by Karan Thapar
Suddenly I wasn’t sure how to respond. How do you continue a conversation with a bored cartoonist? But he stepped in to save me.
“I want to write a book on doctors.” He revealed. I can’t say I was altogether surprised. I asked if he intended it as an expose.
“I want to write about the pills they give all the time which don’t make any difference.” Then, dropping his voice although his eyes were sparkling, he continued. “Doctors don’t know anything, I say.”
“So is this your next big project?”
“Ah… but I hope I get well soon.”
Perhaps he noticed my amused expression because he soon added : “I’m not well, I say.”
I laughed again but this time he joined me.
“Reading the papers is so boring. I have to do something different.”
12
Keep Kicking, Khushwant –
We Like It!
What is it that makes some people special? It could be their looks, intelligence, wit, charm or just their magnetic presence. But in the case of a man I met last week – a man you all know of and no doubt have read repeatedly – it was his endearing, self-deprecatory manner. This man could have boasted, loudly and ceaselessly, for his achievements are huge. He could have assumed airs and pretensions as, no doubt, others often do. He could have been a bore, prattling on about himself and I would have sat still and listened. But, instead, he chose to wear his laurels lightly. He made fun of himself. He laughed and he joked. As a result, he impressed me enormously.
“Looking at all you’ve been: a lawyer, a diplomat, an author, a scholar, an MP, an editor and a gossip columnist,” I began, my eyes twinkling with naughtiness. “Are you a man for all seasons or a jack of all trades?”
“I’m just a dirty old man.” He replied and then Khushwant Singh threw back his head and laughed. “Or, at least, that’s what most people think.”
I had met him briefly once before, five years ago, but I did not know him and I had no idea what to expect. He’s nearly 85, he rises before dawn and is asleep by 9.00 at night. The sign outside his front door reads ‘Please don’t ring the bell if you are not expected.’ I thought here was a man who erects barriers around himself. Such men either have things to hide or, at least, are difficult to know.
How wrong I was. Just listen to him yourself and see if you disagree.
Speaking of himself, Khushwant, without batting an eyelid, told me, “Somebody said that you’ve made bullshit into an art form and I thought that was a correct description.”
He said that years ago he had decided, “we are a nation of sanctimonious humbugs” whose practice rarely match what we preach. It was therefore his ambition to prick the bubble of our inflated conceit.
Khushwant says, “Kick them in the arse and they will respect you. I enjoy provoking my countrymen. They are really so smug, so satisfied and not at all curious about anything. I think it’s worth provoking them.”
“This riled me very much and I said I’ll cock a snook at this. If I drink, I’ll drink right in the open and stand for drink as my birth right. If I like beautiful women, I’ll say that they are beautiful on their face or write about them, describing them.”
And when, as journalists often do, I asked him how he would meet his maker and what account he would give of himself, Khushwant side-stepped the solemnity of my portentous question with the simplicity and candour of his reply.
“I don’t believe in a maker and he won’t ask me a thing.” He answered back without a trace of hesitation but a large obvious smile.“When I die, I’ll die and that’s it. There’s no after-life. There’s nothing further. Death is a full stop.”
Till then, of course, he intends to go on as he has. So, this Sunday evening, as he raises his customary glass of scotch, I hope you, will join me in saying to him, Keep kicking, Khushwant – we like it!
13
A Reverie at a Book-Reading
Sometimes when you meet a person, you can end up seeing them not as they are but through the prism of memories. In such instances, the past overwhelms the present. It’s a strange but wonderful experience. Time somersaults backwards, reality converges with history, and myth and legend with truth.
As I watched Vikram Seth read extracts of his new novel, I found myself transported thirty two years back in time. We were both at The Doon School. Vikram was in A-form and in his penultimate year. I was in D-form and it was my second term. We were preparing for the school debating competition. Vikram was Debating Captain at Jaipur House. I was the youngest, most inexperienced, member of his team.
