More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  That’s when misfortune started to turn to bedlam. Scooters, jeeps, then cars and finally small lorries drove down the grass verge trying to sneak to the front. A few of them got there and successfully blocked the only limited escape route left open. So the jam which was till then crawling ground to a halt.

  Then drivers of various vehicles got out, sauntered off and went missing. Thus a quarter of an hour later, when one of the chaotic lanes got a break, inevitably some driver or other was absconding and cars on either side tried furiously to fill the gap. As a result one more cross-stream of traffic, this time running counter to the main jam, started up.

  By now we were at sixes and sevens with cars pointing in every direction but the right one. A feeling of helplessness descended and people started switching off their lights. A strange dark fell on the road and it seemed we were locked in for the night.

  I can’t say how long this impasse lasted but it would have been well over an hour. At no point did the confusion clear. It simply, imperceptibly inched forward until the cause of the trouble came into view.

  It was, of course, a wedding. The guests had parked – or rather abandoned – their cars on the road. Thus one lane out of three was blocked. The oncoming traffic, which had jumped the middle divider and tried to shoot down on the wrong side, had blocked another. Logically that should have still left one lane free but the middle one was preoccupied with a thousand small accidents. All those cars that had pushed their noses out, trying to get past out of turn, had hit each other. The damage done, their drivers were quarrelling over questions of guilt and compensation.

  It was bizarre except it was also infuriating. With traffic snarled up over three miles even those drivers with a way through had chosen to add to the confusion by ventilating their spleen on another for a fault that was as much their own.

  When, finally, I made it to the Vasant Vihar turning – what the authorities insist on calling Nelson Mandela Marg; poor chap, couldn’t they have found a more salubrious road to name after him? – I was stopped by a posse of roadside policemen. They were, incidentally, the first I had seen that night.

  ‘Aap bhi traffic jam se aa rahen hein?’ they jocularly asked.

  ‘Ji haan.’

  ‘Kitni der phasse rahe?’

  ‘Ghante se oopar.’

  ‘Achcha hua ki hum nahin gaye. Nahin to hum bhi us problem mein phass jaate. Khulne do aur phir hum pahunch jayenge.’

  Heaven protect us if the seven-lane national highway ever gets constructed. They’re bound to build baraatkhanas on either side of it. That would be a traffic jam from Kashmir to Kanya Kumari, this time with the traffic police caught inside.

  25 January 1999

  Is the PM Listening?

  I think it’s time someone warned the prime minister. Though we love him dearly and care deeply for his security, there are limits beyond which it would not be wise to push this affection and concern. Holding up traffic – actually, bringing it to a complete gridlock – for an hour or more at a time, and often on two or three occasions a day, is taxing our endurance unbearably. It’s pushing the good, patient but now also tired people of Delhi to the end of their tether. In fact, matters have reached a point where many have come to feel that if this prime minister’s safety routinely and repeatedly requires the devastation of our lives then, perhaps, we need another. After all, he’s supposed to be popularly chosen. Surely he can’t be so unsafe in the midst of the very people who have voted for him?

  I accept that these thoughts may seem uncharitable on a calm Sunday morning. After a good night’s rest and a strong cup of coffee many might forget or even forgive the nuisance of the prime minister’s convoy. And I don’t want to resurrect the past week’s traumas. Yet you only have to be caught in its wake once, sitting and fuming in your car, watching the bedlam grow around you, for your anger to seethe. At such moments the human kettle boils furiously and as it steams one’s thoughts can turn feverish.

  I recall returning to Delhi from Noida late in January. It was midday and we crossed the toll bridge at a speed usually only achieved on a German autobahn. It was exhilarating. There was laughter in the air. But when we got to the other side and entered Friends Colony, a wall of stationary traffic brought the car to a grinding halt. At first I wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe there had been an accident? Perhaps a lorry had overturned? But as the minutes ticked by it slowly dawned that the problem was more serious.

  ‘Bhai saheb,’ I asked, lowering the window and addressing a pedestrian. ‘Problem kya hai?’

