by Karan Thapar
Yet the touch that quite literally took my breath away was after our interview with Khurshid Kasuri, the Foreign Minister. I haven’t experienced anything like this before.
I arranged the interview a month earlier. At the time, Mr. Kasuri insisted we lunch with him before departing.
“Tell me.” He asked. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
I said I would cheerfully eat a horse but added that Ashok was a strict vegetarian.
“Glad you told me.” He said. I didn’t think he would remember and I certainly didn’t imagine how meticulously he would handle the arrangements.
Now Pakistanis love their meat.Their dal is mixed with mutton whilst their subzees are usually stuffed with keema. In fact, they abhor plain vegetables. Yet at lunch the menu was entirely vegetarian. From soup to savoury, we went through four courses, it was carefully planned to avoid anything that might bhrasht Ashok’s dharma. Even the Minister turned herbivorous!
7
A Kuala Lampur Diary
I had no idea it could be so traumatic to leave India. One usually looks forward to it. With eager anticipation, you count the days. Going abroad, after all, is fun. But these days, the hurtful part is the shock of how far behind the world outside has left us. We dream of economic liberalisation and development hastened by NRI funds. The reality, however, is different. Last week, I visited Malaysia and found out for myself. This diary is therefore as much a record of my sense of wonder and amazement as it is of my inescapable feelings of discontent.
With hindsight, the airport at Kuala Lampur is a perfect indication of what to expect. It makes Changi at Singapore look old-fashioned whilst in comparison, Heathrow, JFK and even Charles de Gaulle feel grimy and tired. But when you first arrive, you don’t yet know this.
“It makes me feel sick.” said M.J. Akbar. He meant sick with envy. We had arrived together from Delhi. MJ was, I presume, on work. I had come to judge the Asian Television Awards.
The airport comprises three satellite terminals linked by a monorail to a central building. The whole thing is built of chrome and glass. It’s large, bright and airy and it gleams. It’s located 70 kilometres from the city centre but the five lane highway into town is a dream drive. The S320 Mercedes covered the distance in just 40 minutes. If this is my introduction to KL, I said to myself, I can’t wait to see what the city itself has to offer. Airports reflect a city’s character even if they are designed as attempts to flatter and deceive. Palam is exactly what you would expect the airport in Delhi to be like once you have experienced the city. Would KL the town live up to its airport?
What I saw of KL was small, smart, stylish and occasionally very sophisticated. It’s a modern city but still unaware of its developed character. In places, it resembles Singapore but its ambience is less rushed and more friendly. At night, the lights of Jalan Bukit Bintang invite you to stop by for coffee or ice cream. Like Paris, you sit outside savouring the cool night breeze. During the day, the shops in the twin tower complex or Star Hill are a shopper’s delight. From Audemars Piguet to Zegna, it’s all there — although surprisingly you won’t find Church’s shoes nor Lacoste shirts. But the truly amazing part is the service in the hotels. I was staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Usually that’s not a hotel I would choose. I used to think of it as fussy and over decorated. I was wrong. It’s elegant yet comforting. But what I was most wrong about was how welcoming it proved to be. The doorman who greeted me when I first arrived knew my name. I never found out how. And thereafter everyone I met, from the elevator operator to the housekeeping lady, seemed to know it as well. Of course, it was a PR trick but it’s one that works. “Welcome back Mr. Thapar” is a lovely greeting when you return to the hotel after a long day at work.
Lee Kuan Yew’s autobiography is the big reading sensation in this part of the world. No doubt the Malaysians are a lot less keen on it than their neighbours and former compatriots across the Straits. But that was only to be expected. Nonetheless, the Malays have by no means overlooked it. Both the second volume — which is new — and the older first one are displayed prominently in all the bookshops. They are big, heavy books although the style is easy and the content gripping and controversial. Much like the author, they cannot be ignored.
