by Karan Thapar
Around noon that day Ashraf rang up for a chat. He wanted to know what people were saying about the attack on Parliament. I suggested that he accompany me to Chandan’s reception. There couldn’t be a better way of finding out.
‘Do you think I should?’ he asked. Ashraf is a naturally gregarious person. Such reticence was out of character. But that day, 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 hesitated, but then agreed. Perhaps he accepted my point or perhaps he saw the evening as a challenge he had to face. Maybe it was both.
At 8.30 I picked him up and together we drove to The Imperial. Chandan’s party was outside on the lawns and the weather was decidedly nippy. There were groups of people standing around scattered angheetis. We headed for one that seemed 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, Pratibha and his son Jayant were just behind.
One by one, journalists started to head for Advani. The previous day, he had been 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. 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 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 Advani’s direction, 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 hadn’t noticed her until we almost bumped into each other. But before I could apologize or even start a greeting she spoke to me.
‘Aapne apne dost ko peeche kyon chhod diya (Why have you left your friend behind)?’ she said, smiling broadly.
‘Mera dost (My friend)?’ I questioned, momentarily fazed.
‘Qazi Sahab. Abhi to aap unke saath khade the (You were just standing with him).’
Mrs Advani had seen us. Despite her smile, my heart sank. I wasn’t sure if this was a rebuke. Did she feel I had erred in keeping the Pakistan high commissioner’s company on that night?
‘He feels a little hesitant to come forward,’ I said.
I was surprised by how easily I blurted that out. 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. But I was still surprised I had said this 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.
‘Ismein kya personal cheez hai?’ she said. ‘Aur phir aapke dost hain. Woh nahin aate to main jaake unse milti hoon (There’s nothing personal. And he’s your friend. If he won’t come forward, I’ll go meet him).’
And before I could respond she started walking towards Ashraf. I followed hastily. It didn’t take more than fifteen seconds but in that time my head was awhirl with conflicting thoughts. Mrs Advani, the Indian home minister’s wife, the man who only the day before had been trapped inside Parliament by terrorists we were convinced were trained and funded by Pakistan, if not actually Pakistanis themselves, was going to meet the Pakistani high commissioner. Others in her place might have preferred to snub him or, at least, keep away. I couldn’t think of another soul—minister, minister’s wife or ordinary guest—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 recognized Mrs Advani and realized that she was coming to meet him was indescribable. In fact, for a moment I don’t think he knew how to react. At first he looked completely taken by surprise. Seconds later, he looked totally delighted. He could not have imagined this in his wildest dreams. Such things don’t happen in conventional politics or diplomacy. In fact, a politician or a diplomat would have carefully avoided such a meeting.
This is why Mrs Advani’s gesture was so special. It wasn’t a political act and it had no political message. It was a warm human gesture 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. It was risky 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 Pakistani 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 the high commissioner’s proffered hand in both of his own. It was another moment that evening 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 evening of the fourteenth the Advanis showed that there was room for personal gestures and that individual relationships still mattered.
If anything, the second meeting between Ashraf and Advani was more extraordinary. In fact, it was the last time they would meet while the former was the country’s high commissioner. It happened six months after the encounter at The Imperial and just days after the terrible terrorist attack at Kaluchak in Jammu in May 2002. Leaving thirty-one dead and forty-seven wounded, this was one attack too many for the Indian government. The Indian high commissioner had been withdrawn from Pakistan several months earlier, but the Pakistanis had not asked Ashraf to return and the Indians had not pressed for his departure. But now the Vajpayee government asked for Ashraf to be withdrawn and gave him a week to leave the country.
Long before the Kaluchak attack, Ashraf had sensed that his time in Delhi was coming to an end. He had wanted to make a difference and, at first, his relationship with Advani suggested that that might just happen. But after the failure of the Agra summit and the attack on Parliament he knew that wasn’t going to be the case.
As the seven days given to him ticked by, I got a call from Mrs Advani asking if I would bring Ashraf and his wife, Abidah, for tea on their penultimate evening. The Advanis wanted to meet the Qazis and personally bid farewell. This was an amazing gesture by the deputy prime minister of a government that had just chosen to declare Ashraf persona non grata. Of course, this wasn’t publicized. That would have embarrassed the Advanis. But they went ahead, knowing the story could leak out.
This was also one of my last duties as Ashraf’s chauffeur. I drove the Qazis to the new Advani home—they had recently moved from Pandara Park to Prithviraj Road. We had tea in the study. It was just the Advanis and Pratibha and, of course, Ashraf, Abidah and me.
