Sunday Sentiments

by Karan Thapar

  “Look.” He said unable to disguise his contempt for my argument. “Our upper classes have tried to imitate everything about the British and other than their accent and humour, they’ve succeeded pretty well. So, if it was cultural, why wouldn’t they have picked up this habit too?”

  To be honest, I didn’t have an answer and, quite frankly, I did not care either. Pertie is a bit of a nit-picker particularly when he thinks he has scored over you. I concede his victory but that still doesn’t undermine my point. The British love their royal family and there’s something very special — perhaps unique — about the relationship between monarch and subjects. Let me therefore explain it as I see it.

  As much as they love their royals, the British also laugh at them. The Queen’s corgies and her stiff formal accent are the butt of television comedies.“My husband and I” has become a phrase that echoes the starched relationship between the top two and each time it’s repeated, everyone smiles knowingly. Charles, their eldest son, is ‘Jug ears’, Andrew is ‘Randy-Andy’ and Anne can be a bit of a ‘Miss Prim’.

  In turn, the Royals, far from resenting their satirical image, often parody themselves. “As I was saying to the vegetables” was how Charles started his 50th birthday speech knowing it was the joke the Press most wanted to hear. Weeks earlier, he had revealed in a television documentary that he talks to the flowers whilst walking in the garden. “The Prince goes Potty” said the Royalist Mail. The Mirror, which pretends to be republican, was less subtle.

  It’s this balance between honour and humour that lies at the core of the British public’s relationship with their royals. Even when they laugh at them, they do so with affection. Now pause for a moment and consider the emotions we feel when we laugh at our leaders. Affection would not be one of them.

  In fact, the British attitude is unique. Nowhere else in Europe do royal families evoke the same sentimental response. He wasn’t far wrong when Farouk of Egypt said: “One day there will be only five kings left in the world — the King of Hearts, the King of Spades, the King of Clubs, the King of Diamonds and the King of England.”

  I have two memories of the royals which convey my point as well as anything else. The first is of Princess Anne. She’s the Queen’s only daughter — divorced, re-married and a horse-woman to boot. She also has a reputation for being outspoken. Brian Walden, the TV interviewer, once invited her to London Weekend and I was one of the producers on duty. Brian meticulously briefed us on the etiquette of meeting royalty – when to speak, what to say and, most importantly of all, when to shut up and keep quiet.

  For security reasons, Anne was driven into the underground car park and Brian and the rest of us lined up beside the dustbins to greet her.

  “Welcome to London Weekend,Your Highness.” Brian began as Anne stepped out.

  “Welcome to the underworld would be more like it.” She shot back at once breaking the ice. “I know television can be scurrilous but I had no idea you could only enter from the bowels of the building!”

  Brian blushed and started to mutter excuses about security.

  “Ah.”Anne replied smiling broadly. “Specially for me, eh? Well, when you start from the bottom things can only get better!”

  The other memory is a counterfoil to this. It concerns Queen Margarethe of Denmark. She was walking in procession towards the Senate House in Cambridge with Nigeria’s General Gowon for company. Both of them were to receive honorary degrees. With them, was Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband, but also the Chancellor of the University. The year was 1975 (I think) and I was an undergraduate. With nothing better to do, I was part of the crowd.

  “Butcher of Biafra.” The bearded man beside me suddenly shouted. He was referring to Gowon’s role in the Nigerian civil war. The General looked ahead. He walked on pretending not to have heard.

  “Heh, Hamlet’s Mom”.

  Now, it was Queen Margarethe’s turn to stare ahead and pretend deafness. She too walked stiffly past.

  “Spoilt sports.” The man shouted.

  Suddenly, Prince Philip stopped and turned. He walked up to the bearded man and smiling happily spoke in a voice that carried down the ranks:

  “What about me? Don’t I deserve a hello?”