On the flight in, I read a large extract serialised in The Straits Times. It described how Lee Kuan Yew realised that Singapore needed a new generation of politicians to succeed him. It happened when he noticed that his ministers were using electric heaters under the cabinet table to warm their feet. And can you guess how he found the replacements? Unhappy with the available selection of MPs, he organised a talent search amongst the top echelons of academia and business. Of this lot, those who showed promise were further tested by psychologists to ascertain their suitability. What was he looking for? Not simply talent or a successful track record.That was to be assumed. No, he wanted character. He defined it in terms of the ability to take initiatives including well-planned risks. The ability to play safe was simply not considered.
When the Malaysians constructed the Petronas Towers, their aim was to build higher than New York’s World Trade Centre or Toronto’s Sears Tower. Now, I’m told, the good burghers of Shanghai are planning their own highrise to outdo KL. This architectural one up-manship may be foolish but it certainly is fun. I’ve been to all three and I’ve little hesitation in stating that the KL twin towers look the prettiest. By day, they all seem alike. But at night, KL steals a march on its competitors. Bathed in white light, each floor of the Petronas Towers looks like a diamond choker sparkling on the neck of a well-dressed woman. The sad part is you cannot go all the way to the top. But give the Malaysians time. I’m sure it won’t take them long to create their own equivalent of New York’s Windows of the World. The only problem is you might end up seeing the bright lights of Singapore. I doubt if the locals would want that.
8
What the Story of Delhi
Means to Me
For years I’ve wanted to know the story of Delhi but haven’t really bothered to find out. When you live amidst history, you begin to take it for granted. Worse, I am guilty of comparing Delhi to Canberra, Ottawa or Washington, as if that were pertinent. No doubt, every time I have done so I have known I was wrong but that did not deter me. In my ignorance, I thought I was making a valuable point. Until, of course, the one occasion when I got badly caught out.
“Tell me about Delhi.” said the pretty young lady sitting beside me on the Air India flight from London. It was sometime in the late 1980s and I was coming home on holiday. She was very attractive and I was hoping to strike up a conversation. “I believe it’s an ancient city with a terrific history.”
“It is, it is.” I replied enthusiastically but not knowing any of it I could hardly continue. So I tried to deflect the subject.“It’s also a lot like Canberra, Ottawa and Washington.”
“Oh God, surely not.” She said, sounding crestfallen.
“Oh yes.” I insisted but having said so I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Well, I hope you are wrong.”
There the conversation ended. For rest of the eight hour flight, all my other opening gambits met with a polite rebuff. My lack of knowledge of Delhi had put a firm stop to my efforts to ingratiate myself.
Last week, I discovered just how horribly wrong I was. Pavan Varma has written The Millennium Book On New Delhi and last Sunday, he sent me a copy. At first glance, it looks like a sumptuous coffee table adornment, not that I have anything against them but as I sat flicking through its pages, admiring the photographs whilst dipping into the articles, I discovered that the book contains one of the most readable histories of Delhi. I now know how the city got its name, the story behind its origins, how many ‘cities’ the metropolis comprises and a lot else besides. I owe it all to Khushwant Singh. For he has written the article on which my eyes first fell and I have read it – no, devoured it – with gratitude and glee.
So permit me to show off.
The
origin of Delhi lies in myth, which is so much nicer than boring fact. Once when the Ganges was in spate — today it’s too polluted to make that effort — the river threw up the Shastras. (Incidentally, the phrase ‘threw up’ is Khushwant’s although I doubt if he meant it as a pun!). The site is marked by a temple which came to be called Nigambodh. Yes, the very ghat where you and I will perhaps one day be despatched hopefully heavenwards. “This” adds Khushwant, “was a good enough reason for our ancestors to choose Delhi as the abode of God. Thus arose the first city of Delhi, Indraprastha, the abode of Indra, lord of the firmament.” Today, the Purana Quila stands supposedly at the same spot.
