This was not a nuance Peking could easily understand. For, at least in public, there could not be any criticism of the government’s policies within China. The difference between these two political systems – call them ‘totalitarianism’ and ‘democracy’ – was most strikingly reflected in an exchange about an incident that took place in Bombay on 20 April. According to the Chinese version – communicated to New Delhi by Peking in a letter dated 27 April – a group of protesters raised slogans and made speeches which
branded China’s putting down of the rebellion in her own territory, the Tibetan Region, as [an] imperialist action and made all sorts of slanders. What is more serious is that they pasted up a portrait of Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of the People’s Republic of China, on the wall of the Chinese Consulate-General and carried out wanton insult by throwing tomatoes and rotten eggs at it. While these ruffians were insulting the portrait, the Indian policemen stood by without interfering with them, and pulled off the encircling spectators for the correspondents to take photographs . . .
This incident in Bombay constituted, in Peking’s view, ‘a huge insult to the head of state of the People’s Republic of China and the respected and beloved leader of the Chinese people’. It was an insult which ‘the masses of the six hundred and fifty million Chinese people absolutely cannot tolerate’. If the matter was ‘not reasonably settled’, said the complaint, in case ‘the reply from the Indian Government is not satisfactory’, the ‘Chinese side will never come to a stop without a satisfactory settlement of the matter, that is to say, never stop even for one hundred years’.
In reply, the Indian government ‘deeply regret[ted] that discourtesy was shown to a picture of Chairman Mao Tse-tung, the respected head of a state with which India has ties of friendship’. But they denied that the policemen on duty had in any way aided the protesters; to the contrary, they ‘stood in front of the [Mao] picture to save it from further desecration’. The behaviour of the protesters was ‘deplorable’, admitted New Delhi, but
the Chinese Government are no doubt aware that under the law in India processions cannot be banned so long as they are peaceful . . . Not unoften they are held even near the Parliament House and the processionists indulge in all manner of slogans against high personages in India. Incidents have occurred in the past when portraits of Mahatma Gandhi and the Prime Minister were taken out by irresponsible persons and treated in an insulting manner. Under the law and Constitution of India a great deal of latitude is allowed to the people so long as they do not indulge in actual violence.
III
In the first week of September 1959 the government of India released a White Paper containing five years of correspondence with its Chinese counterpart. The exchanges ranged from those concerning trifling disputes, occasioned by the straying by armed patrols into territory claimed by the other side, to larger questions about the status of the border in the west and the east and disagreements about the meaning of the rebellion in Tibet.
For some time now opposition MPs, led by the effervescent young Jana Sangh leader Atal Behari Vajpayee, had been demanding that the government place before Parliament its correspondence with the Chinese. The release of the White Paper was hastened by a series of border incidents in August. Chinese and Indian patrols had clashed at several places in NEFA. One Indian post, at Longju, came under sharp fire from the Chinese and was ultimately overwhelmed.
Unfortunately for the government, the appearance of the White Paper coincided with a bitter spat between the defence minister and his chief of army staff. The minister was Nehru’s old friend V. K. Krishna Menon, placed in that post in 1957 as compensation for drawing him away from diplomatic duties. The appointment was at first welcomed within the army. Previous incumbents had been lacklustre; this one was anything but, and was close to the prime minister besides. But just as he seemed well settled in his new job, Menon got into a fight with his chief of staff, General K. S. Thimayya, a man just as forceful as he was.
The son of a coffee planter in Coorg, standing 6’ 3” in his socks, Thimayya had an impressive personality and a more impressive military record. When a young officer in Allahabad, he had met an elderly gentleman in a cinema who asked him, ‘How does it feel to be an Indian wearing a British army uniform?’ ‘Timmy’ answered with one word: ‘Hot’. The old man was Motilal Nehru, father of Jawaharlal and a celebrated nationalist himself. Later, when they had become friends, Thimayya asked him whether he should resign his commission and join the nationalist movement. Motilal advised him to stay in uniform, saying that after freedom came India would need officers like him.8
Thimayya fought with distinction in the Second World War before serving with honour in the first troubled year of Indian freedom. He oversaw the movement of Partition refugees in the Punjab and was then sent to Kashmir, where his troops successfully cleared the Valley of raiders. Later, he headed a United Nations truce team in Korea, where he supervised the disposition of 22,000 communist prisoners of war. His leadership was widely praised on both sides of the ideological divide, by the Chinese as well as the Americans.
