by Karan Thapar
“Oh no no no.” Kumar replied. “That’s not what I meant.”
No one else has retracted as he did and I liked him all the more for it. At best, others have smiled. In fact, Maureen Wadia muttered, “Let’s see.” But Kumar was embarrassed that I had interpreted his concern as a comment on my behaviour.
“I’m just nervous.” He said. “I hate interviews and I don’t know why I’ve agreed to this one. I’ll be terrible.”
The interview was conducted in one of the Oberoi Hotel’s suites. As we settled down, I offered Kumar something to drink.
“I’d prefer to earn it.” He replied, a small half smile playing on his face. “I hope you’ll repeat the offer after the interview is over.”
The cameras rolled and as soon as I got my cue, I started on the introduction. It’s a set-piece which I usually learn by heart. As I’ve also written it, it should be word perfect. On this occasion, it wasn’t. I meant to say of Kumar that “his friends say he’s likely to take the family’s fortunes to fresh heights.” But for some strange reason, I substituted ‘likely’ with ‘liable’.
“Why liable?” Kumar asked tentatively, after it was over. “Sounds odd, don’t you think?”
In fact, it sounded like an accusation rather than a compliment. It wasn’t odd. It was wrong and even though unintendedly so, possibly insulting.
“Why didn’t you point it out earlier?” I said after I had apologised for the silly mistake.
“Well,” Kumar replied, with a slightly sheepish smile, “I thought I better check you didn’t mean it before I claimed you’d made a mistake.”
Kumar had more than earned his drink. As we re-wound the tape and watched the interview that had just finished, I asked what he would have. He opted for a Diet Coke. It came in a can. Someone looked frantically for a clean glass. Unfortunately, rooms that have just recorded TV interviews do not have clean glasses lying around.
“Don’t bother.” He said. “It’s more fun straight from the can.”
“Shall I open it?” I asked.
“Do I still look that helpless?” He laughed.
“If helplessness can take me to the top.” Vishal Pant, our producer, remarked, sensing the need to step into the breach, “I shall pray every night to be helpless!”
Last Saturday, V.V.S. Laxman followed Kumar. He’s enormously tall, much more than his actual 6’1" height would suggest. But his face is covered with a big shy smile. Not a mere creasing of the lips but a fulsome smile that reveals all 32 teeth. The impression it leaves is of a gentle genial giant.
“I’m really sorry I’m so late.” Laxman began as soon as he walked in. In fact, it wasn’t his fault. The traffic at Ashram had held him up and as our studio at Jamia is on the other side of it, he had no choice but to patiently wait till the car cleared the confusion.
“He’s really upset about this.” Vishal whispered in my ear. “He feels he’s kept you waiting. So tell him it doesn’t matter.”
(Actually Vishal advised me to tell him ‘to chill out’ but since I’m not sure what that means I’ve interpreted it for you. Vishal, of course, is 15 years younger and his slang belongs to a different generation.)
Once again, we got down to the actual business of recording very quickly. As the microphones were pinned on and the lights adjusted, I leant across the table to engage Laxman in conversation. I wanted to relax him before the interview began.
“I suppose you must have countless requests for interviews.”
He smiled. He has perfect teeth, shiny white. When he smiles, his eyes light up. But he stayed silent.
Oops, I thought, he’s a little tense. I better try and distract him. In such situations, I tend to waffle, talk aimlessly and ceaselessly in the mistaken notion that the sound of my prattle is calming.
“I saw your interview with Harsha Bhogle.” I said hoping to remind him of someone in whose company he had been very relaxed. “It was great.”
Laxman smiled again – fully, warmly and soundlessly. But he stayed silent.
Now I was starting to panic. I know nothing about cricket and I could sense that I would flounder if I had to keep the conversation going all on my own. Worse, the director refused to start the recording. There was a last minute fault with one of the machines. So I made desperate attempts at conversation but they remained in vain.