Indraprastha was followed by several successor cities before we come to our beloved New Delhi. The number is uncertain : some say seven, claiming New Delhi as the eighth, whilst others say fifteen. In Khushwant’s essay, I counted fourteen. They are Indraprastha, Yoginikpura, Lal Kot, Siri, Kilokheri, Chiragh, Jahanpanah, Tughlaqabad, Firuzabad, Qila Feroze Shah, Mubarakabad, Din Panah, Shahjahanabad and, of course, New Delhi. But which was the 15th? Irritatingly, I still don’t know.
However the bit I like best is Khushwant’s account of how Delhi acquired its “odd-sounding name … pronounced by the literati as ‘Dehlee’ and by the hoi-polloi as ‘Dillee’.” There are several versions. It could be a derivative of the Persian word ‘Dehleez,’ meaning threshold, because the city was the gateway to the Gangetic plains. Another version is that it flows from the word Daidalas, the name given to the city by the Alexandrian geographer, Ptolemy. However Ferishta, the 16th century Persian historian, claims the name is traceable to a certain Rajan Dhilu who once ruled over the city. Whilst some scholars connect the name to the famous iron pillar close to the Qutub Minar. I am not sure if I fully understand this connection. As Khushwant writes, “the pillar was designed as the standard of Lord Vishnu and was meant to be implanted deep into the hood of the cobra which bears the earth on its head.” It was said that anyone who tampered with it would be cursed. A foolish Tomar Rajput king, who wanted proof that the pillar was in fact imbedded in the serpent’s head, had it dug up. When it was, the base was found to be covered with blood. The Tomar king lost his throne and his dynasty died with him. It’s a wonderful story but, for the life of me, I cannot fathom the connection with Delhi. Is it to suggest that Delhi is a city of blood? Sadly, at times it has been.
Perhaps one day Khushwant will explain things — and also give me the missing fifteenth name — but even if he chooses to leave me less than fully knowledgeable, the next time I sit beside a pretty face on Air India I shall have fewer problems keeping the conversation going. `Wish me luck!
9
Oh, To Be in England !
What makes England special? That was a question put to me the other day as I sat watching the World Cup. It immediately caught my fancy and since cricket is a tiresome game that I only watch when there’s nothing else to distract me, I found my mind wandering in search of an answer to this intriguing enquiry.
I suppose there could be a thousand plausible answers. Each anglophile must have his or her own. And then there’s the possibility that there is, in fact, nothing special about the old sceptred isle but I, at least, find that so risible as to dismiss it altogether.
No, England is special in two senses. No other country, particularly none of such geographical insignificance, has a history of world domination that has lasted so long and that will continue for the foreseeable future. In the last century, the sun never set on its empire. Now that it has, the peoples of the world can’t stop speaking or wanting to learn its language.
Yet it’s the other sense of special that appeals to me. The English have a sense of humour like none other.They’re not strictly funny. They don’t really laugh at jokes. But they are exceptionally witty. They play with words and ideas to change their meaning and produce clever results. It’s more funny-peculiar than funny ha ha. If our cricket team and the other visitors keep their eyes open, they’ll pick it up. Keeping their ears open won’t help because the accents will undoubtedly throw them.
Let me give you a few examples. In 1975, when Sanjay Gandhi first entered politics, although he wouldn’t admit it and no one in India dared ask any question for fear of his mother’s Emergency, The Economist captured the essence of the situation with a headline that was unbeatable: “In India, the son also rise.”
A few months later, when Prime Minister Callaghan’s son-in-law Peter Jay was appointed British Ambassador to Washington, with shouts of nepotism and cronyism resounding through Westminster, The Economist found the perfect way of alleging corruption without actually saying it. The magazine’s front page carried a picture of Peter Jay with the caption “Britain’s Son Jay.”
However, my favourite examples come from the early 1980s. At the time, there was — as oddly there is again today — a battle royal between the big papers. At both ends of the spectrum, broadsheet and tabloid, there were fights to the death under way. It inspired the best advertising slogans I’ve ever come across.