‘Timmy’ was the closest the pacifist Indians had ever come to having an authentic modern military hero.9 However, he did not see eye to eye with his defence minister. Thimayya thought that his troops should be better prepared for a possible engagement with China, but Krishna Menon insisted that the real threat came from Pakistan, along whose borders the bulk of India’s troops were thus deployed. Thimayya was also concerned about the antiquity of the arms his men currently carried. These included the .303 Enfield rifle, which had first been used in the First World War. When the general suggested to the minister that India should manufacture the Belgian FN4 automatic rifle under licence, ‘Krishna Menon said angrily that he was not going to have NATO arms in the country’.10
In the last week of August 1959 Thimayya and Menon fell out over the latter’s decision to appoint to the rank of lieutenant general an officer named B. M. Kaul, in supersession of twelve officers senior to him. Kaul had a flair for publicity – he liked to act in plays, for example. He had supervised the construction of a new housing colony, which impressed Menon as an example of how men in uniform could contribute to the public good. In addition, Kaul was known to Jawaharlal Nehru, a fact he liked to advertise as often as he could.11
Kaul was not without his virtues. A close colleague described him as ‘a live-wire – quick-thinking, forceful, and venturesome’. However, he ‘could also be subjective, capricious and emotional’.12 Thimayya was concerned that Kaul had little combat experience, for he had spent much of his career in the Army Service Corps, an experience which did not really qualify him for a key post at Army Headquarters. Kaul’s promotion, when added to the other insults from his minister, provoked General Thimayya into an offer of resignation. On 31 August 1959 he wrote to the prime minister conveying how ‘impossible it was for me and the other two Chiefs of Staff to carry out our responsibilities under the present Defence Minister’. He said the circumstances did not permit him to continue in his post.13
The news of the army chief’s resignation leaked into the public domain. The matter was discussed in Parliament, and in the press as well. Opposing Thimayya were communists such as E. M. S. Namboodiripad, who expressed the view that the general should be courtmartialled, and crypto-communist organs such as the Bombay weekly Blitz, which claimed that Thimayya had unwittingly become a tool in the hands of the ‘American lobby’. Those who sided with him in his battle with the defence minister were Blitz’s great (and undeniably pro-American) rival, the weekly Current, as well as large sections of the non-ideological press. The normally pro-government Hindustan Times said that ‘Krishna Menon must go’, not Thimayya. It accused the minister of reducing the armed forces to a ‘state of near-demoralization’ by trying to create, at the highest level, a cell of officers who would be personally loyal to him.14
Some hoped that the outcry over Thimayya’s resignation would force Krishna Menon to also hand in his pa
pers. Writing to the general, a leading lawyer called the minister an ‘evil genius in Indian politics’, adding, ‘If as a result of your action, Menon is compelled to retire, India will heave a sigh of relief, and you will be earning the whole-hearted gratitude of the nation.’ Then Nehru called Thimayya into his office and over two long sessions persuaded him to withdraw his resignation. He assured him that he would be consulted in all important decisions regarding promotions. An old colleague of Timmy’s, a major general now retired to the hill town of Dehradun, wrote to his friend saying he should have stuck to his guns. For ‘the solution found is useless as now no one has been sacked or got rid of. The honeymoon cannot last long as you will soon find out.’15
