Sunday Sentiments

by Karan Thapar

  Well, the song lied. Copenhagen does not welcome strangers and Danes are not kind to them. Their doors, even on a cold winter’s night in November, stay firmly shut. I discovered this depressing truth last week when mischance left me stranded at the city’s airport. No amount of pleading would melt their stony hearts and no matter how often I recalled the misleading words of the old song nothing, absolutely nothing, changed.

  I realise that what I am about to recount is just a personal complaint and I suppose we all have similar ones. But those of you who travel frequently by air will know that mishaps at airports, like bad service on board a plane, can be particularly galling. I don’t know why it hurts so much except to guess that it could be because it costs a lot. It happened to me last Sunday and even though seven days have lapsed, I am still smarting.

  I was on my way back from Barcelona and decided to break journey in London. I have always considered it the most civilised city in the world and value every second I spend there. So, being greedy, I decided to catch the SAS flight out. Because it leaves at the end of the day, you manage a few extra hours. That, however, was my big mistake.

  The problem is SAS connects to Delhi via Copenhagen. Instead of flying south, you head north-east into Scandinavia. It’s definitely the wrong way home but at the time, I did not care. Copenhagen, I said to myself, is “wonderful” and I would be happy to see it if only from the airport!

  The plane arrived on time and I had an hour to change to the Delhi flight. But when I stepped out, I discovered the onward connection was cancelled.

  “Why?” I asked. International flights are no doubt often late but they are rarely cancelled.

  “Technical problems.” The lady at the SAS counter replied before lapsing into sullen silence.

  “Well, can’t you put it right?”

  “We would if we could.” And then after a while she added, “Sir”.

  “And don’t you have more planes? If this one isn’t working, use another one instead.”

  This suggestion was greeted with silence. No smile, no sheepish grin, not even a look of helpful concern. Just cold, hard, unremitting silence.

  By now, I had been joined by a handful of the other Delhi-bound passengers. Perhaps there were ten of us, perhaps fifteen, may be twenty. At the SAS counter, it looked like a small crowd. We had never met each other before and had no reason to except that we were stranded in Copenhagen for no fault of our own.

  Soon a male manager arrived at the counter. He took charge and informed us that we would be booked on the first flight to a European destination with an onward connection to Delhi.

  “When will that be?” Someone asked. It was 9.15 at night local time and at worst, we anticipated hanging around for another hour or two.

  “Tomorrow morning,” came the reply.

  “Tomorrow!”

  “Sorry, but there’s no flight before that. The first one is at 6.45 a.m.”

  The news was a blow. It meant that whatever I had gained by staying on a few extra hours in London, I had more than lost by the enforced delay in Copenhagen. Instead of getting back in time for work on Monday morning, I would just about get home in the early hours of Tuesday.

  It took a while for the impact to sink in. A journey interrupted half way can be distressing. Worse, it can also be demoralising. On this occasion, it was clearly both.

  “Well, when will you take us to a hotel?” If we had to spend the night in Copenhagen, the sooner we got to bed the better.

  It was a normal question. Airline crew anywhere in the world would have anticipated it. Passengers with journeys broken against their will always want a bed for the night. But somehow the staff at SAS were thrown.

  “Hotel?” They asked. “Sorry, Sir, we can’t take you to one.”

  It transpired that the immigration police would not permit passengers without visas into town and as everyone stranded was enroute to Delhi, none of us had one. Why should we have? We were on our way to Delhi and could not have anticipated a break of journey in Copenhagen. More perplexing was the fact the police could not be persuaded to change their mind and, to be honest, most of the SAS staff were not even prepared to try. They were perfectly happy to let us doss down on airport sofas or possibly the floor.

  Faced with such adversity, most of my stranded compatriots smiled, shrugged their weary shoulders, perhaps the odd few might have muttered into their overcoats, and then slowly shuffled off towards a bar or a corner that could provide a makeshift bed for the night. They accepted the inexplicable rudeness of the Danes with only polite demur. Whilst in my heart I applauded this, I did not have it in me to imitate them.

