by Karan Thapar
The interview was done a week or so later and recorded at his farm in Bhondsi, outside Delhi. He spoke with remarkable candour. His criticism of Indian politics and politicians rang with the truth of personal experience. Even if some sensed bitterness in his tone and manner, it was undeniable that he spoke as no previous prime minister had ever done before. Chandra Shekhar held up a mirror to Indian politics and the reflection confirmed what many had suspected: it can be dirty, brutal and, often, devoid of principle.
Over the next few years I did several more interviews with Chandra Shekhar. In the process, we established a bond that worked for both of us. There were times when I knew no one else would speak on a particular issue, and would ring and ask him to step into the breach. He would do so willingly. On other occasions, when he had something to say but was unsure if others would telecast it without editing, he’d call and I would happily provide the platform he wanted. Of course, on both sorts of occasion, Chandra Shekhar always made news.
I remained in touch with Chandra Shekhar till his death, though the frequency of our meetings did diminish. But each time we met, his welcome would be warm and his laugh unrestrained. Though a principled socialist, he was also a bon viveur. He loved a good chat and this made him engaging company for a young, aspiring journalist.
I got to know Atal Bihari Vajpayee because of the kindness of the lady he spent his life with and whose daughter he considers his foster child—Mrs Kaul. I’m not sure why but she took a shine to me and whenever I wanted an interview she would ensure that Atal-ji said yes.
The funny thing is, it always seemed to happen the same way. I would ring Raisina Road, where Atal-ji lived in the early ’90s, and leave repeated messages asking to speak to him. I have no idea what would happen but he would rarely, if ever, ring back. Then, after my fifth or sixth attempt, Mrs Kaul would come on the line.
The first time this happened I was rather embarrassed. I thought she had taken the phone to admonish me for my persistence. It certainly was beginning to feel like pestering. So I began by stammering my apologies.
‘Oho, oho,’ she interrupted and shut me up. ‘You have every right to call, beta, and I know what you want. Let me speak to him. Give me a day or so. Ho jaana chahiye.’
I have to confess that I was sceptical. I thought she was fobbing me off. How wrong I was! When I called back the next morning it was to hear her say, with a chuckle in her voice, that the interview had been fixed. She told me to come that evening and added that Atal-ji had agreed.
I have no doubt that I owe Mrs Kaul a huge debt of gratitude. Without her repeated interventions, the many interviews I did with Atal-ji would never have happened. They included the only one he did after the Babri Masjid demolition as well as another exclusive, six months later, when four BJP state governments in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and Himachal Pradesh that had been dismissed by the prime minister after the masjid demolition, failed to get re-elected.
The BJP slogan at the time was ‘Aaj panch pradesh, kal sara desh’ (Five states today, the entire country tomorrow). I began my interview by mischievously repeating this to him. Of the five states, the BJP had lost four and so the prospect of winning the nation had receded very badly.
Atal-ji laughed. His face broke into a huge smile and his eyes twinkled. I wasn’t sure if it was mischief or glee. He had a very winning appearance when he was smiling. One’s heart automatically warmed to him.
‘Aaj panch pradesh, kal sara desh,’ he repeated and laughed again. He didn’t need to say more. It was clear he was poking fun at his party’s braggadocio.
While conducting these interviews, my task was to draw him out. If I ever felt the need to challenge him, I would do so gently because I didn’t want to make him defensive and put him off. By and large I succeeded in my goal because most people thought the interviews were eye-opening and, more significantly, they made headlines the next day.
I think I’m right in saying that in the early ’90s Atal-ji felt comfortable with me and I had his trust. The first confirmation of this was just after Rajiv Gandhi’s death in 1991. Eyewitness had planned a special obituary for Rajiv. Our idea was to invite a multitude of people who knew him and ask them to share their most important memory. The aim was to capture something of Rajiv’s personality and the impact he had had on people. When I approached Atal-ji, his initial response was to ask me to meet him before he made up his mind.
What followed was an extraordinary conversation that led to a unique and touching moment in our obituary.
