More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  So today I want to share my reminiscences of a woman who straddled our lives for the best part of twenty years. I make no special claim to understand her nor have I known her very well. But we did meet and I do have memories. They suggest a woman that is far more colourful and far more interesting than the commonplace image of her or even the many biographical sketches we have been given. I shall draw no conclusions but I think they might be obvious.

  I think it happened at about 11 a.m. It was a winter morning in January or February. The year was 1976. The Emergency was about six months old. My sisters and I were breakfasting at 1 Safdarjung Road before going with the Gandhis to see a film at Rashtrapati Bhawan. I was particularly excited because the film was one of the sequels to Peter Seller’s masterpiece The Pink Panther. It was either the ‘Return of ’ or ‘Strikes Again’.

  We were chatting over toast and coffee. On a cold January morning one can drink cups of the stuff without noticing. Suddenly Indira Gandhi spoke up.

  ‘Hurry up, children,’ she said. ‘It’s already past 11 and the president will arrive at 11.10. We must be there before him.’

  But we were far too preoccupied with breakfast to listen. It was a Sunday morning and no one felt the need to hurry. Although none of us said so the thought must have occurred to everyone at the dining table: the president can wait.

  Everyone, that is, except Indira Gandhi. A few minutes later, she looked anxiously at the large wristwatch on her hand and this time addressed Sanjay directly.

  ‘Ring Rashtrapati Bhawan and tell them we will be five minutes late,’ she said. ‘The president must not arrive before us and be kept waiting.’ And then turning to the rest of us, she added, ‘And now let’s go. You can finish your coffee afterwards.’

  In a flash we were off. We arrived before Mr Ahmed but even so Mrs Gandhi made a point of apologizing for having kept him waiting. Later I can remember my sister Premila recounting the incident and pointedly adding a moral to the story.

  ‘I must say I found her concern for etiquette very impressive,’ Premila declared. ‘Here she is the Empress of India and Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed her creation and yet she was determined not to slight him. I wonder how many other dictators would have behaved this way?’

  The anecdote is of little consequence except to suggest that Mrs Gandhi was a complex person. On the one hand she cut every corner to declare the Emergency and then used every ruse to legitimize her power and absolve herself of all wrongdoing in the Allahabad High Court judgement, but on the other hand she was deeply conscious of the correctness of her behaviour to a president who was not just her creation but also used by her as a tool. In this complexity lies any understanding of the woman and of the prime minister. So often in our simple judgements we tend to forget this. There was a lot about her politics that was deplorable – and no, that term is not too strong – but there was a lot about her personality and her charm that was admirable and very winning.

  Even at her most dragon-like, when grown men would quail at the very mention of her name, she remained petite, fragile and very feminine. It was a strange contrast. Her image was that of a virago. Yet the physical reality was of a gentle, even harmless though cultivated lady with, in later years, a disconcerting twitch in her eyes. She looked anything but a dictator. Not surprisingly, her conversation could often be far removed from the power politics she played so deftly.

  I remember a second occasion when she was taking us to a concert and suddenly, before we left, advised everyone to visit the loo.

  ‘There won’t be any where we’re going,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said my sister. I think it was Premila again. ‘I better dash.’

  Afterwards Premila asked her what she, as prime minister, did when she felt the urge.

  ‘It’s tricky,’ Mrs Gandhi replied, warming to the subject. ‘It’s so much easier for a man. All they have to do is pop behind a tree. But can you imagine what would happen if I tried that?’

  We laughed. The idea seemed preposterous and yet the problem was only too real.

  ‘I have trained myself to drink all the water I need last thing at night. Hopefully that way it’s out of the system by the morning.’

  She was a very sensitive but also a hugely fun-loving person. If she sensed that her presence was intimidating her children’s guests she would quietly get up and ask for her dinner to be served in her bedroom.

  ‘I think I’m the cause of all this unnatural silence,’ she once pronounced as she got up and slipped away. Her boiled eggs (for that’s what I think she was eating) followed her.