The release of the White Paper on China, against the backdrop of the general’s resignation drama, intensified the feelings against the defence minister. For even members of Parliament had not known of the extent of China’s claim on Indian territory. That the Chinese had established posts and built a paved road through what, at least on their maps, was India was seen as an unconscionable lapse on the part of those charged with guarding the borders. Opposition politicians naturally went to town about China’s ‘cartographic war against India’. As a socialist MP put it, New Delhi might still believe in ‘Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai’, but Peking followed Lenin’s dictum that ‘promises, like piecrusts, are meant to be broken’.16
Perhaps the prime minister should have been held accountable, but for the moment the fingers were pointed at his pet, Krishna Menon. If the country was ‘woefully unprepared to meet Chinese aggression’, said the Current, the fault must lie with the person ‘at the helm of India’s Defence Forces’, namely, the defence minister. Even Congress Party members were now calling for Menon’s head. The home minister, Govind Ballabh Pant, an old veteran of the freedom struggle and a longtime comrade of Nehru’s, advised the prime minister to change Menon’s portfolio – to keep him in the Cabinet, but allot him something other than Defence.17 The respected journalist B. Shiva Rao, now an MP, wrote to Nehru that he was ‘greatly disturbed by your insistence on keeping Krishna Menon in the Cabinet. We are facing a grave danger from a Communist Power. As you are aware, there are widespread apprehensions about his having pro-Communist sympathies’. It was ‘not easy for me to write this letter’, said Shiva Rao, and ‘I know it will be a very difficult decision for you to make’. However, ‘this is an emergency whose end no one can predict’.18
Nehru, however, stuck to his guns – and to Krishna Menon. Meanwhile the ‘diplomatic’ exchanges with China continued. On 8 September 1959 Chou En-lai finally replied to Nehru’s letter of 22 March that had set out the Indian position. Chou expressed surprise that India wished the Chinese to ‘give formal recognition to the situation created by the application of the British policy of aggression against China’s Tibet region’. The ‘Chinese Government absolutely does not recognise the so-called McMahon Line’. It insisted that ‘the entire Sino-Indian boundary has not been delimited’, and called for a fresh settlement, ‘fair and reasonable to both sides’. The letter ended with a reference to the increasing tension caused by the Tibet rebellion, after which Indian troops started ‘shielding armed Tibetan bandits’ and began ‘pressing forward steadily across the eastern section of the Sino-Indian boundary’.
Nehru replied almost at once, saying that the Indians ‘deeply resent this allegation’ that ‘the independent Government of India are seeking to reap a benefit’ from British imperialism. He pointed out that between 1914 and 1947 no Chinese government had objected to the McMahon Line. He rejected the charge that India was shielding armed Tibetans. And he expressed ‘great shock’ at the tone of Chou’s letter, reminding him that India was one of the first countries to recognize the People’s Republic and had consistently sought to befriend it.19
By this time, the India–China exchange comprised bullets as well as letters. In late August 1959 there was a clash of arms at Longju, along the McMahon Line in the eastern sector. Then in late October 1959 an Indian patrol in the Kongka Pass area of Ladakh was attacked by a Chinese detachment. Nine Indian soldiers were killed, and as many captured. The Chinese maintained that the Indians had come deliberately into their territory; the Indians answered that they were merely patrolling what was their own side of the border.
These clashes prompted New Delhi to review its frontier policy. Remarkably, till this time responsibility for the border with China had rested not with the army but with the Intelligence Bureau. Such border posts as existed were manned by paramilitary detachments, the Assam Rifles in the east and the Central Reserve Police in the west. Regular military forces were massed along the border with Pakistan, which was considered India’s main and perhaps sole military threat. But after the Longju and Kongka Pass incidents, the 4th Division was pulled out of Punjab and sent to NEFA. This was a considerable change; trained for tank warfare in the plains, the 4th would now have to operate in a very different terrain altogether.
