by Karan Thapar
On it, were a few musicians and at their centre, beside another lady, was Tasnim. The two were deep in song.
My instinctive response was to head for the bar. I pretend to like Indian classical music but, to be honest, I don’t or, at least, I don’t understand it. That night, I did not feel like acting. A drink seemed more inviting.
“Isn’t it amazing?” said the lady by the bar. I had assumed that, like me, she was avoiding the music. I was wrong. Standing by the bar afforded her a clearer view and she was listening intently.
“Ummm.” I muttered, not at all sure what she was referring to. I tried to make it sound as if it could be both yes and no.
“Do you realise what Tasnim is singing?” The lady had seen through me and her question made that obvious.
“No, sorry. I am afraid not.”
“She’s singing a Ram bhajan. Just think of it? A Pakistani diplomat, in the present state of relations between the two countries, singing a Ram bhajan in Delhi and in public!”
The expression on her face said the rest. This wasn’t just difficult to believe — and if I hadn’t heard it myself I certainly wouldn’t have believed it. It was also an act of incredible courage and of great respect. Tasnim was defying conventional politics. She was also, through her simple human gesture, bridging the divide. On that cool October night, silhouetted against the black still sky, lost in her bhajan,Tasnim symbolised a rare moment of hope for India and Pakistan.
I turned to hear her more attentively. The entire party was absorbed in her music and I think the same thought passed through every mind. Suddenly, I knew I had the answer to the morning’s question. I admire people like Tasnim because they have the courage to be themselves despite politics and prejudice. But I admire Tasnim for another reason as well. She has the strength of character to rise above the pettiness of public opinion and show the rest of us — particularly politicians on both sides — how narrow and limited we have become.
As her soft voice floated over the garden I found myself wishing Tasnim could stay longer. We need to meet more Pakistanis like her.
4
When a Dream Come True
Becomes A Dream Turned Sour
I’m a sucker for the big invitation. Yet for years, the one I’ve been wanting has eluded me. Last Saturday, it fell into my lap. That’s the story I want to tell you today.
My cousin, Valmik, has just published his seventh book. It’s called ‘The Wild Tigers of Ranthambore’. On Saturday, he went to Rashtrapati Bhawan to present it to the President. I was invited to accompany him. It was my first visit to the place. The first time I’ve stepped across the threshold.
Well, that’s what actually happened but the whole thing felt quite different. It was grand, there was ceremony, it seemed awesome. I suppose that’s what makes visiting the Rashtrapati Bhawan so special.
Embossed invitations arrive three weeks in advance announcing the event. The phone rings several times to confirm, re-confirm and then again to make triply sure. I am bidden to wear formal or national dress. In addition, I have to arrive carrying my card, identify myself on a guest list and be in my seat by 10.15 a.m. Of course, the President is not expected for a further 45 minutes.
There are perhaps a hundred others — men in dark suits, ladies in subdued silk saris. People start chatting in small groups with lowered voices. Such is the presence of the place that everyone’s voice is automatically softened.
Perhaps because it’s an eclectic selection of people, we’re all friends of Valu but not necessarily of each other — conversations don’t last long. Some people start sitting in the rows of chairs that have been neatly arranged. There’s nothing to do but wait. I start to scan the room. After all, if I am going to be in Rashtrapati Bhawan, then I might as well get to study the room properly.
There are sixteen oil paintings on the walls in heavy gold frames. I don’t know if they are famous but I do notice that at least ten (I counted) are by an artist called ‘unknown’. I suspect he’s a favourite of the establishment. A while longer and I notice another similarity. Ten are described as landscapes. Some are — although only just — but several very definitely are not. However, one that is a landscape is not labelled or described as such. How odd.
There are still fifteen minutes to go for the President’s entry so I start to stare at the walls. They are a peculiar shade of yellow. Not canary, certainly not mustard and definitely not sunflower. In fact, I cannot tell until I realise they are more like ivory or cream that’s been over done. I call it painter’s-mistake-yellow. How very odd.