  When her father was the prime minister and the family lived in Teen Murti House, she would design treasure hunts for her sons’ friend’s birthday parties. Small ‘teams’ would be organized to scour Delhi to collect the ‘treasure’ in response to clues she had personally devised. I remember two of them. The first was a fish bone from a restaurant called Alps. The second was a policeman’s cap. Sanjay’s team won because he alone knew how to obtain the latter. He drove home and asked the guard on duty at the gate if he could borrow his.

  Let me admit my memories of Mrs Gandhi are very different to those that gained currency during the Emergency. Yet at least one of them is from that period. And no doubt there are thousands of others with their own personal but equally contradictory recollections. Each of us who met her has his or her own image and that often differs, sometimes sharply, with the received wisdom. And yet the Emergency, the Punjab crisis, the overthrow of N.T. Rama Rao and Farooq Abdullah and the supersession of judges was all too real. They happened – all that can be disputed is why. So what do we make of Mrs Gandhi? What was she actually like?

  Katherine Frank’s book has raised these questions. The answers elude us.

  10 April 2001

  Another Edwina–Nehru Story

  Did Edwina Mountbatten and Jawaharlal Nehru have a sexual relationship? I don’t know but I would certainly hope so. After all, if they loved each other as much as Edwina’s daughter, Pamela, asserts – and she says Edwina left behind suitcases full of letters when she died – then it would be terribly sad if their affection was not consummated but left incomplete. And now, before you spill your breakfast coffee in moral apoplexy, let me add that I’m only echoing what Nehru’s sister, Vijayalakshmi Pandit, wrote years and years ago.

  The truth is that even when Pamela Hicks claims (in her book India Remembered) that the relationship was platonic, she can’t be sure. To begin with, would a seventeen-year-old daughter be likely to know? Surely her mother and Nehru, whom she called Mamu, would have gone to enormous lengths to hide it from her? And, in fact, when I pushed the point, doubt did creep into her answers.

  ‘Panditji was a widower,’ I said. ‘He needed female affection and he must have wanted it. Your mother was alluring and beautiful. They were so close together. It would be natural for the emotional to become sexual.’ This was her reply: ‘It could be and maybe everybody will think I’m being very naive… but I don’t believe it.’

  Well, if it really was the case that their affair remained Platonic, Nehru must have felt somewhat cheated. Edwina had had lovers before. Pamela Hicks readily admits as much. Paul Robeson, the black American actor, was rumoured to be one of them. So if Nehru didn’t make it to the list I, for one, would argue that he had grounds for feeling hard done by.

  However, my purpose this Sunday morning is not to wallow in speculation. Instead I want to share a true story about Edwina. One that reveals her gentle caring character as much as her influence on Nehru. And, in this instance, thank God for that!

  Sometime in 1948, when Lord Mountbatten was governor general and Nehru prime minister, my Mamu, Gautam Sahgal, proposed to Nehru’s niece, Nayantara Pandit, and she accepted. Mrs Pandit, who recognized her brother as the head of the household, suggested that his permission was necessary. As my grandfather was unwell it fell on my elder uncle, Narottam, to meet Nehru and seek his blessings for the proposed marriage.

&nb
sp; Now, Uncle Gogu, as Narottam is known, was barely twenty- nine years old at the time and a mere deputy commissioner in the ICS. The prospect of asking the prime minister for his niece’s hand was daunting. It filled him with understandable trepidation. What if the old boy said no? Would Gautam ever forgive him?

  Uncle waited till Nehru visited Simla. An appointment was sought at the Retreat in Mashobra, where Nehru was staying with the Mountbattens. Uncle Gogu, visibly nervous, arrived early. Fortunately it was Edwina who first met him.

  ‘Don’t be nervous’, she said encouragingly, ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee together and then I’ll take you to see the Big Man.’ It didn’t take Uncle long to realize Edwina knew everything.

