by Karan Thapar
“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. No one would have guessed that his heart was heavy. He did not want to leave. Initially, even I could not tell. Fortunately on that occasion, Ashraf ’s 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.
9
Generals Zia and Ershad
Dictators can be fascinating. This is partly because of the absolute power they possess but also because of their personalities. Only truly extraordinary people end up in such situations.
In my time, I have known a few. Well, forgive the exaggeration, but I’ve met two. General Zia of Pakistan was the first. Ershad from Bangladesh followed in quick succession. I don’t know how they compare with General Musharraf — may be they don’t — but last week, as the world deliberated on how to treat the latter, I couldn’t help recall my meeting with his two predecessors.
“Welcome to Pakistan, Mr. Thapar.” General Zia greeted me as I stepped across the threshold of Army House in Pindi in 1985. He was at the peak of his power. I was just 29. He was an absolute ruler pretending to devolve power to a hand-picked civilian Prime Minister. I was the young whipper-snapper interviewer seeking to expose the fraud.
I had not expected to be so welcomed and I had certainly not anticipated that General Zia would ‘recognise’ me. Of course, it had not occurred to me that the greeting was a well-planned PR exercise. Consequently, I was completely taken-in. I looked lost for words.
“I served under your father.” The dictator continued. Now this was always possible — even if I had not thought of it — although later on reflection, I realised it was unlikely. At the time, however, it completely stumped me. How do you respond to a man who wields the power of life and death — and after Bhutto’s hanging death was no empty phrase — flattering you with such glib and easy references to your Dad?
“Oh.” I muttered. In the circumstances, it was a pretty articulate reply.
With a deftly placed hand across the small of my back, the General guided me into his drawing room. It was lined with men in uniform. Later, I noticed they each carried guns. I presumed they were loaded.
After we had made ourselves comfortable, he with his back well settled-in, me with my bottom perched at the edge of the sofa, he smiled. General Zia had thirty-two highly whitened teeth.They were in immaculate order.There was no doubt that his dentist had done a flawless job.
“Are you comfortable?” General Zia finally asked.
“Oh yes.” I replied. I realised I was tongue-tied but I decided to wait for my fright to thaw. If each reply was longer than the last, I knew I was on the right track.
“No, I mean your hotel.”
“Ah.” I said. The General looked on expectantly and soon, more out of embarrassment than conviction, I found myself spinning a story. A man will say anything to fill a silence and I certainly did.
“My problem is the bathroom shower.” It wasn’t. Honestly, there was nothing wrong with it. But now that I had claimed so, there was no turning back. “It doesn’t give out a proper jet of water.”
The General’s smile grew wider. So wide I could see his molars. They were as white as the incisors at the front.
“I know what you mean.” He replied. “There’s nothing I like more than a good shower in the morning. Take my advice and complain. When things don’t work properly, you must never hesitate to complain. I always do.”
If my wits were working, I would have noticed the irony of a dictator advising a journalist to complain. But, sadly, they weren’t and I did not.
An hour later and the interview over, I found my calm had returned and my ability to hold my own in conversation was restored. The man in front of me was the smartest, the shrewdest operator I had so far interviewed. He made democrats look silly, in fact inept.
When I said goodbye, the General escorted me to the porch. The car had been summoned and was waiting. He reached out and opened the door.
“Do look me up the next time you come to town.” General Zia said. It wasn’t likely but it sounded right.
I climbed in. He shut the door. The car drove off. As it covered the half circle of the round front garden and then straightened itself for the drive to the gate, the ADC on the front seat who, like me, was looking the other way suddenly said :
“Look back Mr.Thapar. The General is waving.”
He was. Under the yellow light of the porch, he stood there in his black sherwani, his well-creased smile in place, his hand erect waving from side to side.
It was the perfect gesture of politeness but it gave the game away. The only way the ADC could have known about it when he, like me, had his back to the porch was if this sort of thing happened every time.
General Ershad, on the other hand, was very different. He wasn’t shrewd, he had no concept of PR and until I introduced myself, he had little idea who I was. In fact, in comparison to Zia, he was a rough stone to the other man’s polished diamond. But Ershad had sincerity or, at least, his conversation so suggested. I doubt if it was made up. The man did not look as if he could make up anything.
As he set on a large powder blue sofa, a foot higher than the rest of us, patiently waiting for the cameras to roll, I asked if he had a large family.
“Only my son.” He replied and we lapsed into silence. But clearly I had struck a chord somewhere deep within because minutes later, he opened up like an over-flowing well.
“He’s five and when my wife and I fight, you know we do fight sometimes, he comes and sits between us and holds our hands together. Papa, he says, please don’t fight with Ammi. Now you have to say sorry to her.”
Ershad’s face softened with the emotion of the story he was telling. A dictator’s face in repose can be disarming. It almost makes you like him.