My eyes move on. In one corner, there are black marks above the light fittings. Had I looked casually I would not have noticed them. But once I start to stare and there’s a lot of time for that, they show up like watermarks on paper. But it’s the exposed ugly wiring of the rather large and obvious security camera on the ceiling that captivates me. It looks like a hasty last minute addition, attached without care and certainly without concern for what its presence will do to the room. How very very odd.
I’m starting to feel a little depressed but then I notice the gardens outside. They look beautiful and well-maintained. But I can only glimpse them through the half-curtained French windows that are firmly shut. So my eyes return to the inside. I realise that everyone else is looking at what I’ve been seeing and they’ve all noticed the same flaws. Almost in unison, people turn to their left or right to point out the faults they’ve observed. I feel a little better.
At the stroke of 11.00 a.m. the President is announced. If punctuality is the politeness of royalty, then Mr. Narayanan is positively regal. He’s short, plump and friendly. The rest of us are shy but within minutes, he has everyone at their ease. That’s surely another royal quality although this time I’m not sure if the Queen possesses it.
Valu makes a speech. So does the man from the publishers, OUP. The President does not. Apparently, Presidents never do. I wonder why. I feel Mr. Narayanan would speak well if he could. What a pity he cannot.
Valu is in his element. “Thank you Rashtrapatiji for permitting the tiger to enter Rashtrapati Bhawan”. Everyone laughs. It’s a clever line. But why do we call the President ‘Rashtrapati’ when we are addressing him in English? Why do we shy away from Mr. President?
The President cheerfully poses for photographs. In fact He’s positively obliging. Then, we are all ushered in to the next room for coffee and snacks. It’s done in marble — cold and grey but the waiters are dressed in red. They look like leftovers from the Raj. They resemble the characters from my Emily Eden aquatint of servants at Government House, Calcutta, done in 1786. Yet they alone appear as if they belong to this palace. Incidentally, the vadas are delicious, the pastries are not.
Valu summons me for an introduction. I pretend to be shy. He insists. So I go up.
“I know you.” Mr. Narayanan says. I’m flattered to be recognised. “You are the aggressive interviewer.”
I smile sheepishly and wish he had not made the connection.
“But are you really like that?”
I smile again although this time more fully. I’m starting to like the President. And then I’m interrupted. An over-dressed woman in an ugly sari has butted-in. She’s more persistent than I and has her way. The President turns to her.
I decide to get myself a cup of coffee. Perhaps it will be South Indian. Sadly, it’s not. The kitchen staff at Rashtrapati Bhawan have opted for Nescafe much like the servants we lesser mortals employ. After a sip or two, I leave it unfinished.
A few minutes later, it’s time to leave. The drift has already begun. As I walk out, carelessly kicking the red sand in the forecourt, I feel happy but also sad. I’ve made it into Rashtrapati Bhawan. I’ve spoken to the President. He was charming but his house was not.
Later that evening, I met Sunita Kohli at a dinner given by the French Ambassador and she explained everything. In the late 1980s, she was the person chosen to redecorate Rashtrapati Bhawan.
“It’s
not the President’s fault.” Sunita reassuringly said. “He’s one of the few we’ve had who cares for the place. The problem, however, goes back to people like
V.V. Giri. Remember him? He converted the ballroom into a badminton court. Then there were others like Zail Singh who placed a mini replica of the Golden Temple in one of the state drawing rooms. The problem has been developing for a long long time.”
Sunita says the place should be declared a national heritage and I cannot disagree. It took just one visit to Rashtrapati Bhawan to work that out. But why can’t our politicians, our ministers and our officials who go there far far more regularly come to the same conclusion?
5
A Lesson for the New Year
Every now and then, you witness something that can bring a warm smile to your face. It doesn’t have to be a big earthshaking development nor a major pronouncement. More often than not, it’s the small but telling gestures that carry greater meaning. As the days started to tick to the New Year, I felt I wanted to write about something like this. It seemed the right way to begin 2002. When the attack on Parliament turned our lives inside out, the urge as well as the need only grew stronger.
