Devil's Advocate

by Karan Thapar

  The next to ring was Shobhana Bhartia. No doubt Amar Singh had informed her. She felt a sense of responsibility because she owned Eyewitness.

  When we got back to Delhi the next day, I was asked to drop the questions about Amitabh’s alleged love affairs. Even though I argued that he had enticed me to put them, I was told I had either misunderstood or it was improper to probe in this way. Since I wasn’t entirely sure of the propriety of what I had done, I agreed.

  This meant that Eyewitness released the interview without the best bit! Amitabh had not said anything dramatic, but I felt that the mere fact that he was questioned about his alleged affairs would make his answers riveting, even if they were denials. However, this part was never shown.

  Now, I’m not proud of what I did next, but I do believe it can be explained, understood and, possibly, forgiven. I contacted Anand Sahay, then chief of bureau of The Pioneer, a paper edited by Vinod Mehta at the time. Although an old paper, Vinod had revamped it and The Pioneer was enjoying a period of considerable success in Delhi.

  My intention was to reveal the details of what had been cut out in the hope that Anand would write about it. This was my way of revealing to the world the episode I could not show on Eyewitness.

  When it appeared, Anand’s story was spread across eight columns at the bottom of The Pioneer’s front page. He had all the facts which, of course, he attributed to unnamed sources. Being a good writer, he had spiced it up with adjectives and structured the details in a clever way. As a result, it was gripping, widely read and much talked about.

  Shobhana at once guessed that I was responsible. Although I denied it, which I had to, my tone and manner gave me away. I won’t say she wasn’t upset, but I’ll add that it wasn’t for long. And it never became an issue between us.

  9

  FOUR MEMORABLE PRIME MINISTERS

  I

  came back to India in 1990 and, over the next quarter-century, worked with a number of different organizations. First was the Hindustan Times Group, who set up a television wing called HTV and made Eyewitness. I was with them for seven years. The last two were as director of programmes at Home TV, a channel the Hindustan Times launched with partners like Pearson (who used to own the Financial Times), Carlton Television and Lee Ka Shek’s Hong Kong-based television channel. When Home TV shut down, I moved to Sri Adhikari Brothers Television Networks Ltd for a year and then UTV for three more. Finally, in 2001, I established my own production house and called it Infotainment Television Private Limited. I’ve been running that for the last seventeen years.

  Over all these years I got a chance to view Indian politics and, more importantly, Indian politicians intimately. I can’t say that many became friends, but the vast majority are much more than acquaintances. I saw them in moments of jubilation, but also desperation and despair. I saw them struggling, but also celebrating. And I have experienced their generosity as well as their pettiness, anger and even vengeance.

  These days it is commonplace to be critical of politicians. Most people claim to despise them, few respect them and only a handful admire them. Journalists and, perhaps, TV anchors in particular, bear a lot of the responsibility for the way politicians are viewed. We’ve exposed their underbelly—and in the process some of us have won laurels for doing so.

  Yet, politicians have some rare qualities that the rest of us don’t always possess. For one, they’re often ready to help when you’re in need. I know they gain votes or publicity from this, but the number of times they have cheerfully overlooked delays or accepted last-minute invitations and willingly replaced a guest who had ditched me at the eleventh hour are far too many to enumerate. Collectively, they do prove that they can be generous and accommodating in a way the rest of us often are not.

  Politicians are also usually great raconteurs. In addition, they have an ear for gossip. Together, this means they can be engaging company. An evening with a politician bubbles with the recounting of scandals and rumour, anecdotes and exaggeration, and a multitude of jokes.

  As a result, they are very convivial. Even those who don’t drink are rarely shy. They like the limelight and have acquired the art of knowing how to stay in it.

  Perhaps the best way of recounting the twenty-eight years I’ve worked in India as a television anchor is by writing about some of the politicians I got to know and my stories about them.