‘I’m happy to speak about Rajiv,’ Atal-ji began. ‘But I don’t want to speak as a leader of the opposition because that would not permit me to say what I really want to. I want to speak as a human being who got to know a side of Rajiv that perhaps no one else in public life has seen. If that is okay with you, I’m happy to be part of the obituary you are planning.’
I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. It sounded intriguing but I needed to know more. So I asked him to tell me what he wanted to say.
Apparently, during the early part of his prime ministership, Rajiv Gandhi had learnt that Atal-ji had a kidney problem and needed treatment. So he summoned him to the Prime Minister’s Office in Parliament and said that he intended to make Atal-ji a member of the Indian delegation to the United Nations. He hoped that Atal-ji would accept, go to New York and get treated. And that’s what Atal-ji did. As he told me, this possibly saved his life and now, after Rajiv’s sudden and tragic death, he wanted to make the story public as a way of saying thank you.
Now, this is not the way politicians from opposite sides of the fence usually speak of each other. If ever they do, it’s only in private. Atal-ji’s determination to do so publicly was not just unusual, it was truly unique. More importantly, this was heartfelt gratitude. The story touched a chord within me and I knew it would have the same effect on the audience. It was likely to be the most important bit—the high point, if that’s not an inappropriate term—of the obituary.
I readily accepted. We recorded the next day and Atal-ji spoke exactly as he said he would. However, the impact he made was far greater than the actual content of what he had to say. His slow, measured delivery and the obvious emotion that lay behind it made an unforgettable impression on everyone.
When I thanked him for this magical moment, he instead thanked me for giving him the opportunity to say something that he had long wanted to express but didn’t know how to. He said that a weight had been lifted off his mind.
The second occasion when I sensed a special relationship with Atal-ji was during his prime ministership. I had been invited to a banquet at Rashtrapati Bhavan for the president of Guyana. I was standing at one end of Ashoka Hall along with all the other guests when Prime Minister Vajpayee who, because of his weak knees, always used the lift, entered the room from the other side. As he walked across the floor, a hush descended on the gathering. Everyone was looking at him as he slowly but steadily crossed the enormous room.
Suddenly, halfway across, he gestured with his hand as if he was summoning someone out of the forty or fifty people at the other side. Since no one knew whom he was signalling, several people took a couple of steps forward. This made Atal-ji laugh and everyone who had moved forward stepped back and returned to where they were.
However, Atal-ji continued to summon. It was then that I suddenly felt he was calling me. So I moved forward again and he confirmed that I was right by pointing straight at me.
With everyone watching, I walked across the carpet to talk to the PM. Just a day or so earlier I had written a column critical of him and I wondered if he had read it.
‘Aap ka lekh maine padha tha (I read what you had written),’ Atal-ji began. But he was laughing. Perhaps he was teasing. Still it made me feel awkward, if not guilty.
‘Atal-ji,’ I blurted out. ‘My mother read it too and told me I’m an idiot.’
‘Ma hamesha galat nahi hoti (Mothers aren’t always wrong),’ he said and roared with laughter.
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Then he put his hand on my shoulder and chatted for another minute or two. I knew at once that he wasn’t in the least bit upset. It took me just a little longer to realize that the PM was also sending a deft message to everyone else. Many of them would have read what I had written and were perhaps wondering how he would react. This display of friendliness was also meant to set their minds at rest. It was smart proof that the PM didn’t mind criticism. Like a good democrat—and a wise politician—he was visibly rising above it.
For me, this was abiding proof that Atal-ji is not just a good man but also an astute politician. With the smallest of gestures, he could send the biggest of messages. And he had the ability of doing so in the most natural of ways. This was just one example. In his political career of several decades there must have been thousands more.
10
L.K. ADVANI: THE FRIENDSHIP AND THE FALLING-OUT
I
have no doubt that the BJP politician I’ve got to know best—and through him his family as well—is Lal Krishna Advani. There was a time when I had clearly won his confidence and, on the odd occasion, he would even accept my advice. In the process, he allowed me a glimpse of the secret inner working of Indian politics and Indo-Pakistan diplomacy.
