Devil's Advocate

by Karan Thapar

  Yet having found myself in the middle of a bomb blast that made headlines across the globe, the desire to talk about it—perhaps even gloat—is irresistible. After all, I was an eyewitness and I did live through what happened. And now that it’s over—and I can see how providential my escape was—I can’t help thanking God I’m still around.

  There can be no doubt that Sri Lanka is a troubled island. But the one thing I hadn’t expected was a bomb, although in retrospect there certainly were hints I should have paid more thoughtful attention to. They started at 7 a.m. Fitfully asleep in a corner room on the thirteenth floor of the Colombo Hilton, I awoke to what sounded like gunfire. Yet so powerful is the urge to rationalize that I immediately decided the noise was fireworks, the fifteenth being a national holiday in this Buddhist country.

  No more than five minutes would have lapsed before curiosity and the fact that the Hilton overlooks President Kumaratunga’s office started to disturb my sangfroid. Telephoning the reception, I enquired if a coup d’état was in progress. I meant it as a facetious joke. The reply I got was deadly serious. ‘It’s unauthorized firing, sir. Please stay in your room, don’t look out of the windows and keep the curtains drawn.’

  Minutes later it happened. It was the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. A bomb had gone off thirteen floors below.

  Thereafter, things happened so fast—and fear, I suppose, can generate such speed—that what followed must have occurred in a trice. I can remember the huge bay windows flying towards me but I cannot recall shooting out of bed and darting out of the room.

  My next memory is in the corridor outside, staring at my shredded pyjamas. The waistband and a dangling cord was all that was left. Perhaps the pyjama top survived but if it did, I don’t remember noticing. The floor around me and the whole of the room I had left was buried in broken glass, crushed plaster and twisted metal.

  Stunned hotel guests began to emerge from their rooms. Their faces were covered with debris and dust, broken by trickles of blood, turning at times into little streams and occasionally torrents. We stared at each other, the enormity of our recent experience beginning to sink in when we saw it on each other’s faces or bodies. ‘Are you okay? You’re bleeding pretty badly.’ Invariably the reply was, ‘So are you.’

  For a while we just stood around. Shock, at first, is like paralysis. You don’t know what to do. Although there was constant firing outside, to us, after the big blast, it seemed strangely silent. Then an instinct for survival took over. Was the hotel structure safe? Or would it start capsizing from the top downwards? And where was everyone else?

  Someone found the stairs and single-file, silently but with incredible concentration, we descended. Smoke and dust were rising from the bottom whilst a burst water-main on top provided a Niagara-like backdrop.

  ‘Mind your shoes,’ came a voice from the vanguard.

  ‘What shoes? I don’t have any.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll have bandages instead pretty soon.’

  We headed for the hotel kitchens on the ground floor. I suppose, behind their thick metal doors, which opened on to the devastated and deserted lobby, it felt safe. But the phones were dead. I’m not sure how long we were there, perhaps thirty minutes, maybe even an hour and a half.

  Outside, the Sri Lankan army and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) were battling it out. Inside, we started taking stock. The comparatively less injured organized search parties for unaccounted friends. Most of the crew from various incoming airlines, who had checked in the night before, were missing. A few people could not locate business colleagues. One particularly distraught lady could not find her husband.

  Meanwhile, the hotel chefs turned to first aid. Dishcloths, tea towels, even napkins were torn and used as bandages and tourniquets, the kitchen Savlon was carefully shared, whilst the few available tablets of paracetamol were reserved for those whose injuries were most appalling to behold.

  And there were some horrific ones. One hotel employee had a six-inch shard of glass buried inside his shoulder blade. A middle-aged European was holding his right thigh with his hands but it kept slipping through his fingers and falling out. Yet I don’t recall anyone crying or even wincing. I suppose stage two of shock is when you know you are injured but can’t feel the pain.

  If there was fear, it was mostly well hidden. However, we were really scared when the Sri Lankan army came to our rescue. In their panic, the soldiers were shouting, their behaviour aggressive. With hands raised above our heads, we were marched out. Overzealous soldiers were pushing those at the back, frequently prodding with their guns.

