Devil's Advocate

by Karan Thapar

  Whether her sarcasm was an accurate reflection on the role of the press might be debatable, but it was certainly sufficient to finish off poor Norman. He retired to the House of Lords and well-deserved obscurity.

  The point Arun and Lady Thatcher (as she subsequently became) wanted to make was uncannily similar. There is something about the way newspapers and television report differences of political opinion that converts them into seeming dissidence. Perhaps it’s their narrow focus, or the exaggerated attention, or even the suggested opposition in views that does it. Or maybe it’s inherent in the very nature of political reportage. Disagreements don’t matter unless they are significant. And if they are significant, surely they must be more than differences of opinion? This logic may be circular but it’s also unquestionable.

  So are journalists guilty—if that’s the word—of making honest and straightforward differences seem like disagreements and dissidence? And if we are, is that tantamount to manufacturing what we then report and comment on? Or do politicians, perhaps understandably and at times even cleverly, blame journalists for the problems they cannot reconcile or resolve?

  Perhaps it’s a bit of all these. Donald Trump would, of course, call it fake news!

  It was during my time at LWT that I also started writing leaders, or lead articles, for The Times. To be honest, I was somewhat taken aback when Charlie suggested this. ‘I’ve never written a leader in my life,’ I said.

  Charlie laughed. By now I knew this would be his instinctive response to many of my questions. ‘I know, but then you’d never written an article when you first started with The Times. You’re the sort of chap who likes being thrown into the deep end because you know how to swim. You’ll get the hang of it pretty soon.’

  My initial remit covered the countries of the subcontinent: India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka. However, it soon expanded to include the Maldives and, occasionally, Afghanistan. I knew some of these countries well, but there were others where my knowledge was limited. In the early years, one such was Pakistan.

  This was the Zia decade, when momentous developments could happen without warning. When they did, I would reach out to Maleeha Lodhi for help. Today she’s better known for her two stints as Pakistan’s ambassador in America, a spell as high commissioner in the UK and her present tenure as the country’s permanent representative at the United Nations. But in those days she was simply teaching at the London School of Economics.

  Few people I know have the encyclopaedic knowledge she carries in her head. No matter what the subject, she always had the details of its background. More importantly, she could also swiftly analyse the likely consequences that might follow most developments.

  So whenever The Times rang for a leader on something that had just happened in Pakistan, I’d pick up the phone and ring Maleeha. Often we would meet for a quick lunch but sometimes if she was busy, she’d explain on the phone. She was always ready to help.

  Looking back on the leaders I wrote, they were analytical rather than prescriptive. From my perch in London, my understanding of the subjects I tackled was sufficient to suggest knowledge and insight without overwhelming the readership with confusing detail. My London-based perspective made it easier to explain subcontinental issues to a British or international readership. Perhaps Indians or Pakistanis or Bangladeshis would have found the leaders somewhat general, but they were not really meant for them.

  There was one occasion when I did get into trouble. During my visit to Pakistan to interview Gen. Zia, I filed a leader on his constitutional amendments. While pointing out the many ways in which these were undemocratic, I also claimed that they did not permit the president to be removed from office.

  A few days after its publication, by when I was back in London, the Pakistan high commissioner called up Charlie and asked to meet him. Charlie sensed it had to do with the leader and suggested that I should be present.

  ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’ Charlie sounded perplexed.

  ‘Once the high commissioner sees me, he’ll know that your leaders on Pakistan are written by an Indian. Given the relationship between the two countries, is it wise you should let this cat out of the bag?’

  Charlie got the point at once. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll see him on my own and let you know what he has to say.’

  So the next day, after the high commissioner had met him, I got a call from Charlie. As usual, he started with a laugh.

  ‘He really is a silly little man,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s annoyed by the point made in your leader that the president can’t be removed. Apparently, if 98 per cent of the people vote to do so, he can be turfed out. So technically, we were wrong.’

  My heart sank. I’d made a factual error that should never have happened and, as a result, I had embarrassed The Times. I immediately apologized and asked Charlie what he proposed to do.

  ‘The silly little man insisted on an apology, so I had to agree. But don’t worry—we’ll write it in small print and bury it somewhere at the back of the paper!’

  That is precisely what happened the next day. So well was it hidden, it took me a while to find the apology!

  Charlie never held this episode against me. It didn’t alter his confidence in me. Consequently, this was the best lesson I learnt about how a boss can support his colleagues and win their loyalty forever.

  Writing leaders never conflicted with my responsibilities at LWT. Once I got the hang of it, they could easily be done either late at night or during a slow spell in the afternoon. But there were two interviews I did for The Times which clearly amounted to cheating on LWT. At the time, I placated my conscience with the specious argument that they had been done on the phone and not recorded on camera, and that LWT would probably not have been interested in these interviews anyway.

  The first was with Benazir Bhutto on the day Gen. Zia died in a plane crash. His sudden removal meant that elections had to be called and she was the most likely winner.

  So, hours after the general’s death, when I phoned Benazir, she was happy to grant an interview, though it had to be done hurriedly. She was now at the centre of a sudden swirl of developments and desperately short of time.

