More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  I did not know. I had approached the interview as a five-minute interlude of fun. Ram turned out to be one of the most impressive interviewees I had encountered. Instead of showing him up he had knocked the bottom from under my feet.

  That first meeting epitomized the best qualities of Ram Jethmalani. No matter what you ask him he’s candid and outspoken in reply. Despite their tactlessness – and sometimes their rudeness – Ram seeks out journalists and never runs away from them. And, perhaps most importantly of all, when the situation starts to become uncomfortable Ram is undeterred. He has enough confidence in his self-belief and in his principles (in that order) to carry on. Faced with the good fight Ram is happy to fight on and on. I think it brings out the best in him, even if many disagree.

  I have noticed these qualities on numerous occasions. From an interviewer’s point of view they make Ram a remarkable, literally an unbeatable, interviewee. But they are also endearing traits. We all warm to men who don’t hesitate to accept, acknowledge and even embrace uncomfortable truths.

  Ironically, these were also the qualities responsible for Ram’s downfall last month. Let me analyse the ‘story’ as I see it and then you can judge if I am wrong.

  Ram believed – no, he was convinced – that Chief Justice Anand’s insistence on consultation over the appointment of the new chairman of the Monopolies Commission was an attempt by the judiciary to further encroach upon the territory of the executive. He had not become law minister to simply lie back and permit such trespass. He fought back and valiantly. If you look at the correspondence they exchanged, Ram – in my layman’s opinion – won the argument hands down. And he knew it.

  The problem was Ram wasn’t gracious in victory. He wasn’t ungracious either. But his letters to the chief justice made it clear that he was right and the other man wrong. The language may not have been intended to offend – as Ram’s critics aver – but it certainly wasn’t designed to mollify and soothe. Perhaps understandably the chief justice – or so I’m told – complained to the prime minister and the clock of Ram’s dismissal started ticking.

  Now throw into this simmering cauldron Ram’s outspoken opinions on the new TADA bill, on autonomy for Jammu & Kashmir and, finally, on the unsustainability of the case against Bal Thackeray, and it started to boil over. But that’s only because all this happened within three or four weeks of each other. Had fate spread out these events Ram would not have been submerged by them.

  I have four personal conclusions to offer. Bad luck as much as bad judgement is to blame for Ram’s debacle. His attraction to journalists as much as his blindness to the perils of politics misled him. His belief that the truth will convince his critics betrayed him. And, finally, his refusal to accept that sometimes it’s best not to answer – to be silent even if that means you are being evasive – lured him towards waiting traps.

  And yet, and yet, and yet … the if-onlys of politics are the stuff dreams are made of. But then Ram in politics was a dream and it was too good to last. For all his failings – if you want to call them that – we need men like him. Men who have beliefs and convictions, the courage to voice them, the fearlessness to be trapped in pursuit of them, the strength to survive their critics and the good humour to keep smiling all the while.

  If only Mr Advani had been able to persuade the prime minister to retain Ram and – if I am going to be completely honest – if only Ram had not been so upset by his dismissal to hit out at others. But then who knows how I would behave if I was sacked from government?

  31 July 2000

  Amma, Amma

  The phone rang the night before I was to leave for Madras. It was from the Tamil Nadu chief minister’s office. My heart sank. Normally, such last minute calls are harbingers of bad news.

  ‘Sir,’ said a placatory voice, a touch too eager to be the messenger of ill-tidings. ‘Madam would like to start tomorrow’s interview at 1.30 instead of 2.00.’

  It was an unexceptional request. Though I breathed an audible sigh of relief I still asked why.

  ‘It’s auspicious, Sir.’

  Determined not to let any impediment derail the interview with Jayalalithaa, I readily agreed. Three years earlier, when she first accepted to be interviewed, a Supreme Court judgement unseating her torpedoed my plans. This time, when after much persuading she had said yes again, I was on tenterhooks.

