it.
“Ah.” the gentleman responded. “A very charming city. I know it
well.”
That stumped me. It was so unexpected I gave up examining the jacket
I had chosen and turned to the gentleman instead. He noticed my interest
and continued.
“I started off with a pied-a-terre in Nizamuddin.” He said. “But I soon
found a bigger place in D Block Defence Colony which was very pleasant
although a shade too close to the nullah for my taste!”
He had the appearance of an aristocrat. Tasteful, understated, eccentric
and yet striking. I was intrigued.
“What were you doing there?”
“I was a diplomat, actually. I was the Afghan Counsellor.”
“Oh.” I said rather loudly and too obviously. I have old connections
with Afghanistan and I suppose I could not restrain myself. “I’ve lived in
Kabul.”
“Really?” He smiled disbelievingly. Perhaps he thought I was being
polite. Or simply fibbing.
“My father was the Ambassador.” I added in explanation.
“Could I ask his name?”
“General Thapar.”
“Good heavens, dear boy. I do hope I can call you that because I knew
you as a child. You were knee high to a bee when I last saw you. And how
is your delightful mother?”
“You, you, you know my parents?” It was my turn to stutter but there
was nothing aristocratic about my incoherence. Simply incredulity.
“Yes. I was the Chief of Protocol in those days. Your mother and my
wife used to play canasta. The Yugoslav Ambassador’s wife was part of
their group. I think her name was Katya Mirosevic.”
“And what’s your wife’s name?”
“In those days, it used to be Princess Habiba but now Mrs. Sulaiman
will do.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say so I stood and smiled in silence. But the
gentleman carried on. A flood of memories started to pour out.
“I remember Their Majesties State visit to India. Your father was the
Ambassador and I was part of their entourage. We’d have our sundowners
together. Every evening at 8.00, the General would send for me. ‘Let’s have
a chotta peg,’ he would say ‘before we have to drink those damned nimboopaanis’.”
M.A. Sulaiman — for that, I can now reveal, is his name — is a first
cousin of King Zahir Shah. In fact, he’s also a first cousin of Queen
Humayra. And since the King and Queen are first cousins of each other as
well, that makes him one of their closest relatives. In 1978, he was the
Deputy Chief of Mission in Washington when the Saur Revolution replaced
Daoud (another first cousin) with the communist Tarakki. Wisely, he
decided not to return.
“I wouldn’t have been terribly popular if I had.” He added. “And,
anyway, most of the family were abroad as well. But I did need a job and
Brooks Brothers proved to be my salvation.”
I bought the jacket. I could hardly carry on dithering. And Mr.
Sulaiman said all the right things including the critical assurance that it
looked rather fetching on me. But the jacket was no longer my priority. I
had a story to tell and I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and telephone
Mummy.
“Do you remember Princess Habiba?” I bellowed down the telephone.
“You used to play canasta with her in Kabul.”
“Of course, I remember her.” Mummy replied. “She was last heard of
in Washington but since then she seems to have got lost.”
“Well I’ve found her and you’ll never guess how.”
3
The Queen and I
“They really are a strange lot.” My friend Pertie muttered. We were
watching the news and he was commenting on the millions who had
gathered outside Buckingham Palace. It was the Queen Mum’s centenary
but Pertie wasn’t impressed.
“She’s just a boring old biddie and other than a fondness for gin and
dogs there’s nothing else to recommend her.”
Factually, Pertie was correct but facts have little to do with it. Like
most of us in India who dislike our leaders with passion, Pertie cannot even
start to fathom why the British should be so devoted to their royal family. I
tried to explain but made little headway. I first said their experience was
different to ours but Pertie reminded me of all the Henrys, Richards, the
early Georges and the last Edward I had carelessly forgotten. I then
suggested it was cultural but he laughed even louder.
“Look.” He said unable to disguise his contempt for my argument.
“Our upper classes have tried to imitate everything about the British and
other than their accent and humour, they’ve succeeded pretty well. So, if it
was cultural, why wouldn’t they have picked up this habit too?”
To be honest, I didn’t have an answer and, quite frankly, I did not care
either. Pertie is a bit of a nit-picker particularly when he thinks he has
scored over you. I concede his victory but that still doesn’t undermine my
point. The British love their royal family and there’s something very special
— perhaps unique — about the relationship between monarch and subjects.
Let me therefore explain it as I see it.
As much as they love their royals, the British also laugh at them. The
Queen’s corgies and her stiff formal accent are the butt of television
comedies.“My husband and I” has become a phrase that echoes the starched
relationship between the top two and each time it’s repeated, everyone
smiles knowingly. Charles, their eldest son, is ‘Jug ears’, Andrew is
‘Randy-Andy’ and Anne can be a bit of a ‘Miss Prim’.
In turn, the Royals, far from resenting their satirical image, often
parody themselves. “As I was saying to the vegetables” was how Charles
started his 50th birthday speech knowing it was the joke the Press most
wanted to hear. Weeks earlier, he had revealed in a television documentary
that he talks to the flowers whilst walking in the garden. “The Prince goes
Potty” said the Royalist Mail. The Mirror, which pretends to be republican,
was less subtle.
It’s this balance between honour and humour that lies at the core of the
British public’s relationship with their royals. Even when they laugh at
them, they do so with affection. Now pause for a moment and consider the
emotions we feel when we laugh at our leaders. Affection would not be one
of them.
In fact, the British attitude is unique. Nowhere else in Europe do royal
families evoke the same sentimental response. He wasn’t far wrong when
Farouk of Egypt said: “One day there will be only five kings left in the
world — the King of Hearts, the King of Spades, the King of Clubs, the
King of Diamonds and the King of England.”
I have two memories of the royals which convey my point as well as
anything else. The first is of Princess Anne. She’s the Queen’s only
daughter — divorced, re-married and a horse-woman to boot. She also has a
reputation for being outspoken. Brian Walden, the TV interviewer, once
invited her to London Weekend and I was one of the producers on duty.
Brian meticulously briefed us on the etiquette of meeting royalty – when to
speak, what to say and, most importantly of all, when to shut up and keep
quiet.
For security reasons, Anne was driven into the underground car park
and Brian and the rest of us lined up beside the dustbins to greet her.
“Welcome to London Weekend,Your Highness.” Brian began as Anne
stepped out.
“Welcome to the underworld would be more like it.” She shot back at
once breaking the ice. “I know television can be scurrilous but I had no idea
you could only enter from the bowels of the building!”
Brian blushed and started to mutter excuses about security.
“Ah.”Anne replied smiling broadly. “Specially for me, eh? Well, when
you start from the bottom things can only get better!”
The other memory is a counterfoil to this. It concerns Queen
Margarethe of Denmark. She was walking in procession towards the Senate
House in Cambridge with Nigeria’s General Gowon for company. Both of
them were to receive honorary degrees. With them, was Prince Philip, the
Queen’s husband, but also the Chancellor of the University. The year was
1975 (I think) and I was an undergraduate. With nothing better to do, I was
part of the crowd.
“Butcher of Biafra.” The bearded man beside me suddenly shouted. He
was referring to Gowon’s role in the Nigerian civil war. The General looked
ahead. He walked on pretending not to have heard.
“Heh, Hamlet’s Mom”.
Now, it was Queen Margarethe’s turn to stare ahead and pretend
deafness. She too walked stiffly past.
“Spoilt sports.” The man shouted.
Suddenly, Prince Philip stopped and turned. He walked up to the
bearded man and smiling happily spoke in a voice that carried down the
ranks:
“What about me? Don’t I deserve a hello?”
4
Either Fear is the Key or the
Price is not Right
If you want to know the truth, it’s cowardice that keeps me moral not
principle or even professed belief. I’m scared I’ll get caught. That fear is
enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Of course, every now and
then and just like everyone else, I do stray but never very far and certainly
not very seriously. Fear, as Alistair Maclean once put it, is the key. In my
case, it won’t unlock the door and as a result I stay confined within the safe
walls of morality. But am I moral? Ah, that is an altogether different
question.
A moral man would not at any price compromise with his principles.
Leave aside fear of being caught, he wouldn’t even be tempted by the
bounty on offer. Does that apply to me?
My cousin Arjun, who teaches neuro-psychology at Newcastle and is
visiting on holiday, has an interesting parable to relate. In fact, he claims it’s
a true story but its value lies not in its veracity but in the ‘moral’ that it
illustrates.
A friend, he says, was walking through a park in Cambridge. It was
autumn and fallen leaves of red and gold lay strewn across his path. He was
happy with the world and aimlessly kicking the leaves as he trod on them.
Suddenly, his foot hit something that felt strange. A little bundle tossed into
the air and caught his eye. It was a wad of 100 pound notes, rolled together
and tied with a rubber band. There were several of them, perhaps six or
seven hundred pounds in all.
“It sent him into a terrible panic.” Arjun said.
“Why?” I asked, somewhat nonplussed. Had I been in his place, I
thought to myself, I would have pocketed the money and walked on.
Perhaps I would have started whistling to appear nonchalant. It would have
been my way of pretending to be innocent.
“Because of the amount involved.” Arjun replied.
“What do you mean?”
“You see, if he’d found a negligible amount he’d have pocketed it
without a care in the world. It would have been too small to matter. On the
other hand if he’d found a whopping fortune he’d have been too scared to
touch it. Suppose it was a trap and he got caught? But six or seven hundred
is somewhere in between. Too small to be frightened of but too big to
ignore. It put him in a panic.”
In this particular instance, Arjun’s friend handed the money over to a
nearby police station. Three weeks later, when no one had claimed it, the
money was given back to him. Thereafter it was legally his. It would seem
that God or good fortune appear to be on the side of the honest. But that, I
hasten to add, was not the moral Arjun wanted to draw. His point was rather
different.
“It’s all a question of price.” He claimed. “Each man has his price —
each woman too, I suppose – and morality is a relative thing. At the right
price, every saint can be made a sinner and at the wrong price every sinner
can pretend to be a saint.”
It’s a hard-headed view of human beings. One that cuts to the quick,
dispensing with ideals, morality and all the gooey talk of goodness or the
fire and brimstone of sin. But is it true? I venture to suggest it is. May be
not for all of us and may be not all the time, but for most of us most of the
time.
To be honest, it’s happened to me. It was Easter 1975, I was 19 at the
time, an undergraduate and careful about every penny I possessed. I was
spending the weekend with Arjun and his wife Sipu and undertook to buy a
turkey for our dinner. I ended up not paying for it. In fact, I walked out of
the shop clutching the bird as close to my chest as I practically could but
virtually without fear of being caught. This is what happened.
The turkey cost seven pounds but I did not have that much cash on me.
As a student, I rarely did. So when I approached the till I paid by cheque
with a supporting cheque card. In England, that’s quite common. The sales
lady carefully noted the cheque card details on the back of my cheque but
then, absent-mindedly, handed the cheque back to me along with the card
and bill. She did not realise what she had done but I did.
This meant the turkey was free. What’s more, there was no chance of
my being caught. The mistake was hers and if she realised it later I could
plead innocence and claim that I too had not noticed the error. After all,
both of us can make the same mistake or, at least, I could claim to have
done so without appearing guilty.
It’s amazing how fast the brain can work when accidental good fortune
is thrust upon you. In a flash, I had assessed the situation, the possible
consequences, worked out every probable reply and, having done so, I
pocketed the accidentally returned cheque with my cheque card and bill,
picked up the turkey and walked out of the shop as quickly as I could.
Far from feeling ashamed about what I had done, I felt rather proud of
it. In fact, I was crowing by the time I got back to Arjun and Sipu’s.
“Ah.” Arjun exclaimed, smiling benignly but nonetheless damned
knowingly as well. “Seven pounds is your price.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat bewildered.
That’s when he told me the story I have just related to you. Put it all
together and the outcome is simple. Either fear is the key or the price is not
right.
Beyond Bylines
1
Photographs Tell A Story
Words Cannot Express
I love staring at other people’s photographs. You can ogle, comment and
laugh with detachment. You can also marvel and express wonder. Yet it
doesn’t mean anything because there’s no cost either way.
It was in this spirit that I recently picked up a rather large glossy
coffee-table book. Ratna Sahai had sent me a copy of Sharada Dwivedi’s
Maharaja and I started by staring at Arvind Mewar’s daunting photograph
on the cover. It’s a perfect picture for it captures the one quality I associate
with the man : arrogance. If you look deep into his eyes — sadly, they are
not very big — then you can almost sense a second quality : his belief that
he’s special.
We’ve only met once and I doubt if he will recall the encounter. I do
because of the silly bloomer I made and his rather gloating response. It was
late summer in London and we were guests of Tan Mackay, a friend of my
mother’s. Tan knows Mewar’s wife, Bootie, very well.
“What do you do?” I politely asked, when I found myself standing
beside him. I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was but then that’s not
necessarily a sin.
“I’m in hotels.” He replied. If you think about it that’s hardly a full
answer so, naturally, I asked for more.
“Where?”
“Udaipur.”
“Ah.” I thought and sadly said so as well. “You must work for the
Tatas?”
The only hotel in Udaipur I knew of was The Lake Palace and it’s
always been a Taj Hotel.
“They work for me.” came the thundering reply.
The man, I soon realised, was the Maharana of Udaipur, although
some of his close relatives would dispute that and he had a rather rigid
sense of priorities. Unwittingly, I had transgressed them.
Opening the book, I found myself looking at photographs of Arvind’s
father’s marriage. He was the last Maharana and he married a princess from
Bikaner. By odd coincidence, her niece, Rajyashree, is a dear friend. So I
have a little insight into the marriage and a second source of information on
Arvind.
The two page spread of Maharaja Ganga Singh of Bikaner waiting
with his thakurs for Arvind’s Dad’s baraat is stunning. I love their surly
good looks, the curled moustaches, the thinly disguised pot-bellies hiding
behind the chains of jewellery they wear but, best of all, I love their
ribboned pumps. It’s a shame we don’t wear such footwear any more.
If you turn the page again, there’s another double spread. This time,
it’s not historical but self-created. Arvind, surrounded by his courtiers; an
impressive sight but nonetheless a later-day imitation of a splendour that’s
long past its prime. His shoes are shiny red. But they’re jooties, not pumps.
I suppose that says it all. In the thirties and forties, we had real
Maharajas. Today, we have eager old men who still want to be. The
photographs in this book capture both and explain the difference. That’s
why I love staring at these photographs and will do so many, many times.
They speak volumes without giving away any indiscretions. In that sense,
they are better than me.
2
In Vino Veritas!
If there is something that perplexes me about our attitudes in India, it’s the
way we attach moral virtue to teetotalism. We consider the non-drinker
superior to the drinker. In fact, most people who don’t drink are not just
self-righteous about their abstinence but often downright smug. Whilst
those who only drink occasionally — at a party or a celebration — are
usually afterwards wracked with guilt.And, of course, everyone else rubs it
in!
Yet abstinence is not virtue. It’s only self-denial. Drinking in
moderation is neither harmful nor addictive. In fact, in certain
circumstances, it might even be medically beneficial. Red wine, for
instance, is said to be good for the heart. A brandy in cold weather does
wonders for the circulation. And beer is a good diuretic.
On the contrary, there is something rather cussed, even obstinate and
narrow minded, about a refusal to drink at all. How do you know you won’t
like it if you have never tried it? To give up what you have never had is like
believing without experiencing. That’s fine as far as God goes but surely it’s
irrational for almost everything else?
Also, one drink — or even two — will not lead to alcoholism. It’s not
even likely to. After all, we eat four meals a day, 365 days a year, but few of
us become gluttons. Similarly, one can enjoy a wee dram or two without
becoming addicted to the bottle.
My father used to say “Everything in moderation” although at the
time, I was too young to appreciate the comment. But he also believed that
a man ought to get drunk at least once in his life, if only to ensure it does
not happen again.
He was a young lieutenant at Razmak, high up in the hills of the North
West Frontier, when he first got drunk. Having heard that his brother had
had a son, Daddy decided to treat the officers of his regiment to champagne.
Trying to ensure that everyone had enough, he ended up having far too
much himself!
His commandant, a British colonel of the old school, put him to bed.