  I managed to talk for about twenty-five minutes. To this, I added excerpts of earlier interviews, including one while she had been in London, where she’d talked about how she would handle power if she ever became prime minister.

  The interview was published on the op-ed page of The Times the following day and it made a splash. Unfortunately, this meant that practically everyone at LWT got to see it. They now knew why I had suddenly been absent after lunch the previous day. No one told me off but I could sense the disapproval.

  The second interview was even more fortuitous. It was with Aung San Suu Kyi. More importantly, it happened just days after she’d been put under house arrest.

  I told The Times that she was an old friend and I was confident that if I could get through, she’d give me an interview. So, once again, I quietly disappeared from LWT and placed myself in a quiet room at The Times. The paper’s office was at Wapping, a remote and rarely visited corner of London, and no one was likely to discover I was there.

  It was Michael Aris, Suu’s husband, who picked up the phone when I got through to Rangoon (Yangon). ‘How on earth did you manage?’ he asked. ‘This phone is supposed to have been cut off.’

  Yet it was a perfect line. Normally, the connection was full of crackle and it would be difficult to make out what was being said. On this occasion, it felt as if I was talking to someone in the next room.

  After a minute, Michael said, ‘Would you like to speak to Suu? She’s here beside me.’

  It had been a couple of years since I had last met Suu. During that period her mother, who used to pamper me as a child when she was the Burmese ambassador in India in the early 1960s, had died. As a result, I forgot why I’d called and began talking about the past.

  ‘Hav
e you just rung for a chat?’ Suu suddenly interrupted. ‘Don’t you want to do an interview before the authorities realize what has happened and cut this line? This could be your only opportunity.’

  Only then did the interview get underway. I had already wasted five minutes chatting aimlessly. Luckily, the line stayed intact and I was able to ask all the questions I wanted. In fact, there were a few times when Michael took the phone and added a couple of sentences to complete an answer he thought Suu had needlessly abbreviated.

  I’m not sure how long it took the Burmese junta to discover that Suu’s phone was working, but the interview this inexplicably functioning phone line permitted attracted considerable attention when it was published by The Times the next day. Years later, when Suu published her book, Freedom from Fear, the full transcript was part of it. Obviously, she was as pleased with the outcome as I was. And this time LWT didn’t seem displeased. Or, at least, I couldn’t sense it.

  I thought I was firmly settled at LWT and likely to spend a lifetime there when fate suddenly and dramatically intervened. Nisha died. It didn’t take me long to realize that this had changed everything.

  Because of her stellar career, we had decided to put off having children till Nisha was thirty-six, an age beyond which she felt it would be unwise to wait. At that point, Nisha also thought, we would need to take a decision—either to return home and bring up our children in an Indian environment or commit ourselves to Britain forever and ensure they fully belong to that country.

  Now that Nisha had died at thirty-three, I realized that the decision to return to India or remain in Britain had to be taken immediately. Her death meant that I had to rebuild my life and it was necessary to decide where I would do so.

  I opted for India, thus bringing to an end nine years with LWT. However, the skills I took to Delhi were a direct product of this experience. In India, I concentrated on interviews and discussions, but if they seemed different to what other anchors were doing, it was because I consciously applied the lessons I had learnt in London. The imprimatur of LWT was there for all to see.

  6

  BENAZIR BECOMES A CLOSE FRIEND

  I

  t was during her years of self-exile in London that my university friendship with Benazir Bhutto matured into a stronger and closer bond. This was helped by the fact that I was married by then, and Benazir and Nisha grew to like and understand each other.

  To begin with, of course, Benazir was a journalistic catch. As the de facto leader of Pakistan’s battered democracy—not to mention that she was also the principal opponent to Gen. Zia—Benazir was inevitably courted by Eastern Eye. She would enhance our ratings, while we could offer her the perfect platform to reach out to both the Asian community in Britain and Pakistanis at home.

  One of the first things I did after her arrival in London was to invite her to lunch. It was held at the formal dining room in the London Weekend office, around a table set with a white linen tablecloth and napkins, silver candelabra and cutlery, and hallmarked china crockery. This only added to the intimidating effect Benazir had on my colleagues. Initially, at least, they were speechless. The other guests on the surrounding tables also seemed unable to take their eyes off her.

  I had thought this would please Benazir, but I was wrong. Jail and adversity in Pakistan had tempered the person I used to know. Now she wanted to do more than just make a political impression. She wanted to get to know people and understand them. Their awe made that difficult, if not impossible.

  ‘What about inviting me home?’ she said when I dropped her back to her flat. ‘I want to meet your wife and see your house.’

  This was what I had been waiting for. I wasn’t sure how much our relationship might have changed in the six years since we last met. Now, I knew that even though she had become a leading Pakistani politician in her own right and would soon be an international celebrity, she was still my old friend.

  Benazir and Nisha took to each other almost immediately. With Nisha, Benazir would open up and talk about the personal tragedy her family had suffered, starting with her father’s assassination, her separation from her two brothers and the continuing mistreatment by Gen. Zia. With me the discussion was initially more political. Between the two of us, Benazir found a home and friendship that allowed her to voice whatever issues were on her mind.