  Of all the people I have wanted to interview Jayalalithaa tops the list. She intrigues me. Her convent accent, sang-froid, deliberate manner and glide-like walk are captivating. She’s so cultivated, so carefully put-together, she seems unreal.

  I was, therefore, both nervous and excited as I entered Fort St. George. The silent army of faceless civil servants, beavering like ants, added to my tension. ‘Madam’ wasn’t present but her presence was everywhere. The atmosphere was heavy with expectation and foreboding.

  It was only the freezing cold temperature that prevented those of us waiting from swooning or going into a trance. I’ve never been in a colder room. My teeth were chattering, or they would have been if I hadn’t kept talking. The thermostat was set at eighteen but far exceeded its target.

  Alas, the astrological calculations that had determined the interview hour proved false. Perhaps the stars were misinterpreted for their augury went awry. Instead Sod’s Law took over. Put simply, that means everything that can go wrong will. And it did.

  The trouble began with something as silly as flowers. Jayalalithaa had asked for some on the interview table. So a vast arrangement that stretched from end to end was readied. I balked and refused to allow this huge display to obstruct my view. Instead I placed them on a stool by her side.

  What I did not know is that the flowers were not intended for their beauty. Jayalalithaa wanted to hide her notes behind them. In their absence, the papers she carried became visible and, as the interview proceeded, I could see her flicking through them. From time to time she even seemed to look down and read.

  I suppose my mistake was to point this out. I don’t know why I did it. Other interviewees have consulted papers before, although perhaps not so obviously or frequently. But on this occasion it slipped out of my mouth. Her reaction was instantaneous.

  ‘I’m not reading,’ she shot back angrily. ‘I am looking at you straight in the eye. I look at everyone straight in the eye.’

  Thereafter things only got worse. I questioned Jayalalithaa about Karunanidhi, Sonia Gandhi, her ministers who habitually prostrate before her and press accusations that she is dictatorial yet, in the wake of the May elections, reversed her economic reforms to garner easy popularity. With each change of subject her smile became more forced, her voice more steely and her irritation more obvious. ‘I’m sorry I agreed to this interview,’ she said and meant it.

  But it was when I turned to her belief in astrology and numerology that I sensed I had gone too far. ‘Who said that I believe in astrology and numerology?’ she retorted, her eyes ablaze. ‘You say it. People in the media say it. What is the proof you have of that?’

  I realized the interview was going wrong. In fact, disastrously so. In desperation I tried to claw things back. With minutes to go I said: ‘You are a very tough person, chief minister.’ I meant it as praise but the comment backfired. ‘People like you have made me so.’

  I felt disheartened. Events have a way of taking over and determining their own outcome. This was happening before my eyes. It was happening to me! Finally, in the last dying seconds, as I thanked her, I stretched out my hand and added, ‘Chief Minister, a pleasure talking to you.’

  For a moment she stared back implacably. ‘I must say it wasn’t a pleasure talking to you. Namaste.’ She rebuffed my proffered hand, unclipped and banged down her mike and left the room.

  ‘Amma,’ I wanted to shout, ‘you’ve misunderstood me.’ But it was too late.

  28 October 2004

  Chapter 11

  The Occasional Celebrity

  ‘That look… is, in fact, my memory of Madhuri.’<
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  Keep Kicking, Khushwant – We Like It!

  What is it that makes some people special? It could be their looks, intelligence, wit, charm or just their magnetic presence. But in the case of a man I met last week – a man you all know of and no doubt have read repeatedly – it was his endearing, self-deprecatory manner. This man could have boasted, loudly and ceaselessly, for his achievements are huge. He could have assumed airs and pretensions as, no doubt, others often do. He could have been a bore, prattling on about himself and I would have sat still and listened. But, instead, he chose to wear his laurels lightly. He made fun of himself. He laughed and he joked. As a result he impressed me enormously.

  ‘Looking at all you’ve been: a lawyer, a diplomat, an author, a scholar, an MP, an editor and a gossip columnist,’ I began, my eyes twinkling with naughtiness, ‘are you a man for all seasons or a jack of all trades?’