  ‘Arreji problem nahin, Pradhan Mantri hai!’ and he laughed as he walked on. At least he was moving. I was confined inside a stalled car. There were hundreds behind whilst ahead the queue stretched over the bridge, past Lajpat Nagar and beyond as far as the eye could see, perhaps all the way to South Extension. A four- mile tailback and we were at the far end of it!

  It transpired the prime minister had an appointment in Nehru Place. From where I sat his destination couldn’t have been farther away. Yet roads in every direction had been sanitized, sealed and shut. He stayed barely five minutes. We were locked in traffic for fifty-five.

  My colleague Ashok, who was travelling with me, was philosophical to begin with. ‘Yeh hai democracy Indian-style,’ he said with a smile.

  Ashok is a placid personality. His fuse burns slowly. But before long the wait got to him. Slowly but steadily his comments acquired an acerbic character.

  ‘Inko helicopter se jana chahiye,’ he commented, staring despondently into the river of traffic ahead. ‘Ya ghar pe rehena chahiye,’ he added ten minutes later. This time his voice was less audible. He sounded in despair. ‘Yeh log harenge! Dilli me burri tarah harenge,’ he suddenly exclaimed at the end of half an hour. Except now he was also smiling. His eyes were lit up. I guessed it was the sweet thought of revenge.

  Of course, it doesn’t have to be like this. Last week, in Washington, I was one of 3,500 guests who breakfasted with Bush without inconvenience or needless delay. No doubt we had to walk through scanners and each of us was frisked. But it was fast, efficient and orderly. No one complained. Outside the Hilton Hotel traffic flowed normally. Yet inside the president was safe and his security satisfied.

  Almost twenty years ago, the week after the Brighton bomb that nearly killed her, I was standing outside the House of Commons as Mrs Thatcher drove out. It was peak time. The rush was heavy. But traffic was stopped for barely ten seconds before her car emerged from the gate. Immediately thereafter it resumed. There was no lengthy convoy, no ambulances, no accompanying police jeeps. Yet Mrs Thatcher had just brushed with death and the IRA were as vicious as our Kashmiri brethren today.

  So my advice is short and simple. Mr Vajpayee should change his security, use a helicopter or stay at home. And I’m not being facetious. If it’s difficult for the PM to cross the city let its citizens come to him. I’m sure they’d be happy to – and that would make the rest of us happy too.

  17 February 2003

  One Invitation Too Few

  Come December and I start to dream of long cold nights, a blazing log fire, something hot to drink and someone to warm the cockles of my heart. After all, that’s what winter is supposed to be all about.

  Not in Delhi. In our city winter is a mad whirligig of cocktails, receptions, dinners, weddings, frenetic socializing and ceaseless social climbing. If you’re not invited to one of each your popularity has sunk. If you attend all of them you’re a star.

  What counts is not the fact but the perception. Image is all, as I discovered to my cost. Last week I was invited to dinner. The invitation said 8.30. Knowing my hostess was Indian I opted to be an hour late. Unfortunately, I was still too early.

  ‘Oh, fancy you turning up so early,’ she greeted me as I stepped into her bare drawing room. ‘Didn’t you have anywhere else to go tonight?’

  I don’t think she meant offence. She was simply surprised I had arrived by 9.30. No one else was expected much before 10.00 – inclu
ding her husband. In fact, most of the guests turned up even later – that is to say those who bothered to come at all. All of them had other parties to attend first. Some got stuck en route.

  Which suggests that to be the recipient of just one invitation can be uniquely problematic. You are probably the only one in that position, leaving you with the horrible conundrum of when to turn up. Whenever you do it’s not likely to be convenient. If you’re too early your hostess will probably feel she’s invited a reject. If you’re too late you at least will feel guilty about your unpunctuality. It’s probably safest not to go at all.

  My own problem is even worse. It’s compounded by the fact that there is another Karan Thapar. As if one wasn’t bad enough, two of us makes for almighty confusion.