  It might seem like an odd thing to say in the second half of the second decade of the twenty-first century, but politicians in the 1990s, who were often inaccessible and usually unwilling to or, at least, inexperienced at giving interviews, were rather friendly once you got past the front door. Consequently, I got to know prime ministers like V.P. Singh, Chandra Shekhar and Atal Bihari Vajpayee rather well, the first two after their brief stints in office and the third years before he got there.

  However, the first sitting prime minister I interviewed was P.V. Narasimha Rao. It happened just twenty-four hours after he was sworn-in and the lady who made it possible was his confidante, Kalyani Shankar. The fact that I knew Rao wasn’t enough for me to get an interview once he had become prime minister. Kalyani, however, knew him far better.

  At 6 in the morning the day after Rao’s swearing-in, Shobhana Bhartia rang up to ask if I wanted to interview the new PM. There was no question of my saying anything other than a very eager and enthusiastic yes.

  ‘Well, ring Kalyani,’ she said. ‘She can wangle it for you. She’ll probably arrange it for later today.’

  ‘Are you sure? As fast as that? This is his first day as prime minister!’

  Shobhana laughed. At the time I had no idea how close Kalyani was to Narasimha Rao and, therefore, how powerful that made her. ‘Kalyani can manage anything. Give her a ring and find out for yourself.’

  To my astonishment, Kalyani told me to arrive at the PM’s house which, at the time, was 9, Motilal Nehru Marg, at 1 p.m. When I said that the security guards wouldn’t let me in, Kalyani brushed aside my concerns and told me not to worry about little things like that.

  So, the crew and I arrived sharp at 1. The prime minister wasn’t home. I presumed he was still in office. The guards, however, were expecting us and we were waved through. When the car pulled up at the porch, Kalyani was there to receive us.

  ‘Would you like to do some filming before the PM comes?’ she asked.

  When we agreed, she took us straight to his bedroom. It wasn’t just simple; it was spartan. The four legs of the niwaar bed had bamboo rods tied to them and they sported a mosquito net on top. This was uncannily similar to the ‘machchhardanis’ I remembered from Doon School. Along the wall on the other side of the room was a bookshelf and, adjacent to it, a rather large computer. Leaning against the bookshelf was a tennis racket and a tin of Slazenger balls.

  Never before—and, indeed, never after—have I been taken to a prime minister’s bedroom and allowed to film whatever I want. The crew realized this was an opportunity that even the PM might not have granted had he been there. So they started filming immediately and pretty comprehensively.

  As they did so, I noticed that hanging from the top of the mosquito net were three or four of the prime minister’s underpants. I assumed they’d been washed the night before and left to dry. The cameraman was the first to notice and quick to film them.

  I perused the bookshelf. I noticed several books in Spanish. There were also a few on tennis stars of the past. The one I remember was on the 1960s Wimbledon champion Manuel Santana.

  Half an hour or so later, by when we had finished filming the bedroom and other rooms, such as the drawing and dining rooms, the prime minister arrived. For a man whom I had thought of as soft-spoken, reticent and even shy, he seemed in a rather good mood. Best of all, he was unaccustomedly chatty.

  ‘I can’t answer political questions because I’ve just taken over but I’m happy to talk about other things. Would that be okay?’

  So we sat down in his drawing room and he proceeded to reveal details of his life and pers
onality that no one had known of or even guessed at. I can’t say Narasimha Rao came across as a lively or bubbly human being, but it was fascinating to discover that he spoke six or seven languages fluently, including Spanish, and was passionate about tennis. But what was really surprising was that he had a dry and subtle sense of humour.

  ‘I noticed a computer in your bedroom,’ I asked. ‘I had no idea you were one of Rajiv Gandhi’s computer young boys.’

  ‘In my case, that would have probably been one of Rajiv’s computer old men!’ he replied.

  The political interview that Narasimha Rao had said would happen later on did not materialize for two-and-a-half years. But when it did, the timing was perfect and more than made up for the delay. Once again, Kalyani was the ‘midwife’.

