by Karan Thapar
‘It was a dreadful moment’, my informant confided. ‘The two ladies were definitely not happy but none of the wretched MPs would budge. They simply continued to sit there. Then, suddenly, a voice from in front of us rang out. ‘Tell me, yaar,’ it said, ‘which of the two is more ugly?’ And prompt came the reply: ‘They both look like the backside of a DTC bus!’
My final story comes from further afield. In fact, all the way from America, and it concerns the legendary FDR. It was told to me by Devendra Dwivedi, a politician of the old school with a fund of good-natured illuminating anecdotes. I need hardly add that Mr Dwivedi is quite unlike the two MPs referred to above.
One day at a meeting with a group of dissident senators, Roosevelt was berated for America’s policy of support for an assortment of distasteful dictators. Batista of Cuba, more than any other, was the prime subject of concern.
‘Mr President,’ an overeager senator remonstrated. ‘He’s a son of a bitch.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ the unflappable president replied. FDR was known for his sang-froid. But this was also a test of his political credentials, if not his integrity. ‘But you know what? Batista is my son of a bitch. He’s not Stalin’s son of a bitch.’
American politics has always reflected the same cold, hard, self-calculating logic. Reagan and Bush may seem like excellent examples but I would argue that Carter and Clinton were no less, even if they found fine words to disguise it. Similarly, the Macmillan story captures a real truth about Britain. The British value humour. There’s no lapse so terrible that a good joke cannot atone for it. And, finally, though regrettably, we in India are perfectly exemplified by the two MPs. I often grab seats meant for other people without any sense of remorse or shame. In fact I ignore the dirty looks I get. Our motto seems to be: take what you can before someone else does. And we do!
20 January 2005
In Praise of Repartee
I guess we live in a four-letter age. When we wish to retort or rebuke we tend to swear and curse. If we’re English, speaking the F-word trips off our tongues with frightening fluency. The rest, I suspect, are prisoners of Punjabi invective. In either case, the crude, even the lewd, dominates our response. Sadly, we’ve bid goodbye to the use of wit and repartee.
How different was the world of Winston Churchill and Lady Astor. They seem to have been habitual sparring partners. Almost a century later, their stories are still delightful.
Once, when a tipsy Winston Churchill stumbled down the stairs of the House of Commons, he fell in front of a disapproving Lady Astor. ‘Winston,’ she reprimanded, ‘you’re drunk.’ ‘And you’re ugly,’ he shot back. Then, rising to this feet, he added: ‘But tomorrow I’ll be sober.’
At a dinner where Lady Astor was pouring coffee, she handed a cup to Winston Churchill with the words, ‘If you were my husband, I’d poison your coffee.’ Accepting, he replied, ‘If you were my wife, I’d drink it.’
But it wasn’t just Winston Churchill and Lady Astor who used their wit to keep the other in his or her place. Gladstone and Disraeli did the same in the nineteenth century. Gladstone, who was more proper and less flamboyant, was frequently at odds with Disraeli. ‘Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease.’ ‘That depends, Sir,’ Disraeli responded with a flourish, ‘on whether I embrace your policies or your mistress.’
I suspect Disraeli usually got the better of their exchanges but Gladstone’s description of him has achieved a certain rhetorical immortality. He called him ‘a sophistical rhetorician inebriated by the exuberance of his own verbosity.’
The truth is that the English – and those who enjoy imitating them – delight in witty ways of putting the rapier in. They don’t bludgeon but they delicately carve and slice. Consider the following put-downs. They make their point with great effect yet its difficult to be off ended by them.
‘He has all the virtues I dislike but none of the vices I admire’ (Churchill); ‘He has no enemies but is intensely disliked by his friends’ (Wilde); ‘He had delusions of adequacy’ (Walter Kerr); ‘A modest little person with much to be modest about’ (Churchill); ‘Some cause happiness wherever they go, others whenever they go’ (Wilde); ‘He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lamp posts … for support rather than illumination’ (Andrew Lang); ‘Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without an address on it?’ (Mark Twain); ‘He’s not only dull, he’s the cause of dullness in others’ (Samuel Johnson); and ‘In order to avoid being called a flirt she always yields easily’ (Talleyrand).