  I shouted. I suppose I was tired but I don’t know if that is sufficient excuse. Anyway, I accused the Danes of being inhospitable, barbaric, uncivilised and boorish. The staff at the SAS counter looked startled. I quoted the wretched words of the song and told them they made me laugh.The staff looked sick. I claimed that had I been Swiss or American — two countries whose citizens, unlike those of the European Union, don’t have free access to Denmark — the police would have found a way to let me in. But because I was Indian or brown-skinned, I and the others were being incarcerated at the airport. The staff looked down at their shoes. Their faces turned red. I knew I was right. So did they.

  “Sir.” One of the ladies behind the counter suddenly spoke after a long and miserable silence. There was something about her voice that made me pay attention.

  “There are two staff rooms attached to the first class lounge. If you want, we can put you up there?”

  She meant well and I accepted without hesitation. But it had taken a fight to get to this point. What should have been given by right was now offered as a reward or perhaps as a way of winning my silence. The room was comfortable, even well-appointed, but it didn’t make up for the insult of being refused access to a hotel. And it certainly did not assuage the anguish of being boxed inside the terminal building.

  Next morning, the relief on our faces as we prepared to depart must have been visible for all to see. Not a single passenger was prepared to hide it. We weren’t just glad to be going home, we were particularly happy to be leaving Copenhagen.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” said the SAS staff at the departure lounge. “I’m sorry your stay in Copenhagen was so unsatisfactory.” One day, no doubt, I’ll be ready to accept that apology. But not as yet.

  12

  The Music of the Ritz

  In fact, music is in the air in London at the moment. ‘Mamma Mia’, the Abba Musical, is the biggest hit in the West End whilst the re-opening of the Opera House at Covent Garden has the cognascenti flocking to hear PLACIDO DOMENGO. However, my taste of music was not just different and less elevated but also quite fortuitous.

  I was lunching with an old friend from Pakistan at The Ritz when I suddenly began to listen to the tune being played out on the piano in the foyer.

  Now the Ritz is...well, its ritzy. That’s where the word comes from. People dress their best to visit and it certainly isn’t cheap. The song I had identified was not one of the usual numbers you would expect to hear.

  It was ‘Yeh dilagi’ from the less than memorable Kajol and Saif Ali Khan film. On the piano, without the words to distract you, the tune is quite a rollicking number. Within minutes, the other diners had heard it too and then, slowly but quite visibly, their feet or their fingers started to tap out the tune.

  When I asked the Major D’omo who was playing, he smiled knowingly and replied:

  “The piannist is Italian, Sir but not the tune. That’s an Indian number. Its a favourite of the hotel.”

  In Good Company

  1

  The Wisdom of Pritam

  No man is a hero to his barber and I certainly am not. I’ve known Pritam since my late teens and over the decades I’ve learnt to listen attentively when he talks. He’s by no means garrulous. Nor is he taciturn. As he snips and cuts, he enjoys talking but it’s a measured well thought-out flow.

  �
�Apne Bangaruji ko bahut khichaya.” Pritam admonished when I dropped by on Monday. We meet every three weeks and over the years, I have become a regular. He, in turn, watches most of the interviews I do.

  “Lekin yeh bhi hei ki unke paas kuch kahne ko nahin tha. Bechara, kahe bhi kya sakta hei!”

  But after this opening remark on Monday, Pritam was silent for a disconcertingly long time. He cut my hair in friendly silence. I was intrigued by his manner. Had I upset him? Had he misunderstood the Bangaru Laxman interview? I wasn’t sure but I waited patiently to find out. After a bit Pritam broke his silence.

  “Such poocho to bahut hi kum log chor hein.” He said. “Asl mein chor banaiye jaate hein. Ya moke ke karan ya majboori ke.”