  On the 29th of November he hosted a polo match. Except the press mistook him for me. So if there’s any kudos in spending a few crores on ponies, smart pants and pretty fillies I got it and not him. To make matters worse one newspaper actually had the gall to ask why he was wasting time on election day watching polo when he could have been analysing the election results. Poor devil and what a waste of the family’s dwindling fortune.

  Then last week fate took its revenge. It was my turn to be at the wrong end of the confusion of identities. Someone rang my secretary to ask why I had not responded to a much sought-after dinner invitation for the 10th.

  ‘Because he hasn’t received the invitation,’ the indomitable Aru replied with an aplomb that would do Jeeves proud.

  ‘We sent it to Safdarjung Enclave and the courier receipt says Prem Bahadur received it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Aru, this time more like Sherlock Holmes. ‘But Mr Thapar doesn’t live there and there’s no one called Prem Bahadur that he knows. I think you want the other one.’

  They did. He went to dinner. I spent my first night by the log fire – or at least I would have if for once I had not received two other invitations for the same evening!

  9 December 1998

  Chapter 6

  The Little Things that Matter

  ‘Now that you’ve rung let’s have a chat.’

  Reply and Revenge

  Do phone calls from banks offering loans or credit card companies flogging their products irritate you? Do you find that your temper flares and you rudely cut them off? But then, your anger spent, do you have moments of remorse when you feel you should have handled the matter less wrathfully? With more restraint and less fury? Finally, do you end up annoyed with yourself? Promising that next time, though firm, you’ll also be more polite?

  Well, that’s exactly how I would react each time my mobile rang and I answered an unsolicited enquiry. It could happen up to five or six times a day. Sometimes three times an hour. Even whilst I was away in London or Singapore!

  But no more. I’ve found a solution that not only takes care of my petulance and anger but, more importantly, is a powerful antidote to the persistent callers. It’s the perfect remedy. It’s simple, effective and yet completely reverses the tables. I find it delightful. Irresistible. And most enjoyable.

  The trick is to engage the calling party in a prolonged and polite conversation. They’ve called to ask you questions but if, instead, you start putting the queries and do so with the same enthusiastic curiosity they deploy, it really stumps them. It also gets their goat. Before long they will bang the phone down. And you’ll be left laughing.

  Let me illustrate with an example from yesterday.

  ‘Is that Mr Thapar?’ It was a female voice and sounded well- practised.

  ‘It is indeed, my dear,’ I replied. ‘How very good of you to call. What’s your name?’

  ‘Monica.’ But she sounded somewhat surprised at my friendliness.

  ‘Monica,’ I responded, as if I had been waiting for her call. ‘What a lovely name. How are you? And where did you get my number from?’

  Monica wasn’t sure what to say. Or, at any rate, if she said anything I couldn’t tell what it was. But she did mention she was from the ICICI Bank.

  ‘Never mind,’ I continued. ‘Now that you’ve rung let’s have a chat. Tell me about yourself. How old are you?’

  ‘Why do you ask, Sir?’ This time Monica sounded a little worried.

  ‘Oh, purely out of curiosity. But I realize it’s rude to ask a girl her age. So tell me, where do you live?’

  ‘Why?’ Now her voice sounded very short, even abrasive.

  ‘Just like that, but don’t worry. Maybe you would prefer to tell me where you went to school and what your favourite subject was?’

  At this point Monica disconnected. As far as the ICICI Bank is concerned, it was a wasted phone call.

  An alternative version of this tactic is the one I tried on a caller who said he was from American Express. It happened a few days earlier.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thapar,’ said a male voice sounding rather pleased with itself. ‘My name is Varinder.’

  ‘No,’ I responded, ‘you’re joking. You’re not Varinder. You can’t fool me with that one.’

  ‘I am, Sir’. The poor chap responded, quite flummoxed by my refusal to believe him. ‘I promise you I am.’

  ‘But you sound like a Vinod, not a Varinder. Or maybe possibly a Vikram. Varinders have much deeper voices.’

  ‘Sir, I am Varinder from American Express. I promise.’