  4

  Either Fear is the Key or the

  Price is not Right

  If you want to know the truth, it’s cowardice that keeps me moral not principle or even professed belief. I’m scared I’ll get caught. That fear is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Of course, every now and then and just like everyone else, I do stray but never very far and certainly not very seriously. Fear, as Alistair Maclean once put it, is the key. In my case, it won’t unlock the door and as a result I stay confined within the safe walls of morality. But am I moral? Ah, that is an altogether different question.

  A moral man would not at any price compromise with his principles. Leave aside fear of being caught, he wouldn’t even be tempted by the bounty on offer. Does that apply to me?

  My cousin Arjun, who teaches neuro-psychology at Newcastle and is visiting on holiday, has an interesting parable to relate. In fact, he claims it’s a true story but its value lies not in its veracity but in the ‘moral’ that it illustrates.

  A friend, he says, was walking through a park in Cambridge. It was autumn and fallen leaves of red and gold lay strewn across his path. He was happy with the world and aimlessly kicking the leaves as he trod on them. Suddenly, his foot hit something that felt strange. A little bundle tossed into the air and caught his eye. It was a wad of 100 pound notes, rolled together and tied with a rubber band. There were several of them, perhaps six or seven hundred pounds in all.

  “It sent him into a terrible panic.” Arjun said.

  “Why?” I asked, somewhat nonplussed. Had I been in his place, I thought to myself, I would have pocketed the money and walked on. Perhaps I would have started whistling to appear nonchalant. It would have been my way of pretending to be innocent.

  “Because of the amount involved.” Arjun replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You see, if he’d found a negligible amount he’d have pocketed it without a care in the world. It would have been too small to matter. On the other hand if he’d found a whopping fortune he’d have been too scared to touch it. Suppose it was a trap and he got caught? But six or seven hundred is somewhere in between. Too small to be frightened of but too big to ignore. It put him in a panic.”

  In this particular instance, Arjun’s friend handed the money over to a nearby police station. Three weeks later, when no one had claimed it, the money was given back to him. Thereafter it was legally his. It would seem that God or good fortune appear to be on the side of the honest. But that, I hasten to add, was not the moral Arjun wanted to draw. His point was rather different.

  “It’s all a question of price.” He claimed. “Each man has his price — each woman too, I suppose – and morality is a relative thing. At the right price, every saint can be made a sinner and at the wrong price every sinner can pretend to be a saint.”

  It’s a hard-headed view of human beings. One that cuts to the quick, dispensing with ideals, morality and all the gooey talk of goodness or the fire and brimstone of sin. But is it true? I venture to suggest it is. May be not for all of us and may be not all the time, but for most of us most of the time.

  To be honest, it’s happened to me. It was Easter 1975, I was 19 at the time, an undergraduate and careful about every penny I possessed. I was spending the weekend with Arjun and his wife Sipu and undertook to buy a turkey for our dinner. I ended up not paying for it. In fact, I walked out of the shop clutching the bird as close to my chest as I practically could but virtually without fear of being caught. This is what happened.

  The turkey cost seven pounds but I did not have that much cash on me. As a student, I rarely did. So when I approached the till I paid by cheque with a supporting cheque card. In England, that’s quite common. The sales lady carefully noted the che
que card details on the back of my cheque but then, absent-mindedly, handed the cheque back to me along with the card and bill. She did not realise what she had done but I did.

  This meant the turkey was free. What’s more, there was no chance of my being caught. The mistake was hers and if she realised it later I could plead innocence and claim that I too had not noticed the error. After all, both of us can make the same mistake or, at least, I could claim to have done so without appearing guilty.

  It’s amazing how fast the brain can work when accidental good fortune is thrust upon you. In a flash, I had assessed the situation, the possible consequences, worked out every probable reply and, having done so, I pocketed the accidentally returned cheque with my cheque card and bill, picked up the turkey and walked out of the shop as quickly as I could.

  Far from feeling ashamed about what I had done, I felt rather proud of it. In fact, I was crowing by the time I got back to Arjun and Sipu’s.

