Not a Nice Man to Know

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He is high commissioner for India.’

  ‘Yes, of course I know he is high commissioner and all that. But I thought this party was for literate people—writers and critics and that sort—people who read books—not just anybody.’ This too was loud enough to catch Menon’s ears.

  Wherever Krishna Menon went he took good care that he was the centre of attraction. His unusual appearance put him at an advantage. And if there was any danger of anyone stealing the show, he had many tricks to efface his rivals. At the annual banquet of the Royal Society of Cutlers in Sheffield he did this with consummate skill. This was in the first year of independence when the British were still very nostalgic about India. Menon was the guest of honour amongst a crowd of sentimental Englishmen who believed that Indians loved them as much as they loved the Indians—and were grateful to the English for granting them independence. Menon was quick to sense the atmosphere of patronage. He sat through the meal without touching any food or talking to the people near him. When he was asked to speak, he made a bitingly witty oration. He made fun of his hosts. They laughed politely. But it was obvious that they did not like what he was saying and considered it extremely bad form. Menon sat down feeling he had knifed the Cutlers forever. But to everyone’s surprise the Cutler chosen to thank the chief guest happened to be a better speaker than Menon. He had the presence of mind to give up the formal speech he had intended to deliver and answer Menon’s witticisms about the British with some pungent anecdotes about the Indians. Menon was very discomfited. He began to look ill: he could do that without much difficulty. I saw him turn to a waiter standing behind him and whisper in his ear. I knew he had asked for a cup of tea.

  The speaker went on with his oration. After having roused applause with his experiences in India, he turned to his earlier encounters with Krishna Menon. He started narrating what promised to be a highly amusing anecdote about Menon. Just then a cup of tea was placed before Menon. The speaker built his story towards a climax. I saw Menon raise his cup in his shaking hand. As the speaker paused to deliver his punch line, Menon dropped his cup on the table. There was a loud clatter of breaking china. Waiters rushed to clear the debris and mop the table. Everyone was apologizing to everyone else. The speech came to an abrupt end—the anecdote remained untold. Menon’s speech, though in bad taste, remained the piece de resistance of the evening.

  ~

  As high commissioner Menon was king of India House and the most important Indian in Great Britain. Although this was a great booster of his morale, his vanity was often hurt now that he had also to meet many people more important than he. He devised ways to hold the centre of the stage.

  The first Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference was much publicized in the British press. Menon, despite his closeness to Nehru, was not taken much notice of. He disliked being, as he himself described, ‘a shadow of Nehru’. He called conferences at India House at odd hours. One Sunday, twenty or more of us were summoned on ‘urgent’ business. We were plied with cups of tea but none of us discovered the nature of the business for which we had been assembled. Every fifteen minutes Menon’s brows would pucker with irritation and he would announce, ‘It’s a damned nuisance, lunch! There is so much work to do and I have to motor fifty miles to look at food I can’t eat.’ The lunch he referred to was given by the Mountbattens to Nehru and the Attlees in their country home at Romney. So it went on till it was nearly one o’clock and his staff was in a high state of agitation. Menon went. He was almost an hour late. But he did keep Nehru, the Attlees and the Mountbattens waiting for him. Menon made unpunctuality a rule of his life. Being late always attracts more attention than being punctual.

  A somewhat different episode was a lunch with Sir Arthur Rank. Rank’s organization was planning to make a film on the Taj Mahal; their PRO, Finney had given me several excellent lunches and wanted his boss to meet Menon to broach the question of facilities the Indian government would provide for shooting the film.

  There was considerable excitement in the office, particularly among the bevy of stenographers, when Sir Arthur Rank’s heavily embossed invitation card was received. It was assumed that Menon would be delighted to go. But Menon was unpredictable. He announced the invitation at a staff meeting and added that he could not afford to waste his time on film makers, film stars and their ilk. Everyone protested; with great difficulty we prevailed upon Menon to accept. He gave us to understand that it was only for our sakes that he had accepted what would inevitably be a very boring lunch. For the next few days the subject of Rank’s lunch was brought up by some device or the other and how the reluctant ‘H.E.’ had been made to accept—‘You see, he’s not one bit interested in meeting beautiful film stars. He’s only going as a part of his duty.’

  The day arrived. Three other members of the staff to whom the invitation had been extended accompanied Menon in his Rolls-Royce to the Dorchester Hotel where Sir Arthur Rank had a suite of rooms. We were received by Finney, taken up to the suite and introduced to some producers and script-writers. There were no glamorous stars; it was a stag lunch. We looked around for Sir Arthur Rank. Finney saw our questioning looks. ‘Sir Arthur will be in any moment. Won’t you have a drink in the other room?’ He herded us into a large octagonal room where the lunch table was laid out and a waiter handed round drinks. Finney went back to the other room and knocked at the door on the side. I followed Finney to tell him that Menon was an impatient, touchy sort of person and should not be kept waiting. Before I could get to Finney, the door on which he had knocked opened and an officious voice demanded, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir, the high commissioner is here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The high commissioner for India, Mr Menon.’

  ‘What the devil is he doing here?’

