by Karan Thapar
On militant training camps, access to Hafiz Mohammed Sayeed and Masood Azhar and the extradition of Dawood Ibrahim, I felt they answered with different audiences in mind. Nawaz, no doubt, condemned terrorism but saw it as ‘tit for tat’. Both sides need to stop it, he said. He insisted he wouldn’t comment on Sayeed or Azhar till he’s seen the facts and evaded the Dawood question on the grounds that he ought not to discuss specifics. The audience he was addressing seemed to be in Lahore.
Benazir had no hesitation being forthright. Training camps, if they exist, will be closed down; India’s case for access to Sayeed and Azhar would be sympathetically examined; and Dawood could be extradited. I can’t say there weren’t qualifying clauses in her answers but they were not the bits you remembered. Her message was clear. And it was a message for Delhi.
There was, of course, one area of similarity – they dislike each other with a passion that is uncannily the same. If Nawaz feels let down by Benazir, ‘dismayed and disappointed’ as he put it, chiding her for cutting a deal with a dictator, she’s contemptuous of him. ‘I’m more popular,’ she interrupted when asked if Nawaz had stolen a march. Nawaz, she insisted, had lived in luxury after accepting exile whilst her husband, Asif, had spent eight years in jail refusing similar leniency.
So what do I make of them? She’s tough and cold. He’s soft and waffly. If as a viewer you warm to him, equally, you will respect Benazir. It all depends on what you’re looking for – likeability or strength.
13 September 2007
The Charm of Pakistani Dictators
I wonder if you realize that Pakistan can boast of a strange but unique tradition? It’s produced some of the most charming dictators the world has known! I haven’t the faintest idea why this should be the case but, indubitably, it is. Last week as General Musharraf, in his debonair suit and ringing voice, regaled the world it suddenly struck me that he’s the third in a line that goes back fifty years.
The first was Field Marshal Ayub Khan. Although he bestowed the rank upon himself, he had the charm and grace of an Englishman. Rajeshwar Dayal, one of our earlier high commissioners, recounts a delightful story that captures the spirit of Ayub. One Ramzan, Dayal was required to urgently call on the president – as Ayub was – to convey a message from New Delhi. He was summoned to Army House at 6.30 in the evening and ushered into the garden where Ayub was sitting admiring the sunset over the Margala Hills.
‘Good to see you, Rajeshwar,’ the army dictator greeted him. ‘What will be your poison?’
Conscious that it was Ramzan and not wanting to offend Ayub’s sensitivities, Dayal asked for nimboo paani. Ayub looked at him aghast.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, old chap. Have a decent whisky’.
‘But it’s Ramzan, Sir,’ Rajeshwar spluttered.
‘So what?’ shot back the field marshal. ‘Stop being a good Hindu and become a good Muslim instead!’
Rajeshwar Dayal ends this anecdote with the comment that a couple of Scotches ensured his mission was accomplished most amicably.
Alas, I never met Ayub although I heard a lot about him from my father. If I’m not mistaken, they were almost contemporaries. But I did get to meet the other two dictators. And they were no less charming.
It was in 1985 that I interviewed General Zia-ul-Haq. He was at the very apogee of his power. In those days it was commonplace to remark that he looked like the British comedian Terry Thomas. And certainly the general had a Cheshire Cat-like grin. But his manners were impeccable.
The interview over, General Zia accompanied me out of the drawing room of Army House, down the corridor and to the porch. My car had already driven up. As we spoke, the general reached out and opened the door. With a last handshake and an invitation to return again, he bid me goodbye.
In those days Army House in Rawalpindi had a large circular garden at the front. As the car drove around it and straightened for the final approach to the gate, the general’s ADC, who was sitting beside the driver, spoke out.
‘Turn around, Mr Thapar, the general’s waving goodbye.’
I swivelled in the backseat to find General Zia waving from the porch. As I waved back his hand suddenly moved to his forehead and he gave me a cracking salute.