The problem was what was it to be? I racked my brain for suitable moments from the past but none seemed to fit the bill. They were either too far back in time or too dimly remembered or even too slight to be worth recalling. I was beginning to despair when suddenly and totally unexpectedly, it happened right in front of me. It was a simple but significant moment that captured the spirit of human kindness.
Let me tell it as it happened. But remember this is not a story. It’s the truth and there were several other people who also witnessed it. They may not have known what was happening or why it happened but nonetheless they too saw it.
It happened on Friday the 14th, the day after the attack on Parliament. Chandan Mitra was celebrating the tenth anniversary of The Pioneer. His party on the lawns of The Imperial was going to be the first big social occasion after the shocking attack of the 13th. In turn, that would probably be the only subject as politicians and journalists mingled with each other. Not surprisingly, I was looking forward to it.
Around noon that day Ashraf Qazi, the Pakistan High Commissioner, rang for a chat. He wanted to know what people were saying about the attack on Parliament. I suggested he accompany me to Chandan’s reception. There could not be a better way of finding out.
“Do you think I should?” He asked. Ashraf is a naturally gregarious person. Such reticence is out of character. But on the 14th, I could understand his hesitation. In his shoes, I would have felt the same.
“Of course you should.” I replied. “No one holds you personally responsible or feels anything against you.”
Ashraf paused for a bit but then agreed. Perhaps he accepted my point or perhaps he saw the evening as a challenge he had to face. May be it was both.
At 8.30 pm, I picked him up and together we drove into The Imperial. Chandan’s party was outside on the lawn and it was decidedly nippy. There were groups of people standing around scattered angheetis. We headed for one that seemed both central but not crowded. As I scanned the other guests, I noticed the Advani family entering from the other side. Mr. Advani was in front escorted by Chandan. Mrs. Advani and the children were just behind.
One by one journalists started to head for Mr. Advani. On the 13th, he was holed up inside Parliament as terrorists invaded the complex and fired on the building. Twenty-four hours later he seemed relaxed. He was smiling, laughing and chatting happily. I decided to walk up and find out what those horrible hours the day before had been like.
“I’m off to meet Mr. Advani.” I said to Ashraf.
“I’ll wait here.” He replied. We both instinctively knew that on the 14th of December that was the sensible thing to do. This was not an evening for forced politeness leave aside awkward encounters.
As I worked my way through the crowd in the direction of Mr. Advani, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Mrs. Advani. My eyes had been fixed so firmly on her husband that I had not noticed that I was almost upon her. But before I could apologise or even start a greeting, she spoke to me.
“Aapne apne dost ko peeche kyon chod diya?” She said smiling broadly.
“Mere dost?” I questioned, momentarily fazed by the situation.
“Qazi Sahab. Abhi to aap unke saath khade the.”
Mrs. Advani had seen us. Forgetting her smile, my heart sank. I wasn’t sure if this was a rebuke. Would she feel I was erring in keeping the Pakistan High Commissioner’s company on the 14th night?
“He feels a little hesitant to come forward.” I said.
I was surprised by how I had blurted out the truth. It’s not as if Ashraf had said as much but I knew that’s how he felt. You get to know a person after being close friends for years. I was verbalising his unspoken thoughts. But I was still surprised I had said them in front of Mrs. Advani. Normally, I try to be more circumspect.
If anything, Mrs. Advani’s smile grew broader still. As I spoke, her eyes seemed to light up and before I could finish she appeared to have made up her mind.
“Is mei kya personal cheez hei?” She said. “Aur phir aapke dost hein. Woh nahin aate to mein jake unse milti hoon.”