Our relationship began—and matured into friendship—because of the many interviews I did with him. Initially I had no other reason to meet him but because he readily agreed to my interview requests, they became more frequent and in the process I got to know him better and better. It’s therefore ironical that it was an interview that also snapped the bond of friendship and virtually ended our contact with each other.
My first interview with Advani was in 1990, when he was leader of the opposition and I an unknown journalist recently returned to India. It was intended for the inaugural episode of Eyewitness. In those days, Doordarshan did not accept programmes from independent producers and there were no privately owned satellite-linked television news channels. But at the time Eyewitness was an unknown entity and I wasn’t sure if Advani would accept. Fortunately, he did.
The interview took place on a pleasant December afternoon at his Pandara Park residence. It wasn’t very long, probably ten or twelve minutes. It appeared in March 1991 when the first episode of Eyewitness was launched.
A short time later, when I next met him, I asked him what he’d thought of the interview. He tersely replied that he had been told it was a travesty. Then he abruptly turned and walked away.
Stunned by this behaviour, I sent him a VHS of the interview and asked him to see it for himself. I was confident that he had been misled.
Weeks, actually months, went by without any response. In fact, I gave up expecting one. Then suddenly, late one summer evening, the phone rang. It was L.K. Advani.
‘Karan, I’ve just seen the interview and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. I was clearly misinformed. However, I’m too old to make that excuse and I’m afraid I behaved badly when we last met. I’m ringing to apologize.’
This unhesitating willingness to accept a mistake is perhaps his greatest quality and immediately attracted me to him. Over the years that followed, I’ve seen it on many occasions. The one that stands out was February 1998, when, as president of the BJP, he was campaigning for the elections. During one of his halts in Delhi he agreed to an interview with me.
On that occasion, my intention was to question the sincerity of the new, genial and appealing image the BJP was projecting. Was this the true character of the party or just a facade to dupe the electorate?
Halfway into the interview and just before we paused for the commercial break, I said to Advani: ‘Aapne rakshas ke seengh ukhaad ke munh pe muskarahat dal di hai. Lekin ye dikhava hai ya asliyat? (You have changed your image from demonic to genial. Is this an act or for real?)’ I’m not sure why I asked this question in Hindi—the interview was, of course, in English. It just came out that way.
At the time Advani did not react adversely. However, a few minutes later when we took the break, he got up, saying that he didn’t want to continue. The crew and I were stunned. When I asked what the problem was, he replied with a question of his own: ‘Why do you want to interview a man you consider a rakshas?’ I realized I had hurt him, which was not my intention.
Moments later, Advani left the room. But then, within a flash, he walked back in. He had barely been out for a minute. Resuming his seat and looking at the crew, he apologized for what he had just done. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You have come all the way to interview me and the least I can do is finish the interview. Let’s continue.’
Fortunately, when the interview ended we were friends again. I knew that on occasion Advani can be quick to anger or get hurt easily, but he is usually even faster to forgive and forget. At such times his eyes well with tears. For me, that’s a sign of how transparent and honest his emotions are.
Seen in this light, it’s not surprising that Advani agreed to give me his first interview as home minister. It happened on the first day he attended office in South Block. Actually, on the morning after his swearing-in, he had to fly to Kerala for the funeral of E.M.S. Namboodiripad, a highly regarded communist leader. This meant that his second day as home minister was the first time he walked into his office and took formal charge of his ministry.
I had been in touch with Pratibha Advani throughout the preceding day to ensure that her father would give me an interview. Near midnight she confirmed he would, adding that he wanted the crew and me to come to South Block by 9 in the morning.
Advani didn’t say anything exceptional. As a new home minister, he was guarded and aware that what he said would be heard attentively and reported widely. But the fact that he gave an interview on his first morning in office was recognized by many. This otherwise unexceptional half-hour was, therefore, also well watched.