I was twenty-nine and, no doubt, impressionable but it was hugely flattering – actually thrilling – to be sent off in this style. Later I discovered General Zia did it for every single foreign journalist and they all fell for it like nine pins. It was a ploy, but a very effective one.
General Musharraf is, of course, more matey. There’s less ceremony about him. He’s more direct, informal and often fairly tactile. He laughs easily and he laughs a lot. The occasion I remember happened in February 2000, four months after he seized power.
We had just finished an hour-long and fairly aggressive interview. It was a bruising experience for both sides. But afterwards, over tea and snacks, he couldn’t have been more friendly. Noticing the crew on their own he walked up to engage them in conversation.
Musharraf started by placing an avuncular hand on the cameraman’s shoulder. Then, taking out his cigarettes, he offered him one. Nirmal immediately accepted. But when it came to Bunty’s turn, our sound recordist replied: ‘Sir, mein cigarette nahin peeta.’
The general chuckled and winked. ‘Yaar, aaj mein siraf cigarette hi pilaunga!’ The allusion was obvious and everyone burst out laughing. General Musharraf had won over my crew.
These are just three little stories but they happened with extraordinary men. Each of them was a dictator. Each Pakistani. And each is proof of how charming they can be. Is this just a coincidence? Perhaps. But would you have said the same of General Pinochet, General Galtieri or even General Franco? Of course, it’s true of our own Field Marshal Manekshaw. But then he never became a dictator!
28 September 2006
The Man in a Bib
It was his nickname that first alerted me to the fact that Pakistan’s foreign minister is a rather special politician. In Islamabad they call him the five-piece man. It’s an affectionate reference to his immaculate suits. Even in the heat of summer he wears a waistcoat. The other two pieces are his matching tie and kerchief. So when he walked into his office last Sunday afternoon for an interview for SAB TV I knew what to expect. What I had not anticipated was that he can cut quite a dash.
‘Look out for his ties,’ I had been advised by one of his officials. ‘He’s very fond of them and they’re always striking.’
The tip was accurate. Last weekend the tie was burnt-ochre, a striking contrast with his navy-blue suit. But it was his cufflinks that actually caught my eye. Made of gold, they were set with a row of diamonds at one corner and a large ruby at the other. They weren’t discreet but nor were they distasteful.
But there was more to his apparel than immediately met the eye. Underneath the waistcoat he had on black silk braces. It’s an old- fashioned touch most natty dressers have dispensed with. I caught a peek when they slid out from under his waistcoat shoulder. If my guess is right I’d say they were Ferragamo.
As Mr Kasuri settled into his armchair I found myself warming to the man.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said gently rubbing his manicured hands. ‘I only got back at 3 in the morning from Tehran.’
Most politicians would have refused to give an interview eight hours later. This one was different.
‘All right,’ he said when I insisted we do the interview the same day. ‘But then lunch will have to be afterwards and that could mean it won’t happen much before 3.’
I readily agreed. To be honest, I had not expected to be fed. It’s never happened before. But the chance of an informal lunch with the Pakistan foreign minister after the proper interview was an invitation no journalist could refuse.
As the cameramen got ready to roll I briefly ran the minister’s background through my mind. Kasuri, as his name suggests, comes from Kasur, a part of Pakistani Punjab that borders Firozpur. His father was a lawyer. The son gr
aduated from Cambridge but opted for politics. I know many others with similar pedigrees but few, if any, have fought elections and become ministers. So how does this bird of fine plumage fit into Gen. Musharraf ’s regime? And what sort of views does he hold? I was soon to discover a second reason why he’s a special politician.
Kasuri is a large man. A bit like a teddy bear, if you know what I mean. He keeps his cool and even when provoked he cleverly prefaces his riposte with a warning: ‘I did not want to say this but you’ve left me no option’. The packaging takes the sting out of the reply. It’s a clever ploy which allows him to make his point without giving offence. I’m surprised politicians don’t use it more often.