  His comments made me sit up sharply and think. How would I have reacted if someone came to me with a brown paper bag full of old hundred rupee notes and asked for a favour that was well within my powers to do with little risk of being caught out or embarrassed? Would I agree?

  After all, the money would be tempting and if I was confident I could get away with it I might be foolhardy enough to say yes.

  The thought was so shocking I started to sweat. The barber’s shop at the Taj Mahal Hotel is usually over-cool but suddenly I was feeling distinctly hot. I realised I was scared of myself, unsure of my response and worried by what I might do if thus tempted.

  “Kya hua?” Pritam asked. He had noticed that I was strangely disconcerted.

  “Kuch nahin.” I replied and immediately started chatting aimlessly to fill the pause and change the mood.

  After a while, my confidence returned. No, I said, forcing myself to forget the earlier experience, I would be certain to refuse. I have everything I want and I would not be tempted by a little more no matter how easily it was offered. Men like me, I said to myself, feeling comfortable once again, don’t do such things.

  But Pritam’s innocent remarks had set off a process that could not be stopped or easily calmed. Is it right to tempt merely to test? Is it fair? Would it be a legitimate test? And if so, of what? Of resistance to temptation? Of bribery? Of character?

  I don’t know the answers and let me not pretend I do but I do think this is one of the issues that arise out of and demand attention after the recent Tehelka revelations. Sadly, no one seems to be raising it. That’s probably because we’re all feeling very comfortable this Sunday morning. But I’ve come across a paragraph from a Madras High Court judgement of 1952 that seems to put the matter in some perspective. I read it in The Indian Express. I think it’s worth repeating.

  “Where a man has not demanded a bribe and he’s only suspected to be in the habit of taking bribes and he’s tempted with a bribe just to see whether he would accept, that would be an illegitimate trap.”

  There’s a lot of truth in that yet this paragraph can’t by any means be the full answer. When arms dealers seek to bribe to get their way, it is temptation that they rely upon. Men and women in government and the bureaucracy don’t have a stamp on their forehead that reads ‘I can be bribed, please try me.’ It’s a hit and miss process. Yet when arms dealers score, it’s entirely because they have struck a rich vein of temptation. So if arms dealers can seek to tempt to bribe, why can’t Tehelka seek to tempt to catch out those who can be bribed? What other way could Tehelka have used?

  If this suggests that the debate about the ethics of the Tehelka approach is a difficult one, it’s not because the issues are difficult but because human beings themselves are complicated and difficult – no, impossible – to simplify. I don’t know how I will respond till I am tested and, quite frankly, I hope that will never happen. I’d like to live with the belief that my answer would be no.

  Till then, of course, I have the right to cast the first stone and as a journalist I usually do. But now each time I aim and throw Pritam’s wretched words echo in my ears : “Such poocho to bahut hi kum log chor hein. Asl mein chor banaiye jaate hein. Ya moke ke karan ya majboori ke.”

  Oh dear, thank god, I don’t have to return to Pritam for a haircut for another three weeks. What will he say next time to disturb my comfortable and easy assumptions? And does he ever realise how deep is the impact his passing words often have?

  May be I’ll let my hair grow long instead.

  2

  The Man Who Sold Me A Jacket

  Buying a jacket is usually rather mundane business. Even if you are fussy, as I am, or indecisive, as I am too, it only becomes prolonged and difficult. It is unlikely to be thrilling.

  However, if the shop you choose is Brooks Brothers on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, you’re in for a surprise. It’s not the wares on offer so much as the salesman that I refer to. He’s a gentleman of the old school with more than just a touch of class. But let me say no more, in case I spoil my story.

  “I’m looking for a light jacket.” I said as I walked in last week. “Something I can wear in a hot country.”

  The shop attendant — but this will be the only time I shall thus refer to him — observed me closely. In turn, I couldn’t help notice him. He had on an immaculate three-piece suit. It was the sort of faded grey Prince of Wales check common place in the English south counties. But it was his waistcoat that caught my eye. It had lapels, a style that was the height of fashion in the 1920s.