“Can’t you speak with authority but without shouting?”
Vikram was sitting cross-legged on his chair. He resembled a petite Buddha with sculpted feet and a small round head. His hair kept falling across his forehead. As a result, even when he sounded angry, he never looked it.
I wasn’t sure what he meant. At eleven, the difference between authority and a loud voice is not obvious. I cleared my throat, stood up straight and started again.
Vikram closed his eyes. He often does when he is concentrating.
But to speak to a man sitting cross-legged on a chair with his eyes shut can be disconcerting. Try hard as I did to control my voice, it started to wander.
“You’re singing or at least you’re sounding very sing-song.” Vikram’s eyes were now open and staring ferociously. “Remember you won’t win any extra points by trying to seduce the judges with your voice. Speak normally, clearly, fluently and you’ll carry conviction.”
Neither then nor now do I know what he meant. ‘Speak like you normally do’ is an injunction that baffles me. If I don’t speak like myself, whom do I speak like? Yet when I woke from my reverie it was to find, three decades later, that Vikram was doing exactly that. Of course, he wasn’t cross-legged. But the small round head, now slightly balding, was talking clearly, fluently and the audience was transfixed with conviction.
“What an amazing speaker.” whispered Shobha Deepak Singh in my ear. She was sitting beside me on the second row of the Habitat Centre auditorium.Aveek Sircar,Vikram’s publisher, was beside her. Earlier, with his help, Shobha had got Vikram to autograph her copy of his book.
“He’s just being himself.” Aveek added by way of explanation.
I turned to watch Vikram on the stage but before long, my mind started wandering again and I soon found myself tumbling back into the past. This time we were in the Rose Bowl rehearsing for the School’s annual play. It was Rattigan’s Winslow Boy. I was the brutish lawyer. Vikram was directing. The year was 1971. It was his year off between A levels and Oxbridge. It was my last year in School.
Vikram had just explained how he wanted a particular scene done. It was partly description and partly enactment. Despite his lack of height, he’s a talented actor. Then, with short quick steps and his head inclined downwards, he walked towards the audience stands to sit down and watch. He crossed his legs, cupped his chin in the palm of one hand and rested his elbow on his raised knee. His other hand held on to his foot.
“Right. Lets see how you do it.”
I started. It was the scene where the lawyer cross-examines the young boy.Vikram wanted me to pretend to be angry. Yet the anger also had to sound genuine otherwise the cross examination would not work. Only after it was over would the truth emerge.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Vikram pronounced. He was not given to praise easily and I swelled with pride.
Later, rehearsal over, as we walked back, the April night alight with stars but the air hot and heavy, he came back to the subject.
“The funny thing about anger is that it’s not the shouting that communicates it. It comes from deeper inside. It’s like love and hate. You have to feel it to sense it.”And then after a pause, he added,“I suppose all emotions are the same.”
I returned to the present to find Vikram reading a delicately written extract from his book. Helen is tipsy but excited. Her words are tumbling out. Michael, though detached, i
s not indifferent. His wit is a foil to her emotion. Their feelings emerge, they grow, they suffuse the context but rarely are they stated.
I have to read this book, I said to myself. I bought it a couple of weeks ago. I like to buy new ones as soon as they are out. It’s a sort of one-upmanship I play with myself. But I can be very lazy about reading them. And Salman Rushdie’s new novel put me off Indian authors.
A week, later I’ve finished the book but the story, its characters and their world is still with me. Like memories of Doon School, it will merge into a consciousness that will always be there. Vikram, the stories about him and now his book will fuse into one. I would not want it otherwise.
If you haven’t, I recommend you read An Equal Music.