  Her obvious warmth settled Uncle’s nerves. Later, when she escorted him into the study, where Nehru was sitting, his chin cupped in his hands, staring at the distant mountains, she stayed on to ensure all started well.

  ‘Edwina’s presence seemed to soften Nehru,’ Uncle recalls. After a while, having put him in the right mood, she quietly slipped out. What followed was a long lecture on socialism. Uncle Gogu listened attentively although he passionately disagreed. Neither then nor now does he accept Nehru’s views. His patience, however, was rewarded with Nehru’s willing permission for the marriage.

  On his way out Uncle Gogu met Edwina again. She was waiting just in case things took an unexpected turn. This time her smile and conspiratorial wink were perfect confirmation that she had persuaded the prime minister of India to give the right answer.

  Of course one can’t judge an entire relationship by one little incident, but I suspect Edwina Mountbatten was a wonderful influence on Nehru. She soothed his anxieties, softened his irritability and helped him come to sensible, practical decisions.

  Pamela Hicks told me how Nehru’s love had made her mother a happier person. ‘It made my mother, who could be quite difficult at times, as many very extraordinary woman can be… lovely to be with.’ I’m confident it was equally true the other way around. Uncle Gogu, I feel sure, would agree.

  20 July 2007

  Chapter 9

  Dropping In

  ‘Mornin Guv.’

  Long Live London!

  I’ve just returned from a weekend in London, a city I consider the most civilized in the world. But before you start spluttering into your coffee, consider carefully the adjective I’ve used. Not the most beautiful, certainly not the cheapest and by no means the most efficient or polite. And yet, despite these minor negatives, without doubt the most civilized.

  So what do I mean by civilized and what are the qualities that put London at the top of that list?

  Civilized is not just heritage and history, not merely culture, and it’s a lot more than manners and behaviour. To be civilized a city has to also be accommodating. London most certainly is. You don’t have to be English or even British to belong. You don’t have to be Anglo-Saxon or even Caucasian to fit in. You don’t have to be Christian to feel at home. London is truly multicultural, multi- ethnic and multi-religious.

  Actually, London is a microcosm of the world. Oxford Street is witness to almost every nationality, skin colour, sex and dress- style known to man, woman or transgender. Some may look exotic in Paris, several would be out-of-place in New York and many would jar in Berlin but in London they simply blend together. They belong.

  So, now, let’s tackle the second question. What is it about London that is a magnet to this multitude? What are its unique qualities that attract across the divide of creed, caste, community and class?

  To begin with, London has the best of everything – television, theatre, museums, restaurants, shopping, even newspapers and magazines. And it’s within easy access of the most stunning countryside and heritage homes. Samuel Johnson wasn’t joking when he said, ‘If you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.’

  The second quality is the English language. Despite their frequently frightful accents, everyone in London speaks English. That’s certainly not the case in Paris, Berlin, Tokyo or Milan. Indeed it’s not even true of New York or Los Angeles! And the ability to speak and be understood without flapping your hands or pulling your hair is a boon that can only be appreciated when it’s denied. Spend a day in Paris and you’ll see how exasperating it is not to be able to communicate. What’s worse is the locals speak English but won’t.

  However, it’s the third quality that is the most important of all. It’s the Britishness of the Londoner – and here I mean the natives – that makes the city truly special.

  I’m talking of two characteristics – the British stiff upper-lip and their sense of privacy. No matter what happens, they don’t make a fuss. They underplay everything. If you spill red wine over a damask tablecloth, your hostess won’t get into a tizzy. If you prang your car into the one in front the guy won’t start a fight. If you stumble out of a pub and puke all over the pavement, no one will shout at you. They’ll simply step aside and move on.

  And Londoners don’t care about who you are or what you’re doing. You can skateboard down Ken High Street with Mohican hair dyed green and no one will stare at you. Or you can flounce out of a Bentley in a flowing agbada with the biggest turban on your head and the doorman at Harrods will greet you with the same cheery ‘Mornin Guv’ he uses for everyone else. Indeed, if you’re a stunning woman with very little on, London is the last place to attract attention. The less you wear the more they look away. Nothing shocks them.

