Sunday Sentiments

by Karan Thapar

  7

  Not Quite a Coup But

  Definitely the Next Best Thing

  It’s strange how your mind can hop from one thing to another. They call it lateral thinking. I call it being a bit of a flibbertigibbet. In my case, the oddest experience can spark off the strangest thoughts. Yet for me, of course, the connections are quite straight forward and the development totally logical. I wonder if you would agree?

  Watching the Pakistani coup unfold on television, my mind raced back eighteen years to Lagos. I was The Times correspondent, it was my first job and I was rather self-satisfied about it. Of course, I was a novice but my enthusiasm made up for my lack of knowledge. Unfortunately, nothing covered up for my lack of understanding.

  One May (or was it June?) morning, the Libyan Embassy called. They had organised a press conference and being at a loose end, I agreed to attend. After the customary tea and cakes, I patiently waited for the real business. I had no idea what to expect.

  “This is a takeover.” announced six pimply youths. They had walked in unnoticed and once we had settled down, they emerged from the background to declare they were the new masters of the Embassy.

  “This is no longer the Libyan Embassy.” The lead pimple proclaimed. He tried to look stern as he said it but somehow it didn’t work. “This is now a People’s Mission.”

  The distinction was lost on me. So, after another cup of Libyan tea (I rather liked the stuff) I sauntered off. That day lunch was a desultory affair. I was, I admit, feeling disappointed. I had expected more from the Libyan press conference. So that afternoon when I decided to pay the Nigerian Foreign Office a visit, I did so without any expectations.

  “What?” shouted the Nigerian Additional Secretary. He was normally a placid looking man and shock did not suit him. “A People’s Mission !”.

  The Additional Secretary practically spat out the words. In fact, his teeth, had they been false, would have fallen out. In a trice, he bounded out of his chair and bidding me to keep sitting he shot off. I could hear his heavy footfall climbing the stairs. Perplexed, I settled into his weathered leather arm chair and decided to re-read the daily paper for the fourth time.

  “Mr.Thapar.” A voice shouted from outside. Actually, it was more like “Meester Tappar” but by then, I was used to African mispronounciations. “Cum weeth me. Thee Mineester wants to see you.”

  “Why?” I asked. I hardly knew who he was.

  “Aah.” The Additional Secretary responded, but by then he was out of breath, unable to explain and already dragging me upwards and onwards to the Foreign Minister.

  The room I was purshed into was large, full and expectant. Big men in richly coloured agbadas sat awaiting my entry. I was to later discover they were the top brass of the Nigerian Foreign Office. In the centre, sat Mr. Ishaya Audu, the Foreign Minister.

  “I believe you have something to tell me.”The FM began.

  Not sure what he expected, I told him the story of the Libyan Embassy ‘takeover’. As I wasn’t to know what the Additional Secretary had found so rivetting, I exaggerated all the details. In fact, if I remember correctly, I made it sound quite hilarious. I was proud of the way I told it.

  “I see.” Mr. Audu commented when I was done. Everyone stared at him expectantly and he, in turn, stared out of the window. Uncertain of what to do, I looked at my shoes. They were unpolished and the dust showed visibly.

  “Come back in the evening Mr. Tappar and you will find that the Nigerian Government is not ungrateful to its friends.”

  With that, I was ushered to the door and this time, without the Additional Secretary for company, I was left to negotiate the stairs on my own.

  By now, I was not just perplexed, I was bemused. Nothing made sense but I had a feeling I was on to something big. Just what it was I could not fathom. So at seven I returned, ascended the stairs and before long found myself back in the same room. They were all there. The FM, in the centre, looked pleased.

  “Weelcum.” He began. “Weelcum.” the others chorused. It was infectious and I almost found myself welcoming them back. Instead I bit my lip and thus was saved this particular idiocy.

  “Meester Tappar.” Mr.Audu continued.“For your services to Nigeria, thees morning I am pleased to say you are the first person in the world to know that today at 1800 GMT Nigeria has broken relations with Libya. We will only make the news public in three hours. So if you file a story now it will be a world scoop.”

  I was stunned. Little old me — well, not so old actually; at the time I was barely 26, had been responsible for Nigeria breaking relations with Libya and here was the Nigerian FM thanking me for it. I suspect my face showed my surprise. Admittedly, I was a bit of a greenhorn at the time.

  “You are pleased?” the FM asked.

  “Oh yes, Sir.” I answered.

  “Good.Then rush off and do your bit.” Then, as I departed, he softly added: “Oh yes, do give me a copy of your paper when your story is published. I keep all my cuttings.”

  8

  Lessons One May Have to

  Learn Again

  I’m not sure if America plans to send ground troops into Afghanistan although by some accounts, its special forces are already there. But either way, this strikes me as an opportune moment to recall what happened the last time Afghanistan was ‘invaded’. The lessons from that occasion may have slipped from memory but they remain relevant. I witnessed a few myself.