I can’t remember the conversation but there was, no doubt, a strain in the air. After all, both parties were aware of the circumstances that were bringing their relationship to an end. After half an hour, the Qazis got up to leave but unbeknownst to them there was one touching surprise still in store. It happened when Ashraf approached Advani to shake hands.
‘Galey lago,’ Mrs Advani intervened. Both men were taken aback. They stared at her. ‘Galey lago,’ she repeated. And then, almost as if this was what they both wanted, Advani and Ashraf embraced.
I was standing behind Ashraf, so I could clearly
see Advani’s face. Tears had welled up in his eyes.
Advani wasn’t the only member of the Vajpayee government to take an unprecedented step to bid Ashraf and Abidah farewell. An even bigger gesture, in a sense, was made by George Fernandes who, at the time, was defence minister.
Jaya Jaitly, his confidante, rang to ask if I would bring Abidah and Ashraf to dinner on their last night in Delhi. The Qazis had, in fact, planned a farewell reception for that evening but when they heard about George Fernandes’s invitation they decided they would slip away from their own party by 8.30 p.m., even though most of the other guests would be lingering on.
I collected Abidah and Ashraf from The Taj, where the reception was being held, and drove them to George Fernandes’s residence in Krishna Menon Marg. George greeted them at the front door with a warm hug and a big smile. A bit of that, no doubt, was to cover up the awkwardness everyone felt.
It was just George and Jaya, Abidah and Ashraf, and me. I hadn’t expected it but George insisted that Ashraf have a drink. He produced a bottle of Scotch and when Ashraf demurred, poured the drink out himself.
This cheered everyone up and we reminisced over drinks, reminding each other of earlier meetings and earlier dinners. By the time we sat down to eat, everyone was completely at ease. And by the time coffee was served, we were like old friends exchanging jokes.
It was well past midnight before the Qazis got up and we started to leave. George and Jaya came up to the car. They stood and waved as we drove out of the house.
‘Who would believe that you’ve been asked to leave the country?’ I said to Ashraf as we headed towards the Pakistan High Commission. ‘What a strange world we live in.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He sounded reflective. ‘But it also shows that George and Advani can reach out beyond politics and make a difference. This dinner and yesterday’s tea are two occasions I will never forget.’
It’s hard to say how much of the credit goes to Ashraf—though some certainly does—but Advani’s attitude to Pakistan started to change after meeting him. I could detect it in his tone and manner, rather than his language. His references to the country seemed softer, even gentler. Then, a while later, I noticed that he seemed to recall his time in Karachi more often. Anecdotes from those days played an increasing part in his conversation. And each time his face would light up.
However, the first concrete proof that Advani’s outlook on Pakistan had changed came when the Pakistani foreign minister of the time, Khurshid Kasuri, visited Delhi in 2005. Advani was leader of the opposition and also president of the BJP. It was in that capacity that Kasuri called on him. During their conversation the Pakistani minister extended an invitation to the Advani family to visit his country.
Coincidentally, I had scheduled an interview with Kasuri for 10 p.m. the same night he called on Advani. Around 4 or 5 that afternoon, I received a call asking if I could meet Advani in the early part of the evening. I wasn’t told what he had to say and I had no idea what to expect.
When I met him, Advani told me about the meeting and the invitation to visit Pakistan. He wanted me to convey his answer. I’m not sure why he chose me and didn’t respond more formally. He did not explain and I didn’t ask.
Advani said that he would be delighted to visit Pakistan and would like to do so with his wife, daughter, son and daughter-in-law. I passed on the message when I met Kasuri that night. I’m not sure if he had expected such a swift reply, but he immediately called for paper and asked me to write down the names of Advani’s children. I did so.
The foreign minister seemed pleased. His intention was to take one of the most hard-line BJP leaders to Pakistan in the hope that exposure to the country and its legendary hospitality would change Advani’s attitude and soften his politics. He could not have known that, in fact, this had already been happening.
Things moved pretty swiftly hereafter. A formal invitation was issued to the Advani family, which they accepted, and the visit happened a few weeks later.
On the day of his departure, I sent Advani a short personal letter to wish him good luck. I ended by pointing out that I’ve always believed there is a little bit of India in every Pakistani and a little bit of Pakistan in every Indian. This sentiment clearly struck a chord because the Pakistani papers reported that Advani said something very similar during his visit to the Katas Raj Temple complex outside Lahore.