Inevitably we talked about cross-border terrorism. He didn’t deny it was happening, simply that his government was not behind it. ‘We are doing our best to stop it,’ he claimed. ‘But it’s a porous border and despite our efforts some things get through.’ He said nine out of ten infiltrators are stopped. The tenth becomes the terrorist we encounter in India.
‘This is why talks are so important,’ he continued. ‘When talks start they will strengthen our hands to tell the Kashmiris to stop. The talks will offer hope and we can use that to point out that now they don’t have to kill themselves. There’s another option on offer.’
When I pointed out that Pakistan’s handling of Al-Qaeda suspects wanted by Washington was markedly different to those on India’s list of twenty, he neither denied the fact nor squirmed with embarrassment. Instead he met the charge head-on.
‘Look at the history of tension between our two countries. On the other hand America has been our ally for fifty years. At the moment it’s inconceivable that our agencies can share information and work as closely as they do with America. But, Inshallah, that will happen soon.’
Previous Pakistani foreign ministers would have replied very differently. India has not given us any proof, they would have claimed. Or these guys are not in Pakistan. Or even, no formal list has been given. And just as their evasiveness would have hinted at their insincerity, so Kasuri’s honesty spoke of his credibility.
At the end of the interview I put to him the doubts we, in India, often express. Men like Kasuri and Prime Minister Jamali may be nice guys but do they count? Power lies with Musharraf and his ministers are only puppets.
The question brought a big smile to his face. I couldn’t help think that he looks most like a teddy when he’s smiling. But the answer was neither soft nor cuddly.
‘The army in Pakistan has a role to play. Our history makes that obvious. But that doesn’t mean they run the place and others don’t count. And let me tell you the day I cannot agree with the General I’ll resign. That may not be a wise thing for a politician to say but it’s the truth.’
Afterwards, as we sat down to lunch in the foreign minister’s private dining room, he saw me staring at the wine glasses brimming with magenta liquid. He must have fathomed my thoughts.
‘Coke,’ he laughed, ‘but it looks better in those glasses.’
‘And the taste?’
‘Unfortunately, that stays the same!’
I wasn’t the least surprised when he tucked his napkin into his collar. I’ve often wanted to do the same but never dared. But then my ties can’t compete. Of course, the foreign minister was aware that some of his guests were staring at him. After all, a man in a bib is not a common sight. But Kasuri wasn’t the least bit self- conscious. I suspect he likes the attention. Most of the time he deserves it too.
3 June 2003
Au Revoir, Ashraf
I was staring absent-mindedly out of the window when a colleague asked a question which sparked off a chain of thoughts. News of Ashraf Qazi’s recall had just been announced and although I had anticipated it I was still a little shaken. Even when something is inevitable you hope it won’t happen. This was certainly one such occasion.
‘Are you upset?’ Ashok asked.
I suppose the look on my face gave me away. But until he asked the question I did not realize that this was the emotion inside me. I had not paused to consider how I felt. It seemed irrelevant to the larger events happening outside. But now that Ashok had drawn my attention to my feelings I knew he was right.
Ashraf was a friend I got to know five years ago. Before that I only knew him as Abidah’s husband. In fact, on the one previous occasion that we met – in Islamabad in 1989 – he seemed stiff; an impression so wrong its only purpose is to underline how little I knew him before 1997.
Over the last five years we became close friends. I found him warm, supportive, trusting and loyal. He was a bon viveur, the soul of dinner parties with a manner that put people instantly at ease. If ever a Pakistani knew how to take the sting out of a tense situation, it was Ashraf. But the nicest thing was that he combined two welcome but contradictory qualities: a sharp intelligence with a delightful appetite for good-natured gossip.
Two years ago he pushed to get me an interview with General Musharraf. By coincidence we flew to Pakistan together. Ashraf was returning to visit his mother.
‘How did it go?’ he asked the night it happened.
‘Okay,’ I replied non-committally. I knew he would not like it but I did not know how to say that. I also knew that the response in India would be different but I did not want to say that either.