Then, borrowing Daddy’s Sam Brown belt, the Commandant also did his
guard duty for him. The fact that he was out cold did not feature in the
regimental log.
Daddy neither forgot the Colonel nor the night of drinking. They were
the central elements of a story he loved to tell. “But I never got drunk
again.” He would add. I didn’t question him although I was never certain
what to make of the big smile that always covered his face!
How different was Mr. Vajpayee’s attitude after his dinner at the high
table in St. Petersburg last month. He made a point of informing Indian
journalists that George Bush did not drink. As our PM put it, the American
President stuck to water.
Normally, one would not choose to comment on someone else’s
drinking habits and certainly not in public to journalists. But Mr. Vajpayee
opted to do so because he interpreted abstinence as virtue. Sadly, he was
wrong on several counts.
For a start, in the West, abstinence is not particularly admired just as
drinking is not looked down upon. More importantly, there are very good
reasons why Mr. Bush no longer drinks. A decade or more ago he did and
ended up with an alcohol problem. It was a small point of issue in his
election campaign and I’m surprised our PM did not know this.Without
realising it or intending to, Mr. Vajpayee had drawn attention to something
Mr. Bush would prefer to forget.
But Mr. Vajpayee’s real embarrassment was greater than his social
gaffe. When he, in turn, was asked what he had drunk with his dinner the
PM suddenly turned coy and reticent. “Is it necessary to give an answer to
this?” He asked. Even if they did not agree, the journalists were too polite
to say anything other than laugh.
But doesn’t that sound like double standards?
I would admire our Prime Minister if he had sipped a glass of wine —
gulped it even — and said so. Why shouldn’t he? After all, I do and so
perhaps do many of you. But what I cannot respect is a man who gladly
talks about what others have drunk but is too timid to be honest about
himself.
In this case, I know Mr. Vajpayee was a prisoner of the prevailing
Indian hypocrisy. But that’s no excuse. One expects the PM to rise above
such things. At 79, if he can’t who ever will?
He could always have laughed and said he’d been drinking som rus.
That was what our Gods called it. Even the VHP and the RSS could not
have objected.
3
A Lady, A School and
My Favourite Ice-cream
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Thapar?” The young girl said as she
approached me. She was smiling and I could hardly refuse. I stopped and
waited.
“I read a lot of the stuff you write and what I want to know is simple.”
She then paused as if to suggest it was a problem that had long troubled her.
“What sort of people do you admire? I can’t seem to tell from your
writings.”
It wasn’t a simple question and when I tried to answer, I realised I
wasn’t sure what to say. It’s the sort of thing you believe you know but
when it comes to expressing yourself, you realise how uncertain your views
are. At the time, I struggled to sound convincing but I fear I failed. I don’t
even think I was able to convince myself.
That night, however, I found part of the answer. It was a bit like a
discovery but when it happened, I knew it was what I was looking for. It
had the ring of truth. Admittedly not all of it, not by any means, but still a
significant portion of it.
I had been invited by the Pakistani Political Counsellor to dinner.
Tasnim Aslam has spent four years in India and is due to return home next
month. The evening was planned as a farewell. I showed up late and found
the other guests sitting in her garden in neat rows facing a low platform.
On it, were a few musicians and at their centre, beside another lady,
was Tasnim. The two were deep in song.
My instinctive response was to head for the bar. I pretend to like
Indian classical music but, to be honest, I don’t or, at least, I don’t
understand it. That night, I did not feel like acting. A drink seemed more
inviting.
“Isn’t it amazing?” said the lady by the bar. I had assumed that, like
me, she was avoiding the music. I was wrong. Standing by the bar afforded
her a clearer view and she was listening intently.
“Ummm.” I muttered, not at all sure what she was referring to. I tried
to make it sound as if it could be both yes and no.
“Do you realise what Tasnim is singing?” The lady had seen through
me and her question made that obvious.
“No, sorry. I am afraid not.”
“She’s singing a Ram bhajan. Just think of it? A Pakistani diplomat, in
the present state of relations between the two countries, singing a Ram
bhajan in Delhi and in public!”
The expression on her face said the rest. This wasn’t just difficult to
believe — and if I hadn’t heard it myself I certainly wouldn’t have believed
it. It was also an act of incredible courage and of great respect. Tasnim was
defying conventional politics. She was also, through her simple human
gesture, bridging the divide. On that cool October night, silhouetted against
the black still sky, lost in her bhajan,Tasnim symbolised a rare moment of
hope for India and Pakistan.
I turned to hear her more attentively. The entire party was absorbed in
her music and I think the same thought passed through every mind.
Suddenly, I knew I had the answer to the morning’s question. I admire
people like Tasnim because they have the courage to be themselves despite
politics and prejudice. But I admire Tasnim for another reason as well. She
has the strength of character to rise above the pettiness of public opinion
and show the rest of us — particularly politicians on both sides — how
narrow and limited we have become.
As her soft voice floated over the garden I found myself wishing
Tasnim could stay longer. We need to meet more Pakistanis like her.
4
When a Dream Come True
Becomes A Dream Turned Sour
I’m a sucker for the big invitation. Yet for years, the one I’ve been wanting
has eluded me. Last Saturday, it fell into my lap. That’s the story I want to
tell you today.
My cousin, Valmik, has just published his seventh book. It’s called
‘The Wild Tigers of Ranthambore’. On Saturday, he went to Rashtrapati
Bhawan to present it to the President. I was invited to accompany him. It
was my first visit to the place. The first time I’ve stepped across the
threshold.
Well, that’s what actually happened but the whole thing felt quite
different. It was grand, there was ceremony, it seemed awesome. I suppose
that’s what makes visiting the Rashtrapati Bhawan so special.
Embossed invitations arrive three weeks in advance announcing the
event. The phone rings several times to confirm, re-confirm and then again
to make triply sure. I am bidden to wear formal or national dress. In
addition, I have to arrive carrying my card, identify myself on a guest list
and be in my seat by 10.15 a.m. Of course, the President is not expected for
a further 45 minutes.
There are perhaps a hundred others — men in dark suits, ladies in
subdued silk saris. People start chatting in small groups with lowered
voices. Such is the presence of the place that everyone’s voice is
automatically softened.
Perhaps because it’s an eclectic selection of people, we’re all friends of
Valu but not necessarily of each other — conversations don’t last long.
Some people start sitting in the rows of chairs that have been neatly
arranged. There’s nothing to do but wait. I start to scan the room. After all,
if I am going to be in Rashtrapati Bhawan, then I might as well get to study
the room properly.
There are sixteen oil paintings on the walls in heavy gold frames. I
don’t know if they are famous but I do notice that at least ten (I counted) are
by an artist called ‘unknown’. I suspect he’s a favourite of the
establishment. A while longer and I notice another similarity. Ten are
described as landscapes. Some are — although only just — but several very
definitely are not. However, one that is a landscape is not labelled or
described as such. How odd.
There are still fifteen minutes to go for the President’s entry so I start
to stare at the walls. They are a peculiar shade of yellow. Not canary,
certainly not mustard and definitely not sunflower. In fact, I cannot tell until
I realise they are more like ivory or cream that’s been over done. I call it
painter’s-mistake-yellow. How very odd.
My eyes move on. In one corner, there are black marks above the light
fittings. Had I looked casually I would not have noticed them. But once I
start to stare and there’s a lot of time for that, they show up like watermarks
on paper. But it’s the exposed ugly wiring of the rather large and obvious
security camera on the ceiling that captivates me. It looks like a hasty last
minute addition, attached without care and certainly without concern for
what its presence will do to the room. How very very odd.
I’m starting to feel a little depressed but then I notice the gardens
outside. They look beautiful and well-maintained. But I can only glimpse
them through the half-curtained French windows that are firmly shut. So
my eyes return to the inside. I realise that everyone else is looking at what
I’ve been seeing and they’ve all noticed the same flaws. Almost in unison,
people turn to their left or right to point out the faults they’ve observed. I
feel a little better.
At the stroke of 11.00 a.m. the President is announced. If punctuality is
the politeness of royalty, then Mr. Narayanan is positively regal. He’s short,
plump and friendly. The rest of us are shy but within minutes, he has
everyone at their ease. That’s surely another royal quality although this time
I’m not sure if the Queen possesses it.
Valu makes a speech. So does the man from the publishers, OUP. The
President does not. Apparently, Presidents never do. I wonder why. I feel
Mr. Narayanan would speak well if he could. What a pity he cannot.
Valu is in his element. “Thank you Rashtrapatiji for permitting the
tiger to enter Rashtrapati Bhawan”. Everyone laughs. It’s a clever line. But
why do we call the President ‘Rashtrapati’ when we are addressing him in
English? Why do we shy away from Mr. President?
The President cheerfully poses for photographs. In fact He’s positively
obliging. Then, we are all ushered in to the next room for coffee and snacks.
It’s done in marble — cold and grey but the waiters are dressed in red. They
look like leftovers from the Raj. They resemble the characters from my
Emily Eden aquatint of servants at Government House, Calcutta, done in
1786. Yet they alone appear as if they belong to this palace. Incidentally, the
vadas are delicious, the pastries are not.
Valu summons me for an introduction. I pretend to be shy. He insists.
So I go up.
“I know you.” Mr. Narayanan says. I’m flattered to be recognised.
“You are the aggressive interviewer.”
I smile sheepishly and wish he had not made the connection.
“But are you really like that?”
I smile again although this time more fully. I’m starting to like the
President. And then I’m interrupted. An over-dressed woman in an ugly sari
has butted-in. She’s more persistent than I and has her way. The President
turns to her.
I decide to get myself a cup of coffee. Perhaps it will be South Indian.
Sadly, it’s not. The kitchen staff at Rashtrapati Bhawan have opted for
Nescafe much like the servants we lesser mortals employ. After a sip or
two, I leave it unfinished.
A few minutes later, it’s time to leave. The drift has already begun. As
I walk out, carelessly kicking the red sand in the forecourt, I feel happy but
also sad. I’ve made it into Rashtrapati Bhawan. I’ve spoken to the
President. He was charming but his house was not.
Later that evening, I met Sunita Kohli at a dinner given by the French
Ambassador and she explained everything. In the late 1980s, she was the
person chosen to redecorate Rashtrapati Bhawan.
“It’s not the President’s fault.” Sunita reassuringly said. “He’s one of
the few we’ve had who cares for the place. The problem, however, goes
back to people like
V.V. Giri. Remember him? He converted the ballroom into a
badminton court. Then there were others like Zail Singh who placed a mini
replica of the Golden Temple in one of the state drawing rooms. The
problem has been developing for a long long time.”
Sunita says the place should be declared a national heritage and I
cannot disagree. It took just one visit to Rashtrapati Bhawan to work that
out. But why can’t our politicians, our ministers and our officials who go
there far far more regularly come to the same conclusion?
5
A Lesson for the New Year
Every now and then, you witness something that can bring a warm smile to
your face. It doesn’t have to be a big earthshaking development nor a major
pronouncement. More often than not, it’s the small but telling gestures that
carry greater meaning. As the days started to tick to the New Year, I felt I
wanted to write about something like this. It seemed the right way to begin
2002. When the attack on Parliament turned our lives inside out, the urge as
well as the need only grew stronger.
The problem was what was it to be? I racked my brain for suitable
moments from the past but none seemed to fit the bill. They were either too
far back in time or too dimly remembered or even too slight to be worth
recalling. I was beginning to despair when suddenly and totally
unexpectedly, it happened right in front of me. It was a simple but
significant moment that captured the spirit of human kindness.
Let me tell it as it happened. But remember this is not a story. It’s the
truth and there were several other people who also witnessed it. They may
not have known what was happening or why it happened but nonetheless
they too saw it.
It happened on Friday the 14th, the day after the attack on Parliament.
Chandan Mitra was celebrating the tenth anniversary of The Pioneer. His
party on the lawns of The Imperial was going to be the first big social
occasion after the shocking attack of the 13th. In turn, that would probably
be the only subject as politicians and journalists mingled with each other.
Not surprisingly, I was looking forward to it.
Around noon that day Ashraf Qazi, the Pakistan High Commissioner,
rang for a chat. He wanted to know what people were saying about the
attack on Parliament. I suggested he accompany me to Chandan’s reception.
There could not be a better way of finding out.
“Do you think I should?” He asked. Ashraf is a naturally gregarious
person. Such reticence is out of character. But on the 14th, I could
understand his hesitation. In his shoes, I would have felt the same.
“Of course you should.” I replied. “No one holds you personally
responsible or feels anything against you.”
Ashraf paused for a bit but then agreed. Perhaps he accepted my point
or perhaps he saw the evening as a challenge he had to face. May be it was
both.
At 8.30 pm, I picked him up and together we drove into The Imperial.
Chandan’s party was outside on the lawn and it was decidedly nippy. There
were groups of people standing around scattered angheetis. We headed for
one that seemed both central but not crowded. As I scanned the other
guests, I noticed the Advani family entering from the other side. Mr. Advani
was in front escorted by Chandan. Mrs. Advani and the children were just
behind.
One by one journalists started to head for Mr. Advani. On the 13th, he
was holed up inside Parliament as terrorists invaded the complex and fired
on the building. Twenty-four hours later he seemed relaxed. He was
smiling, laughing and chatting happily. I decided to walk up and find out
what those horrible hours the day before had been like.
“I’m off to meet Mr. Advani.” I said to Ashraf.
“I’ll wait here.” He replied. We both instinctively knew that on the 14th
of December that was the sensible thing to do. This was not an evening for
forced politeness leave aside awkward encounters.
As I worked my way through the crowd in the direction of Mr. Advani,
I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Mrs. Advani. My
eyes had been fixed so firmly on her husband that I had not noticed that I
was almost upon her. But before I could apologise or even start a greeting,
she spoke to me.
“Aapne apne dost ko peeche kyon chod diya?” She said smiling
broadly.
“Mere dost?” I questioned, momentarily fazed by the situation.
“Qazi Sahab. Abhi to aap unke saath khade the.”
Mrs. Advani had seen us. Forgetting her smile, my heart sank. I wasn’t
sure if this was a rebuke. Would she feel I was erring in keeping the
Pakistan High Commissioner’s company on the 14th night?
“He feels a little hesitant to come forward.” I said.
I was surprised by how I had blurted out the truth. It’s not as if Ashraf
had said as much but I knew that’s how he felt. You get to know a person
after being close friends for years. I was verbalising his unspoken thoughts.
But I was still surprised I had said them in front of Mrs. Advani. Normally,
I try to be more circumspect.
If anything, Mrs. Advani’s smile grew broader still. As I spoke, her
eyes seemed to light up and before I could finish she appeared to have made
up her mind.
“Is mei kya personal cheez hei?” She said. “Aur phir aapke dost hein.
Woh nahin aate to mein jake unse milti hoon.”
And before I could respond, she started walking towards Ashraf. I
followed hastily. It did not take more than 15 seconds but in that time, my
head was awhirl with conflicting thoughts. Mrs. Advani, the Indian Home
Minister’s wife, whose husband, only the day before had been trapped
inside Parliament by terrorists we are convinced were Pakistani trained and
funded, if not actually Pakistanis themselves, was walking to meet the
Pakistan High Commissioner. Others in her place might have preferred to
snub him or at least keep away. I couldn’t think of another soul —
ministers, ministers’ wives or ordinary guests — who would have sought
him out that evening. Nor would Ashraf have expected them to. And I know
that he would have understood if he had been ignored. Yet here was Mrs.
Advani striding towards him, smiling as she did, unconcerned about what
the world would say or think.
The look on Ashraf ’s face when he recognised Mrs. Advani and
realised she was coming to meet him was indescribable. In fact, for a
moment I don’t think he knew how to react. Then he looked completely
taken by surprise. Seconds later, he looked totally delighted. More than
anyone else, he would have understood that on the 14th of December the
High Commissioner of Pakistan could not have even dreamt he would be
sought out by the Indian Home Minister’s wife, at a large public reception,
with politicians and journalists witnessing the meeting. Such things don’t
happen in conventional politics or diplomacy. In fact, politicians and
diplomats would have carefully avoided such meetings.