Then, suddenly, Laxman spoke up. As he did, I noticed his eyes were gleaming.
“Well, there was this one interview the other day in Hyderabad.” He started. “The lady asked me what it was like to get a hat-trick. She thought I was Harbhajan Singh.”
“What did you do?” I asked. Even I can tell the difference between a bowler and a batsman.
I waited expectantly but the only reply I got was the return of the smile.
Afterwards, as he was leaving, Vishal teased Laxman. “Who was worse?” He asked. “Karan or the lady?”
Laxman blanched but he regained his composure quickly.
“The problem is different.” He replied taking the sting out of Vishal’s tease and the supposed blame on himself. “You see, I’m not that well known. So you can’t fault anyone.”
Well, Mr. Laxman, you deserve to be and like Mr. Birla, not just for the qualities that make you successful. The qualities that make both of you nice people are far more important.
2
The Man Behind the Masterpiece
A book is never as good as its author. And even when it’s a very good book that only means it’s the work of an exceptional writer. Last week, my old friend Patwant Singh launched his new effort. Simply called ‘The Sikhs’, it’s an attempt to explain to the community’s diaspora the history, traditions and beliefs of the Khalsa. Who and what are the Sikhs? How did they develop into the people they have become? And what is so special about them?
I won’t answer any of these questions. If you really want to know, buy a copy of Patwant’s magnum opus and find out for yourself. But I’ll tell you about Patwant. He has a flair, a style, an élan, a grandeur and a wickedness, a selfishness and a delightful self-centredness and a sense of fun that is unique. The book does little justice to him.
Now P – as we shall hereafter call him – is a man of many opinions, often expressed at length but never never boringly.When I first met him, I was 33. As is his wont, he gave me a large whisky, sat me on a chair lower than his own and pinioned me to the wall with the sheer force of his conversation. It was a bravura performance. I was dumbstruck. But just how good it was became clear when P lost his way and forgot what he was saying.
“You know the problem with me is none other than myself.”
P covered up. “I take such a broad approach I sometimes forget where I’m going. Now, young man, what was I talking about?”
I had to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea but it was equally true that it did not matter. For P is a raconteur, a man born to speak and entertain and the devil take the content.
When P’s book was ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world, he asked if I would review it.
“Of course, provided you give me a free copy.”
“Ah.” He retorted. “If you promise a good review, I’ll send you one from the English edition. But if it’s to be in your normal style, you’ll have to settle for the desi version.”
Last Friday as he presided over his book launch in the ballroom of The Imperial, I spotted him sitting behind a desk laden with copies of his book. A queue of people stood in front of him patiently getting their copies autographed by the great man.
“Bechre ho ya sabnu present ditte jaren?” I asked in Punjabi as I stepped forward to embrace and congratulate him.
“Mein budda ho sakna.” He shot back, “lekin paagal nahi.”
That’s what I like about Patwant. He can always think of the mot juste no matter what the occasion or who the person in front of him. So regardless of whether you buy his book or not, ring up and ask if you can meet him.And don’t be nervous. If he wants to, he’ll know how to say
no with considerable style.
3
The Little Things One Remembers
As a journalist, I can tell you it’s odd to find one whom everyone admires. By and large, our fraternity likes to cut people down to size. Enmity or at least rivalry ensures that we don’t think highly of our own tribe.
The exception is a petite lady from Islamabad whose armoury includes her intelligence as much as her appearance. She bowls you over when she first walks in and if you dare to stagger to your feet, her piercing comments can knock you down all over again. Were she not an old and dear friend, I’d run from her not just in self-defence but in terror and confusion.
In Islamabad, she is an institution. Visiting journalists flock to her office to listen and learn. Camera crew queue up for her sound bites. None are disappointed. The picture of her meticulously coifed presence, her gesticulating manicured hands with a pencil-thin Cartier cigarette clasped between her fingers, as she effortlessly explains the complicated nature of Pakistani politics, is perhaps the most vivid memory journalists carry with them. None dare visit Pakistan and not meet this oracle.
