Sunday Sentiments

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Introduction

I suppose I should start with hello. Although I’ve been part of the column Sunday Sentiments in Hindustan Times, it’s quite possible we haven’t met. Hitherto, I’ve lived in a different neighbourhood. My home was the Sunday magazine and although it altered considerably in the half decade I knew, I did not budge. Instead I chose to develop with it. From a diary, to a set of different stories, to a single idiosyncratic piece, I metamorphosed and put down roots. Ultimately, I came to belong. Let me therefore use this first knock on your door to introduce myself.

I’m a bit of an odd ball. That may sound affected but it’s true. I try to be unclassifiable, different and readable. Sometimes amusing, occasionally passionate, often provoking but always myself. Consequently, there are days when you will like me and nod in vigorous agreement but others when you might want to crumple the page and even throw the paper away. Since I aim to be noticed I can’t say I’m displeased with either response. It’s your indifference I dread. To be passed over, as your eyes flick away from my column, would be a sentence I would find difficult to accept.

Yet I do more than simply cry out for attention. I also try to please. Not in the gross way of our false and flattering politicians nor with the slime and oily metaphors of Uriah Heep — I’m too proud for that — but by trying to engage your mind and tickle your wit. As I have read all of PG Wodehouse, whose wit is delightful, I too have absorbed his structures consciously or unconsciously! And if it trickles into my writing, it is often unconscious.

However, a word of caution. My arguments are rarely profound and my humour might take a little getting used to. I’m not an original thinker and usually don’t understand an original thought. But I’m good at repeating what’s been said before and occasionally end up saying it better. Once you’ve learnt to laugh with me, I’m sure we’ll get on well. I believe that if you make the effort to read me I, in turn, must ensure you don’t feel its wasted.

My world, as you’ll discover, is not filled with Vajpayee and Advani, Sonia or Chandrababu Naidu. Though they do make an occasional appearance, they live in its periphery. I meet celebrities occasionally in closely defined, formal circumstances, can’t profess to know them and they are not friends. My central characters are the more ordinary people of my daily existence like Pritam, Pappu and Pertie, Ashok and Aru and, of course, Nisha and Mummy. The things they do might not make headlines but they’re more relevant and interesting. Even if they don’t matter in the big scheme of India on a Sunday morning, they can be great fun.

I should also make a small admission. I can be rather obsessed with myself. Not uncritical, of course, nor even, I hope, uninteresting but I, me and myself are never far from my concerns. There are shades of my personality in my writing and even in front of the camera, I am a different person from programme to programme. So as the and the personalities topics unfold, you will get to know me. Quite literally. In fact, sometimes warts and all.

And now, like a new next-door neighbour who is hesitantly calling on you, I’m anxiously waiting to see if you will let me in. This, actually, is a test for both of us. Are you a welcoming reader who, gingerly perhaps but with an open mind, reaches out to embrace the new or are you a creature of tired habit, scared to experiment and unwilling to meet strangers?

Through this book Sunday Sentiments, we’ll both find out.

Contents

Introduction

Portals of Power

As I Remember Him

Three Men in A Boat

The Man in a Bib

An Odd Sort of Hero

An Interesting Man

General Musharraf ’s Tie and Shah Rukh’s Photograph

Hamid Karzai and the Things He Said Nine Years Ago

Au Revoir Ashraf

Generals Zia and Ershad

The Shrinking of Mr. Vajpayee

The Smarter Sex

In the Frame

Mr. Birla and Mr. Laxman

The Man Behind the Masterpiece

The Little Things One Remembers

The Dalai Lama and the Cricket Captain

The Impact of Hrithik Roshan

Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and Sanjay Dutt for New Year’s Eve

The Eyes That Spoke To Me

If Generals Are in the News Then Try and Beat This One

Shah Rukh, Mummy and Me

An Important Quality that Fardeen and Aishwarya Share

I Say Mr. Laxman!

Keep Kicking, Khushwant – We Like It!

A Reverie at a Book-Reading

Stop Over

My Big Time in Barcelona

Lessons From Colombo

Marriage – Sri Lankan Style

A Farewell to Afghanistan

The Subtle Charm of Sri Lanka

Pictures of Pakistan

A Kuala Lampur Diary

What the Story of Delhi Means to Me

Oh, To Be in England !

The Bit in Between

When the Words of the Song Proved Untrue

The Music of the Ritz

In Good Company

The Wisdom of Pritam

The Man Who Sold Me A Jacket

The Queen and I

Either Fear is the Key or the Price is not Right

Beyond Bylines

Photographs Tell A Story Words Cannot Express

In Vino Veritas !

A Lady, A School and My Favourite Ice-cream

When a Dream Come True Becomes A Dream Turned Sour

Lesson for the New Year

Of Course it’s An Act – But Can You See Through It?

The Rakshas Explains

The Most Difficult Thing

Point of View

In Defence of Politicians

Oops, Excuse Me !