This is why Mrs. Advani’s gesture is so special. It was not a political
act and it had no political message. But it was a warm human act and much
more meaningful. It was the response of a sensitive soul, reaching out
beyond the strictures of politics, to show friendship at a difficult but telling
time. The easy thing would have been to do nothing. No one would have
remarked on that. The difficult choice was to show personal concern at a
time when it could so easily be mistaken for something else. None of that
worried Mrs. Advani. She consciously chose to put a human relationship
above politics, above prejudice and above the risk of public misperception.
In fact, she even encouraged Ashraf to meet Mr. Advani which he
eventually did. Mrs. Advani was confident that her husband would greet the
Pakistan High Commissioner graciously. She wasn’t wrong. Ashraf hovered
in the vicinity of the Home Minister uncertain whether to go forward or not.
Suddenly Mr. Advani spotted him and with a cheerful smile on his face
stepped forward and clasped his proffered hand in both of his own. It was a
moment when human warmth transcended the cold compulsion of politics.
No doubt on the morrow, politics would return to the forefront, as it would
have to, but on the 14th evening, the Advanis had shown there was room
for personal gestures and that individual relationships still mattered.
As we enter 2002, I would like to feel that I might be capable of
something similar. But I doubt it.
6
Of Course it’s An Act –
But Can You See Through It?
There’s a question which I am repeatedly asked and which today I shall
attempt to answer. It’s not always asked as a compliment. More often than
not, it’s a simple but sure kick in the pants. But, whatever the motive, it’s a
question worth asking and answering.
“When you appear on TV is it natural or are you acting?”
There are two possible reasons for asking the question. As Aroon Purie
often teases – and he is and remains a good friend, “Anchors are frustrated
actors.” Or, as I prefer to see it, anchoring a show is an act in itself. The first
is to suggest that anchors are frauds; the second implies that fraudulence is
what anchoring is essentially about. So, as I see the dilemma, am I a fraud
or is the job I love and like fraudulent? The difference, I admit, may seem
slight and possibly insignificant to you. To me it matters an awful lot.
There are three types of answers that I know of. The first, ironically, is
from the innocent bystander who recognises me as an anchor and
enthusiastically starts to question. Little does he realise that his question is
the answer.
“You always quarrel with the people you interview.” It starts with “Are
you naturally unlikeable or pretending?”
“No.” I usually reply, trying hard to smile and suggest that I am, in
fact, full of warmth despite my rakshas features.
“Then why do you always sound so quarrelsome?”
To that, I have no answer. If how an anchor sounds is to determine
whether he or she is putting on an act, then all I can add is that the act is a
flop. A huge failure. The anchor, in this instance, is a fraud. A horrible
fraud. And a very bad actor to boot.
The second answer is only seemingly kinder but behind the gentleness
lies a toughness that can hurt if not also damage. I often fall for it till I see
the sharp end and usually by then it is too late. Bloodshed, by which I mean
my blood, follows.
“The problem with anchors.” This answer begins. “is that they have to
sound as if they mean what they are asking. So even when the question is
patently silly the voice behind it is full of conviction and belief.”
Now, on the surface that appears to be a compliment. It’s like saying
you make the most damned foolish question sound credible. The only
problem is that the question itself is of your own devising. So, if you are
asking it, you – and you alone – are responsible for doing so. In fact, the
implication is that if you had realised it was a foolish question you wouldn’t
have asked it in the first place.The fact that you did proves that you too are
a fool.
This is the sort of beguiling explanation most anchors usually find
themselves initially agreeing with until it is too late. By then, it is so selfincriminating that all you can do is smile and slink off.
However, it is the third response that is the most devastating. It floors
me each and every time. Actually, that’s a euphemism; I’m knocked out by
it.
“The problem with interviewers.” This final answer goes, “is that they
are all the same. They are argumentative and they always look aggressive.
Why can’t you people be less of one or the other? Let the conversation be
less argumentative or your manner less aggressive.”
At first hand, even I would agree with that. It sounds so reasonable. So
eminently sensible. But if you think about it, you’ll realise how deeply
subversive the comment actually is.
The first suggestion is that interviewers are both argumentative and
aggressive by design. Yet the truth is they are not. The second is that their
argumentativeness and aggressiveness is put on and can, equally easily, be
switched off. But that’s not the case and it never could be. The final
assumption is that both the person and the job he or she is doing requires
that argumentativeness and aggressiveness be a part of it. No doubt that
could be the case on some occasions but equally there are many when the
opposite is also true.
No, the fact of the matter is that some interviews require
argumentativeness and aggressiveness and others don’t. This is determined
more by the interviewee than the interviewer. To blame the latter for the
outcome is a teensy-weensy bit like criticising the messenger for the
message. Of course, we all do but that still doesn’t make it right.
So, to return to the original question and to try and answer it
personally: am I putting on an act when you see me on the screen? The
answer is both yes and no. And that’s not being facetious or flippant but the
honest truth.
Of course, anchors are trying to convey an image. They all do. When
they succeed, you don’t see it as an act because it has worked. When you
see through it, it has not. But on both occasions, it is a performance. Or
else, how do you account for the fact that an anchor can interview a friend
toughly and carry on as a pal thereafter or be seemingly sympathetic with a
person he actually cannot abide and then coldly ignore him once it is over?
Incidentally, writing is also, if not equally, an act. But can you see
through it? Try by reading this piece twice!
7
The Rakshas Explains
Television does strange things to one. How you are seen at the other end of
the box can be radically different to how you actually look. The first time I
realised this was in London. It was 1983, I was a rookie reporter and I was
at a friend’s wedding. Suddenly I noticed someone break out of the crowd
of guests and head towards me.
“Are you Karan Thapar?” The man asked.
“Deny it.” My wife Nisha whispered. “Please deny it !”
The temptation was too great and the thrill of being recognised too
new. I puffed up with pride. I smiled and, trying at the same time to be
demure, I assented.
“How odd.” He commented. “On screen, you look tall and handsome
but actually you’re short and ugly.”
Nisha always felt that I should remember this lesson for the future.
But, alas, one forgets. The other day at the squash court after another one of
my disastrous defeats, I found myself being consoled by my erstwhile
partner. Except that it was an odd sort of sympathy he was indulging in.
“You know judging by your screen appearance, I thought you would
be a tough opponent on the court. On television, you growl and quarrel with
your guests. But here at the club, you give up without even trying. Yahan pe
bhi honsle aur himmat ke saath ladda karo.”
Most people who only know me from the screen believe that I
interrupt a lot, listen poorly and am full of my own opinions. So when the
George Fernandes interview found favour with the Government and was
screened till the audience virtually dropped I found that my “normal”
behaviour was now being pitted against my so-called performance on this
occasion.
It happened quite suddenly and without warning. I was at a dinner,
chatting animatedly and no doubt full of my own views on the subject,
whatever it was. I suspect the person I was talking to was fed up of
listening. Perhaps she wanted to get in a word of her own.
“Can’t you be a bit more like you were with George Fernandes?” She
ultimately asked, her exasperation written all over her face.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, with George, you listened and you didn’t interrupt. He got to
speak almost as much as you did. Can’t you treat me the same way
tonight?”
In fact, the lady was both right and wrong. She was right about my not
interrupting the Defence Minister and listening patiently but she was wrong
to suggest that I interrupt others. I don’t. But the truth of the matter is that
on television people re-create you in terms of how you first appear to them.
So whether they like you or dislike you depends on that first impression.
Thereafter, once it’s stuck, it’s impossible to change. So I’ll always be
thought of as ladaka, aggressive and constantly interrupting even though I
am polite and listen attentively.
Of course, I don’t really mind. More often than not, I benefit from the
mistaken impression. After all, who wants to be thought of as a wimp? But
I’m not the rakshas most people think I am.
8
The Most Difficult Thing
“What’s the most difficult situation you’ve ever faced?” I was asked the
other day. I was waiting outside Priya Cinema when someone popped the
question. I struggled to think of an answer but was unable to come up with
one.Yet at that very moment — although I did not realise it — I was facing
a situation similar to what the enquiry envisaged. It’s just that it hadn’t
occurred to me. Wisdom takes a while to dawn.
Now, albeit a little late, I know the answer. The most difficult situation
is deciding how to defend oneself against a scurrilous and malicious attack.
It’s the sort of thing that could happen to any of us. Should you dismiss it
with the contempt it deserves but run the risk that some, may be even a few,
will believe it if only because of your high-minded silence? Or should you
rebut it vigorously and thus appear, although mistakenly, to have been riled
or to have given it substance by your response? Either way you could suffer
because neither way is a guarantee of sure-fire success.
This academic dilemma became a personal predicament when last
saturday a friendly minister in the government rang on my mobile phone.
“Karan.” said the voice I shall deliberately not identify. “Are you
aware of the campaign that’s going on?”
“Campaign?” I repeated a bit bewildered. “What campaign?”
“You know the letter and tapes that have been sent out?”
“No.” I said. “What are they about?”
“Well you, actually.”
To be honest, the penny still did not drop. I don’t expect people to take
me so seriously that they organise a defamatory campaign. The effort is
hardly worth it.
“What do they say?”
But if my voice sounded enthusiastic, I soon realised my mistake. The
minister was ringing to forewarn me. The previous evening he had received
a package of documents and tapes designed to prove I was anti-national. It
was delivered anonymously to his residence. No doubt, similar packages
had been sent to others as well.
This was deliberate, well-planned hate mail. The aim was to use my
television programmes and previous Sunday Sentiments to prove I was proPakstani, anti-Indian and a fifth columnist who ordinary innocent people
should beware of. The only thing is that everything had been deliberately
and blatantly distorted. Quotations were made up, situations concocted,
omissions claimed, events or statements falsely described and all of this
conveyed with a pernicious interpretation calculated to make me look
reprehensible.
The rum thing is that to target me the letter had to pick on two of my
journalist colleagues as well : Dileep Padgaonkar and Seema Mustafa. They
were guests on an episode of my programme Court Martial where, together,
we questioned the Pakistani High Commissioner. Since this episode was
part of the ‘proof’ against me, it had to include them as well. Thus, they
became “pro-Muslim” and co-conspirators in defaming India.
The letter reads, “It was clearly visible that Karan Thapar and his
colleagues, Dileep Padgaonkar and Seema Mustafa allowed the Pakistani
High Commissioner a free run and they carried his blatant lies in the
programme. “Why was there not a single question in favour of India? Why
was there not a single question against Pakistan?”The carefully printed
blurb on the tape asks.
The allegation is that through silence, improper questioning, subtle
connivance and even a failure to rebut or interrupt we conspired to promote
Pakistan’s interests and put down India’s. At first sight, the letter seems
plausible. Except the details aren’t true. They are totally false.
So now do you see my dilemma? Should I respond to the charges and
end up taking them seriously or should I ignore them and thus permit a few
to believe them? It’s an impossible choice but until I faced it I had no idea
how difficult it could be. The questioner outside Priya might not believe my
answer when I tell him that the most difficult thing in the world is deciding
how to respond to an unfair and unjustified attack but I truly mean it.
I do, however, have a small consolation. I think I know who is
responsible. In this case, their sheer ‘efficiency’ has given them away. Long
before the ‘package’ was sent to assorted ministers, emails saying precisely
the same thing were sent to Markand Adhikari, who owns SAB and Space
TV, where my programme Court Martial is shown. The emails match these
anonymous documents almost word for word. More importantly, they were
signed. The names were Mrs. Manjari Desai and Mr. Sanjay Singh. I am not
sure if they are pseudonyms but I do have their email address. Mrs. Desai
can be contacted at manjaridesai2000@yahoo.com. Mr. Singh at
delhi_2000in@yahoo.com.
If you should write to them, give them my love!
Point of View
1
In Defence of Politicians
“Poor you! I simply don’t know how you stand it.”
It was an odd way to start a conversation and it took me aback.
“Stand what?”
“The politicians you meet and keep interviewing.”
“Why?” I asked still perplexed. But the lady looked at me as if I was
the one who wasn’t making sense. She puffed on a long cigarette, blew the
smoke stylishly over her shoulder and turned to explain. We were guests at
a party last weekend. She was dressed in large white pearls and a
transparent skimpy saree. However, I shall be discreet and hold back her
name.
“They seem such ghastly people. They come across as selfish,
quarrelsome and full of themselves.”
Her vehemence surprised me. Whilst a few politicians may be like
that, the vast majority are not. Of them, my opinion is very different. But
that only meant I found myself locked in a long argument. It developed into
a regular ding-dong but I’m not sure I convinced her. However, I did realise
that television is partly responsible for conveying this false impression.
Most of you who don’t know politicians judge by the way you see them.
But the presentation is neither wholly accurate nor truly fair. Today, I want
to make amends.
The problem begins with our television talk shows which encourage
politicians to quarrel. It’s not that left to themselves they would be sedate
and calm, reasonable and reflective, but that we’ve convinced them and
probably entrapped them into believing that the fight is more important than
the argument. The fault lies in the way such shows are conceived. They
seek to portray the tamasha of politics — its theatre and spectacle rather
than its content and substance. They generate heat but they don’t shed light.
Unfortunately, most politicians willingly play along. Once the cameras
roll, they slip into a role, perform to a preconceived script. The result is
quarrelsome shouting matches which lead nowhere and are usually an end
in themselves.
This is tragic for at least two reasons. Firstly, it demonises politicians.
In fact, it panders to the already widespread opinion that they are a base
tribe. People readily accept what they see because it bolsters their already
biased view.
More importantly, it wastes politicians. The object of a television talk
show is to inform and to learn. This can be done in many ways. By
explaining issues, by discussing differing views, by seeking answers, by
carefully analysing. But each of these require that we listen and to listen we
have to care about what we hear.
That’s where our problems start. Channel heads believe audiences
don’t care about the discussion. They claim most subjects bore them. Worse
still, they don’t think audiences can be made to listen. In their opinion,
serious conversation is a switch off. Rather than risk that they blend it with
drama. Create a storm in the studio and the thunder and lightening will hold
the audience. It doesn’t matter that the atmospherics are simply a waste of
time. Or that politicians are used as objects to laugh at rather than
opportunities to learn.
Fortunately, the solution is simple. It would follow automatically if we
change our attitude to news and current affairs. So far, we judge by their
ratings. We assume they are products for a mass market. But they’re not,
nor should they be. News, and more so current affairs, are only for those
who want to know and, dare I say it, care to.They are not vehicles for
delivering eyeballs to advertisers. Yet when they are treated as such, it
becomes inevitable they will be designed primarily to capture attention.
That’s why channel heads are scared of demanding concentration and,
instead, lure with cacophony.
Yet we have producers, editors, cameramen and even anchors who
could comfortably take on the BBC and CNN. We could easily deliver a
comparable product for ourselves. The reason we don’t is because those
who run channels either don’t trust the audience or don’t know how to
differentiate it. They fear that if they make you concentrate you will run
away and they don’t have the confidence to realise that if you do it won’t
really matter.
So this is not a case of getting the programmes we deserve. Clearly, we
deserve better. This is a case of receiving the type of programmes our
channel heads think we will accept. The question is: how do you change
that?
That’s the challenge the lady I met last weekend should address.
Unfortunately, that’s also the bit of the conversation she found most
difficult to follow. But I can confidently predict that if she succeeds, she
will discover that most politicians are very different to the impression she
has of them.
Now, wouldn’t that be a pleasant surprise?
2
Oops, Excuse Me !
What is a journalist? You might find that an odd question from an old hack.
However, it’s prompted not by idle curiosity but a recent report on Star
News. And let me not mince my words. The report disturbs me for it
confuses the role of a journalist and transgresses the limitations of the
profession.
Last Saturday, Star reported on a campaign to catch snake charmers
trading in endangered species. On the surface, it was a story that purported
to show the media in a good light. Ecological protection is a cause we all
defend.
The problem was the Star team played a critical role in ‘deceiving’ the
snake charmers. Had the reporter and crew not been there, the snakemen
would not have shown up and, it follows, they would never have been
caught. The fact that Star made a clean breast of this complicity in their
commentary matters not one jot.