  It happened in early December 1992, a few days after the collapse of the Babri Masjid. At the time many people felt that nothing had shaken India as this one event had. More significantly, it had damaged the prime minister’s authority, if not also his credibility. The popular view was that he had been caught sleeping on the job and, whilst he slumbered, the mosque had been attacked and demolished. This was, therefore, the greatest challenge Narasimha Rao faced and an interview at this time would be a coup for any journalist. Not surprisingly, there were thousands trying for one.

  Narasimha Rao agreed to two television interviews, one for Doordarshan done by Dileep Padgaonkar, then editor of The Times of India, and one for Eyewitness by me. The interview was confirmed the evening before, which gave us roughly twelve hours to prepare. It was recorded in the gardens of 7, Race Course Road.

  It was a bright, crisp but chilly winter day and the wind kept blowing Narasimha Rao’s shawl off his shoulders. So, in addition to battling my questions, he also struggled to keep his shawl wrapped around him. This made him look the way he no doubt felt—an unhappy man.

  Narasimha Rao had a lot to say and, because he was a carefully measured speaker, he took his time saying it. But nothing actually critical was said in response to my questions about how or why he had let the mosque collapse and, more importantly, the personal responsibility that fell on him. He either avoided these questions or simply refused to answer to the point. Nonetheless, he was the prime minister and he was speaking about the most important event of the last thirty years; so virtually everything he said made news. Consequently, this interview established Eyewitness as a credible and authoritative political video magazine. But few people knew that it had been possible only because Kalyani was his friend and had convinced him to agree.

  V.P. Singh and Chandra Shekhar were people I got to know after their fall from power. I had heard that V.P. Singh was a poet, artist and videographer. That was my convenient excuse when I asked him to agree to a documentary profile. He readily accepted.

  We must have devoted three or four days to this project, enough time to get to know the person. Once I had won his confidence, he gave me access to his collection of paintings and his poetry. He seemed particularly pleased when the cameraman started recording him filming flowers in his own garden.

  Till then I had known him only as a politician and, like many others, thought of him as an astute if not crafty tactician. The person behind the politician was unknown.

  Singh’s poetry was in Hindi, therefore I’m not equipped to assess it. But his paintings were striking, both in terms of their colour and the images they portrayed, while his video documentaries revealed a light-hearted humorous side that was so different to the serious and often silent politician. The one that I vividly recall is of a dog on the veranda of his house looking out at the heavy monsoon rain. What brought it to life was the soundtrack he had added. It was the song ‘How much is that doggie in the window?’ I think he was rather proud of this.

  By the time the crew finished filming, Singh and I had become friends. On my last day he suddenly said to me: ‘Now it’s my turn and you can’t say no.’ Another of his hobbies, he revealed, was photography and he wanted to take pictures of me.

  We agreed to do it on the following Sunday but then, inexplicably, I forgot. A phone call at 11 in the morning from his office reminded me that I was expected half an hour earlier. The problem was that I was unshaven, wearing an old pair of jeans and, worst of all, my hair had been oiled. My plan had been to play squash in the afternoon and then take a thoroughly well-deserved bath. All of that was now thrown out of the window as I rushed to V.P. Singh’s house.

  He must have taken a hundred pictures. He seemed unconcerned by my appearance or the fact that my hair was greasy. His biggest problem was to get me to smile or laugh and do so naturally. Whenever I tried he would wince, claiming that it looked artificial.

  When he finished two or three hours later, Singh declared that he had perhaps a handful of decent pictures and promised to send me the best. It arrived after a week. It’s a mugshot with the cheesiest grin on my face, huge teeth flashing out from between my lips. And there’s nothing to hide the greasy mop of hair on my head.

  ‘This is exactly what you look like,’ Singh said when I rang to thank him for the picture. He was rather pleased with it. I, however, was convinced that this was his revenge. When I put that to him, he merely laughed.

  ‘Ask anyone and they’ll tell you this is how you really look.’