  I arrived in Kabul in early March 1980. The Russians — or the Soviets as they were then called — had crossed the border some two months earlier. It was a particularly cold winter and Kabul airport was covered in snow. The plane from Peshawar — one of the last — looked strangely out of place on the otherwise empty white tarmac. Afghan officials, furiously rubbing their hands to keep warm, stood around as we disembarked. They seemed distant, detached. It was an attitude I found prevalent through out Kabul. Only later did I realise its significance. The first shock of the Soviet invasion was giving way to a sullen acknowledgement of their presence.

  Acknowledgement, of course, is a misleading word. It can suggest acceptance but it can also convey resignation. What you merely put-up with, you acknowledge but certainly not with fondness nor without wishing for its end. This was true of Kabul.

  As I drove towards the Spinzar Hotel, staring into the night, I started a tentative conversation with the taxi driver. I wasn’t sure what to say or ask. This was a city under occupation and I assumed there were limits to what could be discussed.

  “Are you Pakistani?” The driver asked. We had been chatting for a while before he put the question.To Afghans, Indians and Pakistanis look alike and I had just got off a flight from Peshawar.

  “No” I answered, sensing my reply would not please him.

  “Indian?” He queried. I nodded. He looked at me through the rear view mirror and drove on in silence.

  In normal times, the drive from the airport to the Spinzar Hotel would have taken us past Dil Kusha Palace and into Pashtoonistan Square. The Spinzar is a little further on. But not on this occasion. At the Ariana Hotel crossing (just after the Indian ambassador’s residence) a large posse of soldiers, with an armoured car standing by, stopped us.Their faces were covered in pulled down balaclavas. The driver lowered the window and the cold air immediately rushed in but before he could speak, a Soviet soldier stepped forward and barked out orders. I’m not sure the driver followed but the meaning was clear. A soldier of the invading army had forbidden an Afghan to drive past the palace. Perhaps Babrak Karmal, the Afghan installed by the Soviets as the new president, did not want this. But if so his decision was executed by the Soviet Army. His own soldiers were not at hand to do so.

  “Indians like this, no?” The driver remarked as we drove off. I noticed he wasn’t looking at me in the rear view mirror.

  “Why India support USSR? They are our conquerors and you are supposed to be our friends.”

  He may have expected one but I could not think of a suitab
le answer. I could not explain Indira Gandhi’s support of the Soviet invasion. I could not justify her betrayal of the Afghan people. So we continued the journey in silence.

  I stayed a week in the city and spent my time ‘exploring’. Officially, I was not there as a journalist. Two months after the invasion, they were not permitted to enter the country. Yet I was there to see, hear and learn. The outcome was meant to be an article for The Spectator in London. ‘Exploring’ was my way of maintaining my disguise whilst also reacquainting myself with Kabul.

  It was my first visit to the Afghan capital after a gap of eleven years. I knew the city well but there was a lot to see and rediscover. One day, I headed for the blue mosque at Pul-e-Chisti. It’s in the heart of old Kabul. The bazaar around it is an amalgam of money-lenders, jewellers, second-hand clothes stalls, naan bakeries and dingy little supermarkets. In fact, there was nothing ‘super’ about them but the American term had caught the Afghan fancy.

  I stepped into an old somewhat decrepit jewellery shop. A lapiz lazuli ashtray in the display window attracted my attention. Inside, under the counter, were more. The shopkeeper took them out and eagerly buffed them with an old cloth before pushing them into my hands. I doubt if he had seen a customer for the last two months and he was anxious to make a sale.

  We got on perfectly till I heard the shop door creak open. I had my back to it and assumed another customer had entered. But suddenly the shopkeeper’s jolly prattle ground to a halt. His face fell and his demeanour changed. A couple of people whom I could not see squeezed into the space behind me. I could feel their bodies pressed against mine. Then a hand tapped my shoulder.

  “Passport.”

  The accent was Russian. My presence had attracted attention and I was being checked upon. Three Soviet soldiers, with knee-high boots and pistols at their waist, had arrived to do so. I handed over my passport pointing to the Ashoka emblem on its cover.

  One by one, the three examined it. They passed it to each other in silence. Each time it changed hands the tension grew a little worse. I was sweating.

  “India.” said the last man. I wasn’t not sure if it was a question or a statement. I could not tell but I hastily confirmed the fact. In my nationality, lay my safety.

  Satisfied, the soldiers departed. One of them patted my back. It was an attempt at being friendly. Relieved, I turned to face the shopkeeper. We had been through a difficult moment together and I expected a bond of camaraderie had been formed.

  “Get out.” He said. His voice was barely a whisper but the anger was audible. At first I thought I had misheard so I smiled broadly and picked up one of the lapiz ashtrays. He snatched it back and pushed me.