The snake charmers were led to believe they were being filmed on
behalf of a foreign purchaser of snake skins and in due course, the client
would show up to clinch the deal. The TV news team thus pretended to be
something other than they were. But once the reptile catchers revealed the
snakes in their possession, the police showed up instead, declared they had
caught them red-handed and marched them off to jail.
Now journalists are not policemen, do-gooders, moral arbiters or even
keepers of the flame. Of course, on the op-ed page, we slip into these roles;
but a Star news reporter is not an opinion maker nor is news the place for
such functions.
Reporters ought to tell stories as they find them. It’s in the objectivity
of their account that so-called journalistic truth lies. If they tamper with it,
no matter for how good a cause, they will end up telling a lie. And a lie in
journalism is more than just an un-truth. It’s the erosion of credibility.
Journalists are believed because their audience (or readership) holds
them to be credible. In other words, they trust them. And when that trust
breaks down, journalism ceases to be. That, after all, is the difference
between a rag and a reputable publication. No one trusts a rag. You don’t
believe what you read in it.The news, on the other hand, is only worth
watching while you believe it. Here, credibility (or trust) is everything.
I admit the snake charmer story is a small incident but it’s nonetheless
telling. And I also accept most people would not care to judge Star News by
it. Even I hesitate to do so. Yet the malaise at its core threatens the health of
the entire bulletin.
Let me explain.
Journalists often expose situations. To do so they rely on information
given in confidence. That confidence is everything, for many of those who
talk want to help but are also anxious to avoid incrimination or trouble.
That’s why journalists refuse to reveal their sources even up to and
including the threat of imprisonment.
As a result, people the world over are prepared to tell journalists things
they wouldn’t divulge to anyone else. But who will talk to a journalist with
a record of deceiving? You would be scared he might twist what you say
and use it against you. Instead of trusting him, you would be on your guard.
If that becomes the prevailing attitude, journalism as a whole will suffer.
There is another issue. Journalists can and do pretend to be someone
else when they’re stalking criminals. But they have to be acting for a
greater good and that good has to be proved not merely asserted. Equally
importantly, the crime has to be manifestly criminal. Once again everyone
must recognise that.
The problem here is that I’m not at all sure capturing and killing a
snake is not the best thing to do. When it comes to cobras and pythons (the
snakes in the story) few, if any, have great love for them. That is why snake
charmers are hardly criminals even when they catch endangered species. In
fact, if the snake is endangered so much the better !
In my book, the criminals journalists who can justifiably deceive are
conmen, those who themselves lie to make a fraudulent living. In their case,
it’s nemesis catching up with them whilst the harm they have done has
actually affected ordinary people in whose interest the journalist can claim
to be acting. But who, pray, has the snake charmer deceived and who other
than the captured snake has he hurt?
Snake charmers are poor, probably illiterate and definitely gullible.
They’re not to know that potential foreign buyers don’t preview snakes
through TV footage. When journalists turn on them to gain their scoops,
they’re only exploiting the class barriers of our society. That’s why a snake
charmer is easy prey. Catch a Harshad Mehta if you can or a Sukhram. At
least, they can defend themselves against a journalist’s guile and they’ve
done real harm to boot.
3
The New Rhetoric
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I think I can detect the beginning of an
unfortunate tendency that is creeping steadily into our politics. Actually, it’s
moving faster than that. It’s closer to a cantor. But what disturbs me is not
simply the fact of the matter, I’m also perturbed by the sort of people
responsible for it. They are not ordinary Indians nor are they irresponsible
politicians. They come from the very top of the totem pole. In fact, one of
them is Mr. Vajpayee himself.
I refer to the manner in which certain politicians have started talking of
the Muslim community. Sometimes they seem to taunt them, on other
occasions the tone is accusatory and occasionally, it suggests they despise
them. The common strand and it’s as unmistakeable as it’s unavoidable is
that Muslims are being picked upon.
The crude version, in the style of an akhara bully boy rolling up his
sleeves and spoiling for a fight, is best represented by Narendra Modi. He
sought and succeeded in demonising Muslims in many Gujarati Hindu eyes.
He depicted them as fifth columnists who threaten our peace and security,
as irresponsible people whose mindless breeding is responsible for the
population explosion, as followers of Mian Musharraf and as potential
terrorists. But even when he was not directly attacking them, they remained
in his sight. His rhetorical flourishes could not resist snide swipes at their
expense. On the 19th of September, whilst criticising Congress, he managed
to bring Islam and Muslims into his ambit : “I want to ask the Congress,
why do you object if people on the banks of the Sabarmati derive spiritual
peace through the Narmada waters brought in the month of Shravan? When
you come to power you are free to bring water during Ramzan.” The
reference to Ramzan betrays an attitude, may be even a personality trait,
which delights in picking on Muslims. Bullies in school speak like this. It
hardly becomes of a Chief Minister.
One step better than Modi’s basic approach is what I call the clever
version or, at any rate, cleverer. Oddly, enough its proponent is Vinay
Katiyar. In the guise of propagating the views of Ambedkar and with the
intention of distancing some of her voters from Mayawati, he has found a
more sophisticated way of pushing the Modi line on the Muslim
community. Ambedkar, he claims, was in favour of a complete transfer of
population at partition. In other words, all Muslims should have been sent
to Pakistan. And if that wasn’t sufficient to convey his unsubtle message,
Katiyar adds that in at least one of his books, Ambedkar used the word
“terrorist” to describe Muslims.
To be honest, I don’t know if this is a correct representation of
Ambedkar’s views. It may well not be. But that hardly matters. Who, after
all, is checking? What counts is the image Katiyar is conveying of the
Muslim community. It’s simple and telling. To me, it reads like this: it’s not
just Indians today who have serious doubts about their Muslim compatriots,
so too did the great men of the indepenence struggle including Ambedkar
himself.
But the example of Muslim taunting I find most depressing — no,
disillusioning is that of Mr. Vajpayee. Three weeks ago, I wrote about his
inexplicable claim that Muslims had not in sufficient number criticised
Godhra. Actually, he went further. He even appeared to suggest that the
community has still not apologised for or accepted its mistake.
Had it been an isolated example it could have been forgivable or, at
least, possible to forget. But it’s not. Sadly, picking on Muslims appears to
have become his style. Whilst felicitating Dr. Joshi on his 75th birthday, an
occasion when the Muslim community and the alleged troubles it has
caused us should have been as far from his thoughts as conceivable, this is
what he suddenly and unprovoked had to say : “Joshi bhagvakaran nahin
karenge to kya harakaran karenge? Bhagva hamari party ka rang hei,
yagya aur aahuti ka rang hei.” (Actually, green is also a BJP colour but
perhaps Mr. Vajpayee prefers to forget that).
Now, doesn’t that sound worryingly like Mr. Modi’s rhetoric about
Shravan and Ramzan? One might have expected it of him but surely not of
Mr.Vajpayee? Yet if you think about it, it’s not the first time the PM has
picked on Muslims. He did so in Goa in April and about the same time in
Lucknow, he seemed to say that the BJP could do without their votes.
One can make a silly mistake once, a man can get carried away by his
similes and metaphors occasionally, but repeatedly and regularly? That’s
why I call it a trend and why it disturbs me.
4
Why Won’t He Speak English?
I suppose you could say she likes Atal Behari Vajpayee. At first, it wasn’t
obvious but realisation slowly dawned when political discussions with
Mummy never got very far. She would agree with the points I made but the
conclusion was always refuted. Even my sisters could not persuade her. “I
don’t care what anyone says,” Mummy would insist, “he’s a good man.”
Maybe but sometimes goodness isn’t good enough. Last week at the
UN was a classic example. The Prime Minister had some important points
to make and the UN General Assembly was arguably the best venue to
make them. In theory, the world was there to listen. Except it didn’t. Not
because they didn’t want to nor because they disagreed and switched off.
No, they didn’t listen because they couldn’t understand. Mr. Vajpayee spoke
in Hindi, a language that is only spoken within the borders of India. In fact,
even in large parts of our own country, it’s an alien language. The South and
the North East would have found it as incomprehensible as Europe,
America and Africa.
Yet the paradox is Mr.Vajpayee’s speech was not an annual, laudatory
and ceremonial number. To be honest, speeches at the UN often are. But on
this occasion, he wanted the world to hear him carefully. For a start, he
intended to rebut General Musharraf’s attack of the previous day. Then he
wished to draw the international community’s attention to India’s position
on terrorism. Finally, he wanted to suggest a more muscular UN regime to
pursue last year’s commitment to fight terrorism. These were important
matters. In their own way, each defines India’s national interest. So if ever
there was an occasion to speak in a language the world would easily and
comfortably follow, this was it.
Why, then, did Mr. Vajpayee speak in Hindi? There could be three
possible reasons. Firstly, because he isn’t comfortable in English. Secondly,
because he believes India’s pride requires its prime minister to address the
world in the national language. Thirdly, to show up General Musharraf,
who not only spoke in English the day before but cannot speak Urdu
fluently.
I’m afraid none of these explanations makes sense. In reverse order,
showing up General Musharraf may be pleasing but at what cost? If the
international community cannot follow what you are saying, the price is
undoubtedly too high. Nor is India such a fragile nation that we must force
Hindi upon an uncomprehending world simply to boost our own ego. Those
days are long gone. In fact, as our IT success shows, today English is our
strength. And Mr. Vajpayee speaks English well enough. After all, this
wasn’t an extempore and improvised peroration. A speech in the grand hall
of the General Assembly is not the same as a public performance on the
lawns of the Boat Club in Delhi.With a little careful practice, he could have
learnt to deliver it properly.
That, I suppose, is the real problem.The Prime Minister is disinclined
to learn. May be he’s lazy, may be he thinks he’s too old, but whatever the
reason he hasn’t made the effort to teach himself how to read his English
speeches more effectively. And before you think I’m making a surprisingly
silly or slender point, let me remind you of the number of world leaders
who’ve had to learn this simple but telling technique. Mrs. Thatcher was
one. In fact, she even had to modulate her voice. It used to be shrill and
jarring. George Bush is another. Actually he’s still not as good as he could
be but he certainly holds your attention.
Now pause to reflect on what Mr. Vajpayee’s Hindi cost India. On the
previous day, the BBC broadcast Hamid Karzai and Pervez Musharraf in
full. They would have almost certainly done same with the Indian Prime
Minister. After all, the BBC’s Indian audience is considerably greater. But
in the end they chose not to.The only reason is because he spoke in Hindi.
The argument that a Putin, a Kim, or a Koizumi speak Russian, Korean
and Japanese at the UN doesn’t change things one little bit. There are good
reasons why they don’t bother with English and none of them apply to
Vajpayee. For one, they don’t know the language. More importantly, they
don’t have to struggle to attract the world’s attention. Mr.Vajpayee’s
position is altogether different.
If you ask me, one can’t avoid the depressing conclusion that our
Prime Minister forgot his central purpose in going to the UN. He was there
to communicate India’s message. To be understood, he should have spoken
in a language the world understands. By refusing to do so he rendered
himself ineffective. Last week, this good man let his country down.
5
Sex, Hypocrisy and Morality
Dear, oh dear, oh dear. I don’t think Sushma Swaraj is going to like me. I
suspect I’m not her favourite TV person anyway but now I wager I shall fall
yet lower in her scales. Perhaps I should cut my losses, end this piece here
and now and write about the weather instead. That would certainly be the
safer thing to do. But it would also be chickening out.
I think Mrs. Swaraj made a terrible mistake when she asked MTNL to
bar calls to telephone sex numbers. It’s not for the Communication Minister
to decide who we can or cannot ring. As long as we pay our bills, that’s a
freedom that cannot – no, that must not – be tampered with.
In fact, if you turn to her reasons you’ll realise just how dubious they
are. First are what you might consider the grand philosophical ones. She
claims that such calls “offend the moral fibre of the country and amount to
cultural invasion.” Baloney.
For starters, sex and the enjoyment thereof is not alien to our country.
If it was, we wouldn’t have a population problem. There’s no denying the
fact that we do it, like it and seek it. So let’s not be hypocritical about it.
The moral argument is worse because it’s presumptuous. Who or what
is to define the acceptable standards of our morality? And who gave this
government the prerogative to do so? That apart, what a man (or a woman)
does in the privacy of their home, on their own, at their personal cost,
without involving any third party (other than the voice at the other end) is
not a subject for moral judgement. Its a purely personal decision between
him (or her) and their God. Wise ministers understand this and will not seek
to interfere leave aside step in.
Since this is the nub of my point, let me explain. I’ll return to Mrs.
Swaraj’s other reasons later.
It’s our individual sense of right and wrong that differentiates human
beings from other animals. Each time we make a choice we exercise this
difference. It therefore follows that if we are denied the opportunity to do so
or, worse, if someone else does it for us then our humanity is diminished.
Mrs. Swaraj, no doubt with the best intentions, wants to stop us
making what she thinks is the wrong decision. But in so doing, she is
diminishing each of us as human beings. Children, perhaps, but again not
always need others to decide for them. Not adults.
Ministers must accept that freedom necessarily includes the freedom to
be wrong. Not just the freedom to make the right decision but the right to
make the wrong one. And when it affects no one but onself, no one has a
right to interfere. Mrs. Swaraj may make a wonderful nanny but we don’t
need one.
Now to turn briefly to her other reasons. I can accept that children or
clerks in government offices require protection or need to be prevented
from irresponsible misuse of free phones. But denying a right to everyone is
the wrong way to do this. That’s like using a sledgehammer to crack a
peanut.
Mature societies rely on parental guidance to ensure their kids are
brought up properly and the vast majority of Indian parents do a very good
job. Similarly, sensible administrations devise practical ways of deterring
misuse of office facilities. After all few, if any, private sector companies
face such problems. Why can’t the government be more like them?
Finally, let’s turn to the lonely men and women who phone Hong
Kong, Adelaide or wherever for dubious comfort at prohibitive costs?
Except as an occasional lark, this is not something most people do. We, the
majority, may not approve of what this minority does but remember it may
be the only happiness in their lives. Do we have a right and does Mrs.
Swaraj have the right to deny it?
6
The Problem of Pakistan
Is Pakistan a failed state? A little news item last Sunday brought the
question forcefully and irresistibly to my mind. But, to be honest, I don’t
have the answer. The best I can offer is the opinion: it could be. I can’t say
for certain but, equally certainly, I cannot rule it out ether.
However, what I am more sure of is that there is something rotten
about the Pakistani system. Not the people, no, very definitely not them but
the polity. To use a colloquialism, which exaggerates but nonetheless makes
the point effectively, it stinks.
Last Sunday, I learnt that Pakistan’s Chief Election Commissioner has
decided to hear a semi-legal case to see whether Najam Sethi should be
disenfranchised. Under section 63 (1G) of the country’s constitution a
person can be disqualified from voting for “propagating any opinion or
acting in any manner prejudicial to the ideology of Pakistan”. Mark those
words carefully. Not for treason, for that would be disloyalty to the state of
Pakistan, but for disagreeing with the ideology of that state and having the
courage to say so.
I find that bizarre. No, that’s a silly euphemism. I find that intolerable.
For in my opinion, States don’t have immutable, God-given ideologies.
Men confer them according to their tastes and such tastes (or fashions) are
ephemeral. More importantly, they can change. If Mr. Sethi has
disagreements with the ideology of Pakistan, so be it. But so what? In a
democracy, that would be not just his right, it would be normal.
Let me digress a little to make my point. The ideology of Pakistan as
elucidated by Mr. Jinnah, its founder, was quite different to what today his
puny heirs have ordained it to be. Mr. Jinnah’s famous speech of 13th
August 1947, when he spelt out his vision for the country he was creating,
would not just contradict the so-called present day ideology of Pakistan, it
would defy it and make a mockery of it.
For the truth of the matter is that Mr. Jinnah may have founded
Pakistan as a separate state for Indian Muslims, but he was not creating —
no, he didn’t even want to create an Islamic state.
That’s why the treatment of Mr. Sethi is so reprehensible. So
deplorable. And proof of my point is that to be consistent the Pakistani
system would have to treat the ghost of Mr. Jinnah the same way.