  Singh was an enigma for most people during his life. Many did not know what to make of him. Some saw him as a canny politician, others as a man of high principle and a few as a misfit. But behind the political facade he was a warm human being with a finely developed aesthetic sense and a gentle manner. Sadly, he chose to keep that hidden from all but a few close friends and the odd lucky journalist.

  I got to know Chandra Shekhar in rather strange, if not also unpropitious, circumstances. He was prime minister when Eyewitness was launched and the opening episode had an interview with him. This got us into a terrible fight but once resolved, it also made for a firm and lasting friendship.

  The interview was just a ten-minute affair conducted by one of the more promising correspondents on the Eyewitness team, Savyasaachi Jain. I knew it had to attract attention, otherwise the first episode would not make a mark. I, therefore, decided that it had to go beyond the normal conventional political questions. I asked Saachi, as Jain was called, to question Chandra Shekhar about his clothes and general appearance.

  At the time, it was unheard of to question the head of government along these lines. In Britain, where I had come from, this would be taken as good fun. In India, it was seen as impertinence. Actually, downright rudeness.

  Saachi loved the idea and together we devised a set of questions designed to catch the audience’s attention. He first asked Chandra Shekhar why he was so careless about his appearance. Indians, his question began, make it a point to appear well-groomed; mothers send forth their little sons with their hair carefully combed, faces scrubbed and eyes highlighted with kohl. Chandra Shekhar, on the other hand, appeared as prime minister in a dhoti that was often crushed and hair that was windswept and uncombed. Surely, this wasn’t the right image for the PM?

  Chandra Shekhar growled in response. I don’t think he could believe what he was hearing. He had never been questioned in this way. When Saachi persisted, he turned and looked away. However, that didn’t disguise his anger, nor did it make him more willing to answer.

  Undeterred, Saachi pointed out that Chandra Shekhar’s sartorial appearance and general manner were more akin to the hippy tradition than what traditional Indians considered a fitting way for a prime minister to present himself. This, of course, added fuel to Chandra Shekhar’s anger, which was clearly visible on screen. Mercifully, he didn’t walk out, but he was seething by the time the ten-minute interview got over.

  Chandra Shekhar complained to Shobhana but the interview, when it released, was widely talked about. That, after all, was my intention. So, from the limited perspective of Eyewitness, it was a significant success.

  Days later, Chandra Shekhar lost power and became a caretaker prime minist
er. Three months after that, post the elections, he was replaced by Narasimha Rao. It was at this point that Amar Singh stepped in and changed our relationship.

  ‘Do you intend to be a foe of Chandra Shekhar forever?’ he suddenly asked me. ‘Or, now that he’s out of office, are you willing to make up?’

  It had never been my intention to pick a fight and I certainly did not want to be Chandra Shekhar’s enemy forever. Amar Singh’s suggestion not only made sense, it also opened the opportunity to get to know Chandra Shekhar better. If nothing else, I was curious about the man.

  So I accepted Amar Singh’s offer to make peace and, shortly afterwards, accompanied him to Chandra Shekhar’s for tea. It was probably his last day at 7, Race Course Road. I could see he was relieved that he was departing. The last few months had been particularly difficult. First, there was the economic crisis, which led to the mortgaging of India’s gold reserves. Then there was Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination and the postponement of the second stage of the election process. Now that it was all over, he was only too happy to hand over the burden of running the country to someone else.

  Amar Singh’s presence made the meeting a lot easier. He’s an ebullient and chatty person and carefully managed the conversation for the first few minutes while Chandra Shekhar and I became comfortable in each other’s presence. It didn’t take us long to get to that point. Soon we were swapping anecdotes and laughing.

  An hour later, when I was departing, I asked the former PM if he would be willing to do a long, reflective interview on Indian politics from the standpoint of someone who has seen it over the decades, first as a Young Turk in Indira Gandhi’s Congress party, then as president of Janata Party and, finally, as prime minister. It wasn’t my plan to ask for this. It just came into my head as I was leaving. Chandra Shekhar clearly liked the idea and readily agreed.