  ‘We’ve invited him for lunch.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Sir,’ whispered Finney fiercely, ‘it’s about that film on the Taj Mahal; we thought . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, that Indian film business. Okey-doke. I’ll join you in a second.’

  A much-relieved Finney announced to us that Sir Arthur was on his way. A minute later the great film magnate made his appearance. He was wreathed in smiles and welcomed Menon. ‘Mr High Commissioner, it’s a great pleasure and a privilege to have you here.’

  Menon extended his paw for a brief shake and then relapsed into a sullen silence. It was obvious the two great men were utterly bored with each other. The lunch was kept going by Finney and I cracking meaningless jokes at the top of our voices. (The modern PRO is a reincarnation of the court jester of medieval times.) As soon as the coffee was finished Menon got up. ‘I must get back to my work. Thank you, Mr Rank. (He did not use titles on principle.) If you need any assistance, my PRO will look after you.’ Sir Arthur was as keen to speed the parting guest as the guest was to take his leave. ‘Thanks for coming. My PRO and yours are friends. They can settle the business between themselves.’

  The film on the Taj was never made.

  One of the memorable Menon episodes was at Dublin when he went to present his credentials as the Indian ambassador to the Irish Republic. He took with him his three defence service advisors and myself. My wife was asked to be in the party to look after the social engagements.

  India was the first country to open a full-fledged embassy in Ireland; the Irish government had consequently planned quite an elaborate tamasha. We did not know the details except for the luncheons and dinners we had agreed to inflict on each other.

  On the morning in question, my telephone rang. It was Menon. His voice was barely audible; he asked me to come to his room at once. I found him in a state of collapse. ‘I am very sick,’ he groaned. ‘You’ll have to cancel the arrangements for the presentation of credentials.’

  I was aghast. Before I could protest he spoke more fiercely. ‘Don’t you see I am very ill? I can’t go through with it! Ring up the chi
ef of protocol. Give me those pills and a tumbler of water.’

  I handed him his pills and the water. He swallowed a couple and fell into a sort of stupor. I thought I’d wait a while to see if he were really ill before I sent for a doctor or rang up the protocol people.

  I looked out of the window onto the square. A squad of motorcycle police drew up noisily outside the hotel. I opened the window to get a better look. The roar of the motor-cycle engines fell on Menon’s ears. He opened one eye and asked, ‘What is that racket?’

  ‘A motor-cycle squad. I suppose to escort your car to the President’s palace,’ I replied.

  Menon shut his eyes. His face was a little more mobile than it had been five minutes before.

  I saw a troop of Irish Guards turn the corner and march towards the hotel. Menon also heard the tramp of marching feet come to a halt beneath the window and the words of command to stand at ease. He opened both his eyes this time and enquired what the new noise was about. ‘Regiment of Irish Guards,’ I replied. ‘They will probably form a procession.’

  Menon was positively interested and sat up in bed.

  ‘Shall I ring up the chief of protocol?’ I asked.

  ‘Give me another five minutes,’ he replied. ‘If I don’t feel any better, we’ll have to call it off.’

  The sound of bagpipes assailed our ears. I looked out of the window. ‘What is that now?’ demanded Menon.

  ‘Irish Highlanders.’

  The bagpipes fell silent. A brass band took its place and came to a crashing halt beneath the window. Menon leaped out of his bed with the agility of a panther and took a long look at the motorcyclists, the Guards and the Highlanders. He limped back to bed. ‘I suppose it is my duty to go. I’ll feel better after a bath. Go and see if the others are ready.’

  Half an hour later Menon emerged from his room looking very spruce in his black sherwani, white chooridars and his ivory-handled cane. We lined ourselves beside him.

  It was ‘Roses, roses all the way’ through the streets of Dublin with Menon waving from the open car to the cheering crowds that thronged the pavements.

  In the morning Menon presented his credentials to the President. The ceremony was followed by an official reception Where the diplomatic corps and members of Parliament including Eamon de Valera, then leader of the Opposition, were present. In the afternoon Dr Douglas (the President) invited Menon to a quiet cup of tea. This time only my wife and I accompanied him.

  We were received by the President in his study. It was a dark, oak-panelled room lined with books. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in leather; a peat fire smouldered in the chimney. The room had a sombre, peaceful atmosphere in which Dr Douglas’s pipe seemed to be most appropriate. Menon was ill-at-ease in this old world atmosphere of sedate sophistry. Over a cup of tea and scones—it had to be scones—Dr Douglas asked Menon how India was doing since its independence. Menon launched on a breathless narration of India’s mineral wealth, her enormous potential, the first Five Year Plan, naming the hydro-electric projects in various parts of the country, and the millions and millions of kilowatts of electricity they would be producing. He gave figures of export of raw material in precise tons and prices of half-finished manufactures in sterling and dollars. This went on at a rapid pace for a good ten minutes with the President listening patiently and smoking his pipe. Menon realized that he had been somewhat inept in utilizing a polite enquiry to lecture on Indian economics. To make up for the error he asked Dr Douglas, ‘And Mr President, how is Ireland’s economy doing? How are the exports? Do you have a favourable balance of trade?’