Sadly, Mr. Jinnah died more than fifty years ago and no founder has
left his nation more bereft. Had he lived, Pakistan might have acquired an
identity it could have confidence in. His death ensured that it stumbled from
militarism to civilian autocracy, from anti-Indianism to pan-islamicism
without once finding anchor in any of the shifting positions it tried to adopt.
Today, the unrequited demons of the Pakistani system are sharpening
their fangs on journalists. Najam Sethi is but the best known in our country.
The complete list is, however, longer and each month, fresh names are
added to it. The Kargil War hid much of this from us. But now that the glare
has turned the full can of worms is on hideous display. What does it all
mean? Ultimately, that the Pakistani system cannot respect dissent, cannot
tolerate disagreement, cannot withstand critical questioning. It’s evidence
that the system itself is bad.
These conclusions sadden me.They will also hurt and pain.After all,
some of those I see most of and hold dearest are Pakistanis. I would not
want to offend them.Yet if what I claim is true then, surely, in their hearts
— even if not on their lips — they would agree? They might not criticise
their country in front of you and I — and we must understand and respect
that — but in the privacy of their homes, without an Indian audience to
embarrass them, would they not concede the point?
Let me answer that rhetorical question. I believe the answer is yes. A
very definite if embarrassed yes. That’s why my criticism is limited strictly
and entirely to the system of Pakistan. Of the people, whom I like, I have
only praise.
7
Not Quite a Coup But
Definitely the Next Best Thing
It’s strange how your mind can hop from one thing to another. They call it
lateral thinking. I call it being a bit of a flibbertigibbet. In my case, the
oddest experience can spark off the strangest thoughts. Yet for me, of
course, the connections are quite straight forward and the development
totally logical. I wonder if you would agree?
Watching the Pakistani coup unfold on television, my mind raced back
eighteen years to Lagos. I was The Times correspondent, it was my first job
and I was rather self-satisfied about it. Of course, I was a novice but my
enthusiasm made up for my lack of knowledge. Unfortunately, nothing
covered up for my lack of understanding.
One May (or was it June?) morning, the Libyan Embassy called. They
had organised a press conference and being at a loose end, I agreed to
attend. After the customary tea and cakes, I patiently waited for the real
business. I had no idea what to expect.
“This is a takeover.” announced six pimply youths. They had walked
in unnoticed and once we had settled down, they emerged from the
background to declare they were the new masters of the Embassy.
“This is no longer the Libyan Embassy.” The lead pimple proclaimed.
He tried to look stern as he said it but somehow it didn’t work. “This is now
a People’s Mission.”
The distinction was lost on me. So, after another cup of Libyan tea (I
rather liked the stuff) I sauntered off. That day lunch was a desultory affair.
I was, I admit, feeling disappointed. I had expected more from the Libyan
press conference. So that afternoon when I decided to pay the Nigerian
Foreign Office a visit, I did so without any expectations.
“What?” shouted the Nigerian Additional Secretary. He was normally
a placid looking man and shock did not suit him. “A People’s Mission !”.
The Additional Secretary practically spat out the words. In fact, his
teeth, had they been false, would have fallen out. In a trice, he bounded out
of his chair and bidding me to keep sitting he shot off. I could hear his
heavy footfall climbing the stairs. Perplexed, I settled into his weathered
leather arm chair and decided to re-read the daily paper for the fourth time.
“Mr.Thapar.” A voice shouted from outside. Actually, it was more like
“Meester Tappar” but by then, I was used to African mispronounciations.
“Cum weeth me. Thee Mineester wants to see you.”
“Why?” I asked. I hardly knew who he was.
“Aah.” The Additional Secretary responded, but by then he was out of
breath, unable to explain and already dragging me upwards and onwards to
the Foreign Minister.
The room I was purshed into was large, full and expectant. Big men in
richly coloured agbadas sat awaiting my entry. I was to later discover they
were the top brass of the Nigerian Foreign Office. In the centre, sat Mr.
Ishaya Audu, the Foreign Minister.
“I believe you have something to tell me.”The FM began.
Not sure what he expected, I told him the story of the Libyan Embassy
‘takeover’. As I wasn’t to know what the Additional Secretary had found so
rivetting, I exaggerated all the details. In fact, if I remember correctly, I
made it sound quite hilarious. I was proud of the way I told it.
“I see.” Mr. Audu commented when I was done. Everyone stared at
him expectantly and he, in turn, stared out of the window. Uncertain of
what to do, I looked at my shoes. They were unpolished and the dust
showed visibly.
“Come back in the evening Mr. Tappar and you will find that the
Nigerian Government is not ungrateful to its friends.”
With that, I was ushered to the door and this time, without the
Additional Secretary for company, I was left to negotiate the stairs on my
own.
By now, I was not just perplexed, I was bemused. Nothing made sense
but I had a feeling I was on to something big. Just what it was I could not
fathom. So at seven I returned, ascended the stairs and before long found
myself back in the same room. They were all there. The FM, in the centre,
looked pleased.
“Weelcum.” He began. “Weelcum.” the others chorused. It was
infectious and I almost found myself welcoming them back. Instead I bit
my lip and thus was saved this particular idiocy.
“Meester Tappar.” Mr.Audu continued.“For your services to Nigeria,
thees morning I am pleased to say you are the first person in the world to
know that today at 1800 GMT Nigeria has broken relations with Libya. We
will only make the news public in three hours. So if you file a story now it
will be a world scoop.”
I was stunned. Little old me — well, not so old actually; at the time I
was barely 26, had been responsible for Nigeria breaking relations with
Libya and here was the Nigerian FM thanking me for it. I suspect my face
showed my surprise. Admittedly, I was a bit of a greenhorn at the time.
“You are pleased?” the FM asked.
“Oh yes, Sir.” I answered.
“Good.Then rush off and do your bit.” Then, as I departed, he softly
added: “Oh yes, do give me a copy of your paper when your story is
published. I keep all my cuttings.”
8
Lessons One May Have to
Learn Again
I’m not sure if America plans to send ground troops into Afghanistan
although by some accounts, its special forces are already there. But either
way, this strikes me as an opportune moment to recall what happened the
last time Afghanistan was ‘invaded’. The lessons from that occasion may
have slipped from memory but they remain relevant. I witnessed a few
myself.
I arrived in Kabul in early March 1980. The Russians — or the Soviets
as they were then called — had crossed the border some two months earlier.
It was a particularly cold winter and Kabul airport was covered in snow.
The plane from Peshawar — one of the last — looked strangely out of place
on the otherwise empty white tarmac. Afghan officials, furiously rubbing
their hands to keep warm, stood around as we disembarked. They seemed
distant, detached. It was an attitude I found prevalent through out Kabul.
Only later did I realise its significance. The first shock of the Soviet
invasion was giving way to a sullen acknowledgement of their presence.
Acknowledgement, of course, is a misleading word. It can suggest
acceptance but it can also convey resignation. What you merely put-up
with, you acknowledge but certainly not with fondness nor without wishing
for its end. This was true of Kabul.
As I drove towards the Spinzar Hotel, staring into the night, I started a
tentative conversation with the taxi driver. I wasn’t sure what to say or ask.
This was a city under occupation and I assumed there were limits to what
could be discussed.
“Are you Pakistani?” The driver asked. We had been chatting for a
while before he put the question.To Afghans, Indians and Pakistanis look
alike and I had just got off a flight from Peshawar.
“No” I answered, sensing my reply would not please him.
“Indian?” He queried. I nodded. He looked at me through the rear view
mirror and drove on in silence.
In normal times, the drive from the airport to the Spinzar Hotel would
have taken us past Dil Kusha Palace and into Pashtoonistan Square. The
Spinzar is a little further on. But not on this occasion. At the Ariana Hotel
crossing (just after the Indian ambassador’s residence) a large posse of
soldiers, with an armoured car standing by, stopped us.Their faces were
covered in pulled down balaclavas. The driver lowered the window and the
cold air immediately rushed in but before he could speak, a Soviet soldier
stepped forward and barked out orders. I’m not sure the driver followed but
the meaning was clear. A soldier of the invading army had forbidden an
Afghan to drive past the palace. Perhaps Babrak Karmal, the Afghan
installed by the Soviets as the new president, did not want this. But if so his
decision was executed by the Soviet Army. His own soldiers were not at
hand to do so.
“Indians like this, no?” The driver remarked as we drove off. I noticed
he wasn’t looking at me in the rear view mirror.
“Why India support USSR? They are our conquerors and you are
supposed to be our friends.”
He may have expected one but I could not think of a suitable answer. I
could not explain Indira Gandhi’s support of the Soviet invasion. I could not
justify her betrayal of the Afghan people. So we continued the journey in
silence.
I stayed a week in the city and spent my time ‘exploring’. Officially, I
was not there as a journalist. Two months after the invasion, they were not
permitted to enter the country. Yet I was there to see, hear and learn. The
outcome was meant to be an article for The Spectator in London.
‘Exploring’ was my way of maintaining my disguise whilst also
reacquainting myself with Kabul.
It was my first visit to the Afghan capital after a gap of eleven years. I
knew the city well but there was a lot to see and rediscover. One day, I
headed for the blue mosque at Pul-e-Chisti. It’s in the heart of old Kabul.
The bazaar around it is an amalgam of money-lenders, jewellers, secondhand clothes stalls, naan bakeries and dingy little supermarkets. In fact,
there was nothing ‘super’ about them but the American term had caught the
Afghan fancy.
I stepped into an old somewhat decrepit jewellery shop. A lapiz lazuli
ashtray in the display window attracted my attention. Inside, under the
counter, were more. The shopkeeper took them out and eagerly buffed them
with an old cloth before pushing them into my hands. I doubt if he had seen
a customer for the last two months and he was anxious to make a sale.
We got on perfectly till I heard the shop door creak open. I had my
back to it and assumed another customer had entered. But suddenly the
shopkeeper’s jolly prattle ground to a halt. His face fell and his demeanour
changed. A couple of people whom I could not see squeezed into the space
behind me. I could feel their bodies pressed against mine. Then a hand
tapped my shoulder.
“Passport.”
The accent was Russian. My presence had attracted attention and I was
being checked upon. Three Soviet soldiers, with knee-high boots and pistols
at their waist, had arrived to do so. I handed over my passport pointing to
the Ashoka emblem on its cover.
One by one, the three examined it. They passed it to each other in
silence. Each time it changed hands the tension grew a little worse. I was
sweating.
“India.” said the last man. I wasn’t not sure if it was a question or a
statement. I could not tell but I hastily confirmed the fact. In my nationality,
lay my safety.
Satisfied, the soldiers departed. One of them patted my back. It was an
attempt at being friendly. Relieved, I turned to face the shopkeeper. We had
been through a difficult moment together and I expected a bond of
camaraderie had been formed.
“Get out.” He said. His voice was barely a whisper but the anger was
audible. At first I thought I had misheard so I smiled broadly and picked up
one of the lapiz ashtrays. He snatched it back and pushed me.
“Get out.” He repeated, opening the door to help me on my way.“I hate
Indians.You are Soviet allies.”
I’m not sure if this time round our support for America will meet with
a similar response. America is not yet an invader. The Taliban is not a
widely loved government. And in the last two decades, Afghanistan has
seen such vicissitudes of political fortune that popular response to specific
events is bound to be confused or, at least, complex.
But the Afghans are a proud, independent people and the bombs
falling on their cities are also targeting their pride and independence. No
matter how right the cause and how dire the need for deliverance, it is
possible they will hate the deliverer. America plays that role and India is
one of its allies.
Yet there is one memory of Kabul from 1980 that is very different.
Fortunately, it is the last one before I boarded the Ariana flight out. It serves
to balance the others.
It’s about the customs policeman who checked my bags. He came
across sheets of paper hidden under old socks. They were stapled hand
written notes. The official opened them, spread them on a flat table and
asked me what they were. I did not know what to say. The truth was that I
had written down all I had seen or learnt during the last week. It was to
ensure I did not forget but it was also a way of keeping busy during the
long, cold, curfew-bound nights. Sitting in a hotel room, with no one to talk
to and nothing to do except listen to the firing and observe the arching
flares, can be difficult.
I took my time because I was unable to think of a suitable explanation
but perhaps the confusion on my face was apparent or may be the man
guessed what the papers were. As I struggled to reply, he smiled. I can still
recall his stained brown teeth and grisly unshaven stubble. Suddenly his
rough-hewn face took on a kindly appearance.
“No matter.” He said, carefully folding the papers and replacing them
under the socks. I tried to help but he gently pushed my hand aside. It felt
reassuring.Yet he did not look at me. Instead he got on with re-packing my
bag. Eventually, when the locks were fastened and he was ready to hand
back the keys, he looked up. Our eyes met as he spoke.
“These are important papers. Inshallah many people will read what
you have written.”
He knew. And he wanted me to know. That’s why he had repacked the
bag himself.
“Tashakur.” I said, hoping that the Persian word would emphasise the
depth of my thanks.
“Come again.” The official said as I started towards the plane. “We
need people like you.”
9
The Third World War
Whatever else you might say about India and Pakistan going nuclear, it’s
convinced writers of thriller fiction that the Third World War will be started
by these two countries. This is precisely how Humphrey Hawksley’s
gripping story unfolds in his latest book of that name. I’ve just read it.
Though it’s fantastical and depressing, even disillusioning, it’s quite
literally ‘unputdownable’. I know that’s a ghastly word, but when a book
gets stuck in your hands and you refuse to switch off the lights, even though
it’s past two in the morning, I can’t think an alternative.
This Sunday morning, I want to draw your attention to the picture of
India Humphrey paints and the questions that force themselves upon the
reader. Even though the story is fiction, the concerns I have identified are
not. They go to the core of the belief that ours is a soft state. A system that
shies away from difficult decisions. Worse, we wrap our failure in the
misleading but beguiling pretence that our position is morally correct. It’s
an attempt to claim victory in the face of defeat. Humphrey, even if he
didn’t intend to do so, shows this up for the hollow farce it is.
First, however, the story. Humphrey’s book opens with an attack on the
Indian Parliament. It seems as if he’s re-creating December 2001 but this is
far worse. Mortars hit the building and fighter planes, which have
successfully evaded radar detection, crash into the chamber. 476 MPs are
killed. The Indian government does nothing.
Then, a few days later, terrorists attack 7 Race Course Road with
mortars fired from the grounds of the adjoining Gymkhana Club. Humphrey
tells me this is perfectly feasible. The Prime Minister’s residence is
destroyed and he himself injured. Once again, there is no retaliation.
However, the Prime Minister — his name is Vasant Mehta — flies to
New York, in bandages and on crutches, to address the world from the UN.
He demands that America brings Pakistan to heel threatening nuclear
retaliation if it does not. The world listens in silence. They praise his
courage but ignore his terms. Nothing much happens.
Then Pakistan drops a 20-kiloton nuclear bomb on Delhi, devastating
the capital. The chapter that describes the devastation is harrowing.
Humphrey tells me it’s based on eyewitness accounts of Hiroshima. But,
again, India does not respond.
The story moves on. Now Pakistan targets all the remaining Indian
cities. Mumbai, Chennai and Kolkata are obliterated. This time Vasant
Mehta, by now deep underneath Raisina Hill in a nuclear bunker, strikes
back. Islamabad, Karachi, Rawalpindi, Lahore are taken out. Pakistan
ceases to exist. India survives in its hinterland, but only because it’s so
much bigger.
These details are, no doubt, fantastical. May be even unbelievable. But
it’s not the details I’m concerned with. My attention was caught by Vasant
Mehta’s deliberate decision not to respond until, of course, he had no
alternative. Each time I thought he would hit back, he chose not to. Was this
weakness or was it moral strength?
At dinner the other night, Humphrey told me he intended this to be
India’s moral victory. In his book, the only head of government who has the
courage not to add to the destruction is Vasant Mehta. Humphrey sees him
as a hero.
I don’t. Turning the other cheek is a sign of strength only if you have
the power and the will to fight back. India has the power but its Prime
Minister does not have the will. I see Vasant Mehta as weak, vacillating,
indecisive and ultimately incapable.