Stop Over
1
My Big Time in Barcelona
I always look out of the window when the plane is landing. That’s partly because I’m scared but also because I’m anxious to see where I’m headed. However, the half empty Swissair flight to Barcelona offered so much choice, it was unsettling. As we flew down the Mediterranean coast, just along the littoral, I couldn’t make up my mind which side I wanted to be on. On the right, like a colourful spanish sombrero glinting in the early morning sun, lay the city. On the left, the sea.
It was the colours that helped me decide. Not of the city but the sea. Looking outwards from the shoreline, the Mediterranean changed along a spectrum of blues and it happened in steps. Pale topaz, jade green, cobalt, navy and then, towards the far horizon, deep purple.
“It looked so startling.” I told Alexander Thomson, my host at News World, the television forum I had been invited to attend.
“Startling is the right word.” He replied. “And the sea food from the Mediterranean startles the stomach as well. Take my advice : look at the Mediterranean but don’t be tempted by its fruits de mers!”
It transpires the beautiful Mediterranean is one of the world’s most polluted seas. Alexander had ignored his own sage advice and was suffering for it. He was anxious I shouldn’t make the same mistake.
“Don’t worry.” I reassured him. “I’m allergic to shell fish.”
“Lucky you!”
Well, that’s one way of putting it.
Barcelona is a happy city and the Catalan are friendly, welcoming people.
“What can I do to help you?” asked the lady at the Melia Confort Hotel reception.
I wasn’t sure what to say. A thousand possible replies flashed through my mind but I hesitated in case I had misunderstood her. Judging by her smile, I suspected I had.
“What do you suggest?” I replied. Throwing the ball back in her court seemed a wise thing to do.
“Well, Sir.” She began, producing a map and a small tourist guide book. “What about a walk through our city? Barcelona by night is beautiful and lively.”
Thus it was, I found myself walking the streets. At the city centre is La Rambla, a wide avenue, brightly-lit, thronged with youthful revellers and elderly post-prandial perambulators. The actual road, a dual carriageway, is narrow and cars pass in single file. But the pavements are broad. The central verge is enormous. It’s full of kiosks selling books, ice cream and birds.
“Senor, Senor.” A voice rang out. I turned to find one of the stall-holders beckoning me. He was surrounded by cages and their inhabitants were chirruping joyously.
He tried every language — Spanish, French, German — until he realised I only spoke English. But that didn’t fluster him.
“Buy a bird. They are beautiful.”
“What would I do with a bird?” I asked.
“Ah, Sir.” He answered. “When a man asks such a question, it shows there is something missing from his life!”
There are three things you have to do in Barcelona. The first is try the local wine. It’s light, fruity, sparkling and mercifully inexpensive. The second is taste Catalan cuisine. The bits I liked were either full of garlic and olive oil or were the longest curliest sausages you have ever seen. But the third …
The third has to be seen and is hard to describe. It’s Antoni Gaudi’s incredible architecture. He was either mad or a genius and may be both. His designs are in all colours and shades, dreaming spires, flying buttresses, gargoyles and arches, columns and cascades, windows and sheer walls. The impact is one of awe-inspiring confusion.
I visited The Temple de la Sagrada Familia around midnight. Against the deep black Mediterranean night, it’s illuminated exterior looked haunted and hideous. It was so strange I started laughing but no one noticed. Wandering tourists laughing to themselves as they stare at Gaudi’s masterpiece is a sight the good people of Barcelona are accustomed to. That, after all, is everyone’s first response.Yet stay a little longer and you will soon change your mind.
As I stood and stared, I realised I was looking upon a unique creation. A challenge to tradition and convention and the loudest possible proclamation of individuality. If architecture can scream, then this temple was shouting at all who passed by.
“Look at me.” It seemed to say. “You’ll never see anything like this again.”
Now, believe it or not, Barcelona has taxies that remind you of India and is full of Pakistanis. The cabs are black and yellow but thankfully that’s as far as the resemblance goes. The drivers are polite, they cheerfully point out the sights and they return every peseta of change owing to you.