  But they are – and poor Queen Victoria got it horribly wrong – frequently amused. They have the best sense of humour and a great capacity to laugh things off. Their jokes are clever, subtle and frequently self-inflicted. There’s nothing they won’t laugh at or joke about. The queen is the favourite butt and she wouldn’t have it otherwise.

  Now, tell me, where else in the world can you find this collection of qualities? And if London is the only answer, isn’t it the most civilized city in the world?

  20 March 2008

  Anyone for a Singapore Sling?

  It’s a shame one arrives in Singapore feeling sleepy. As a result you don’t appreciate the drive into town. Yet it’s one of the most strikingly beautiful journeys from airport to city centre that I can recall. The dual carriage way is lined with trees, hedges, tropical plants and a profusion of shrubs. But what’s truly amazing is the careful topiary. The trees are only allowed to grow to a certain height and are designed to spread in a particular way. The bushes are cropped and meticulously shaped. And the turf on the verge is perfectly manicured.

  In Delhi one would pay a fortune for a private garden that looked similar. Even then it would probably be impossible to achieve. In Singapore the city authorities have done it for everyone to view. The least the airlines can do is change their schedules so you can enjoy some of this.

  Looks can be deceptive and perhaps this time they are. The downtrend in the information technology industry is worrying Singaporeans though few talk about it.

  I’m told that in the last half decade the Island’s senior minister, as Lee Kuan Yu is called, pushed Singapore to invest heavily in IT. It was his bid for the twenty-first century. In the ’60s and ’70s, he made the Island a free trade zone well before his neighbours realized he was stealing a march on them. In the ’80s, he made Singapore the Asian financial hub and again took the region by surprise. When in the ’90s he plumped for IT, it was seen as another bid to get ahead. Today the question is: now what? There is a question mark over Singapore’s future but few have as yet spotted it.

  I suspect it will disappear without doing too much damage. But at the moment it adds a little frisson to this otherwise stable and boringly successful society.

  Actually, Singapore is not boring or, to be more accurate, not as boring as it used to be and certainly not as boring as you may have been informed.

  ‘It’s like the inside of an efficient hospital,’ I was told when I first visited twelve years ago. ‘Clean, clinical, sanitized and sterile.’

  Clean it
still is and efficient it can’t help being. But it’s no longer sterile and it’s certainly not static.

  ‘You looking for a bit of fun, Sir,’ said the taxi driver when I asked to be taken to Orchard Road. My intention was to head for the shops. After all, shopping is a priority in Singapore.

  ‘Yes,’ I stammered, although I don’t think of shopping as fun. More as an obsession I can’t resist even though I love buying things and look forward to doing so when I am back in Delhi, where there is precious little to buy. But I wasn’t sure what else to say. I couldn’t believe a Singapore taxi driver might have anything else in mind.

  ‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Orchard Road,’ I repeated. The address is well known for its large and fancy departmental stores.

  ‘Of course, but which end?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Put it like this,’ he said smiling broadly as he eyed me through his rear-view mirror. ‘At one end you spend a lot and get gypped. At the other end you spend almost as much and get unzipped. What’s your preference?’

  I had come as the guest of Jonathan Hallett of Television Asia, the well-known trade magazine that strives to put Asian television on par with its competitors in the west. Jonathan is the moving force behind the Asian Television awards. Having benefited twice from his generosity, it was time to return the favour. This time I was present as a judge.

  It was an eye-opening experience in every sense of the term. Like most Indians, I suppose, I am guilty of the presumption that our television is amongst the best in Asia. We’re free, outspoken, innovative and very quick to respond. Well, so is everyone else except they also bring another quality into play. Their emotions. Not in the sense of prejudice but in the sense of passion. The result can be riveting.