The New Rhetoric

Why Won’t He Speak English?

Sex, Hypocrisy and Morality

The Problem of Pakistan

Not Quite a Coup But Definitely the Next Best Thing

Lessons One May Have to Learn Again

The Third World War

Boot is on the Other Foot !

One Simple Question

The Case for Wit

The Right to be Wrong

The Close Circle

The Tie that Really Binds

On Kissing Women

Presentation Before the Queen

Are You Married?

Baba Gajju and House of Mewar

When a Pink Pig Means I’m Sorry

Portals of Power

1

As I Remember Him

I can’t claim to have known Madhav Rao Scindia well. Although we met frequently, there was a hint of reserve that surrounded him. He was friendly but never familiar. Open and candid, without wearing his emotions on his sleeve. But he had a loud, infectious laugh. At such times, his eyes would twinkle and shine. It reminded me of the little boy in the Asian Paints advertisement. A combination of mischief and innocence, playfulness and fun.

Sitting in a Doordarshan studio as the 1998 election results started coming in, I mentioned this to him during a commercial break.

You are the second person to have said this. He replied, laughing as he spoke.

Who was the first?

My wife. But she meant it as a compliment.

In a sense, that remark was typical of our relationship. Mr. Scindia, that’s what I called him, always thought I had a trick up my sleeve. I don’t think he distrusted me. I don’t think he was the sort to distrust people. But in my case, he was never sure if there wasn’t more to what I was saying, a devious strategy behind a thinly-disguised opening tactic. I can’t say I blame him for his suspicions. Not that I was guilty but unwittingly, I had given him occasion to think so.

The story of that incident is the tale I want to recount today. It catches some of the greatness of Madhav Rao Scindia but also a little of his touching human frailty. He knew his weaknesses, he never shied away from admitting them and he was never too big to apologise for them. At the time, he was a minister — one of the gods of the Indian political firmament and I, a mere journalist on a poorly-viewed video magazine.

It happened in 1995. After an absence of eighteen months, Scindia had just returned to the cabinet as Human Resource Development Minister. I approached him for an interview for Eyewitness (the video magazine). I wanted his first interview but he was reluctant.

What can I say? He asked. I’ve only just taken over. Surely we should wait a while.

Scindia had a point but I was scared that if we waited, others would pip me to the prize. So I insisted. In doing so, I gave him every assurance I could that the interview would go well. My object was to persuade him and I had few qualms about what I had to do. After a while, to be honest, after several phone calls and a little friendly intervention from my then boss, Shobhana Bhartia, he agreed.

I can still vividly recall what he was wearing as he arrived at our studios at Jamia. It was around six in the evening and shadows were starting to fall across the Jamia forecourt. There was a hint of chill in the air. Scindia had on a deep blue shirt with sleeves slightly rolled up. On top, he was wearing a grey collarless bandhgala jacket. Its buttons had been left jauntily undone. He looked informal but by no means casual.

His appearance was very different to the sort of ministers we had grown accustomed to. In those days, white kurta-pyjamas or dhotis were de rigueur. They shuffled in looking ill at ease and made you feel very similar. Scindia looked like one of us.

As he settled into the chair in studio, chatting to the make-up lady who powdered his face, I dashed to collect my jacket.

Achche lag rahe hein. said one of the cameramen out of Scindia’s earshot. Akhir mantri ho to aisa ho.

The interview was a five-minute affair and it was inconsequential. Except for an accidental last question. Without intending any malice, I asked him – almost as a way of signing off – if he wanted to be Prime Minister. It was an innocent question and I did not realise it would cause him problems. But it did.

Scindia prevaricated. Being an honest man, his prevarication showed. I pounced on it. But that only made his predicament worse. Afterwards, he asked me if we could delete this last exchange.

Why? I asked. It didn’t seem worth worrying about.

You see, it’s not the question but the answer. If I say ‘yes’, people will accuse me of being greedy. If I say ‘no’, they’ll claim I’m a hypocrite. It’s one of those that damn you either way.

I could see what he meant. The problem is the hypocrisy we practise and it’s one that many journalists (including me) are guilty of. So I agreed to drop the last question.

Now, Mr. Scindia hardly knew me and therefore he had no reason to believe that I would not let him down. After all, it isn’t unheard of for journalists to betray their promises or even record and transmit conversations that are supposed to be off record. As a newly-reinstated cabinet minister, he could not afford to take a risk. So he telephoned my boss and tipped her off.

That night, Mrs. Bhartia rang me. Unaware that I had already agreed to Scindia’s request, she asked me to drop the question. She was embarrassed that an interview she had persuaded Scindia to agree to had ended badly. In her place, I too would have felt the same. But I wasn’t in her place. I was in my own and like any prickly journalist, I resented being asked to drop something. The paradox that I had already agreed to do just this hardly mattered. That was voluntary and this was not. As a result, Mrs. Bhartia and I had our first and only quarrel.