With The Times, then under Lord Thomson, shut down for thirteen months, leaving its loyal readers in the lurch, its arch-rival The Daily Telegraph hit upon the ad of the decade. It produced a picture of a golden-haired little girl, tucked up in bed, sleeping safely and securely, with her arm wrapped around not a teddy bear but R2D2, the loveable robot from Starwars. The caption at the bottom read “Times change, values don’t: The Daily Telegraph.”
Even better was the punch delivered by the tabloid, Evening News to its competitor, The Evening Standard. As day after day the paper failed to steal The Standard’s readership, in desperation it plastered London with posters which sought to cleverly quash its opponent. “When you’re tired of the standard approach, it’s time for The Evening News.” It was brilliant but, sadly, it did not work. The Evening News died within months. The Standard, now alone, is today London’s afternoon paper without rival.
What these headlines and ads have in common is that they are clever yet pertinent, they make their point but they are not cruel and because they make you smile, you also remember them. Only the English use their language to such great effect. In fact, I’m not sure if you can pun in Hindi at all. For me, its this wit — so different to the loud humour of America or the laboured jokeyness of the French — that makes the English truly special.
And if you don’t agree with me, then permit me to suggest a term borrowed from the annals of the good Reverend Spooner by which I would be happy to be known. Just call me a shining wit !
10
The Bit in Between
Dr. Johnson once said when a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life. Let me add a corollary: To appreciate London to the full, you have to over-indulge yourself. Which is why I call it the wicked city.
There’s much to recommend this most civilized of capitals and, odd though it may seem, food is one of them. I love eating out in London and last weekend, I did a lot of it.
Now as far as I’m concerned, there are two types of eating out that I enjoy. The first is junk food and London is the trash-meal capital of the world. My favourite is a place called Tootsies in Holland Park. Here the burgers come with thirty-two different toppings and the wine is so rough you could smoothen it with a carpenter’s plane.
I always have my burger well done with a double helping of blue cheese sauce. But the piece de resistance is the thick chocolate cake with hot fudge and shaving foam. Since it comes out of an aerosol and rises in concentric circles, a cow would have to contort its udders to produce the same effect.
It’s the sort of meal that produces ulcers and stomach-aches but that’s only afterwards. At the time, it sends pangs of envy through the diners on the next door table.
Odd isn’t it, but the sine qua non of progress is a fondness for fast food, served in noisy joints, by cheeky waitresses, amidst too many diners none of whom one would particularly care to meet again. Tootsies is just that but it’s also great fun. And if you think I’m spinning a fas
t one just listen to your young son. If he could find a Tootsies in Delhi, he’d never walk out of the place.
The other way of eating out is a proper dinner in a decent home. My friend the Countess of Keeling was kind enough to host one for me. Perhaps because her title is false, her hospitality is particularly lavish.
On the night in question I was fed and watered to distinction or do I mean extinction? Vichyssoise, roast lamb, cranberry jelly, duchesse potatoes, courgettes, broccolli and an old-fashioned creme brulee with a hard and difficult-to-crack top. Such cooking is the best foundation for post-prandial banter and this was no exception.
“What will you have next?” Gauri’s husband, David politely asked. “I can offer you a good cigar and an old brandy”.
“What more could I possibly want?”
It was meant to be a rhetorical question but it set us thinking. A man likes his food hot, his brandy old, his cigar moist, his wine dry and his women fresh. Going by that description, it’s heaven. But get the adjectives mixed-up and the result is disastrous.
“Ah.” said David, very much in the same mood as I was. “A drink before and a cigarette after are three of the best things in life. The question is what’s the bit in between?”
11
When the Words of the
Song Proved Untrue
There was a time when the better capitals of Europe were known by the rhyming couplets of hit songs. Arrividerci Roma, I Love Paris and London Town were amongst the more popular. But one of the jolliest was Wonderful Copenhagen. It conjured up a vision of a happy, rollicking city and one where strangers were always welcome. After all, it was, as the song claimed, “the city of my dreams”.