“At such times.” He abruptly continued,“I always forgive my wife. It happened last night. Initially I was not prepared to forgive her but the boy made me. He’s very intelligent, you know.”
It was the most interesting thing General Ershad said to me that day. The interview which followed was a bore.
10
The Shrinking of Mr. Vajpayee
I think the first time I spoke to Atal Behari Vajpayee was over the phone in 1984. It was the day Indira Gandhi was assassinated and just after the troubles had started. Although the Sikh pogrom had not as yet begun, it was clearly threatened. Fear was in the air.
It must have been past ten at night when I telephoned to interview him.We were producing a special episode of our programme Eastern Eye. Last week, as I watched him at the Shah Alam refugee camp in Ahmedabad, I was reminded of our conversation. It went something like this.
“What happened this morning was terrible.” said Mr. Vajpayee referring to Indira Gandhi’s assassination. “But what’s happening now also needs to be condemned. The attacks on Sikhs, o
n their properties and their livelihood, is unwarranted. It cannot be justified. It has to be stopped.”
“Who’s behind this?” I asked. At the time, sitting in London, it was far from clear.
“I don’t know.” He replied. “But it’s the Government’s responsibility to maintain law and order and protect lives. If it fails, it will have to be held to account. It will have to answer to Parliament. To the people of India. The Government should not forget this.”
Mr. Vajpayee did not name Rajiv Gandhi. I don’t think he even directed his accusations at members of the Congress Party. But then, that first night, none of this was as yet clear. Yet Mr. Vajpayee spoke unequivocally of the government’s responsibility. More importantly, he made a point of saying that it would be held to account. He even hinted that he might be the one to do so but no more than that. And all of this was before the pogrom started. The terrible Sikh killings of the 1st and 2nd November 1984 had not happened. Not facts but fear alone of what might happen had put steel in his spine.
How different was the Vajpayee I heard 17 years later in Ahmedabad. No doubt, he was anguished but he also sounded helpless. Perhaps that’s understandable. Today he is 77. In October 1984, he was 59. Age has made him slow, cautious, tired and broken. But what truly shook me was what he failed to say. There was no mention of holding the government to account. There was no talk of its duty to protect lives, livelihood and property. No doubt, he spoke of terrible crimes, even of bringing the guilty to book, but he made no mention of the government’s responsibilities or of its accountability.
Why?
I hesitate to answer that question. For this is not a matter of mere facts. It’s not even an issue of party politics. Accountability goes beyond all that. Accountability is about justice, about establishing the truth, about righting wrongs. In my eyes, this was a test of Mr. Vajpayee’s convictions and yes, I’ll go further, his personal integrity.
Yet Mr. Vajpayee stayed silent. He spoke a lot but about accountability, he was mute. There was pain in his voice, anguish on his face, suffering in his sentiments but the ultimate justice of holding responsible those who failed to protect lives found no mention. Not in his words, not even in his expression.
But had Mr. Vajpayee spoken, it would not have been the first time he has taken his party or colleagues to task. He did so after the demolition of the Babri Masjid in ’92. He did it again after the BJP lost the ‘paanch pradesh kal saara desh’ elections in ’93. It took many visits to his Raisina Road residence to obtain those interviews. At first, he wouldn’t agree.
Then, he kept postponing. Maybe he was girding himself, maybe he was waiting for the right time. But ultimately when he spoke it was with candour. Even his famous wit could not disguise the sharp thrust of his comments.
At Ahmedabad, in the Shah Alam refugee camp, Mr. Vajpayee failed himself. Not by the standards of other politicians, not even by the standards of his colleagues. Once upon a time, he rose above them and even today, it would be silly to compare him to others. But judged by his own standards, he failed.
I don’t want to say more because there can be no greater fall than when a man falls in his own estimation. And even if Mr. Vajpayee never reads this column, I feel certain he is aware of his descent, his diminution. In fact, he must sense it all too keenly.
It’s sad to see a man shrink. No doubt, it happens often but each time, it disillusions and destroys. As Leader of the Opposition, Vajpayee was a giant. The Prime Minister is a smaller man.
11
The Smarter Sex
I don’t mean to sound pompous nor tongue in cheek but have you ever considered the fact that of all God’s creation, women who rise to the top are truly special? You simply cannot say the same of men. There are loads of male ministers, company chairmen, even generals and archbishops who are despairingly ordinary. Shorn of their position, you wouldn’t look at them a second time. Now consider their female counterparts — Indira Gandhi, Benazir Bhutto and Chandrika Kumaratunga to choose three — and it would take quite an effort to avert your gaze.
There are several answers to the question what makes such women special. The struggle to get to the top in a man’s world is undoubtedly one. Their own individual character another. In the case of the subcontinental trio, their birth and its advantages is indisputably part of the ingredients. And let’s not forget, the pusillanimity of the men who surround them. But I want to write of something different. An answer that hits you straight between the eyes although you tend not to notice it perhaps because it’s politically incorrect to do so.