The next day, I left for Mumbai. Although two thousand miles from Delhi, I was full of self-righteous anger and injured pride. I was smarting. But I had a surprise in store for me that would soothe my ruffled feathers and show me how silly I was being.

As I checked into the Oberoi I was told there was a message waiting. Mr. Scindia had telephoned. With trepidation, I returned his call. I needn’t have worried.

Karan. He started, are you about to bang the phone down on me?

Why? I stammered unsure of how to handle this change of tone and style.

Because I’ve been a fool. I made you and Shobhana quarrel. I gather it’s the only time you have fought with her. I’m really sorry.

I was not used to ministers apologising. I still am not. It’s a strangely warm and flattering feeling but it leaves you embarrassed. So I tried to stop him. There was no need for him to go on. But he was a far bigger and more large-hearted man than that.

No, let me explain. Scindia insisted. You see it’s important for me that nothing goes wrong this time round. That’s why I panicked. I shouldn’t have and I was wrong to do so. But I did.Will you forgive me?

We didn’t go on to become friends. This is not a fairytale with one of those gold- tinted endings. But thereafter Scindia always had my respect. I only wish I could have convinced him to appear more frequently on our programmes.To the end, he retained a little of his suspicions. But then in his position, I would have too.

2

Three Men in A Boat

Occasionally, television interviewers meet interesting people. It’s one of the advantages of the job. Last week, I met three. For good or ill, they left a lasting impression.Two of them were Nobel laureates, the third, a spiritual guru. Each in his own way said or did things that are difficult to forget.

Amartya Sen was a guest on one of our shows. But it wasn’t what he said on air so much as his casual comments in the car that linger in my memory. They were made to my colleague, Vishal Pant.

Sen was talking about the present day Trimurti of Indian politics — Vajpayee, Advani and Sonia. He met them in 1999 when he came to receive the Bharat Ratna.

He was looking forward to the meetings with Vajpayee and Sonia. Vishal reported. They’re people he wanted to meet. But he said he was apprehensive about Advani. He thought they would clash.

It turned out very differently. The meeting with Vajpayee lasted an hour but felt like three or four.

Apparently Vajpayee said absolutely nothing. Vishal told me. But that was not all. Sen’s comments went further. He added that Vajpayee probably had nothing to say. He was simply filling time. Their meeting was a failure.

What about Sonia? I asked.

The same if not worse. Sen tried to talk to her about politics but found she had no interest in the subject whatsoever. He made a witty comment about the two of them.

What did he say?

They deserve each other!

And Advani? If Sen found Vajpayee and Sonia depressing, Advani could hardly have lifted his spirits.

Advani started off by talking about one of Sen’s books. Sen thought he was being polite. But when Advani went on, Sen interrupted and told him he had written several articles very critical of Advani and totally opposed to his views. Sen thought this was the honest thing to say. But do you know what Advani said?

I waited. I was pretty sure a quarrel would have ensued. That had to be the point of the story.

I’ve read them all, Advani had replied. That’s why I want to talk to you.

Vishal was smiling as he spoke. He could sense the delicious irony behind it. Sen said the meeting lasted an hour and a half. It was the only one he enjoyed.

By a strange coincidence, I met Vidia Naipaul the next day.We were guests at Navin Chawla’s. It was a dinner for Navin’s agent Gillon Aitken. When Naipaul arrived, his wife walked up and started talking. Moments later, Naipaul joined us. It was a pleasant conversation. There was nothing remarkable about it. But there was a brief interlude with one of Navin’s waiters that is worth recounting. I shall tell it without comment or conclusion.

What will you drink, Sir?

What sort of gin do you have?

London.

Do you have Bombay gin?

No, Sir.

What make of tonic do you have?

I didn’t hear the answer but Naipaul turned to ask what I thought of it. I smiled not knowing what to say. The waiter assured him it was a good brand. Naipaul was not convinced.

What whisky do you have?

Black Label.

That’s what he finally took but after a sip he visibly wrinkled his nose and left the glass untouched. I got the distinct impression he thought it was spurious. His wife, however, quaffed copious quantities without complaint or hesitation.

The third person was Sri Sri Ravishankar. In case, you don’t know, he’s a big spiritual guru. I’m sceptical of such men. I tend to think of them as frauds. That was my attitude to Sri Sri as well. (Incidentally, I’m not sure how else to abbreviate his name). But was I wrong?

Sri Sri, whose father calls him Guruji, is supposed to have spoken to his mother from the womb during the eighth month of her pregnancy. His father claims it’s a fact. I asked if it was true. He said he didn’t know but he didn’t deny it. In fact, he even suggested that because he was very attached to her, it could be true.

He was more forthcoming when I mentioned another of his ‘miracles’. His father says that Sri Sri knew the Bhagwad Gita when he was just three years old though no one had taught it to him. If that was so, I asked, how did he account for it?

That’s a fact. He said. "Consciousness is quite old. This is not the only time we are