More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  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 realize 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?”’

  8 July 2002

  Chapter 2

  Family Ties

  ‘Daddy’s ties were nice but they were almost entirely regimental… But there was one that jumped out at me.’

  Baba Gajju and the 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, 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 bootblack 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 grandchild 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.

  17 April 2000

  Bim and Bimla

  It’s odd how you forget your parents were once young. For instance, I regard Mummy as youthful but, in fact, that also emphasizes her age. But the other day I learnt of someone who had a crush on her almost seventy-five years ago! And it happened in the most bizarre sort of way. It’s a perfect story for a mid-December Sunday morning.

  Three weeks ago a friend of my parents telephoned to say he’d just written a book. You probably know him as Lt. Gen. M.N. Batra. He was, in the 1970s, one of our better directors general of military intelligence. Before that, I’m told, he was a champion boxer. Bishop Cotton would be hard pressed to produce better. However, I have always known him as Uncle Bim. Tall, dapper, frequently smiling and the author of witty middles for The Times of India, Uncle Bim is avuncular, hearty and a joy to meet in the corridors of the club. But it never occurred to me to question why everyone calls him Bim. Until, of course, I found out.

  It happened like this. I walked into Masi’s with Uncle Bim’s book tucked under my arm. It’s called In the Middle and it caught her attention at once.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked. Masi is a bit like Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Agatha. She has a stentorian voice and is used to being obeyed.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, a little taken aback. ‘Uncle Bim’s book.’

  ‘Show it to me at once.’

  I did. Masi looked at the cover and smiled. I watched in silence. She started to chuckle.

  ‘That’s just like old Bim.’ She was staring at a Sudhir Dar cartoon that bore a rema
rkable likeness to its inspiration. ‘They used to call him Bim Four.’

  ‘Bim Four?’

  ‘And all because of your mother,’ Masi continued, ignoring my interruption but also answering it.

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupted again. This was too much for me. ‘What does Mummy have to do with Uncle Bim? I thought he was in the army with Daddy.’

  ‘This was long before your mother married your father. She was only a young girl at the time.’ And then, after a pause, Masi added, ‘I was only four.’

  From experience I know you can’t hurry my aunt. She likes to tell her stories in her own way. So I waited patiently for her to continue.

  ‘There were four Batra boys at Bishop Cotton. The oldest was Raj. A good-looking lad although not my type. But he couldn’t take his eyes off your mother. Wherever Bimla went Raj was sure to follow. So the boys used to call him Bim.’

  ‘But Uncle Bim’s name is Mohinder?’ Masi’s story didn’t seem to add up.

  ‘Patience,’ Masi admonished and I lapsed into silence. I’m a lamb in her presence.

  ‘Raj had three brothers – or cousins – or whatever.’ She dismissed the relationship with a vigorous sweep of her hand. ‘They were called Bim Two, Bim Three and Bim Four. Mohinder was Bim Four.’

  Masi’s story went no further but the next morning I rang Uncle Bim for verification. I half expected a loud laugh and a firm denial. What I got instead went well beyond corroboration.

  ‘Good grief,’ he began. ‘Your aunt has an amazing memory for her age. Yes, Bim Four I was. But do you know your old Mamu didn’t approve of the attention we paid your mother!’

  ‘Really?’ This was getting better and better.

  ‘I remember playing gulli-danda at your grandparents’ place in Simla and Bimla wanted to join in. Gogu refused to let her. Protective little blighter he was. Until, of course, she caught my gulli. Well, no one could stop her then!’

  Fortified by these stories I decided to accost Mummy. In fact, I relished the prospect. With a big broad smile and a knowing glint in my eyes I approached the subject at our next meeting.

  ‘I’ve just found out who your boyfriend was!’

  ‘Darling,’ she replied, waving her carefully polished nails, ‘Which one? I must have had several.’

  ‘Uncle Bim,’ I riposted, refusing to be so easily deflated.