  “And which hot country do you have in mind, Sir?” His accent was British. He spoke with the slight stammer of the upper class.

  “New Delhi.” I replied, confidant he would know nothing of it.

  “Ah.” the gentleman responded. “A very charming city. I know it well.”

  That stumped me. It was so unexpected I gave up examining the jacket I had chosen and turned to the gentleman instead. He noticed my interest and continued.

  “I started off with a pied-a-terre in Nizamuddin.” He said. “But I soon found a bigger place in D Block Defence Colony which was very pleasant although a shade too close to the nullah for my taste!”

  He had the appearance of an aristocrat. Tasteful, understated, eccentric and yet striking. I was intrigued.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was a diplomat, actually. I was the Afghan Counsellor.”

  “Oh.” I said rather loudly and too obviously. I have old connections with Afghanistan and I suppose I could not restrain myself. “I’ve lived in Kabul.”

  “Really?” He smiled disbelievingly. Perhaps he thought I was being polite. Or simply fibbing.

  “My father was the Ambassador.” I added in explanation.

  “Could I ask his name?”

  “General Thapar.”

  “Good heavens, dear boy. I do hope I can call you that because I knew you as a child. You were knee high to a bee when I last saw you. And how is your delightful mother?”

  “You, you, you know my parents?” It was my turn to stutter but there was nothing aristocratic about my incoherence. Simply incredulity.

  “Yes. I was the Chief of Protocol in those days. Your mother and my wife used to play canasta. The Yugoslav Ambassador’s wife was part of their group. I think her name was Katya Mirosevic.”

  “And what’s your wife’s name?”

  “In those days, it used to be Princess Habiba but now Mrs. Sulaiman will do.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say so I stood and smiled in silence. But the gentleman carried on. A flood of memories started to pour out.

  “I remember Their Majesties State visit to India. Your father was the Ambassador and I was part of their entourage. We’d have our sundowners together. Every evening at 8.00, the General would send for me. ‘Let’s have a chotta peg,’ he would say ‘before we have to drink those damned nimboo-paanis’.”

  M.A. Sulaiman — for that, I can now reveal, is his name — is a first cousin of King Zahir Shah. In fact, he’s also a first cousin of Queen Humayra. And since the King and Queen are first cousins of each other as well, that makes him one of their closest relatives. In 1978, he was the Deputy Chief of Mission in Washington when the Saur Revolution
replaced Daoud (another first cousin) with the communist Tarakki. Wisely, he decided not to return.

  “I wouldn’t have been terribly popular if I had.” He added. “And, anyway, most of the family were abroad as well. But I did need a job and Brooks Brothers proved to be my salvation.”

  I bought the jacket. I could hardly carry on dithering. And Mr. Sulaiman said all the right things including the critical assurance that it looked rather fetching on me. But the jacket was no longer my priority. I had a story to tell and I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and telephone Mummy.

  “Do you remember Princess Habiba?” I bellowed down the telephone. “You used to play canasta with her in Kabul.”

  “Of course, I remember her.” Mummy replied. “She was last heard of in Washington but since then she seems to have got lost.”

  “Well I’ve found her and you’ll never guess how.”

  3

  The Queen and I

  “They really are a strange lot.” My friend Pertie muttered. We were watching the news and he was commenting on the millions who had gathered outside Buckingham Palace. It was the Queen Mum’s centenary but Pertie wasn’t impressed.

  “She’s just a boring old biddie and other than a fondness for gin and dogs there’s nothing else to recommend her.”

  Factually, Pertie was correct but facts have little to do with it. Like most of us in India who dislike our leaders with passion, Pertie cannot even start to fathom why the British should be so devoted to their royal family. I tried to explain but made little headway. I first said their experience was different to ours but Pertie reminded me of all the Henrys, Richards, the early Georges and the last Edward I had carelessly forgotten. I then suggested it was cultural but he laughed even louder.