The Pakistanis were more mysterious. What were so many of them doing here? North eastern Spain is not a common port of call for the average South Asian immigrant.
“Spain mein dus hazaar Pakistani hein.” Abdul Mohammad informed me. Six thousand of them, he added, lived in Barcelona. He’s from Sargodha but, as he pointed out, “only originally.” Abdul speaks fluent Spanish. His English requires help from his Urdu and probably vice versa too. That’s how deeply integrated he has become in his Catalan surroundings.
“Jab aye the to paisa kamake lotne ka irada tha.” He said. “But who wants to go back now?”
We chatted for a while at his ice cream kiosk in old Barcelona. It’s just off Placa Reial and the locals seemed to be his friends.When I left, I bid him khuda hafiz. His reply?
“Viva Espanya!”
The last thing I did in Barcelona was to hunt for a souvenir. Not the conventional picture book of the city nor a little replica of a famous monument but something that I could wear and, whenever I did, recall my visit. Clothes matter to me and most of my memories are associated with them.
It was at the airport that I found what I thought would be suitable. A dark brown suede belt. Spain is famous for its leather and I have never seen, leave aside possessed, a suede belt. To be honest, I was looking for something in black crocodile skin but when I found the suede version, I realised that crocodile was far too common.
I was lost deep in thought when the shop assistant walked up to me. At the time, I was standing in front of the mirror admiring myself with the belt on. It suited me. I was determined to buy it.
“Have you found something you like, Sir?” She asked or at least that’s how I interpreted her Spanish-accented English.
“Yes, this belt.” I answered.“I’ve always wanted something in Spanish leather.”
“And you want to buy it?”
“Yes please.”
So I handed her the money and she rolled up the belt and popped it into the most elegant plastic container I’ve ever seen a belt put into.
“Thank you.” I said.
“Pleasure.” She replied. “If you like Italian things, you must one day visit our main shop in Milano.”
2
Lessons From Colombo
You only have to cross India’s borders to discover how far behind our neighbours have left us. Honestly, it makes you feel both sad and jealous.
Last week, I was in Colombo. It’s one of my favourite cities which is possibly why I never spend time seeing it. I always assume I know the place. On this occasion, however, I found myself wandering around and what I saw
left me startled.
Colombo has shopping malls like Europe or, at least, Dubai. The Crescat Boulevard or the Jaic Hilton are sophisticated, opulent, vibrant and fun. At the former, a Mercedes sports car was on offer to the winners of a private lottery. At the latter, the wine bar and grill reminded me of New York. In both places, the shops are imaginative, attractive and no doubt expensive. Even the supermarkets are a joy to visit.
Yet as I walked through the malls, their marble floors gleaming and their polished brass and glass shopfronts sparkling, my spirits sank. With each step, my heart grew heavier. For the more I saw, the more I realised how different is Delhi, how dirty in comparison looks Mumbai, how old fashioned and seedy seem Kolkata and Chennai.
Why is it that the biggest, the most powerful and the richest economy in South Asia stands in such poor comparison to its smaller, less wealthy neighbours? Why, when the world around us delights in displays of modern living, do we continue to look medieval and decrepit? What’s wrong with us?
I recommend that all our MPs, MLAs and mofussil politicians be sent on a state sponsored two day visit to Colombo to see what our neighbours have achieved. Perhaps then they’ll realise the damage they’ve done at home.
3
Marriage – Sri Lankan Style
Sri Lanka does share one of our bad habits. When its people want to get married, they advertise in the papers. So, if you operate on the principle that a country’s advertisements tell you a lot about its people, the matrimonial classifieds in the Colombo press are most revealing.
For a start, their candour can be surprising :
‘A kind, caring, educated partner is sought by a Sinhalese Buddhist mother for her 46 year old mildly attractive daughter who is a US citizen with substantial assets. Widower or divorcee acceptable. Horoscope not required but bio-data necessary.’
On other occasions, the language is startling :