  For many who had expected sympathy and understanding, this proved too much. Silently and helplessly they started to weep. Some simply squatted where they were and refused to move. It wasn’t defiance, nor was it hesitation. Just a sudden collapse of will. Stage three of shock hits you when it’s effectively all over. With relief comes a surge of suppressed emotions.

  My ‘heroes’ on that black Wednesday were women. First there was a sixty-year-old Dutchwoman, Karin Stevens, who had befriended me in the kitchens. Although herself unhurt and no doubt anxious to get away, she insisted on accompanying me to the hospital. Even in the operating theatre, my bloodied shoes in her hands, she would not leave my side.

  ‘I’ve got a big bottle of whisky in my box,’ she whispered in my ear reassuringly. ‘After this is over we’re going to have a drink together.’ Unfortunately, we never did but wherever you are, Karin—and even if you never read this—thank you very much.

  My other heroine was the Indian charge d’affaires’s wife. Her husband sent his bulletproof jeep and bodyguards to escort me from the hospital to their home. I arrived in a blood-splattered hotel gown, my legs and hands in bandages, my forehead stuck with plaster. At 11 o’clock on a holiday morning, I wasn’t exactly a pretty sight for a housewife to behold. But Mrs Prakash—I never got to know her first name—took me in her arms.

  In minutes she was sponging and towelling me, peeling-off caked blood and gently cleaning my glass-cut abrasions. ‘Remember I’m a mother,’ she chided firmly but kindly as my cheeks reddened with embarrassment. ‘Let’s clean you up and get you into fresh clothes and you’ll feel a lot better.’ How right she was.

  It’s now been two decades, but I can still recall the blast as if it happened seconds ago. Fortunately, my memories of Karin and Mrs Prakash are equally strong.

  But there are also other recollections that occasionally come to mind. One of the most reassuring is of the Sri Lankan surgeon who had stitched a cut tendon on my left index finger. At the time, too scared to look, I had turned my head the other way. ‘Will I die, doctor?’ I’d asked.

  ‘Certainly not in my hands,’ he shot back. ‘And before you do, this finger will be good enough to poke into many more trouble spots!’

  14

  DISILLUSIONMENT WITH AMAL CLOONEY AND BARACK OBAMA

  H

  ave you noticed how the people you are eager to meet often prove to be disappointing? Perhaps anticipation builds up huge expectations but rather than their perceived star qualities, it’s their faults and flaws you notice. Consequently, heroes end up with feet of clay.

  In the last couple of years, I have experienced this on at least two prominent occasions. Each proved to be a huge disappointment. Though at the time the need for discretion kept my lips sealed, now I feel I can be more open. One reason for doing so—and there could be many others—is that the experiences I have to relate may feel familiar to several other people. My story could therefore strike a chord with you.

  In March 2016 I was invited to moderate the gala finale of the India Today Conclave with Amal Clooney. The combination of a high-flying internationally acclaimed lawyer and the wife of one of Hollywood’s leading stars was irresistible. I accepted with alacrity.

  Now let me not mislead you. There’s no doubt that Mrs Clooney is striking. Though painfully thin, she has presence. I wouldn’t call her beautiful but she is undo
ubtedly attractive. There’s something about her that makes you want to look again and again. At least initially, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

  Additionally, she is soft-spoken, charming and even coy. When she talks about George—and she does it only occasionally and quite reluctantly—there’s a winning bashfulness. It’s almost as if she can’t believe he’s her husband!

  Sadly, there is also another side to Amal Clooney, a side that contradicts the freedom of speech she espouses. And it diminishes her.

  Mrs Clooney’s formal speech to the conclave was about freedom of speech. She spoke about her famous clients, former president Mohamed Nasheed of the Maldives; Mohamed Fadel Fahmy, Al Jazeera’s former chief of bureau in Egypt who had been imprisoned for months; and Khadija Ismayilova, an Azerbaijani journalist who was then languishing in jail. Though she didn’t say so, Amal Clooney emerged as the protector of their liberty and, perhaps, their best hope for justice. As she spoke, the audience warmed to this self-presentation.