But the point goes beyond a fictional prime minister. Isn’t this what
Mr. Advani meant when — admittedly sometime ago — he used to ask if
India was a soft state? Toughness lies in taking difficult decisions where a
gamble may be well-calculated but is, nonetheless, unavoidable. Vasant
Mehta ducked these. He — or Humphrey — may wrap his choice in moral
imperatives but that only raises a deeper question. Does India’s self-respect
demand a tougher response? Doing nothing when your Parliament is
attacked, turning the other cheek to a nuclear bomb, may avoid further
destruction but surely it’s demeaning of a nation’s self-respect?
So beyond the question is India a soft state — and Humphrey’s India
seems to be — is the trade off between morality and self-respect. Where
does one end and the other begin? Ultimately, soft states may claim to be
peace-loving but are they self-respecting?
You could even ask if its moral to standby and be beaten but not strike
back? If standing up to a bully or a wrong is the moral thing to do, turning
the other cheek to gratuitous violence cannot be.
Humphrey’s book raises issues that Mr. Advani once used to touch
upon. Of course, I’m not sure Humphrey intended this or fully realises how
effectively he’s done it. After all, he is only writing fiction. But his story is
too close to the bone to laugh away.
10
Boot is on the Other Foot!
Have you ever been in the uncomfortable position of having your views
deliberately and maliciously distorted to create a completely erroneous
impression of what you actually said? And have you then discovered how
fast and how wide Chinese whispers can carry this falsehood? In such
circumstances, lies travel farther than the truth.
I realised this when I met Jairam Ramesh last week. He was a guest at
one of my programmes and he walked in with a big smile on his face.
“Hey.” He suddenly said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What’s all this
you’ve been saying in conferences about Kashmir?”
“Huh.” I replied. Honestly, I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“I gather you’ve declared that Kashmir is Pakistani and that India
should hand it over.”
“What!”
“Yes, you apparently said this at a seminar where Arun Jaitley was
present and you brought the Pakistan High Commissioner’s daughters along
with you for support.”
Suddenly, the rupee dropped. Jairam was referring to a seminar
organised by Suhel Seth (a friend) at the Habitat Centre on the 19th May
2000. In addition to Arun and myself, the participants included Mehbooba
Mufti, Prem Shankar Jha and Shujaat Bukhari of The Hindu. Rajdeep
Sardesai was in the chair.
The object of the seminar was to discuss solutions to the situation in
Kashmir. Now I’m not an expert on the subject and I was uncertain of what
to say. As I drove to the Centre, it occurred to me that I should start by
accepting this fact. And then it dawned that perhaps there were other facts
that had to be accepted as well. Otherwise, a solution would not be possible.
These are facts that have been brushed aside. The longer we deny them, the
longer we prevent our quest for a solution proceeding down potentially
successful tracks.
So what are these facts? Well, they are the substance of what I spoke
about. The first is that the people of Kashmir feel a sense of hurt, a
grievance and even alienation. If we cannot acknowledge this they, in turn,
will never feel their emotions are understood leave aside shared. The
second is that this alienation has been largely caused by us, may be
unwittingly but nonetheless we are substantially to blame. The events of
1984, when Farooq was bundled out of office at midnight, is just one if
perhaps the worst example. The rigged elections, the broken promises, the
deceit and slights are far too many to mention but not hard to identify. The
third fact is that whatever our governments may say (and they’ve all said it
regardless of their complexion) Kashmir is the real dispute between India
and Pakistan. Whether you wish to call it the core dispute or the central
issue is ultimately a matter of terminology. But ask anyone at a dhaba or a
paanwalla’s what he or she thinks is the problem between India and
Pakistan and the answer is bound to be Kashmir. The fourth fact is that just
as we in India are convinced of our case and hold it with passion so too are
they in Pakistan convinced of their’s and equally emotional about it. I was
not comparing between the two nor was I suggesting that one was better
than the other but simply stating the obvious: they believe they have a right
to Kashmir just as much as we are convinced that legitimacy and legality
are wholly and irrefutably on our side. The fifth fact is that we have to sort
out this issue by talking to Pakistan. Of course, there is need for dialogue
between Delhi and Srinagar and there is no doubt that cross-border
terrorism has to be tackled and that Pakistan is heavily involved in it but
still, we have to talk to Pakistan. We cannot wish that away.
Now, tell me, what is so hair-raising about any of that? In fact, were
you to say that I’ve only stated the obvious and that behind the guise of
trying to be profound I’ve been mundane then, perhaps, I would have to
plead guilty. But to claim that any of this, in any way, under any
interpretation, could amount to handing Kashmir over to Pakistan is not just
bizarre, it’s simply impossible to comprehend.Yet that’s precisely what
Jairam was talking about. Someone — he didn’t say whom but perhaps
there were several of them — had told him just this.
The irony is that if we cannot accept these obvious facts, we may well
be in danger of handing over Kashmir to Pakistan. But will my faceless
critics pause to consider that?
P.S. As regards the Pakistan High Commissioner’s daughters, we met
in the lobby outside the seminar hall and walked in together. So what? I
happen to know them extremely well. Their mother has been a friend since
I was six. That’s 38 years. They haven’t influenced my views nor I, sadly,
theirs. But give me time!
11
One Simple Question
I’m not the philosophical sort and I don’t spend time struggling over big
questions or deep issues. Nor am I the type of individual who is concerned
about his personal identity or the future of his community. I tend to accept
things as they are and take events as they come. In fact, others often do my
thinking for me. But in the last few weeks, I’ve become aware of a question
no one can really answer. Surprisingly, it didn’t strike like a bolt of
lightening out of the blue. On the contrary, it crept up on me and until I
realised its implications, I wasn’t even aware of its significance. But since
then, events have repeatedly brought it back to mind. Not once, not twice
but times without number. Consequently, today it’s become an echo that
simply won’t fade away. No matter where I look or what I hear, its
resonance is always around.
Why is it that Hindus, who represent 82.5 per cent of the population,
or in absolute terms an astonishing 842 million, feel threatened by Muslims
who are barely 12 per cent and Christians who are just 2.34 per cent?
Oh, I know the conventional answers that purport to explain away my
incredulity. That Muslims have been spoilt and pampered. That they are
treated as a vote bank, they are permitted their own personal religious code
whilst Hindus have been straightjacketed by the 1956 Code Bill, the
Constitution has been amended to appease them etc, etc. Or that Christians
are seeking to convert by inducement, they are trading in human souls, they
regard their faith as superior and they owe their ultimate allegiance to an
authority outside India whose interests may not be the same as ours. But do
these arguments really answer my question? I doubt it.
Pause for a moment and think about the actual situation. We, the
Hindus of India, are 82.5 per cent of the population. Can anything or
anyone threaten us in our own country? Do we need to prove to ourselves
that we aren’t second-class citizens? Do we need to fight for our
fundamental rights as Hindus? Who’s threatening them? Who possibly
could?
Yet this is the concern that lies at the core of the VHP’s mission.
Worse, it’s this call that many fear will move voters, whether to violence
before or in the way they vote, at the forthcoming Gujarat elections.
Hinduism is not in danger. It couldn’t possibly be. Yet millions, may be
hundreds of millions, are ready to believe it is and act accordingly.
The truth is something else. Of all our communities, the Muslims of
India are the poorest, the least educated and the worst represented in
government, the civil service or the private sector. Very little or may be
nothing at all seems to be changing that. And no matter what the
appeasement, whether it’s overturning the Shahbano judgement, permitting
four wives or just buying their votes, they are likely to remain the poorest,
the least educated and the worst represented. So tell me, how can they
threaten us? If anything, we have them in our thrall. In fact, whatever
appeasement we give them only serves to ensure they stay there.
Now turn to the Christians. In 1961, they were 2.80 per cent of the
population. By 1991, the figure had fallen to 2.34 per cent. And if leaks
from the 2001 census are to be believed, their number has further reduced
to just 2.18 per cent. Does this suggest that they are busy converting,
reaping harvests of faith, buying Hindu souls? If they are, quite frankly,
they are doing an appalling job of it.
But clearly such facts have nothing to do with the way vast numbers
answer my question. Stop a man on the road in Delhi and ask him about the
Muslims. If he’s being honest, he’ll probably reply “Sar pe chada ke rakha
hei.” When you hear such answers, only one conclusion is possible. The
truth is not what moves them.
It’s a perception, may be a prejudice, more likely a fear that has
clouded their rational judgement. If they think of themselves as secondclass citizens, as adherents of a faith under threat, as a ‘minority’ in their
own country, then that can only be because powerful and persuasive voices
have deliberately misled them. The only saving grace is that by the same
token, it also shows that convincing arguments and emotional reassurance
can move them back to reality. People don’t normally opt for being silly.
When it happens, it’s always an aberration.They need a hand, a guiding
light, to lead them back to sanity.
But where is that hand? Where is that light? I see only dummies
around me whilst the shadows are steadily growing longer.
12
The Case for Wit
By and large, we are not a witty people. We tell jokes and play pranks but
very few of us – and only very occasionally are subtle or sophisticated. Our
eloquence is of the long-winded variety, strong on emotion, heavy with
content but rarely sharp and piercing. Our repartee, such as it is, is smug
and childish. Its aim is to put down rather than amuse.
In contrast, the clever answer is both pleasing and effective. It makes
its point without hurt or boastfulness. In fact, even the victim breaks into a
smile.
Last week, I got to re-interview Kapil Dev and, no, he didn’t cry. But
he was extremely witty. Going over his cricket career, I asked him about his
alleged rivalry with Sunil Gavaskar.
“The Press used to speculate about your relationship with him.” I said.
“You were said to be rivals, there was tension between you and they even
claimed you didn’t like each other. What was the truth?”
The smile on Kapil’s face was the first indication of how he would
answer. Then, his eyes started shining. I could sense that he was up to
something.
“The best part,” Kapil began, “was that Sunil wasn’t an all-rounder. So
there was no fight as such.”
Kapil knew his answer was a winner. Without saying anything, he had
said it all. That’s why he allowed a little laugh to punctuate the first
sentence. Afterwards, he went on to praise Sunil, generously and warmly.
But he had already made his point.
My friend Ashraf Qazi had a very similar tale to tell. It was about the
legendary Hashim Khan, one of the world’s great squash players.
Interviewed on television, Hashim was asked about his nephew, the
reigning world champion Jehangir Khan. Hashim praised the young man’s
style, his stamina and his incredible scores. Jehangir had just won his tenth
consecutive British Open, a record that still stands, and was considered
invincible.
“Tell me,” The interviewer suddenly asked. “If you and Jehangir were
both in your prime and had to play each other, who would win?”
At first, Hashim refused to answer. The interviewer pressed him but he
continued to evade. Then, at the end, the question was put again. This time,
Hashim relented.
“Let me put it like this.” Hashim said. “Jehangir plays exactly like his
father, Roshan and Roshan never beat me!”
Whenever Ashraf told the story, he would burst out laughing well
before the end. I’ve started to do much the same when I recount the Kapil
anecdote.
Often the best way out of a tricky situation is to be witty about it. In
1842, Sir Charles Napier had been expressly forbidden to conquer Sind but
the temptation was too great. So despite the strictest orders to the contrary,
he defied them. Now, how was he to bell the cat? Delving into his Latin, he
sent a telegram to the Court of Directors of the East India Company in
London. It was a single word: ‘Peccavi.’ It means ‘I have sinned’.
Or you can use wit to put someone gently in their place. It’s said but I
doubt if it’s true that George Bernard Shaw was once sent an invitation by
the Duchess of Norfolk, a lady he had little regard for. The invitation read,
“Her Grace the Duchess of Norfolk” will be at home this Sunday evening
between the hours of 8.00 and 10.00 p.m.” He replied promptly. “George
Bernard Shaw is delighted to learn that the Duchess of Norfolk will be at
home this Sunday evening. So will he.”
But my favourite story and I’m assured it’s not apocryphal is one I
read in The Times whilst I was still at school. That little fact made it all the
more poignant. The year was 1973 and it was, I think, a Saturday in
summer. In those days, The Times used to publish a long essay in its
weekend supplement. On this particular occasion, the piece was by
Peregrine Worsthorne, later editor of The Sunday Telegraph and an Old
Stoic like myself.
In the article, Worsthorne described a meeting with George Melly’s
wife. In the ‘70s, Melly was a famous jazz saxophonist, possibly the best.
But forty years earlier, Melly and Worsthorne had studied together at
Stowe.They were old chums.
Now, Melly’s wife apparently snubbed Worsthorne. Peeved by her
snooty behaviour, he strode up and said loudly so that everyone could hear.
“I don’t see why you should be so bloody stuck up, my dear.Your
husband seduced me long before he seduced you.”
Finally, there’s that little throwaway line. If someone is trying to be
funny but proving tiresome, you could always take a leaf out of the good
Reverend Spooner’s book. Call him ‘a shining wit’ and see if he
understands!
13
The Right to be Wrong
“Switch on the BBC.” said Ashok eagerly as he rushed into my office. His
normally placid features were in a state of considerable excitement. His
eyes were shining.
“What’s happened?” I was struggling with Ian McEwan’s Atonement
and now that I had found a way into the book I was reluctant to give it up.
“Look,” He said switching on the television and gesticulating towards
the screen with a sweeping flourish. A practised impresario could not have
done better.
I stared uncomprehendingly.The channel was in the middle of another
Hard Talk. The only difference I could detect was that they had three guests
and not one. But why would that work Ashok into such a lather?
“They’re discussing whether the Queen serves any useful purpose.
That man,” and Ashok stabbed one of his stubby fingers in his direction, “is
saying the monarchy should be abolished. And he seems to be winning the
argument.”
“So?”
I was perplexed. I couldn’t fathom why this discussion was so
important.
“Have you forgotten that today is the Queen’s Jubilee? The BBC is
marking 50 years of her reign by questioning her utility! What an amazing
country! Can you imagine anything like that ever happening in India?”
It took me a while to understand Ashok’s response. He was marvelling
at the fact that the BBC could question the monarchy, the very symbol of
British life, on such an historic occasion. But he was also surprised the
British did not find this an unacceptable thing to do. Practically all day, the
BBC had broadcast the Jubilee celebrations live. The gold coach, the church
service, the Guild Hall lunch and the speeches. But now in the afternoon
they were questioning all of it.
In fact, the BBC seemed to have provided a platform to the Queen’s
Republican opponents. Ashok found that unbelievable.
“Kamal hai yaar.”
He was now sitting opposite me. But I don’t think he was listening to
the interview so much as lost in his own thoughts about it.
“Agar aisi cheez Hindustan me hoti to isse anti-national samjha jata.
Humme is mulk se abhi bhi bahut seekhna hei.”
Ashok’s incredulity reminded me of my own reaction to the BBC years
before. My mind went back to a night in 1983, in the middle of the
Falklands war and shortly after a British hunter-killer submarine had blown
up the Argentinean warship Belgrano. Five hundred Argentine sailors had
been killed. The BBC programme Panorama questioned whether this was
necessary. As I watched I knew I was witnessing one of the most extreme
examples of freedom of speech. Questioning your country’s ‘victories’ in
the middle of a war, when your own soldiers are under attack, is never easy.
An expression of concern for the enemy’s dead is even more difficult.
However, the BBC had put the value of free speech above the price it would
have to pay for it. Mrs. Thatcher and the Tories were furious. The tabloid
press weighed in on their side. But the BBC stood by its convictions.
A few years later, after the Lockerbie crash, when American and
British planes bombed Tripoli killing Gaddhafi’s three year old daughter,
the BBC was once again at the forefront questioning whether this was a
justified response. I remember their footage of Gaddhafi’s destroyed home.
It infuriated the government. It also proved the BBC’s point.
“You know the interesting thing about all this?” Ashok suddenly asked
as I finished recounting my own experiences. He had the look of a man who
has just discovered a startling truth. Archimedes, no doubt, would have
worn a similar expression when he had jumped out of his bath.
“The test of freedom of speech is not when the point you’re making is
right.” he said. Ashok’s smile suggested he was rather pleased with this
discovery. I waited to hear more. “The real test is when the point could be
wrong.”