And before I could respond, she started walking towards Ashraf. I followed hastily. It did not take more than 15 seconds but in that time, my head was awhirl with conflicting thoughts. Mrs. Advani, the Indian Home Minister’s wife, whose husband, only the day before had been trapped inside Parliament by terrorists we are convinced were Pakistani trained and funded, if not actually Pakistanis themselves, was walking to meet the Pakistan High Commissioner. Others in her place might have preferred to snub him or at least keep away. I couldn’t think of another soul — ministers, ministers’ wives or ordinary guests — who would have sought him out that evening. Nor would Ashraf have expected them to. And I know that he would have understood if he had been ignored. Yet here was Mrs. Advani striding towards him, smiling as she did, unconcerned about what the world would say or think.
The look on Ashraf ’s face when he recognised Mrs. Advani and realised she was coming to meet him was indescribable. In fact, for a moment I don’t think he knew how to react. Then he looked completely taken by surprise. Seconds later, he looked totally delighted. More than anyone else, he would have understood that on the 14th of December the High Commissioner of Pakistan could not have even dreamt he would be sought out by the Indian Home Minister’s wife, at a large public reception, with politicians and journalists witnessing the meeting. Such things don’t happen in conventional politics or diplomacy. In fact, politicians and diplomats would have carefully avoided such meetings.
This is why Mrs. Advani’s gesture is so special. It was not a political act and it had no political message. But it was a warm human act and much more meaningful. It was the response of a sensitive soul, reaching out beyond the strictures of politics, to show friendship at a difficult but telling time. The easy thing would have been to do nothing. No one would have remarked on that. The difficult choice was to show personal concern at a time when it could so easily be mistaken for something else. None of that worried Mrs. Advani. She consciously chose to put a human relationship above politics, above prejudice and above the risk of public misperception.
In fact, she even encouraged Ashraf to meet Mr. Advani which he eventually did. Mrs. Advani was confident that her husband would greet the Pakistan High Commissioner graciously. She wasn’t wrong. Ashraf hovered in the vicinity of the Home Minister uncertain whether to go forward or not. Suddenly Mr. Advani spotted him and with a cheerful smile on his face stepped forward and clasped his proffered hand in both of his own. It was a moment when human warmth transcended the cold compulsion of politics. No doubt on the morrow, politics would return to the forefront, as it would have to, but on the 14th evening, the Advanis had shown there was room for personal gestures and that individual relationships still mattered.
; As we enter 2002, I would like to feel that I might be capable of something similar. But I doubt it.
6
Of Course it’s An Act –
But Can You See Through It?
There’s a question which I am repeatedly asked and which today I shall attempt to answer. It’s not always asked as a compliment. More often than not, it’s a simple but sure kick in the pants. But, whatever the motive, it’s a question worth asking and answering.
“When you appear on TV is it natural or are you acting?”
There are two possible reasons for asking the question. As Aroon Purie often teases – and he is and remains a good friend, “Anchors are frustrated actors.” Or, as I prefer to see it, anchoring a show is an act in itself. The first is to suggest that anchors are frauds; the second implies that fraudulence is what anchoring is essentially about. So, as I see the dilemma, am I a fraud or is the job I love and like fraudulent? The difference, I admit, may seem slight and possibly insignificant to you. To me it matters an awful lot.
There are three types of answers that I know of. The first, ironically, is from the innocent bystander who recognises me as an anchor and enthusiastically starts to question. Little does he realise that his question is the answer.
“You always quarrel with the people you interview.” It starts with “Are you naturally unlikeable or pretending?”
“No.” I usually reply, trying hard to smile and suggest that I am, in fact, full of warmth despite my rakshas features.
“Then why do you always sound so quarrelsome?”
To that, I have no answer. If how an anchor sounds is to determine whether he or she is putting on an act, then all I can add is that the act is a flop. A huge failure. The anchor, in this instance, is a fraud. A horrible fraud. And a very bad actor to boot.
The second answer is only seemingly kinder but behind the gentleness lies a toughness that can hurt if not also damage. I often fall for it till I see the sharp end and usually by then it is too late. Bloodshed, by which I mean my blood, follows.