Let me put it like this: a woman who gets to the top in a man’s world is far from manly. She’s exceptionally feminine. And she uses the charms of her sex to enforce her superiority. Perhaps because few men know how to charm or, foolishly, consider it effeminate, they can never compete.
It might sound odd but Indira Gandhi was the most feminine of the three. Petite, fragile and soft-spoken, her hands were the give away. They were delicate. The large man’s watch on her wrist always looked incongruous.
I recall a meeting during the emergency. At the time, they called her Empress of India. I was her younger son’s guest for dinner. We were seated around the table at 1 Safdarjung Road and talking raucously when she entered. Instantly, a strangled silence descended. It didn’t take Mrs. Gandhi long to realise she was the cause.
“Oh dear.” She said smiling disarmingly. “I call that the Indira effect.”
None of us — for there were others too — laughed. We were either self-conscious or simply overwhelmed. Minutes later, she left. Her boiled eggs and toast followed to the bedroom. As the door shut behind her, the noise resumed.
Later, when I was leaving, I met her in the corridor. As I stammered a polite goodbye, she brushed crumbs off my shirt and straightened my collar. She smiled at my helplessness. It was warm and encouraging. In a similar position, a man would have been fearsome. His self-image would have required that. Not Indira Gandhi. I recall my sister remarking on the paradox as we drove home.
“Who’d think this small feminine creature is also a dictator?” Premila asked. None of us had an answer.
Benazir Bhutto and Chandrika Kumaratunga are bigger ladies but they’re equally feminine. Both care about little things, small matters of detail, a gesture or a thought that shows concern.
The first time I met Benazir as Prime Minister was in March 1989. After an interview in Islamabad, she invited me to fly to Karachi in her plane. As we settled down for the three hour flight, a steward began serving cold drinks.
“No, no, no.” She said stopping him. “He likes PIA tea. Please get Mr. Thapar a nice hot cup and don’t forget the condensed milk. That’s his favourite!”
“How do you know I like PIA tea?” I asked astonished. “You said so the last time and the time before that. You always repeat yourself.” She laughed at my embarrassment. “I’ve arranged the condensed milk specially for you!”
Thoughtfulness is typical of her. But what I found remarkable is that even as Prime Minister, she was not self-conscious about displaying it. A man would have forgotten or at least pretended he had.
Last September, I met Chandrika Kumaratunga in Colombo and admired her saree. It was a rich red silk with a deep brown border.
“I’m so glad you like it.” She laughed. “It’s one of my favourites. I wear it as often as I can.”
Minutes later, as the sound recordist tried in vain to hide the microphone wire, she swept her pallu to the front.
“Here, let’s cover it like this. Then I can show off the pallu too.” Turning to me, she continued. “I know I shouldn’t say such things but I love Indian sarees. I buy mine from Bangalore. They have the nicest.”
Three powerful ladies. Each can make men quail. Yet they’re not afraid to be themselves, to let their individuality show. Men are troubled by their gentler side. They quash it. Women use it to their advantage. That’s why a successful woman is so much smarter than a successful man.
1
Mr. Birla and Mr. Laxman
You would think they would be as different as chalk and cheese. One is a rich businessman who operates behind closed doors, avoiding publicity and remaining largely unknown to the common man. His name may be recognised but not his face. The other is a swarthy batsman, a sporting hero and of late, an idol of the masses and a public figure. When recognised, he brings traffic to a stop. Yet for all their differences, they have one quality in common — the self-effacing shyness of the successful. It’s a winning quality particularly when, as in their case, it’s coupled with an ability to laugh at oneself and not take one’s triumphs too seriously. Sadly, few of the successful have it.
I met both this month in very similar circumstances. They had come for an interview which, admittedly, meant I got to see them on their best behaviour. Interviewees rarely, if ever, throw tantrums. But these two would not know how to even if that is what they wanted to do. I suspect their best behaviour is the only way they know how to conduct themselves.
It was precisely 6.30 pm in the evening when I met Kumar Mangalam Birla. I know because I was looking at my watch as I stood in the lobby of the Oberoi in Mumbai. He was due at 6.30 pm and as I looked up, I saw him striding towards me. I can’t recall too many ‘important’ people who arrive on time.Those who do instantly win my respect. Kumar got off to a flying start.
As we moved to the elevator, I reached for the button but when the doors opened, it was Kumar who stepped aside waiting for me to get in. That’s never happened before.
“Are you going to grill me?” He asked as we travelled upwards. His voice wasn’t hesitant or nervous. Company chairmen rarely are or they’re trained to disguise it. But his tone sounded genuine. He wasn’t making conversation nor flattering me by playing to the popular image of the stern interrogator.
“Oh come off it.” I said, as I’ve had to say many times before. “I may look like a rakshas but I assure you I don’t behave like one.”