  Dr Douglas got his opening and he slipped his rapier in with the deftness which only an Irishman could have deployed. ‘Mr Ambassador, we never have a favourable balance of trade,’ he drawled as he put his pipe away. ‘You see, we don’t have very much to sell. Our exports, if you can call them by the name, are invisible exports—dramatists, poets, writers and that sort of thing. Nothing you can calculate precisely in terms of money.’

  There were lighter moments in life at India House. Menon’s puckish sense of humour contributed to some. I particularly recall the ‘reception’ we arranged for Vijayalakshmi Pandit, who was then Indian ambassador in Washington. It was common knowledge that she and Menon did not get along. Vijayalakshmi Pandit was due to stop in London for twenty-four hours on her way to India. Menon was anxious to prevent her meeting Indians hostile to him and letting her gather anti-Menon material to transmit to her brother the Prime Minister. Many Indian organizations hostile to Menon had written to her (some unwittingly through India House) asking for an opportunity to meet her. Vijayalakshmi Pandit had forwarded these letters to us so that we would arrange the interviews. We replied to them politely, stating that we would do our best to fit them into her busy programme. A week before her arrival, there was a meeting of the ‘inner cabinet’ in Menon’s room and we decided to arrange a ‘busy programme’ for her. We rang up British Cabinet ministers saying that Vijayalakshmi Pandit was most anxious to see them before she returned to Delhi to discuss matters with her brother the Prime Minister. So we arranged lunch, tea, cocktail and dinner parties followed by late-night theatre.

  Vijayalakshmi Pandit’s plane landed at Heathrow in the morning. A crowd of Indians hostile to Menon were present at the airport. We secured permission from the authorities to take the car up to the plane. The High Commissioner’s Rolls-Royce flying the tricolour drew up alongside the aircraft. Vijayalakshmi Pandit was delighted at the distinction. She was whisked away from the airport without even seeing the demonstrators. By the time they chased her down to Claridges Hotel we had taken her away to fulfil her first engagement. We told her how anxious many British statesmen were to meet her. So it went on till after midnight. Next morning she was hauled out of bed and deposited in her seat on the plane bound for India. She did not meet anyone we did not want her to meet.

  Letters of protest followed her to India. She realized that she had been tricked. Her mood was dark. On her way back to Washington, she refused to allow India House to arrange any appointments for her. She accepted an invitation of the Indian Journalists’ Association which arranged a press conference in her room in Claridges. Once more Menon outwitted her. He told her bluntly that she had no business to meet the press in London without consulting him. England was his domain. Vijayalakshmi Pandit gave in. She had to suffer meeting the journalists under my auspices and the best she could do was to vent her spleen on me.

  I was often asked whether Menon was a communist. At first I used to react angrily. ‘So what! Many of the great freedom fighters of our country were communists.’ When I became disillusioned with the creed, I discovered the Party had also become a sort of freemasonry which helped its members irrespective of merit. Menon may or may not have been a card-bearing member of the Party, but his partiality towards those who were assumed scandalous proportions.

  A large number of his English friends were communists. That did not surprise me because the communists had been more outspokenly sympathetic towards Indian aspirations than any other political group. Many had worked for the India League. Some expected to be rewarded—and were.

  During Menon’s tenure as high commissioner quite a few communists, both British and Indian, were given employment in India House. In the PRO department, of which I was in charge for a number of years, there were quite a few communists. Menon’s bias in their favour can be gauged from the following episode.

  One part of my job as head of department was to write confidential reports on my staff every year. To the best of my recollection in the three or four annual reports I made I gave only two clerks, an Englishwoman and an Indian, adverse reports and recommended their dismissal. The Englishwoman was in the habit of coming an hour late, spending an inordinate time at coffee, lunch and tea breaks and left the office early to ‘avoid the rush hour’. I had many occasions to pull her up and tell her that on many days she did no more than half-an-hour’s work. She took no notice and was often chee
ky. The Indian woman, who was a friend of the other, followed her example except that instead of cheeky she became abjectly humble and shed tears.

  Menon had no direct contact with these women; he hardly knew their names. He had no basis whatsoever of knowing how they worked or behaved in office. But every year Menon accepted my staff report, save in the case of these two women. When I left, he promoted them over the heads of others. Both these women were members of the communist party. Other heads of department told me that they had similar experiences.

  Was Menon corrupt? Personally never. But many of his friends to whom he entrusted the government’s money were manifestly so. And he did not hesitate to take money from dubious characters for the India League and its many satellite organizations. During Menon’s tenure as high commissioner the League and its offsprings acquired valuable real estate in the heart of London.

  Standing by old friends was a strong trait in Menon’s character. Thus he had befriended a humble cook from Malabar who bore the same name. Despite adverse reports against him, he was put in charge of India House cooking with the high sounding title, ‘Canteen Officer’. This Menon was given to the bottle—and the number of bottles he consumed kept him chronically in the red. He played ducks and drakes with the canteen money and on more than one occasion staggered into office in a state of intoxication. (At a cocktail party given to a visiting ambassador, Menon the cook gave the ambassador’s wife a friendly pinch on her bottom.) He was often reprimanded, but not fired till after Menon ceased to be high commissioner.