  ‘I’m just a dirty old man,’ he replied and then Khushwant Singh threw back his head and laughed. ‘Or, at least, that’s what most people think.’

  I had met him briefly once before, five years ago, but I did not know him and I had no idea what to expect. He’s nearly eighty- five, he rises before dawn and is asleep by 9 at night. The sign outside his front door reads, ‘Please don’t ring the bell if you are not expected.’ I thought here was a man who erects barriers around himself. Such men either have things to hide or, at least, are difficult to know.

  How wrong I was. Just listen to him yourself and see if you disagree.

  Speaking of himself Khushwant, without batting an eyelid, told me: ‘Somebody said that you’ve made bullshit into an art form and I thought that was a correct description.’

  He said that years ago he had decided ‘we are a nation of sanctimonious humbugs’ whose practice rarely matches what they preach. It was therefore his ambition to prick the bubble of our inflated conceit:

  ‘Kick them in the arse and they will respect you. I enjoy provoking my countrymen. They are really so smug, so satisfied and not at all curious about anything. I think it’s worth provoking them.’

  ‘This riled me very much and I said I’ll cock a snook at this. If I drink I’ll drink right in the open and stand for drink as my birthright. If I like beautiful women I’ll say that they are beautiful on their face or write about them describing them.’

  And when, as journalists often do, I asked him how he would meet his maker and what account he would give of himself, Khushwant side-stepped the solemnity of my portentous question with the simplicity and candour of his reply.

  ‘I don’t believe in a maker and he won’t ask me a thing,’ he answered back without a trace of hesitation but a large obvious smile. ‘When I die I’ll die and that’s it. There’s no after-life. There’s nothing further. Death is a full stop.’

  Till then, of course, he intends to go on as he has. So, this Sunday evening, as he raises his customary glass of Scotch, I hope you will join me in saying to him: keep kicking, Khushwant – we like it!

  27 September 1999

  Dreaming with Kuchipuddi

  It’s reassuring when people don’t change. They may grow up, get fat or become old but when the core of their personality stays the same you still feel you know them. That’s how I felt when I met Amitav Ghosh last weekend. Ten years had lapsed since our last contact. In theory, therefore, we were meeting like strangers. But Amitav’s unchanged manner immediately rekindled the old relationship. It was as instant as coffee.

  ‘Currybins,’ he roared, his face smiling broadly. When it does his eyes disappear behind rising cheekbones. His voice approaches a falsetto.

  ‘Kuchipuddi,’ I replied, recalling the name I gave him at school.

  We laughed uproariously. Those who witnessed our reunion must have marvelled at two middle-aged white-haired men laughing helplessly for no discernible reason other than they were meeting after a long time.

  Instinctively we reverted to nicknames that go back a quarter century. They were last used sitting on the steps of the school pavilion. It was a cold December night, the last before I left Doon. Amitav still had a year to go. This was our farewell. Of course, we insisted, we would keep in touch but perhaps intuitively we knew how unlikely that would be. Time had proved that intuition correct. Yet by using the old sobriquets a bridge had formed across the divide.

  Since I last knew him, Amitav has become one of the finest Indian authors in English. The physical change is equally striking. The younger Amitav had a dishevelled Bohemian air. His hair was always undone. Today his white mop contrasts sharply with his deep-brown skin. The effect is at once distinguished and dramatic. It arrests your attention. But he has not lost his habit of looking at you through the sides of his eyes. He does it most often when he’s smiling. It gives him a mischievous schoolboy look.

  We were meeting for an interview. Amitav was my guest. That meant I had to ‘find out’ about him, read the cuttings, research, talk to his friends. I was surprised by how little I knew. For instance, I had no idea his had been a quiet, even a lonely, childhood. The garrulous, often loquacious, teenager I remembered seemed anything but solitary.

  ‘I was an avid reader,’ he began. ‘That’s partly to do with my childhood. I grew to distrust the outside world and created my own.’