When four years ago, Benazir Bhutto appointed her Ambassador to Washington her rivals predicted, it would prove to be her undoing. Diplomacy and politics is different to journalism and speculation, they claimed. They were wrong. Washington proved that the lady also has the little round things that matter.
Last week, Maleeha Lodhi was in town. I bumped into her at the Pakistan Day reception or, rather, she found me and ensured that she bumped into me.
“Karan,” She exclaimed. “Your hair has gone white. Does that mean you’re now an old man or is it another of your acts of desperation?”
We spent the next two evenings together, gossiping, catching up on old friends, exchanging views on our respective governments and, of course, I spent a lot of time simply listening and learning. Maleeha knows more than most people. She also makes things simple to understand, easy to follow and seemingly comprehensive and conclusive in their feel.
At the end of the second evening, Maleeha looked me straight in the eye and then quite took my breath away.
“Why haven’t you offered me a paan? You know that the one thing you cannot get in Pakistan is a decent paan. Instead of all this talk about Kashmir and Siachen, trade and visas, a simple saada banarsi would have won the argument hands down.”
It was well past midnight but undaunted we set off. We drove past sleeping hotels and empty restaurants, shut shops and weary ice-cream vendors but no one had any idea where a paan could be bought at that hour of night. I was ready to give up but not Maleeha.
“I’m told there’s a kiosk in a place called Connaught Place where the owner sells paans at all hours.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
Maleeha only smiled, so obediently, I drove on. Outside the Odeon, I stopped. She rolled down the car window.
“Bhai sahab. ” She asked of the first man she saw in the sweetest tone she was capable of. “Yahan koi paan ki dukaan khuli hogi?”
“Ji haan.” The man replied. “Meri dukaan”.
Later, with our mouths full and Maleeha delighted with herself, I asked how she had known about the paanwallah.
“A visiting journalist I once met in Lahore told me about the shop. I made a point of remembering because I knew one day it would be useful. It’s one of the many little facts about India I can never forget.”
4
The Dalai Lama and the
Cricket Captain
What is it that makes a man truly great? The question is as interesting as it could be misleading. Most of us assume that great men are defined by great qualities. Not so or, at least, not necessarily so. More often than not it is the little, inconsequential things that make a man great. Perhaps not individually on their own but when they are added up, they count for much much more than the great qualities we keep mistakenly looking for.
Last week, I met two men who are truly great. They are in every other way poles apart. One is nearly 65, the other is barely 27. The former is spiritual, the latter athletic. The elder is wise and noble, the younger enthusiastic and striving. Well, after those broad hints, I guess you can tell which was the Dalai Lama and which, the cricket captain. Yet, in one very noticeable way, they were similar.
I met the Dalai Lama in Mcleodganj. This small town is situated on the mountain tops above Dharamsala. Other than the Dalai Lama and his entourage, there is nothing else to see, meet or think about. Just as his physical presence once ruled Tibet, here his very aura dominates Mcleodganj. I had gone there to interview him.
“The interview is scheduled for 8.30 tomorrow.” His secretary told us.
“In the morning?” I asked unable to accept I had heard correctly.
“Yes.” He continued and then added, “but His Holiness is bound to be early. He hates to keep people waiting.”
“Oh.”
I am only used to politicians who deliberately come late. They measure their self-esteem in terms of how much they have delayed you. An interviewee who does the opposite is not just rare but hard to believe.
We arrived the next morning at 7.15 a.m. It meant getting up at 5.00 a.m. but I was determined to be punctual. At 7.40 a.m., a beige Range Rover pulled up outside the room where we had set up the cameras. Ten seconds later, a large smiling man walked in. He was the Dalai Lama.