He could have added that the test could also come when the point is
hurtful, or embarrassing, or just controversial. But that would be mere
detail. We’re all prepared to hear the other man’s view when we agree with
him. It’s when we don’t – or, worse, when he’s criticising you – that
tolerance or acceptance becomes difficult.
“Would we in India pass this test?” It seemed the obvious question to
ask. But Ashok took his time answering. For a moment, I even thought he
had not heard. When he replied, his voice was unusually soft. It was almost
as if he was speaking sotto voce.
“We don’t know the difference between criticism and disloyalty.”And
then, after a long pause, he added, “We can’t accept that criticism can be a
sign of concern, even of fondness. In our eyes, criticism is always proof of
dushmani.”
The Close Circle
1
The Tie that Really Binds
There’s nothing I like more than a nice tie. Although I’m proud of my
collection of Hermes and Ferragamo, they are by no means the only ones
I’m fond of. Yet sadly, some that I’ve taken a fancy to have been meant for
other people. If that doesn’t make immediate sense, read on for in the
mystery lies a pretty tale.
In December 1976, a year and a bit after my father’s death, I happened
to be holidaying in Delhi. Mummy had arranged a small dinner and I was
commanded to attend.
“But I have nothing to wear.” I desperately pleaded. I could have
added that I had nothing in common with the generals she had invited but I
knew that would be brushed aside. So I stuck to the excuse of my supposed
sartorial inadequacy.
“Open Daddy’s cupboard and take whatever you need.” Mother swiftly
responded. “You won’t find better ties than his.”
Now Daddy’s ties were nice but they were almost entirely regimental.
Stripes, conventional in colour and old fashioned in style – or so I thought
at the time. But there was one that jumped out at me. It was – if I recall
correctly – orange and red. Striking, in fact eye-catching.Without hesitation,
I took it.
Mummy smiled when she saw my choice. I assumed she was amused
by the bright colours but as she said nothing we left it at that. The party
began, I overcame my nerves and slowly, cautiously began enjoying myself.
And then it happened. A tall dark gentleman strode up and as I looked up at
him I noticed he had on an identical tie.
“Young man,” He started, “where did you get that tie?”
“Oh.” I replied, somewhat sheepish about the admission I was forced
to make. “From my father’s cupboard.”
“And do you know that you’re not entitled to wear it?”
“Why?” By then, my voice was barely a whisper.
“Because it’s the Colonel of the Guards’ tie. Your father held the post
and so do I but I don’t believe you do.”
Perhaps he was teasing but I never wore it again. I never had the guts
to risk a repeat. In the meantime, regimental ties came back into fashion and
London stores were overflowing with them. I often thought of buying one
but memories of the last time I had worn one would flood back and I would
walk away. If only I were ‘entitled’ to wear one.
Last Sunday, that happened. I was invited by General Rai to speak to
the Rajputana Rifles Officer’s Association. The Raj Rif is Daddy’s old
regiment and I was visiting the officer’s mess after almost forty years. As
an unkempt civilian, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb but I was
nonetheless welcomed and presumably forgiven. When I left, General Rai
gave me a large wrapped present. I waited till I got into the car to open it. I
assumed it would be a fancy calendar or perhaps a regimental insignia of
some sort. I was wrong.
It was the Raj Rif tie. Deep green with bright red stripes. Dignified,
distinguished, dashing. I’ve always wanted to wear it. Lewin’s in Jermyn
Street, one of my favourite shirt shops, has a Raj Rif tie hanging in the
display window. Many are the times I’ve been tempted except memories of
the Colonel of the Guards’ came in the way. Now I had been given one by
the Raj Rif officers themselves.
I’m not an officer and I doubt if I’m a gentleman but I do have a
regimental tie with full authority to wear it. I’m itching for the next general
to walk up and ask questions.
2
On Kissing Women
Would I kiss a woman when I greet her? Yes or, to be honest, usually. In
actual fact, it depends on her appearance. But don’t misunderstand me: I
don’t mean her looks but something far more subtle and perhaps less
obvious. I mean the image she conveys of herself. That would help me
judge whether she will take the kiss in the spirit in which it is meant or
misunderstand the gesture.
If I may so put it, in my time I’ve kissed women of all ages, races and
sizes. More to the point I’ve done it instinctively. It’s not something you
plan in advance, unless it’s a different sort of kiss you have in mind, or
think about thereafter. It happens automatically, even reflexively, and
usually you get it right. Of course, every now and then you might make a
bloomer and end up looking and feeling like a fool. But even so, it’s not the
type of mistake you might have in mind. In fact, that’s the point I really
want to make.
One such occasion was in London. I was at a wedding where I joined a
group of friends who were sitting together. As one does, I proceeded to kiss
the women. They were all old friends. One of them, however, was new to
me so I pulled up short and offered my hand instead.
“Discrimination.” She teased.
“You mean you want a kiss too!” I retorted and then, turning to the
others I knew and squaring my shoulders with mock pride, I added, “See
how popular I am.”
“Don’t bet on it.” came the reply from the lady. “But if your kisses are
for the asking why leave me out!”
My mistake was to stop at the wrong point. I had allowed a false
propriety to restrain me. I should have been more confident instead. The
opposite, however, simply could not happen. Never would I be so confident
as to kiss a woman who doesn’t look as if she would understand. A sort of
sixth sense would prevent it. And it works not just for me but for each and
everyone of us. Try it, it won’t let you down.
That’s why the mistakes that happen are not straightforward leave
aside obvious. They are of the opposite variety: you would never kiss a lady
who thought it wrong to do so but you might fail to kiss someone who
would have happily taken it in the spirit in which it was meant.
If you still haven’t worked out what I’m saying let me put it differently
— even bluntly. You would never kiss a bhenji. Her desi touch is enough to
prevent an accident. Nor would you kiss a Miss Prim — unless, of course,
you simply wanted to tease her. But, occasionally, you might fail to
recognise that a lady is cosmopolitan or, as we lads put it, one of us. And
when you do, prepare yourself for a stinging retort. For, as Shakespeare did
not quite say, hell hath no fury like a woman who thinks you should have
kissed her!
What I don’t understand is why our society finds a man kissing a
woman and on the cheek at that, objectionable but doesn’t even blink when
two men hold hands in public, or saunter down the road arm-in-arm, or —
and this is the wackiest of the lot — cross monsoon puddles maintaining
physical contact by holding their little fingers together. This sort of thing is
so common most of you wouldn’t even remark on it. But then abroad, a kiss
in greeting is so common it is equally unremarkable too.
Let me point out two little things. Abroad, two men holding hands
would send eyebrows shooting skywards. The gesture would convey all
sorts of meaning and no one would believe it was innocent. The other point
is that abroad as well as in circles in India where it happens, when a man
kisses a woman in greeting, there is no implied intimacy. Often it’s not even
a sign of affection. It’s just social etiquette. No more, no less. Of course, we
already know that in India, in both cases, the opposite is also true.
So doesn’t that prove it’s all in the mind? The West cannot accept or
understand easy-going physical contact between men and our people are
embarrassed or shocked by easy-going physical contact between the sexes.
Perhaps we need to learn from each other.
3
Presentation Before the Queen
Sometimes you hear stories you want to remember. The other day I did. It
was a hot breathless evening. The lights had also failed. We were sitting on
the verandah and I could hear frogs croaking around Mummy’s old well.
But oblivious of the stifling stillness, she was reminiscing. At 86, her
memory stretches back almost to the Russian Revolution.
We started with The Queen’s jubilee. It was in June but few in India
noticed. In Oxford, whence she had just returned, Mummy had watched
every moment on television.
“You know.” She suddenly said. “I was presented at Court. In facts
twice. First to King George VI, then to the present Queen.”
I sat back and listened. Her soft voice contrasted with the heavy black
night.
The initial occasion was in 1939 just before the war. It was the last of
the old style presentations. My father was a captain and one of the first
Indian officers to be sent to the senior staff college at Minley Manor.
Mummy was 22.
General Paget, the Commandant, who had taken a shine to the Indian
captain’s chatty wife, pulled strings to arrange an out-of-turn presentation.
It was an unexpected honour. So in a hired car, with Daddy’s batman in
front, they drove to Buckingham Palace.
“You can’t imagine how excited I was.” Mummy recalled. “It took me
a full hour to tie my sari.”
They were ushered into an ante-room where attendants were
straightening the ladies trains. Today the term suggests locomotion. But in
the ‘30s, it was an essential part of every debutantes dress.’
Unfortunately, the attendant was not familiar with sari pallus. In his
enthusiasm, he assumed it needed a tug to fall properly. And that’s what he
did. Mummy’s carefully tied sari fell apart.
“I’m very sorry Madam.” He apologised.
“It’s no use being sorry.” She shot back. “Help me put it on again.”
The deed done, the grand doors were flung open and the assembled
guests ushered into the throne room. One by one, they were taken to the
King and Queen.
“In those days, he was known as the King Emperor.” Mummy
explained. “But Indians did not courtsey. We were told to namaste.”
She walked straight up to them, well past the point where others
stopped. Staring the Royal couple straight in the face she folded her hands
together.
“What did they say?”
“Charming!” She replied. “I wanted to chat but Daddy whisked me
away.”
As she tells the story, my parents found themselves seated beside an
elderly ducal couple. Daddy’s sword got stuck in the Duchess’s lace dress.
“Psst.” He hissed. “Look!”
The sharp point of the sword had pinned the dress to the carpeted floor.
“I had to pretend to drop my hanky.” Mummy said. “When I bent to
pick it up, I tugged at the sword. The old dear never found out. She
continued to smile.”
They moved on as fast as they could. Mummy headed for the
champagne which proved to be her undoing.
If I heard correctly, she had had two glasses when Daddy saw her
reaching for a third. In seconds, he was beside her. His arrival, however,
coincided with the Royal Couple processing through the room. As was the
custom at the time, they were preceded by two pages who would not turn
their backs.
“Oh look.” Mummy exclaimed. “They’re walking backwards!”
They were, but I suspect my father feared worse indiscretions from his
young wife and decided to make a graceful exit. Their evening ended at Van
Dyke’s studios and the picture taken there captures her happiness. Her eyes
are lit up and she’s smiling.
The second presentation was 17 years later in 1956. India was
independent and my parents were taken to the Palace by our High
Commissioner, Vijayalakshmi Pandit, and her visiting brother, Jawaharlal
Nehru. The only thing was Daddy was back in college. Not Minley Manor
but the Imperial Defence College. A fact that sat incongruously with his
white hair and evident age.
“How do you like London?” the Queen asked him.
He said he liked it very much when Mummy interrupted.
“It’s all very well for him.” She blurted out. “But when people ask
what does your husband do and I reply, he’s at college they always say
‘well, my dear, I’m sure he’ll find a good job soon’!”
The Queen’s eyebrows shot up and stayed there. But Prince Philip
roared with laughter.
“I know exactly what you mean.” He said without elaborating.
“And what about Mrs. Pandit?”
“Oh, she was furious.” Mummy replied.“ ‘You silly girl’ she said. But
Panditji loved the story. ‘Good for you,’ he told me afterwards. Then,
looking straight at Daddy, he added. ‘She deserves another glass of
champagne’!”
“And?”
“I had several. What did you think?”
4
Are You Married?
Have you been in one of those situations where the conversation takes a
turn of its own? It usually starts with an innocent enquiry, you reply with an
equally considerate answer and then suddenly, without anyone knowing
how it happened, the person jumps to the wrong conclusion. Or, wors, it
becomes horribly embarrassing.
In the early 1990s, this sort of thing used to happen a lot when people
asked if I was married. I am. But the truth is I am also a widower. Nisha,
my wife, died thirteen years ago. But that doesn’t undo the marriage. If I
had said ‘no’, that would be a lie. If I had said I was ‘a widower’, I might
embarrass the questioner who could feel he had accidentally trod on
delicate territory. So when the question was popped, I simply said ‘yes’.
Incidentally, that also happened to be how I felt about it emotionally. But
the conversation never ended there. That’s the problem, Inevitably the
outcome would go in the wrong direction.
Let me illustrate.
“Nice to meet you.” The person would begin as I was introduced to a
stranger at a party, or as I sat down beside a lady I’d never met before and
struggled for something clever to start a conversation.
“Are you married?”
It’s the sort of thing most people always asked. At the time, I was in
my 30s with a head full of relatively black hair and it was, I suppose, a
natural question. Now that I’m grey, the question feels redundant. Most
people assume I am.
Anyway, this is when the problem started. I would answer ‘yes’.
“Is your wife at the party?” the person would continue. I’d never know
how to reply. ‘Yes’ would be a lie. ‘No’ was the truth but it would
indubitably lead to further questions about where she was and that, in turn,
would only make matters worse. Suddenly, I would realise the folly of my
first answer. But I’d only said ‘yes’ to the original question because I did
not want to embarrass the person by saying I was a widower. It always
makes the questioner feel awkward. After all, polite questions are not
supposed to elicit painful memories.
Things are a lot different now that I look visibly too old not to be
married. My hair is more salt than pepper, my face has crow’s feet — if not
reptilian lines — and because people think they know me, they also feel my
life must conform to the norm they expect of people my age. So they
assume I’m married. This is how our conversations now fare.
“Where’s your wife?”
It’s meant as a pleasant opening gambit. They don’t know that she’s
dead. They’d be horrified to find out. But because they’ve assumed I’m
married they also assume she’s around.
Tell me, in my position what would you say? Thirteen years after
Nisha’s death, I feel I can blurt out the truth without feeling pain. Also,
since I’m conscious of not wanting to embarrass, I’m aware it’s better to be
honest at the outset even if that makes for a brief awkward moment.
In fact, I’ve toyed with several answers. “She’s not here” is one but it
doesn’t help. People immediately want to know where she is and when they
find out they’re embarrassed. Another is to say “I’m no longer married.”
But that doesn’t help either. The person always wants to know why. The
inquisitive think I’m divorced and there’s a story to ferret out. The
supportive assume I need help. Whilst the solicitous offer to arrange a
marriage!
But once and only because I was a wee bit tight, I answered with the
bald, blunt, brutal truth. This is how it went.
“Where’s your wife?”
“Dead.”
“What do you mean? When did that happen? Oh God, how terrible!
You poor poor chap.”
The person got into a terrible fluster. In fact, he went beetroot red. I
knew I was being heartless but who told him to start by assuming I was
married and that my wife must be around? The fault – if that’s how I can
describe it – was his and I did not feel like pushing myself to give a
deceptive but gentle answer. However, after a bit, I decided to soften the
blow.
“Don’t worry. She died thirteen years ago.You weren’t to know.”
It worked. His face broke into a smile. Relief flooded his features as
inwardly he excused his own faux pas.
“Well.” He said, his confidence restored. “Time for round two. I’d try
again if I were you. You need a woman by your side as you head for the
grave. Your second wife is bound to outlive you. And then she can face the
question ‘where’s your husband?’
5
Baba Gajju and House of Mewar
Arvind Mewar has just published a sumptuous history of his ancestors.
Although a coffee table presentation, it’s very readable and the pictures are
stunning. But it’s the little stray facts that I found the most surprising. I had
no idea the House of Mewar was the world’s longest serving dynasty,
although that service surely terminated in 1947 if not earlier when the
British Residents muscled-in. It was equally eye-opening to find that
Maharana Pratap never really defeated the Mughals. I always thought he
had and I’m a little sorry to know the truth. But I’m inexplicably thrilled to
discover that it was a maharana called Karan who conceived of and started
work on the Lake Palace!
My point is that ancestors are a good thing. We all have them though
most of us have an unfailing tendency to lose them. Once they disappear
into the mists of time, they are easily forgotten. Actually the point is not
mine though the credit for that cannot be claimed by me.
My cousin, Romilla, a historian of some repute, has researched the
foundations of the family.We may not stretch as far back as the suryavanshi
Mewars (although their policy of adopting heirs when no bloodline
descendent was available does make their family tree look a little contrived)
but we do at least make it back to Babar.