  Alas, how different was the reality hidden under the surface, which the audience was unaware of. Amal Clooney, though speaking to a conclave organized by a television channel, had forbidden the live broadcast of her speech as well as the question-and-answer session that followed. She also insisted that nothing could be broadcast afterwards without her clearance, which meant that she wanted the right to edit whatever she was asked or said.

  In the end, nothing of her speech was broadcast and only approximately six minutes of her thirty-minute Q&A were permitted to be shown.

  This was the extent to which Amal Clooney ‘censored’ the channel that hosted her. Of course, she had a contract that permitted this. So it was her prerogative to exercise these rights and the channel, no doubt, had been shortsighted in agreeing to such terms. But the incongruity of a human rights lawyer who champions freedom of speech insisting on rigidly restricting the broadcast of what she said was, for me, more damaging than anything else.

  The bizarre part is that if Mrs Clooney’s speech and Q&A had been broadcast in full—live or afterwards—it would only have added to her image, because she handled both with considerable aplomb.

  Now, instead of recalling with delight what is probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I feel disillusioned. I didn’t know what to expect of her, but it certainly wasn’t this. Who would have believed that Amal Clooney, of all people, would twist Voltaire’s famous dictum into ‘I will fight to the death to ensure you can’t broadcast what I have said unless you let me edit it’?

  I guess you could say that Amal Clooney preaches freedom of speech but, at least, in her own case, practises something closer to censorship.

  If anything, the second time something similar happened was even more disillusioning. That’s because it involved one of the world’s brightest political stars. Amal Clooney is well-known, but this guest occupies a much higher level of the stratosphere, almost entirely on his own. He is someone the world admires and he’s uniformly regarded as one of the best orators of our time. He is also thought of as one of the best former heads of government, good-looking and incredibly charming. And if you haven’t guessed whom I’m referring to, the answer is Barack Obama.

  Former president Obama was the key and most sought-after guest at the Hindustan Times Leadership Summit in December 2017.

  News that he was to attend became known a few months earlier and with every passing day the frisson of excitement grew more palpable. The Indian capital was increasingly on edge. Everyone was waiting for Obama’s arrival and the session with him. At least two channels—CNN-News18 in India and Channel News Asia in Singapore—had promised to broadcast it live. Thousands were telephoning the Hindustan Times or asking their friends for passes to attend. Everyone wanted to be present.

  Some four weeks before D-day, I suddenly got a call from the chairperson and editorial director of the Hindustan Times, Shobhana Bhartia, my former boss who has remained a good friend.

  ‘Karan,’ Shobhana began, ‘can I come and see you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, somewhat surprised. Shobhana had never asked to see me before and I couldn’t understand why she felt the need to do so now. ‘But what’s the problem? What’s happened?’

  ‘I want to ask you for a favour.’

  ‘But you don’t have to come to my office to do that!’ I replied, somewhat flabbergasted. ‘You can ask over the phone and I would be happy to help in any way I can.’

  Only Shobhana knew where our conversation was heading. I was clearly flummoxed which, perhaps, is why she suddenly started giggling. When she does, she sounds like an innocent schoolgirl. You would never believe she’s actually sixty years old.

  ‘You know I’ve got Barack Obama coming for the Leadership Summit this year. I wondered if you would moderate the session with him?’

  ‘Do you call that asking for a favour?’ I responded. This time the incredulity in my voice was only too apparent. To use a colloquialism, I was gobsmacked.

  Shobhana had perhaps the most important former politician in the world coming for her summit and she was offering me the opportunity—no, asking me—to chair the session with him. Every journalist in India would have jumped at this chance. For me, by then boycotted by Narendra Modi and his government, this was a heaven-sent opportunity to re-establish my credentials and cock a snook at the miserable-heartedness of the BJP.

  ‘Of course I’ll do it. I’m thrilled and honoured to accept.’

  This time both of us started giggling and I suddenly felt as if I was back at school.