Five days after the interview was broadcast, Ashraf returned. The next morning he telephoned.
‘You know I thought you’d done me in,’ he began but he was laughing. ‘My heart sank when I saw the interview. Then I read the Times of India and thank God for their silly criticism. I don’t agree with them but they may have saved my job!’
Any other high commissioner would have taken the matter far more seriously. It could have broken our friendship. Not Ashraf. We went on to become better and closer friends.
A few months later we spent a weekend together in Dehra Dun and Mussoorie. It was the Doon School’s Founder’s Day and I thought Ashraf ought to see our best school. We drove down together in his Mitsubishi. On the way back he was determined to see Haridwar and Rishikesh. For a while I lost him in the crowd at Lakshman Jhula but when I found him again he was beaming with delight.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘You know that lovely tune we heard in the Mall in Mussoorie? I just bought it.’
‘What tune?’ I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
‘You’re a twit. Wait till I put it on.’
As we drove off, he inserted the tape in the car deck and turned to look at me as it started to play. It was Jagjit Singh’s Ram Dhun.
‘Remember it?’
I could not. I had not heard it as we walked up the Mussoorie Mall. Yet Ashraf ’s ears had picked it up. He had liked it and now he had made a point of buying it. We drove back listening to the tape. Each time it ended he would rewind and start again.
Last December, the day I was leaving for a brief new year break in London, Ashraf telephoned at lunch time.
‘Let’s have a bite together,’ he suggested.
‘I can’t. I’m in a dreadful rush and besides you know I hate lunch.’
‘Yes I know. But we may never meet again. The way things are developing I may be gone before you return.’
We spent a couple of hours at the Taj coffee Shop and I can’t remember laughing as much on any other occasion. His heart was heavy because he did not want to leave but no one would have realized that. Initially even I did not. Fortunately on that occasion his fears were mistaken. Not this time. I was the one who first predicted last Friday that his time was up. He instantly agreed.
Yesterday Ashraf went back to Pakistan but I hope it will only be for a short stay. Officially, he’s just been recalled. Formally he remains the Pakistan high commissioner to India. I pray our relations improve in time for him to return.
20 May 2002
Chapter 13
Dropping Anchor
‘They are making love… on India TV!’
; Of Course It’s an Act – But Can You See Through It?
There’s a question which I am repeatedly asked and which today I shall attempt to answer. It’s not always asked as a compliment. More often than not it’s a simple but sure kick in the pants. But, whatever the motive, it’s a question worth asking and answering.
‘When you appear on TV, is it natural or are you acting?’
There are two possible reasons for asking the question. As Aroon Purie often teases – and he is and remains a good friend – ‘anchors are frustrated actors’ or, as I prefer to see it, anchoring a show is an act in itself. The first is to suggest that anchors are frauds; the second implies that fraudulence is what anchoring is essentially about. So, as I see the dilemma, am I a fraud or is the job I love and like fraudulent? The difference, I admit, may seem slight and possibly insignificant to you. To me it matters an awful lot.
There are three types of answers that I know of. The first, ironically, is from the innocent bystander who recognizes me as an anchor and enthusiastically starts to question. Little does he realize that his question is the answer.
‘You always quarrel with the people you interview,’ it starts. ‘Are you naturally unlikeable or pretending?’
‘No,’ I usually reply, trying hard to smile and suggest that I am, in fact, full of warmth despite my rakshas features.
‘Then why do you always sound so quarrelsome?’
To that I have no answer. If how an anchor sounds is to determine whether he or she is putting on an act then all I can add is that the act is a flop. A huge failure. The anchor, in this instance, is a fraud. A horrible fraud. And a very bad actor to boot.
The second answer is only seemingly kinder but behind the gentleness lies a toughness that can hurt if not also damage. I often fall for it till I see the sharp end and usually by then it is too late. Bloodshed – by which I mean my blood – follows.