  He was twelve when he read Sholokhov’s Quiet Flows the Don. It was a gift from an uncle and perhaps his first serious book. Years later he discovered a handful of authors who started similarly. Sholokhov’s novel was the link between them. But was it also the secret of their success? I warned Amitav that if he said yes thousands of eager parents might rush to buy copies and their children would not thank him for this infliction. He laughed. ‘Serves them right.’

  I had read that Amitav wrote his first book, The Circle of Reason, in a hot sweaty barsati in Defence Colony. Was this the Indian equivalent of an artist’s garret in Montmartre?

  ‘Actually it was a servant’s quarter!’ he laughed. ‘Do you know as I was sitting there sweating in the barsati I used to think that some day someone is going to ask me that!’

  The book is an enchanting journey into the head of its protagonist, a character fondly called Aloo. What I did not know is that the published version is the second draft. The first was discarded.

  ‘It took me a year to write but by the time I read ten pages I knew it was awful,’ he revealed. ‘I took all the work, all 300 pages, and threw it away!’

  He began all over again. Amitav gave himself a year but decided if nothing came of it he would reconsider his dream of becoming a writer.

  ‘So a point of desperation had been reached?’

  ‘I think that kind of desperation, that sense that your life depends on it, either the book will kill you or you’ll be able to write a book, that’s what puts life into a book.’

  Fortunately, the second draft survived. It didn’t win instant recognition but secured a firm foothold and he’s been climbing ever since. Today he’s deservedly successful but the fire and passion have not dimmed. Writing is all he wants to do. Yet he marvels at how far it’s taken him.

  ‘I’ve a sense of wonderment,’ he exclaimed. ‘To think that my books go out in the world and send back these ripples is for me, in a sense, completely miraculous. I feel amazed by my life. I feel amazed by what happens to me.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a dream and you’ll wake up to find it’s not true?’

  ‘That’s the nightmare I often have.’

  5 August 2002

  A Reverie at a Book-reading

  Sometimes when you meet a person you can end up seeing them not as they are but through the prism of memories. In such instances the past overwhelms the present. It’s a strange but wonderful experience. Time somersaults backwards, reality converges with history, and myth and legend with truth.

  As I watched Vikram Seth read extracts of his new novel I found myself transported thirty-two years back in time. We were both at the Doon School. Vikram was in A-form and in his penultimate year. I was in D-
form and it was my second term. We were preparing for the school debating competition. Vikram was the debating captain at Jaipur House. I was the youngest, most inexperienced, member of his team.

  ‘Can’t you speak with authority but without shouting?’

  Vikram was sitting cross-legged on his chair. He resembled a petite Buddha with sculpted feet and a small round head. His hair kept falling across his forehead. As a result even when he sounded angry he never looked it.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. At eleven the difference between authority and a loud voice is not obvious. I cleared my throat, stood up straight and started again.

  Vikram closed his eyes. He often does when he is concentrating. But to speak to a man sitting cross-legged on a chair with his eyes shut can be disconcerting. Try hard as I did to control my voice it started to wander.

  ‘You’re singing or at least you’re sounding very sing-song.’ Vikram’s eyes were now open and staring ferociously. ‘Remember you won’t win any extra points by trying to seduce the judges with your voice. Speak normally, clearly, fluently and you’ll carry conviction’.

  Neither then nor now do I know what he meant. ‘Speak like you normally do’ is an injunction that baffles me. If I don’t speak like myself, whom do I speak like? Yet when I woke from my reverie it was to find, three decades later, that Vikram was doing exactly that. Of course, he wasn’t cross-legged. But the small round head, now slightly balding, was talking clearly, fluently and the audience was transfixed with conviction.

  ‘What an amazing speaker,’ whispered Shobha Deepak Singh in my ear. She was sitting beside me on the second row of the Habitat Centre auditorium. Aveek Sircar, Vikram’s publisher, was beside her. Earlier, with his help, Shobha had got Vikram to autograph her copy of his book.