  Preparations for the Obama session began almost immediately. However, this is also when the scales began to fall from my eyes. With every passing day, it became not just apparent but undeniable that Barack Obama is not an easy man to deal with. In fact, he is so protective of himself and so determined to avoid awkward and difficult moments that he has no hesitation in making demands that amount to censoring his interlocutors.

  With three weeks still left for D-Day, I was told by the Hindustan Times Leadership Summit director, Anand Bhardwaj, that Obama wanted the questions he was likely to be asked in advance. Once upon a time, this used to be normal practice in India when local politicians were being interviewed. It was certainly the case in the early 1990s. But for the last decade or more, once Indian politicians had grown accustomed to television and tough interviews, this practice had fallen by the side. Now only a few make this request and, when they do, most of them know they are likely to be fobbed off with questions that probably will never be asked. So the majority don’t bother.

  Yet here was Obama, a former American president and one of the Western world’s most important leaders, making demands I didn’t believe Western politicians would ever ask of their own media.

  I expressed my astonishment to Anand, but was told that the paper had agreed to Obama’s request. In addition, Anand didn’t seem to think it was such an extraordinary demand.

  So I submitted an initial list of sixteen questions. This seemed to me more than adequate for the twenty minutes I would have to question Barack Obama. Even sixteen was probably six questions too many.

  The format that had been decided for the session was a simple one. Barack Obama would first address the audience and his speech was expected to last for some forty minutes. This would be followed by a twenty-minute Q&A with me. The full session would last for an hour.

  Within days of sending the questions, Anand Bhardwaj called to say that the Obama team wanted five dropped. It didn’t take me long to discover that these five were the potentially difficult ones in the collection. But they also happened to be questions that either dealt directly with issues he had covered or decisions he had taken as president or with primary concerns for the Indian people.

  ‘Why?’ I asked Anand. ‘On what grounds does he want these questions dropped?’

  Anand seemed as perplexed as me. He certainly didn’t have a clear, leave aside convincing, answer to offer on the Obama team’s behalf.

  ‘Does th
e Obama team realize that I’m asking the questions, and even if I agree to drop five questions now, what’s to stop me bringing back a few at the session itself? And what will Obama do if that’s what happens? Will he refuse to answer? Will he claim we had an agreement not to ask these questions? Or will he walk out?’

  Anand laughed and so did I. If it wasn’t such a demeaning situation for a former American president to place himself in, it would actually have been ridiculous. He was telling a journalist not to ask certain potentially awkward questions, which is as good as ensuring that any credible journalist would ask precisely those ones. This was like waving a sort of metamorphical red flag at a bull—it was bound to invite a challenging response, if not outright defiance.

  Frankly, I gave Anand not just sufficient but repeated indications that I was determined to resurrect at least two, if not three, of the questions I had been told to drop. The reason was simple. They either referred to critical aspects of Obama’s diplomacy with India or touched on issues of fundamental concern to an Indian audience. In either event, the audience would have expected me to ask them. As a journalist, I felt I had a duty to do so. Furthermore, my amour propre would not let me act otherwise. I would have felt small and diminished if I had. But let me be honest. I also sensed that these questions, when asked, would add a lot of life to the Q&A with Obama. Depending on his answers, they could electrify the session and, perhaps, make for front-page headlines in all the newspapers the next morning. This was too much to ask any journalist to forego. I certainly wasn’t going to be so self-denying.

  The first question was to do with Obama’s claim, made when he visited India as chief guest on Republic Day in 2015, that the resolution of the nuclear liability issue was ‘a breakthrough understanding’. No one else believed that and certainly events have not borne out Obama’s exaggerated description. Here’s the precise question:

  The 2015 visit, when you came as chief guest on Republic Day, ended with an agreement resolving the nuclear liability issue which you called ‘a breakthrough understanding’. In contrast, The New York Times said it was ‘vague and inconclusive’ and an attempt to kick the problem into the long grass. Given that nearly three years have passed and neither Westinghouse nor GE have taken meaningful steps to establish a nuclear plant in India, whose description was right? Yours or The New York Times’?