It’s not just authors or politicians who have a way with words. Occasionally, even Hollywood celebrities can be remarkably witty. Robert Redford once said of a fellow actor, ‘He has the attention span of a lightening bolt.’ And Mae West of a suitor who was less than ardent: ‘His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.’ My favourite, however, is Billy Wilder on an unkind music critic: ‘He has Van Gogh’s ear for music.’
In my time the Cambridge Union would applaud repartee far more than weighty and serious argument. The better debators always had a quiver full. The arrows were aimed at their opponents. A regular used to be: ‘He’s a well-balanced man with a chip on both shoulders.’ Another was this comparison: ‘The difference between Mr X and me is a question of mind over matter. I don’t mind and he doesn’t matter.’ But the one that brought the House down was the Liberal leader Jeremy Thorpe’s attack on Reginald Maudling, at the time a Conservative minister: ‘They say when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Well, I suppose that explains why Reggie Maudling is sitting put in his chair.’
I’ll always be a sucker for the deceptive charms of the good Reverend Spooner. Borrowing from his repertoire, I was once called ‘a shining wit’. I beamed only to discover the quotation meant something very different.
10 July 2008
Chapter 8
Between the Covers
‘And do you expect to be paid?’
Memory and Truth
An autobiography is a tricky thing. The problem is the writer is also the central character and usually ends up the hero. When that happens the book becomes an exercise in self-glorification – tedious for us though gratifying for the author. Which is why most Indians write dreadful autobiographies. They can’t resist the temptation to blow their own trumpet. Everything they’ve done or said is always right; their opponents always wrong.
But I’ve just come across one that’s different, though the reason is not simply a contradiction of the above assertion. Critics, of course, gleefully point to the author’s tendency to omniscience. Maybe, but this book is special because it has interesting, even eye- opening, things to say. And it’s readably written.
I’m referring to P.C. Alexander’s Through the Corridors of Power. I chose it because I have a soft spot for the author. Way back in June 1984, days after Operation Blue Star, I flew to Delhi on behalf of London Weekend Television, searching for a minister who could be interviewed. Not conversant with Indian politicians, I had no idea how difficult this would be. As the shutters came down my request fell first on deaf ears and then on deaf phones. In desperation I turned to Swraj Paul in London. I knew he had contacts but I had no idea how good they were.
‘Give me five minutes,’ he said. ‘Then ring P.C. Alexander.’ From 5000 miles away this did not sound reassuring.
I rang and I can still hardly believe the sequence of events which followed. In an hour I was at Narasimha Rao’s office. Thirty minutes later the interview was fixed. That evening it was recorded. By the 9th of June I was flying back to London, sipping chilled champagne as the plane carried me home.
So when I picked up his book I knew P.C. Alexander had been central to events in 1984. If anyone’s account of Operation Blue Star mattered it had to be his. But what I had not anticipated was a critique of the army that would shatter all received wisdom. A week later I discovered Alexander’s version is not uncontested. Lt Gen K.S. Brar, who commanded the Golden Temple operatio
n, disputes almost every word he’s written. Between the two the truth is hard to discern. Not being a historian I’m hardly the man for the job. But a debate has been opened and a controversy started. The unfinished analysis of 1984 has sprung back to life and is, again, a subject of discussion. For that we have to be grateful.
Alexander writes that Indira Gandhi originally asked for a siege of the Golden Temple to flush out Bhindranwale and the militants but Gen Vaidya, the then army chief, convinced her it wouldn’t work and persuaded her to accept a commando operation instead. He assured her he could guarantee the safety of the buildings. However, Alexander points out, the general did not know the odds he would face. His intelligence was poor and his confidence misplaced. So when things went wrong the army – and, in particular, its chief – was to blame.