Unfortunately, Advani’s Pakistan visit led directly to the loss of his BJP presidency. It happened because of what he wrote in the visitors’ book at the Jinnah mausoleum in Karachi.
‘There are many people who leave an inerasable stamp on history,’ he wrote in the register. ‘But there are very few who actually create history. Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah was one such rare individual.’
In his early years, Sarojini Naidu, a leading luminary of India’s freedom struggle, described Mr Jinnah as an ‘ambassador of Hindu-Muslim unity’. His address to the Constituent Assembly of Pakistan on August 11, 1947, is really a classic, a forceful espousal of a secular state in which, while every citizen would be free to practice his own religion, the state shall make no distinction between one citizen and another on grounds of faith. My respectful homage to this great man.
His words were unexceptional but the BJP and, more importantly, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) could not accept his calling Jinnah secular. It went against their grain. I’m not sure if they were anyway looking for an opportunity to move him out but this certainly gave them the excuse to do so.
However, Advani’s inscription reminded me of my own view of him. I’ve always believed that he’s a liberal and secular man who uses religion for political or strategic purposes. Ironically, Jinnah was similar. Neither man was prejudiced against people of other faiths. Indeed, Jinnah wasn’t particularly religious and I’m not sure if Advani is either. No doubt he’s a believer, but the rituals and practices of Hinduism play little part in his behaviour and outlook.
Although losing the BJP presidency may have hurt, it didn’t change Advani’s attitude towards Pakistan. The gentler, softer outlook continued. He also never recanted or withdrew the words he wrote in the visitors’ book. Whenever we spoke about it, he always maintained he’d written the truth.
By 2006, I felt quite close to the Advanis. Little did I realize this was soon to end and it would all happen very abruptly. Now, when I look back on it, I can admit that the fault was probably mine.
Around March that year, I asked Advani for an interview for Devil’s Advocate, the CNN-IBN programme I used to anchor at the time. Rajnath Singh had taken over as BJP president and I had formed the impression that he had significantly altered the position the party had taken on critical issues under Advani. I thought that this would be the ideal subject and Advani would want to talk about it. Alas, I was wrong.
The interview took place in the drawing room at Prithviraj Road. Mrs Advani and Pratibha were sitting out of camera view but carefully listening. This was normal practice. In addition, their presence always relaxed him. However, I ensured that they were not in his line of sight because I didn’t want him to look in their direction for confirmation or affirmation of what he said. On screen that would look odd.
We got through the interview and it was only when it was over that Advani said he wasn’t happy. He didn’t say why but I sensed that he didn’t like the line of argument that his successor had overturned his position on many important issues. Perhaps it reopened a wound that had not fully healed.
Advani asked if I would redo it. He was happy to talk about any subject but, in retrospect, he felt it was wrong for him to have spoken about his successor. In contrast, I felt I had got a good interview and, like any possessive journalist, did not want to lose it.
In response, I suggested that Advani should consider the matter for a day or so. After all, the interview would not be broadcast for another three days. He said he would, but he also indicated it was unlikely he would change his mind. It was on this basis that I left his h
ome.
I now found myself in a difficult position. The interview had been recorded and the tapes were in my possession. But I had also given Advani the feeling, without saying it in so many words, that if a day later he still wanted the interview redone, that was a possibility. I hadn’t said I would agree, but the possibility I might was not ruled out. That was the unspoken understanding when I left the Advanis’ home.
Advani didn’t change his position. He rang early the next morning to say he didn’t want the recorded interview to be telecast but was ready to do another one. I still found that difficult to accept. Advani then called up Rajdeep Sardesai, the editor of CNN-IBN, to ask him to intercede. An embarrassed Rajdeep suggested I should think again. Was it worth upsetting Advani and damaging a good relationship over one interview?
I should have listened to Rajdeep’s advice. Indeed, I should have listened to Advani’s plea. I was well aware that not just this interview but many earlier ones as well had been granted because Advani considered me a friend. He trusted me. I would add that he liked me. This made him comfortable and the interviews I got were a direct result.
So now, if he wanted an interview dropped but was willing to give another in its place, was I putting a somewhat manufactured journalistic principle ahead of a trust and friendship I had benefited from for years and which was the reason I had got the interview in the first place? If I had thought along these lines, I would have acted differently. I should have, but a certain adamantine hardness crept into my thinking and I became rigid.
Once I insisted, Rajdeep agreed to broadcast the interview. My last hope was that Advani would see it on air, hear the viewers’ response and, perhaps, accept that the interview was okay and his reservations were mistaken. But that was not to be.