  “Ah.” Arjun exclaimed, smiling benignly but nonetheless damned knowingly as well. “Seven pounds is your price.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat bewildered.

  That’s when he told me the story I have just related to you. Put it all together and the outcome is simple. Either fear is the key or the price is not right.

  Beyond Bylines

  1

  Photographs Tell A Story

  Words Cannot Express

  I love staring at other people’s photographs. You can ogle, comment and laugh with detachment. You can also marvel and express wonder. Yet it doesn’t mean anything because there’s no cost either way.

  It was in this spirit that I recently picked up a rather large glossy coffee-table book. Ratna Sahai had sent me a copy of Sharada Dwivedi’s Maharaja and I started by staring at Arvind Mewar’s daunting photograph on the cover. It’s a perfect picture for it captures the one quality I associate with the man : arrogance. If you look deep into his eyes — sadly, they are not very big — then you can almost sense a second quality : his belief that he’s special.

  We’ve only met once and I doubt if he will recall the encounter. I do because of the silly bloomer I made and his rather gloating response. It was late summer in London and we were guests of Tan Mackay, a friend of my mother’s. Tan knows Mewar’s wife, Bootie, very well.

  “What do you do?” I politely asked, when I found myself standing beside him. I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was but then that’s not necessarily a sin.

  “I’m in hotels.” He replied. If you think about it that’s hardly a full answer so, naturally, I asked for more.

  “Where?”

  “Udaipur.”

  “Ah.” I thought and sadly said so as well. “You must work for the Tatas?”

  The only hotel in Udaipur I knew of was The Lake Palace and it’s always been a Taj Hotel.

  “They work for me.” came the thundering reply.

  The man, I soon realised, was the Maharana of Udaipur, although some of his close relatives would dispute that and he had a rather rigid sense of priorities. Unwittingly, I had transgressed them.

  Opening the book, I found myself looking at photographs of Arvind’s father’s marriage. He was the last Maharana and he married a princess from Bikaner. By odd coincidence, her niece, Rajyashree, is a dear friend. So I have a little insight into the marriage and a second source of information on Arvind.

  The two page spread of Maharaja Ganga Singh of Bikaner waiting with his thakurs for Arvind’s Dad’s baraat is stunning. I love their surly good looks, the curled moustaches, the thinly disguised pot-bellies hiding behind the chains of jewellery they wear but, best of all, I love their ribboned pumps. It’s a shame we don’t wear such footwear any more.

  If you turn the page again, there’s another double spread. This time, it’s not historical but self-created. Arvind, surrounded by his courtiers; an impressive sight but nonetheless a later-day imitation of a splendour that’s long past its prime. His shoes are shiny red. But they’re jooties, not pumps.

  I suppose that says it all. In the thirties and forties, we had real Maharajas. Today, we have eager old men who still want to be. The photographs in this book capture both and explain the difference. That’s why I love staring at these photographs and will do so many, many times. They speak volumes without giving away any indiscretions. In that sense, they are better than me.

  2

  In Vino Veritas!

  If there is something that perplexes me about our attitudes in India, it’s the way we attach moral virtue to teetotalism. We consider the non-drinker superior to the drinker. In fact, most people who don’t drink are not just self-righteous about their abstinence but often downright smug. Whilst those who only drink occasionally — at a party or a celebration — are usually afterwards wracked with guilt.And, of course, everyone else rubs it in!

  Yet abstinence is not virtue. It’s only self-denial. Drinking in moderation is neither harmful nor addictive. In fact, in certain circumstances, it might even be medically beneficial. Red wine, for instance, is said to be good for the heart. A brandy in cold weather does wonders for the circulation. And beer is a good diuretic.

  On the contrary, there is something rather cussed, even obstinate and narrow minded, about a refusal to drink at all. How do you know you won’t like it if you have never tried it? To give up what you have never had is like believing without experiencing. That’s fine as far as God goes but surely it’s irrational for almost everything else?