Baloney, retorts Brar, a siege was never possible. It could have lasted for months and jathas of aggrieved Sikhs would have converged on the temple. Punjab would have gone up in flames. As for the intelligence, it was never in the army’s hands. RAW and IB controlled its source and carry the blame if it was faulty or misleading.
Alexander, however, goes further. He says the army rushed the operation. The generals could have taken their time but did not. So if lack of preparation added to the problem they have only themselves to blame.
Once again, Brar rubbishes this argument. Speed, he says, was of the essence because the militants were planning to declare Khalistan. The operation to oust them had to be completed before this happened.
Alexander also claims Vaidya failed to anticipate the shock Sikh soldiers would suffer. Consequently he did not prepare for this. However, nothing makes Brar more incandescent than this allegation. Being a Sikh he understands the sentiments involved but there wasn’t much the army could do without giving the game away. Anyway, not a single Sikh officer rebelled.
No doubt, there’s more to this dispute – both details and argument – and frankly I’m delighted. A chapter of our recent history previously put to sleep has been re-awakened. Only from the confusion that must inevitably ensue will the ‘truth’ emerge. But it can’t be far away.
23 September 2004
I’m Sorry, Madhu …
I wish I hadn’t agreed to do ‘something’ with her book and, more than that, I wish I hadn’t got carried away and reminded Madhu Trehan. I thought it would be explosive. Unfortunately I was wrong yet I still need to honour my commitment. That’s my excuse and apology but will Madhu forgive me?
Madhu’s book is about the Tehelka episode which caused a political earthquake in 2001. Any work that revisits the subject, with access to all the tapes and transcripts, including many we never saw or read, and interviews with the key players, should at least have caused tremors. Madhu suggested it would be a bomb. From what I can tell – and I must admit I can’t bring myself to read all or even most of it – it’s more like a dud.
On reflection, the name should have aroused suspicion. Prism Me a Lie Tell Me a Truth: Tehelka as Metaphor sounds long- winded, pretentious and difficult to understand. The book is very similar. Madhu sent me a copy with eleven chapters flagged for attention. She said they were the best. What they contain is reams of unedited interviews which meander unstructuredly, often losing sight of purpose and frequently dissolving into pointless chatter in disconcerting slang. The detail is overwhelming but it doesn’t lead anywhere or, if it does, I got lost.
Often the ‘voice’ of the author is absent but when you can detect it, it appears to snigger or pontificate. Madhu seems to fancy herself as a psychoanalyst but I doubt if her efforts will win accolades. Even when there is the odd ray of sunshine, finding it is damnably difficult.
Chapter 19, on the hounding of Shankar Sharma and Devina Mehra, is a perfect example. It’s eye-opening yet it also illustrates Madhu at her best and worst – exhaustive research but a confusingly detailed account. Instead of wanting to read on you’re tempted not to continue. Confronted with the howling cries of your weary mind and tired hands, it requires dogged persistence not to give up. By the way, this is a heavyweight book but purely in terms of its bulk!
My efforts unearthed the following nugget. In a long excerpt from an Arun Jaitley interview, unhelpfully printed without paragraphs, I discovered that Tehelka had testimony exonerating George Fernandes but did not reveal it. Whether that’s tantamount to hiding is for you to judge but this is what Jaitley says: ‘In the absence of any evidence against George and the tape containing a statement that George is a very honest man, editing that out was an act of dishonesty.’
On page 353 Madhu offers a comment. Read carefully and ask if she’s fair or mealy-mouthed? Does she accept George Fernandes was innocent and wrongly targeted and, therefore, unjustly treated or does she, instead, seek to excuse Tehelka and gloss over the case against them?
‘The slanted editing in removing all reference to George Fernandes’s honesty did no service to Tehelka’s credibility. In my assessment, poor journalistic judgement, rather than any dark political conspiracy. A common habit amongst us journalists: often the angle of the story becomes so powerful, it subconsciously turns into a motive.’
When I ribbed Madhu about this ‘conclusion’ she sent an SMS asking me to see pages 483–484. If she had not, I would have skipped them altogether.
And what did I discover?