  ‘Ah.’ Her voice seemed to trail off. ‘He used to carry sweets in his pocket. And they were only for me. Of course, he was only ten at the time.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was fourteen.’

  I finished Uncle Bim’s book at one go that night. It’s delightfully written and I recommend it. Now I want to read his autobiography. I wonder what stories he has to relate?

  9 December 2004

  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,’ the mater 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.

  17 April 2000

  Chapter 3

  A Chip Off the Old Block

  ‘If your teeth were as white as your hair you could advertise Colgate!’

  Of Priests and Presidents

  A.P.J. Abdul Kalam reminds me of the man who married me, if you know what I mean! He was a Catholic priest from Scotland. His name was Terry Gilfedder. Sadly, the last time we met was thirteen years ago. But I remember him clearly and the similarity is striking.

  Last Saturday as I listened to the president I could hardly believe what I was hearing. He was addressing the boys of the Doon School. It was the 67th Founder’s Day and Dr Kalam was the chief guest. But the subject of his speech took me back twenty years to December 1982. The same thoughts – in fact, the same phrases – were also spoken then. But that was no school function nor was I at the time a young boy. It was my marriage, Father Terry was the presiding priest and the words that came racing back to my mind, as I heard the president’s speech, were from Father Terry’s sermon.

  President Kalam spoke of his recent visit to the Tawang Monastery. ‘What advice can I take back for the people of India?’ he asked the priests. Their answer was the subject of his Founder’s Day address.

  ‘Put aside violence,’ they said. The priests are Mahayana Buddhists famous for their tangkhas. Forty years ago they gave my father one and it remains one of Mummy’s prized possessions.

  ‘And how can we do that?’ the president asked.

  ‘By sublimating ego. It’s ego that is the core of selfishness and from it stems all violence.’

  ‘But how can this be done?’ the president persisted. ‘How can we control our egos?’

  It was the answer to this question that took me back twenty years. Back to my own age of innocence and incomprehension; when you listen but don’t necessarily understand.

  ‘Learn to forget the I and the Me.’ That
was the answer. Simple, stark and short. I don’t know how many of the 440 boys or their parents and guardians understood. But when I heard the same words twenty years ago I know I did not. As I sat listening to the president, on the main field of the Doon School, my mind flashed back to a small church in Nottinghill Gate, just off Westbourne Grove, on a bright December afternoon. There Father Terry had said something similar.

  ‘Karan and Nisha,’ he said, pronouncing our names with the gentle lilt of his Scottish accent. ‘I want to speak of three little words: I love you. Three words that symbolize today’s ceremony and your relationship with each other. Love is the bond that unites you but if you forget that you are two separate people, with separate habits, wishes and rights, love will also separate you. Never forget that you are two individuals and never let the I in you overrule the you of the other.’

  Isn’t it strange that two men twenty years apart, one a Catholic priest and the other the president of India, should have found words so reminiscent of each other to express a thought so simple yet so difficult? Father Terry warned me against taking my wife for granted. President Kalam advised the boys of the Doon School against putting themselves first. But the point was the same. There is something beyond ourselves, as important if not more, and don’t make yourself, your own ego, an obstacle reaching or understanding it.

  I didn’t heed Father Terry’s wise counsel. To be honest, I did not fully understand him. Instead I laughed, as children often do, ridiculing what they cannot comprehend. I don’t think the boys of the Doon School laughed. They are too polite, even too wise, for that. But perhaps they were bemused. When you are sixteen the I is everything. At their age, and for many years afterwards, my world was Me and I was the centre of it.

  Today at forty-six I can see that other people matter because I have experienced how they do. That, I believe, is the catch. I learnt to see beyond myself when I discovered how it could help me. This means I learnt from my mistakes, from those dreadful knocks life deals each one of us, but that, sadly, is the only way one does. To be told is not enough. No priest and no president, no matter how sagely they advise or how seriously they warn, can make a difference.