  When her younger brother Shahnawaz died in the south of France, Benazir recounted the tragic story with tears running down her cheeks. For some reason we were sitting on the floor, drinking red wine while Nisha and Benazir smoked. In those days, Benazir still smoked occasionally. She was convinced that her Afghan sister-in-law had a role to play in Shahnawaz’s death. She certainly had not been prompt to help or report his death.

  Late at night and sometimes even in the wee hours of the morning, when it was time to leave, Benazir would ask me to call a cab. ‘We’ve all drunk too much and you’re not going to drive me home,’ she would laugh and say. ‘Imagine what would happen if the police stop you and I’m found on the seat beside you.’

  On the first such occasion when the taxi driver turned out to be South Asian, I discovered another side of her complex and self-protective personality. Benazir kissed Nisha’s cheeks but pointedly held out her hand when it was time to bid me goodbye. This took me aback because till then, she had never hesitated to put her cheek forward.

  ‘Careful, careful,’ she whispered. ‘He’s from our part of the world. He mustn’t see you kissing me. Remember, I’m an unmarried woman from a Muslim country.’

  That was, of course, well known but its implication and how that, in turn, would put a clamp on her behaviour had never occurred to me. For Benazir, however, always conscious of the fact that her future lay in politics in Pakistan, this was a key concern.

  Over the next few years we met fairly regularly. Occasionally, Nisha and I would take her out to dinner. But more often she preferred to come home, put her feet up and chat into the late hours, sipping wine and sometimes smoking. So it was a surprise when she called up one day in 1985 and said, ‘I need to discuss something with the two of you. When can I come over?’

  Benazir had decided to return to Pakistan. She had realized that she couldn’t put off doing so for much longer. Exile in London was diminishing the contact she valued with her people. But more than that, I suspect, there was the challenge to prove that she could take on a dictator and get Pakistan to support her the way the people had stood by her father in the 1960s, when he had taken on Field Marshal Ayub Khan who was the military dictator at the time. Benazir knew that she had to confront a similar challenge and win.

  Actually, she didn’t need our support or advice. Her mind was made up. She was a resolute person who always knew what she wanted to do. But she felt the need to personally tell us. That was important for her. It was one of the little things that reflected her personal warmth.

  I dropped in to say goodbye on her last night and, not surprisingly, she was surrounded by supporters, friends, advisers and hangers-on. Each room in her small flat was packed. ‘Wish me luck, wish me luck,’ she said. I noticed that her fingers were crossed. But she was smiling. Now that she had made up her mind and was returning the next day, she looked radiant. Somewhere inside, she knew that destiny was calling.

  Benazir took Pakistan by storm and today, when you look back on that incredible return, it seems inevitable. But at the time it was very different. Under her confident exterior she was apprehensive. That was why she had planned her return meticulously.

  Benazir chose to fly home via Saudi Arabia. She did this for two reasons. First, she wanted to pay her respects at Mecca. Equally importantly, she wanted to land in Lahore rather than Karachi. And in those days the only international flight to Lahore was Saudia (Saudi Arabian Airlines) from Riyadh.

  The reason Lahore was so important wasn’t immediately clear to me. ‘I have to make a mark in Punjab to prove to the country that I have popular support,’ Benazir explained. ‘Arriving first in Karachi won�
�t be the same thing. No matter how many turn out to meet me, it will always be said that this is local Sindhi support. Punjab is the heart of Pakistan and that’s where I must begin.’

  When we met after her return home, Benazir told me how difficult the flight from Riyadh to Lahore had been. She was in first class and almost entirely alone; the rest of her entourage was at the back of the plane. As it flew through the clouds she stared out of the window, wondering what sort of reception she would get. She knew her future depended on it.

  When the plane landed, Benazir said that she kept peering out of the window only to find the airport silent and deserted. This didn’t feel like a rapturous welcome. Her heart began to sink. ‘Is my political career over before it’s even started?’ was the question she kept asking herself.

  There were three people at the bottom as she climbed down the stairs. Beyond them stretched empty space and an eerie silence. It was shortly after dawn, but there seemed to be no signs of life at the airport.

  ‘Bibijaan,’ one of the three said to her, ‘the authorities have not allowed anyone to enter the airport but there are millions outside waiting for you.’

  It took Benazir eighteen hours to drive from the airport to the Minar-e-Pakistan in the centre of Lahore, a journey that should have taken no more than half an hour. It seemed as if the whole city—perhaps even the entire province—was out on the streets to welcome her home.

  In the weeks that followed, such displays of mass support for Benazir were repeated in Quetta, Islamabad and Karachi. By then it was clear that Gen. Zia’s nemesis had arrived and captured the love and support of the Pakistani people. The clock of his departure was now steadily ticking and growing louder with every chime.

  About a year after her return, I made a trip to Islamabad to interview Gen. Zia’s prime minister, Muhammad Khan Junejo, but ensured that I returned to London via Karachi. That gave me a few hours to meet Benazir. She tried to persuade me to accompany her the next morning to Larkana, the Bhutto ancestral home in the interior of Sindh. I told her that my visa didn’t permit me to leave Karachi city perimeters.