‘Tehelka cut out an encounter’ with an honest bureaucrat. A certain Mr Doodani not only refused a bribe but got extremely angry. Again, Tehelka hid this. They behaved as if it hadn’t happened. And Madhu’s conclusion: ‘Journalists habitually fall in love with the angle of the story on which they are focusing and any point raised that moves it away from that angle, is dropped … it made their report appear biased.’
Reflect on the word ‘appear’. Does it suggest balance and careful consideration or an attempt to blur criticism and paper- over Tehelka’s faults?
Madhu’s publisher, Pramod Kapoor, tells me her original manuscript was three times longer. Roli Books reduced 1800 pages to 587. I began by apologizing to Madhu; perhaps I should end by thanking Pramod?
11 February 2009
I Wish I Had Said No
As a rule I never interview good friends. It’s a sure-fire way of getting your emotional loyalties and professional ethics entangled. Friends don’t want to be asked awkward questions yet if you knowingly desist you aren’t doing your job. Either way you’re a loser.
But what do you do when someone asks to be interviewed? Is he accepting the risk or is he oblivious of it? That’s what happened when Shyam Bhatia’s publisher rang to suggest I talk to him about his political biography of Benazir Bhutto, Goodbye, Shahzadi.
I’ve known Shyam for forty-odd years. Although he’s considerably older, as journalists our careers kept track of each other long after school and college associations had ended. Amanda, his wife, was my first dental hygienist. The drive to their wedding was the first long journey in our new BMW.
The problem began when I read Goodbye, Shahzadi. Though described as a political biography, it contains unsubstantiated personal details that are, at best, rumour and gossip but, at worst, deliberate sensationalism. I feel they’re untrue. More importantly, they don’t belong in a ‘political’ biography.
At the core is an account of an alleged interview Shyam had with Benazir in 2003, where she reportedly spoke of an incident ten years earlier when she was prime minister. Shyam claims she described how she acted as a two-way courier facilitating a clandestine and illegal nuclear exchange between Pakistan and North Korea. Whilst on a visit to Pyongyang, she carried in her overcoat pockets CDs containing the secret of how to assemble a nuclear bomb. On the return she brought back the dis-assembled parts of a Nodong missile.
The problem is Shyam has no proof of this. He insists she made him switch-off his tape recorder and promise never to reveal the story during her lifetime. This is, therefore, a case of Shyam’s word against those who choose to question it. And given that he’s alleging Benazir was involved in
nuclear smuggling you can be sure her husband, party and supporters will.
This ‘story’ – and I use the word advisedly – is both the high point and the weakness of Shyam’s book. So, if he wanted to be interviewed, this is what I had to concentrate on. And if the interview was to be done professionally it also had to be done rigorously. Thus professionalism and friendship were destined to clash.
Aware Shyam is a friend, I began delicately. How would he respond if Asif Zardari called for proof? I’m not sure if he evaded or didn’t hear. At any rate Shyam did not really answer. So I tried again. You’re accusing Benazir of nuclear smuggling, I pointed out. In today’s world that’s a heinous crime. This time he was quick to respond. In Pakistan, Shyam suggested, she would be considered a heroine. Perhaps, I shot back, but why would she reveal such details to you? You’re an Indian, a journalist and not a close friend.
I saw Shyam’s lower lip quiver. It was a fair question but, in the circumstances, also a low blow. He could not have anticipated it. At once, I regretted my attack.
Both of us knew there couldn’t be a convincing reply. The question was designed to ensure that. After all, why do people make the most unbelievable confessions to the most unlikely confidantes? They probably don’t know themselves. But in an interview ‘don’t know’ is an incriminating answer.
Shyam took it like a man. I felt like a heel. Afterwards he was full of thanks and praise. I might have scored but I could barely speak. Although my skepticism has been echoed by the PPP in Islamabad and, even, L.K. Advani, who launched Shyam’s book in Delhi, I can’t get over the nagging feeling that I’ve set in motion a line of attack that’s snowballed into a problem for a friend. I might have done my job but I’ve also let Shyam down.