It was, however, a strange turn of events that took our relationship from politician and journalist to something approaching friendship, which also included his family. It had nothing to do with journalism and everything to do with the fact that the Pakistani high commissioner in India, Ashraf Jehangir Qazi, was a dear friend of mine and determined to make a serious effort to alter the fraught relationship between our two countries.
Eager to establish a personal rapport with the National Democratic Alliance (NDA) government, Ashraf asked if I could help. George Fernandes was my initial choice and I set up a few meetings for them, usually over quiet dinners at my home. That worked magnificently. Fernandes and Ashraf became friends and learnt to trust each other. But Fernandes, Ashraf quickly realized, could not influence the government on the tricky issue of Pakistan. That could only be done by a BJP leader who, additionally, was trusted by Prime Minister Vajpayee.
‘I’d like to meet Mr Advani,’ Ashraf announced one day in early 2000. George Fernandes, who recognized and accepted the need, arranged the meeting and I was asked to drive Ashraf to Advani’s Pandara Park residence. It was fixed for 10 p.m. No one else was informed.
Ashraf had no idea how long the meeting would last. ‘Don’t go far,’ he warned me. ‘I’ll ring your mobile as soon as it’s over.’ I sat outside in the car, expecting him in half an hour. He stayed for ninety minutes.
Over the next eighteen months, there were perhaps twenty or thirty such clandestine meetings. The vast majority took place at night. I would be the chauffeur and the guards at Pandara Park were only given my name. The whole thing felt like a cloak-and-dagger game in a B-grade Bollywood film.
The only person who stumbled upon this—but I don’t think he worked out what exactly was happening—was Sudheendra Kulkarni. In those days, he was Vajpayee’s speech writer. His association with Advani was yet to begin. At the first meeting between Ashraf and Advani, he walked in unannounced to deliver papers and caught all of us having a chat after the formal meeting was over. Fortunately, Sudheendra didn’t linger. Nor did he suspect anything.
Two weeks later, when the second meeting was underway and I�
�d parked under a street light in Khan Market, Sudheendra, emerging from a Chinese restaurant, saw me and walked up to ask what I was doing.
‘I’m a little early to collect a friend who’s dining at the Ambassador Hotel,’ I lied. ‘So I thought I’d wait here.’ Amazingly, Sudheendra believed this but it was a close thing.
I had been lucky on two consecutive occasions, but everyone involved knew I couldn’t risk a third. Pratibha and Mrs Advani insisted that, hereafter, I wait with them while Advani and Ashraf talked in the former’s study.
Soon a routine was established. The two As would disappear into Advani’s study. I would sit with Mrs Advani and Pratibha. When the meeting was over the other two would join us for a cup of tea.
Late in May 2001, India announced that it had invited General Pervez Musharraf for a summit in Agra. At 6.30 the next morning Advani rang. I was asleep. ‘I’m sorry for calling so early but I want you to tell our common friend that he shares the credit for this development. Our meetings were a big help.’
Their last meeting took place during the Musharraf visit. It happened after the Rashtrapati Bhavan banquet, close to 11 p.m. Ashraf rapidly changed from his achkan into casual clothes so that no one would recognize him. Advani still had on the grey trousers of his bandgala suit. The Agra summit was due the next morning. There was hope in the air.
In the end, the summit failed. Ashraf’s and Advani’s best efforts were in vain but the bond they formed did not snap. It lasted through the difficult months of the attack on Parliament in December 2001 and the Kaluchak terror attack in 2002, which led to Ashraf being asked to leave. Though no longer a go-between, I continued to witness the amazing relationship between Advani and Ashraf that few, if any, knew about. I recall two further occasions that were both remarkable and showcase their friendship in a fascinating light.
The first was on Friday, 14 December 2001, the day after the attack on Parliament. Chandan Mitra, the editor of The Pioneer, was celebrating the tenth anniversary of the newspaper. His party on the lawns of The Imperial was going to be the first big social occasion after the shocking Parliament attack. In turn, that would probably be the only subject of discussion as politicians and journalists mingled with each other. Not surprisingly, I was looking forward to it.