The first Thapar, or so Romilla claims, came across with the Great
Mughal. The year, I believe, was 1526. His name was Baba Gajju. What he
did in Babar’s entourage, Romilla has not disclosed. I suspect he was a
boot-black but he might even have been a bhisthi. Perhaps Gunga Din was
one of his great grandsons! However, family lore maintains he was a noble
man. Years ago, we used to have great fun about this.
“Nanaji.” My nephew Siddo once proclaimed when he was ten, “Kya
mere pad, pad, pad dada Babar ke dhobhi the?”
Had he worn moustaches, Daddy’s would have bristled. Siddo was his
first grand child but this was a matter of family honour.
“Baby.” He would shout at my sister. “What is this nonsense you’re
teaching the boy?”
A decade later, when I got married, my sister Premila told Nisha she
ought to name our first son Gajju.
“What sort of name is that?” asked Nisha, blissfully unaware of its
significance.
“Ah.” Premila replied. “Everything flows from him. He’s the original
wonder responsible for the family chain.”
Thereafter for years, the awaited sprog was referred to as Baby Gajju.
Perhaps that’s why he was never born. Children are deeply sensitive and the
prospect of carrying a silly name was probably enough to drive the foetus
back into the womb!
In fact, it was only for the first few months that the family took
seriously Romilla’s discovery of our origins. Once the novelty wore off,
interest started to wane. After all, we weren’t maharanas nor did my
ancestors influence great decisions. Although in recent times, my
grandfather was elevated to Diwan Bahadur after Independence, that’s best
forgotten. So, I daresay, none of us is going to publish a history of the
family.
Yet few pastimes are more absorbing than rummaging through the
family’s forgotten closets. Sit down with your parents (or grandparents) and
start asking questions. You’ll be fascinated by the stories that pop out. Even
if you don’t publish a history to beat Arvind Mewar’s, you will find out a
lot you never knew. And you’ll have a lot of fun too.
6
When a Pink Pig Means “I’m Sorry”
The nicest apology I ever received was from my late wife, Nisha. At the
time, we had been married five years, both of us were working and
Saturday afternoon was when the household shopping was done. Nisha
hated it. I actually looked forward to it. I would fill the shopping trolley
with biscuits and jams, cheeses and chocolates and ice cream. Oh yes and
crisps too, particularly Tacos and Tortilla corn chips. In those days, proper
food bored me but junk made my mouth water. Nisha was far more
practical. In her eyes, my tastes were not only silly but wasteful. I would
stuff the kitchen cupboard with food that would lie uneaten. She would
throw it out and I would start all over again.
I don’t recall how it happened but one Saturday, her patience snapped.
“Oh for Pete’s sake.” She screamed. “Why can’t you be sensible? You
aren’t a bloody child any longer. Lets eat healthily instead of all this plastic
junk.”
The argument over the groceries was sufficient to provoke a fullfledged fight. That’s usually how married couples quarrel. Little
inconsequential incidents lead to big bust-ups. Then, all hell breaks lose.
Nisha’s temper was slow to ignite but once the fuse had caught, an
explosion was unavoidable. Her memory would dredge-up old forgotten
slights and each recollection would fuel afresh her sense of hurt.
Eventually, her anger would end with exhaustion and then she would
sulk. Hours, even days could pass in silence. I’d try to make conversation,
she would rebuff me. I’d try again, she would ignore me. I’d apologise, she
would be unforgiving. Eventually, I would start snapping but that would
only make her feel vindicated. Then, she would sulk even more. It was a
vicious cycle.
However, on this occasion, the fight developed differently. I decided to
sulk too. Together, we sulked in silence right through Saturday night. Early
Sunday, Nisha left for New York. As a banker, she travelled frequently. My
gamble was that separation would make our hearts grow fonder but I was
also determined to stick it out to the end.
That night, she rang me. I was out and she left a message on the
answering machine. Although the word sorry was never used, it was meant
to be an apology. I ignored it.
There was a second call the next morning at work. I pretended to be on
the other line and asked a colleague to say I would call back. Of course I
didn’t. She rang again later at night but I was hiding behind the answering
machine.
In retrospect, as I write about it, it sounds like a simple game. But,
honestly, my attempt to copy Nisha’s sulking wasn’t easy. People like me
with short tempers get over them quickly. Thereafter, one wants to talk to
one’s wife. Yet I held out for six full days. On the seventh, a Sunday, I was
sleeping late. The good thing about the Lord’s day in London is that nothing
happens before noon. So it was a little strange to wake up with a soft cuddly
creature tickling my nose.
“KT Baba, look what I’ve got for you.”
It was Nisha. She was back from New York. She had let herself in,
silently crept downstairs and was standing by the bed with a glove puppet in
her hands. It was a little pink pig.
“Look, look Baba.”
The name ‘Baba’ was her way of reminding me I was a child. She
meant it with affection but it was a telling endearment. Only wives can so
effectively mix the jejune with the judgemental.
“A pig?” I asked refusing to be won over. “Why have you bought me a
pig?”
Nisha smiled. I suddenly realised I’d walked into a trap.
“Because he looks just like you,” She answered, “and you behave
exactly like him!”
I suppose the point about apologies is not the word ‘sorry’. That’s only
the form. The content has to do with the emotion of making-up. Without
that, an apology is a mechanical exercise and not a heartfelt response. In
that sense, it’s a bit like thank you. ‘Thanks’ has become a phrase we
frequently but meaninglessly mouth without actually feeling anything.
Convention and etiquette determine its usage rather than actual sentiment.
In fact, a strange law governs our apologies and thank you’s. We are
always prompt to thank for the big presents or large acts of help. But the
little kindnesses, the small, telling, thoughtful gestures, usually pass without
recognition. The opposite is true of our apologies. For the small silly
incidents that happen accidentally, we are quick to say sorry. But where hurt
is actually caused or offence given, an apology is rarely forthcoming.
Often we say sorry or thanks without thinking. It’s the unavoidable
that prompts our thanks just as it is the insignificant that elicits our apology.
But where either would really count our silence can be damning.Why?
My answer may be idiosyncratic but I believe I am not wrong. The
‘big’ sorry is an attempt at contrition, at making-up and that’s not easy. One
can’t fake it. Similarly, the ‘small’ thank you for a little gesture or a passing
kindness requires sensitivity, awareness, reciprocal thoughtfulness. That too
is not easy. Not because we don’t feel them but because we don’t know how
to handle such emotions. We shy away rather than acknowledge and
embrace them.
In reverse, the ‘big’ thank you is unavoidable. Think about it. Is it
possible you might not say thanks for a present or a promotion or a party?
Equally, the ‘small’ sorry is cost free. When you really aren’t to blame and
the other fellow knows that too, saying sorry is both easy and meaningless.
That’s why both phrases trip off the tongue so lightly when they mean
so little. But when they would count there’s usually silence.
Of course, we all can’t go around giving people pink pigs and there
will be many occasions when shyness or social ineptness will prevent a
proper thank you. But my point is different. We can try. It won’t be easy and
often you will simply forget. But when you remember and overcome your
initial hesitation, you will feel good for it. Saying sorry (and meaning it)
can be cathartic. Saying thank you, particularly when it wasn’t expected,
can make you feel better.
Index
Abdullah, Farooq 199
Adelaide 183
Adhikari, Markand 165
Advani, L.K. 7, 8, 155, 156,
157, 197
Advani, Kamla 156, 157
Afghanistan 28, 29, 30, 99,
100, 101, 102, 133, 190, 192,
193
Africa 178
Ahmedabad 38, 39, 40
Aitken, Gillon 8
Akbar, M.J. 21, 110
Ambedkar, B.R. 176
America 12, 178, 190, 193,
196,
Amin 102
Amritsar 71
Andheri 79
Anne, Princess 136, 137
Apte, Narayan 17
Aravamudhan, K.(referred to
as Aru) 79
Aslam, Tasnim 148, 149
Azad, Chandrashekhar 16
Australia 97
Bangalore 43, 106
Bangladesh 34, 71
Barcelona 92, 93, 94, 122
Bengal 19
Bhutto, Benazir 42, 54
Bhogle, Harsha 50
Canberra 113
Chennai 95
Chirag 114
Colombo 95, 97, 103
Connaught Place 55
Coonoor 72
Copenhagen 121, 122,
123, 124
Das, Jatin 16
Defence Colony 133
Dehra Dun 32, 71
Delhi 5, 20, 24, 30, 64,
79, 103, 108, 110, 111,
113, 114, 120, 122, 123,
149, 179, 196, 199, 203,
213
Denmark 124
Desai, Manjari 165
Deva, Premila (referred
to as Premila) 225
Deva, Siddharth (referred
to as Siddo) 225
Dev, Kapil 204
Dharamsala 56
Din Panah 114
Dixit, Madhuri 67, 68, 69
Dubai 95
Dutt, Sanjay 63, 64, 65,
66
Dwivedi, Sharada 143
England 21, 116
Birla, Kumar Mangalam 47,
48, 49, 51
Bombay 71
Buckingham Palace 135, 218
Bukhari, Shujaat 198
Burma 71
Bush, George 146
Ershad, General 36, 37
Europe 95, 121, 178
Faridabad 59
Fernandes, George 162
Firozpur 11
Firuzabad 114
Gajju, Baba 224, 225
Calcutta 64, 152
Callaghan, Prime Minister 117 Gandhi, Indira 38, 41, 42,
191
Cambridge 11, 137, 138
Gandhi, Mahatma 14, 16,
17, 19, 21
Gandhi, Rajiv 38,
Ganguly, Sourav 58, 59
Gauri 14, 18
Gavaskar, Sunil 204, 205,
George VI, King 218
Ghazni 102
Giri, V.V. 153
Goa 177
Godse, Nathuram 17
Gogia, Additional DCP 61, 62
Gowon, General 137
Gupta, Irene 77
Habiba, Princess 133, 134
Haridwar 32
Herat 102
Hiroshima 196
Hong Kong 183
Humayra, Queen 134
Hyderabad 50, 67
India 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, 24,
29, 33, 93,
97, 49, 179, 193, 195, 197,
199,
Lagos 187
Lahore 196
Lakshman Jhula 32
Lal Kot 114
Lama, Dalai 56, 57, 58,
59
La Rambla 92
Laxman, Bangaru 129
Laxman, R.K. 81, 82, 83
Laxman, V.V.S. 49, 50,
51
Libya 188, 189
London 20, 33, 65, 113,
117, 122, 123, 125, 161,
215, 220, 227
Loren, Sophia 68
Mackay, Tan 143
Malaysia 111
Mandela, Nelson 16
Manekshaw, Field
Marshall Sam 70, 71, 72
Margarethe, Queen 137
209, 217
Indraprastha 114
Islamabad 10, 31, 42, 54, 108,
196
Isle of Serendip 104
Marseilles 15
Mayawati 176
McEwan, Ian 207
Mcleodganj 56, 57
Meditrranean coast 91
Melly, George 206
Jahanpanah 114
Menon, Krishna 71
Jaitley, Arun 198
Mewar, Arvind 143, 144,
Jamia Milia Islamia 61, 66
224, 225
Jay, Peter 117
Mewar, Bootie 143
Jha, Prem Shankar 198
Mirosevic, Katya 133
Jinnah, Mohammed Ali 16,
Modi, Narendra 175, 176,
19, 20, 21, 185
177
Kabul 26, 27, 30, 99, 101, 133, Mohammed, Abdul 93
Mojadedi, Sibghatullah
134, 190, 192, 193
26
Kamani 63, 64
Mubarakabad 114
Kamaraj, DCP 61, 62
Mufti, Mehbooba 198
Kandahar 102
Mukherjee, Mridula 16
Karachi 196
Karzai, Hamid 26, 27, 28, 29, Mumbai 64, 65, 95
Musharraf, Pervez 22, 23,
180
24, 25, 32, 34, 108, 175,
Kashmir 23, 29, 55, 198, 200
178, 179, 180
Kasuri, Khurshid 10, 11, 12,
Mussoorie 32
13, 109
Mustafa, Seema 164
Katiyar, Vinay 176
Khan, Fardeen 76, 77, 78, 80
Naipaul, Vidia 8, 9
Khan, Jehangir 205
Napier, Sir Charles 205
Khan, Roshan 205
Narayanan, K.R. 152
Khan, Shah Rukh (SRK) 22,
Nehru, Jawaharlal 17, 19,
24, 25, 73, 74, 75
21, 83
Kohli, Sunita 153
Nene, Shriram 69
Kolkata 95, 196
New york 95, 112, 227
Kuala Lumpur 110
Nigeria (n) 188, 189
Kumaratunga, Chandrika 42,
Nizamuddin 133
43, 103, 104, 105
Kunduz 101
Ottawa 113
Oxford 218
Padgaonkar, Dileep 164
Paget, General 218
Paghman 101
Pakistan 10, 12, 19, 20, 29, 32,
33, 54, 55, 71, 99, 100, 107,
109, 148, 149, 176, 184, 185,
186, 195, 196, 198, 199, 200
Palam 61
Pandit, Vijayalakshmi 220
Pant, Vishal 7, 49, 50, 58, 62,
74, 77
Patel, Vallabhai 17
Peshawar 191
Philip, Prince 137, 220
Pindi 34
Poorie, Aroon 158
Qazi, Abidah 31
Qazi, Ashraf 31, 32, 33, 155,
156, 157
Qila Feroze Shah 114
Quetta 30
Qutub Minar 115
Rai, Aishwarya 78, 79, 80
Rai, General 214
Ramesh, Jairam 198, 200
Rawalpindi 25, 196
Razmak 146
Rishikesh 32
Roshan, Hrithik 61, 62
Rushdie, Salman 88
Sahai, Ratna 143
Sahgal, Arjun (referred to as
Arjun)138, 139, 140
Santoshi, Raj Kumar 67
Sardesai, Rajdeep 198
Singh, Pritam (referred to
as Preetam) 129, 130, 131
Singh, Sanjay 165
Singh, Shobha Deepak 87
Singh, Zail 153
Sircar, Aveek 87
Siri 114
South Africa 58
South Asia 95
Spain 93, 94
Spooner, Reverend 118,
206
Srinagar 199
St.Petersburg 146
Streep, Meryl 68
Sulaiman, M.A. 133, 134
Swaraj, Sushma 181, 182
Tagore, Sharmila 63, 64,
65, 66
Tarakki 102
Taylor, Elizabeth 68
Temple de la Sagrada
Familia 93
Thapar, Bimla (nee)
Bashiram (referred to as
Mummy) 75, 134, 213,
218, 219
Thapar, General Pran
Nath (referred to as
Daddy) 213, 214, 218,
219
Thapar, Nisha 161, 221,
222, 225, 226, 227
Thapar, Romilla 224
Savarkar, Veer 14, 15, 16, 17,
18
Scandinavia 122
Scindia, Madhav Rao 3, 4, 5, 6
Sen, Amartya 7, 8
Sen, Surya 16
Sethi, Najam 184, 185
Seth, Vikram 86, 87, 88
Shah, Zahir 99, 102, 134
Shanghai 112
Shari-e-Nau 26
Sharma, Ajay Raj 61
Siachen 55
Singapore 110, 112
Singh, Bhagat 16
Singh, Ganga Maharaja 144
Singh, Gopal (referred to as
Gopal) 60
Singh, Harbhajan 50
Singh, Khushwant 84, 85, 114,
115
Singh, Nirmal (referred to as
Nirmal) 27
Singh, Patwant 52, 53
Thapar, Valmik (referred
to as Valu) 150, 151, 152
Thatcher, Margaret 179
Thomson, Alexander 91
Thomson, Lord 117
Tibet 56
Toronto 112
Udaipur 144
Upadhyay, Ashok 31, 77,
108, 109
Vajpayee, Atal Behari 7,
8, 21, 38, 39, 40, 108,
146, 147, 175, 178, 179,
180
Verma, Kapil 27
Wadia, Maureen 48
Walden, Brian 136, 137
Wali, Shah Marshall 99
Washington 113, 117,
132, 134
Westminster 117
Wickrematunga,
Lasantha 104, 105
Yoginikpura 114
Yousuf, Abidah 100
Yousuf, General 100
Yousuf, Mariam 100
Zia, General ul-Haq 34,
35, 36