Through this new ‘forward policy’, the Indian government aimed to inhabit no-man’s-land by siting a series of small posts along or close to the border. The operation was much touted in Delhi, where maps sprung up in Defence Ministry offices with little blue pins marking where these posts had been located. Not to be found on these maps were the simultaneous attempts by the Chinese to fill in the blanks, working from their side of what was now a deeply contested border.20
IV
By 1959, at least, it was clear that the Indian and Chinese positions were irreconcilable. The Indians insisted that the border was, for the most part, recognized and assured by treaty and tradition; the Chinese argued that it had never really been delimited. The claims of both governments rested in part on the legacy of imperialism; British imperialism (for India), and Chinese imperialism (over Tibet) for China. In this sense, both claimed sovereignty over territory acquired by less-than-legitimate means.
In retrospect, it appears that the Indians underestimated the force of Chinese resentment against ‘Western imperialism’. In the first half of the twentieth century, when their country was weak, it had been subject to all sorts of indignities by the European powers. The McMahon Line was one of them. Now that, under the communists, China was strong, it was determined to undo the injustices of the past. Visiting Peking in November 1959, the Indian lawyer Danial Latifi was told by his Chinese colleagues that ‘the McMahon Line had no juridical basis’. Public opinion in China appeared ‘to have worked itself up to a considerable pitch’ on the border issue. Reporting his conversations to Jawaharlal Nehru, Latifi tellingly observed, ‘As you know, probably too well, it is difficult in any country to make concessions once the public has been told it [the territory under dispute] forms part of the national homeland.’21
It is also easy in retrospect to see that, after the failure of the Tibetan revolt, the government of India should have done one or both of the following: (i) strengthened its defences along the Chinese border, importing arms from the West if need be; (ii) worked seriously for a fresh settlement of the border with China. But the non-alignment of Nehru precluded the former and the force of public opinion precluded the latter. In October 1959 the Times of India complained that the prime minister had shown ‘an over-scrupulous regard for Chinese susceptibilities and comparative indifference towards the anger and dismay with which the Indian people have reacted’.22 Another newspaper observed that Nehru was ‘standing alone against the rising tide of national resentment against China’.23
As Steven Hoffman has suggested, the policy of releasing White Papers limited Nehru’s options. Had the border dispute remained private the prime minister could have used the quieter back-channels of diplomatic compromise. But with the matter out in the open, sparking much angry comment, he could only ‘adopt those policies that could conceivably meet with approval from an emotionally aroused parliament and press’. The White Paper policy precluded the spirit of give and take, and instead fanned patriotic sentiment. The Kongka Pass incident, in particular, had led to fu
rious calls for revenge from India’s political class.24
After the border clashes of September and October 1959, Chou En-lai wrote suggesting that both sides withdraw twenty kilometres behind the McMahon Line in the east, and behind the line of actual control in the west. Nehru, in reply, dismissed the suggestion as merely a way of legitimizing Chinese encroachments in the western sector, of keeping ‘your forcible possession intact’. The ‘cause of the recent troubles’, he insisted, ‘is action taken from your side of the border’. Chou now pointed out that, despite its belief that the McMahon Line was illegal, China had adhered to a policy of ‘absolutely not allowing its armed personnel to cross this line [while] waiting for a friendly settlement of the boundary question’. Thus,
the Chinese Government has not up to now made any demand in regard to the area south of the so-called McMahon line as a precondition or interim measure, and what I find difficult to understand is why the Indian Government should demand that the Chinese side withdraw one-sidedly from its western frontier area.
This was an intriguing suggestion which, stripped of its diplomatic code, read, ‘You keep your (possibly fraudulently acquired) territory in the East, while we shall keep our (possibly fraudulently acquired) territory in the West.’25
Writing in the Economic Weekly in January 1960, the Sinologist Owen Lattimore astutely summed up the Indian dilemma. Since the boundary with China was self-evidently a legacy of British imperialism, the ‘cession of a large part of the disputed territory . . . would not involve Indian national pride had it not been for the way the Chinese have been trying to draw the frontier by force, without negotiation’. For ‘what Mr Nehru might concede by reasonable negotiations between equals he would never concede by abject surrender’.26
India After Gandhi Revised and Updated Edition Page 40