  Also, one drink — or even two — will not lead to alcoholism. It’s not even likely to. After all, we eat four meals a day, 365 days a year, but few of us become gluttons. Similarly, one can enjoy a wee dram or two without becoming addicted to the bottle.

  My father used to say “Everything in moderation” although at the time, I was too young to appreciate the comment. But he also believed that a man ought to get drunk at least once in his life, if only to ensure it does not happen again.

  He was a young lieutenant at Razmak, high up in the hills of the North West Frontier, when he first got drunk. Having heard that his brother had had a son, Daddy decided to treat the officers of his regiment to champagne. Trying to ensure that everyone had enough, he ended up having far too much himself!

  His commandant, a British colonel of the old school, put him to bed. Then, borrowing Daddy’s Sam Brown belt, the Commandant also did his guard duty for him. The fact that he was out cold did not feature in the regimental log.

  Daddy neither forgot the Colonel nor the night of drinking. They were the central elements of a story he loved to tell. “But I never got drunk again.” He would add. I didn’t question him although I was never certain what to make of the big smile that always covered his face!

  How different was Mr. Vajpayee’s attitude after his dinner at the high table in St. Petersburg last month. He made a point of informing Indian journalists that George Bush did not drink. As our PM put it, the American President stuck to water.

  Normally, one would not choose to comment on someone else’s drinking habits and certainly not in public to journalists. But Mr. Vajpayee opted to do so because he interpreted abstinence as virtue. Sadly, he was wrong on several counts.

  For a start, in the West, abstinence is not particularly admired just as drinking is not looked down upon. More importantly, there are very good reasons why Mr. Bush no longer drinks. A decade or more ago he did and ended up with an alcohol problem. It was a small point of issue in his election campaign and I’m surprised our PM did not know this.Without realising it or intending to, Mr. Vajpayee had drawn attention to something Mr. Bush would prefer to forget.

  But Mr. Vajpayee’s real embarrassment was greater than his social gaffe. When he, in turn, was asked what he had drunk with his dinner the PM suddenly turned coy and reticent. “Is it necessary to give an answer to this?” He asked. Even if they did not agree, the journalists were too polite to say anything other than laugh.

  But doesn’t that sound like double stan
dards?

  I would admire our Prime Minister if he had sipped a glass of wine — gulped it even — and said so. Why shouldn’t he? After all, I do and so perhaps do many of you. But what I cannot respect is a man who gladly talks about what others have drunk but is too timid to be honest about himself.

  In this case, I know Mr. Vajpayee was a prisoner of the prevailing Indian hypocrisy. But that’s no excuse. One expects the PM to rise above such things. At 79, if he can’t who ever will?

  He could always have laughed and said he’d been drinking som rus. That was what our Gods called it. Even the VHP and the RSS could not have objected.

  3

  A Lady, A School and

  My Favourite Ice-cream

  “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Thapar?” The young girl said as she approached me. She was smiling and I could hardly refuse. I stopped and waited.

  “I read a lot of the stuff you write and what I want to know is simple.” She then paused as if to suggest it was a problem that had long troubled her. “What sort of people do you admire? I can’t seem to tell from your writings.”

  It wasn’t a simple question and when I tried to answer, I realised I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s the sort of thing you believe you know but when it comes to expressing yourself, you realise how uncertain your views are. At the time, I struggled to sound convincing but I fear I failed. I don’t even think I was able to convince myself.

  That night, however, I found part of the answer. It was a bit like a discovery but when it happened, I knew it was what I was looking for. It had the ring of truth. Admittedly not all of it, not by any means, but still a significant portion of it.

  I had been invited by the Pakistani Political Counsellor to dinner. Tasnim Aslam has spent four years in India and is due to return home next month. The evening was planned as a farewell. I showed up late and found the other guests sitting in her garden in neat rows facing a low platform.