  ‘Funny,’ I said. ‘I once knew a Varun at Amex. Do you know him? Tall chap with a nice smile. Perhaps thirty years old.’

  ‘No, Sir,’ replied Varinder, wondering what was happening.

  ‘Well if you ever meet him do say hello. I hope he remembers me.’

  ‘I will, Sir.’ And then Varinder hung up.

  I accept you could say this is just playing silly games. It is, but so what? What makes such tactics such fun is that they take the mickey. What they do is lead those well-trained telephone voices, who have been taught to be unctuously polite and sugary sweet, into losing their cool. Slowly, steadily but surely they fall into a well-laid trap. Not for a moment do they realize what’s happening until it’s too late. And when, finally, it dawns on them, they’ve already been done for.

  It’s cold-blooded calculated revenge. And I recommend it. No doubt the phone calls will continue but your resentment of them and your anger at yourself for not handling them with greater poise and thoughtfulness will cease. In fact, for a while you will eagerly await the next one.

  So ring away ICICI or Amex, HDFC or Hutch. I’m waiting for you!

  9 February 2006

  The Truth about Cricket

  It was 7 in the evening and the end of a long and tiring day when she rang. Some of you may think that accounts for the answer I gave her. A few might even feel I was trying to be funny. But the fact of the matter – if you’re ready to believe it – is that I was speaking the truth.

  ‘What do you think of cricket?’ she asked. From her voice I could guess she was one of those pretty young things who masquerade as journalists. In fact, that might also have had an impact on my answer. First impressions, after all, can be telling.

  ‘I don’t think about cricket,’ I replied, stressing the second word. I was trying to be both witty and succinct. But she only giggled. Sweetly, no doubt, but disconcertingly nonetheless.

  ‘Tell me something more,’ she said flirtatiously, after recovering her composure.

  ‘Why?’ But I was only half teasing. The other half was intended as a challenge.

  ‘Because I want to publish your answer and the first won’t do!’

  I suppose her bluntness got to me. But she also had a point. What would I do if those I professionally question chose to answer as I did? At any rate, whether out of sympathy or vanity, I found myself tempted to speak. I should have resisted because once I began I was caught in a trap. As the conversation developed I found myself sinking.

  ‘I find cricket mindless, dreary and tedious,’ I said. I tried to sound tongue in cheek but the truth is I was saying what I actually feel. I don’t like the game. I don�
�t even understand it. And when I find myself forced to watch I struggle to keep awake or, at any rate, sit still.

  ‘How funny,’ the voice on the other side of the phone commented. She wasn’t giggling this time. In fact she sounded deadly serious. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because cricket is a game where eleven oafs in flannel chase a ball hit alternately by two others whilst a stadium full of duffers cheers them on.’

  I’m not sure if I was consciously quoting but the mellifluous fluency of this pithy description did not sound original to my ears. Nevertheless, I was pleased with it. Not so the lady journalist.

  ‘Oafs?’ she queried. It wasn’t the pronunciation she was uncertain of so much as the meaning. It transpired that she had mistaken it for a sylvan term. From little acorns do big oafs grow, if you catch my drift.

  ‘Flannel?’ she asked, once her first question had been taken care of.

  ‘It’s spelt …’ but she interrupted before I could finish.

  ‘Like those people in a TV studio sitting together?’

  This was my turn to laugh and I did so loudly.

  ‘No doubt they’re oafs too but I wasn’t speaking about them.’ I spluttered when I stopped guffawing. ‘No, it’s not television panel discussions I’m referring to but the clothes cricketers wear. White flannels.’

  ‘But which is the team in white?’ she asked missing, or at any rate sidestepping, my point. ‘I thought everyone wore colours.’

  ‘Of course they do.’ But as I reassured her I realized the difficulty of extricating myself from a conversation that had not merely veered off course but perhaps entirely disappeared from the track. My heart sank and I opted for silence.

  ‘Well?’ she said after a bit. ‘Which one?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘But you just spoke about oafs in flannel and you said flannel was white. So tell me, who is playing in white?’