“I’m early,” He laughed. His eyes lit up and his face creased into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. “Do you want me to go away and come again?”
“Of course not, Sir.”
“I’m sorry.” He continued, “but I did not want to keep you waiting.”
As we settled down to start the interview, I couldn’t help notice that the Dalai Lama’s right hand was totally exposed. The left was covered by his deep red robes. But the right hand was bare. Given that Mcleodganj, on an early march morning is cold and that morning, after a freak hailstorm, it was in fact freezing, I could not curb my curiosity.
“You must be shivering.” I said.
“You mean this?” The Dalai Lama said holding out his right hand.
“Yes.” I muttered, but by now I was feeling rather silly and my voice started disappearing inside my throat.
The Dalai Lama sensed my embarrassment and laughed.
“Don’t worry.” He said reassuringly. “If you look carefully, the right hand is stronger. It’s the same with all Tibetan monks. That’s why we like to show it!”
I had not expected His Holiness to have a sense of humour. After all, when you call a man ‘His holiness,’ humour doesn’t fit in with the image you form of him. Yet the Dalai Lama laughed like a child.
Not the sheepish, half-hearted, wholly embarrassed squawk politicians manage. Nor the overly loud guffaw that is too garrulous to be genuine and which men who want to impress put on. But the real thing. When you hear it, you will recognise its authenticity.
Later when I recalled that six million Tibetans look upon him as god, I realised how lucky they were to have one who comes on time and has a sense of humour. I don’t know what I want of mine. To be honest, I haven’t thought about it. But I can’t help feel that punctuality and wit are two very desirable qualities.
Yet these are not the big, great values one customarily looks for in the Dalai Lama.You go in search of bigger things and in their quest, the little ones that actually matter are ignored. What I discovered were small seemingly inconsequential qualities. They don’t count in the big scheme of things. Yet they are far more telling. They are more relevant. Perhaps that’s why he is a god his people genuinely love.
Oddly enough, the cricket captain is also like god. Not in the spiritual sense — no, definitely not – but in the way he dominates, absorbs, infuses and fulfils our lives.
A few days after the Dalai Lama, our cricket captain was to be my next interviewee. It was a most fortuitous arrangement. My perceptive Assistant Producer, Vishal Pant, had persuaded Sourav Ganguly to accept long before anyone had thoug
ht he would be captain. When he was elevated, we kept our fingers crossed he would keep his commitment. He did.
However, the problem was that as captain, Sourav’s time is very restricted. When would the interview be? It was originally scheduled for the 13th but he was only arriving late that night. The next morning, he was practising. On the 14th afternoon, there were cricket board meetings and in the evening a board dinner. On the 15th, was the match with South Africa and the next day, he was gone. So it looked as if despite his willingness to stick to his promise, Captain Ganguly was a lot busier than batsman Sourav.
“Don’t worry.” He reassured me on the phone. “What about 1.00 o’clock on the 14th? If you pick me up from Faridabad, I’ll leave practice early and all you have to do is ensure I get back to the hotel in time for the board meeting.”
“What about lunch?”
“Now stop trying to find problems with my suggestion and anyway it won’t be the first time I miss a meal nor will it be the last.”
For Sourav, the interview was a little thing but for us, not just me but the full team, it was a big event. That’s why his willingness to forego lunch and curtail practise meant a lot. And we didn’t have to plead to make him do it. He suggested it himself. The only possible reason was that he wanted to keep his word.
Like the Dalai Lama, it was the small seemingly inconsequential details about the encounter with Sourav that were truly impressive. Why? Because it’s the small stuff most of us identify with. History may be about great big details but quite often they are beyond one’s reckoning. Sadly, history books don’t tell you that cricket captains keep their promises or that Dalai Lamas stick to time and have a sense of humour. They should. It’s the little things that matter and remember just because they seem little doesn’t mean they are unimportant. The grand gestures can be deceptive. A little thoughtfulness is often more meaningful.