  “Get out.” He repeated, opening the door to help me on my way.“I hate Indians.You are Soviet allies.”

  I’m not sure if this time round our support for America will meet with a similar response. America is not yet an invader. The Taliban is not a widely loved government. And in the last two decades, Afghanistan has seen such vicissitudes of political fortune that popular response to specific events is bound to be confused or, at least, complex.

  But the Afghans are a proud, independent people and the bombs falling on their cities are also targeting their pride and independence. No matter how right the cause and how dire the need for deliverance, it is possible they will hate the deliverer. America plays that role and India is one of its allies.

  Yet there is one memory of Kabul from 1980 that is very different. Fortunately, it is the last one before I boarded the Ariana flight out. It serves to balance the others.

  It’s about the customs policeman who checked my bags. He came across sheets of paper hidden under old socks. They were stapled hand written notes. The official opened them, spread them on a flat table and asked me what they were. I did not know what to say. The truth was that I had written down all I had seen or learnt during the last week. It was to ensure I did not forget but it was also a way of keeping busy during the long, cold, curfew-bound nights. Sitting in a hotel room, with no one to talk to and nothing to do except listen to the firing and observe the arching flares, can be difficult.

  I took my time because I was unable to think of a suitable explanation but perhaps the confusion on my face was apparent or may be the man guessed what the papers were. As I struggled to reply, he smiled. I can still recall his stained brown teeth and grisly unshaven stubble. Suddenly his rough-hewn face took on a kindly appearance.

  “No matter.” He said, carefully folding the papers and replacing them under the socks. I tried to help but he gently pushed my hand aside. It felt reassuring.Yet he did not look at me. Instead he got on with re-packing my bag. Eventually, when the locks were fastened and he was ready to hand back the keys, he looked up. Our eyes met as he spoke.

  “These are important papers. Inshallah many people will read what you have written.”

  He knew. And he wanted me to know. That’s why he had repacked the bag himself.

  “Tashakur.” I said, hoping that the Persian word would emphasise the depth of my thanks.

  “Come again.” The official said as I started towards the plane. “We need people like you.”

  9

  The Third World War

  Whatever else you might say about India and Pakistan going nuclear, it’s convinced writers of thriller fiction that the Third World War will be started by these two countries. This is precisely how Humphrey Hawksley’s gripping story unfolds in his latest book of that name. I’ve just read it. Though it’s fantastical and depressing, even disillusioning, it’s quite literally ‘unputdownable’. I know that’s a ghastly word, but when a book gets stuck in your hands and you refuse to switch off the lights, even though it’s past two in the morning, I can’t think an alternative.

  This Sunday morning, I want to draw your attention to the picture of India Humphrey paints and the questions that force themselves upon the reader. Even though the story is fiction, the concerns I have identified are not. They go to the core of the belief that ours is a soft state. A system that shies away from difficult decisions. Worse, we wrap our failure in the misleading but beguiling pretence that our position is morally correct. It’s an attempt to claim victory in the face of defeat. Humphrey, even if he didn’t intend to do so, shows this up for the hollow farce it is.

  First, however, the story. Humphrey’s book opens with an attack on the Indian Parliament. It seems as if he’s re-creating December 2001 but this is far worse. Mortars hit the building and fighter planes, which have successfully evaded radar detection, crash into the chamber. 476 MPs are killed. The Indian government does nothing.

  Then, a few days later, terrorists attack 7 Race Course Road with mortars fired from the grounds of the adjoining Gymkhana Club. Humphrey tells me this is perfectly feasible. The Prime Minister’s residence is destroyed and he himself injured. Once again, there is no retaliation.

  However, the Prime Minister — his name is Vasant Mehta — flies to New York, in bandages and on crutches, to address the world from the UN. He demands that America brings Pakistan to heel threatening nuclear retaliation if it does not. The world listens in silence. They praise his courage but ignore his terms. Nothing much happens.

  Then Pakistan drops a 20-kiloton nuclear bomb on Delhi, devastating the capital. The chapter that describes the devastation is harrowing. Humphrey tells me it’s based on eyewitness accounts of Hiroshima. But, again, India does not respond.

  The story moves on. Now Pakistan targets all the remaining Indian cities. Mumbai, Chennai and Kolkata are obliterated. This time Vasant Mehta, by now deep underneath Raisina Hill in a nuclear bunker, strikes back. Islamabad, Karachi, Rawalpindi, Lahore are taken out. Pakistan ceases to exist. India survives in its hinterland, but only because it’s so much bigger.

  These details are, no doubt, fantastical. May be even unbelievable. But it’s not the details I’m concerned with. My attention was caught by Vasant Mehta’s deliberate decision not to respond until, of course, he had no al
ternative. Each time I thought he would hit back, he chose not to. Was this weakness or was it moral strength?

  At dinner the other night, Humphrey told me he intended this to be India’s moral victory. In his book, the only head of government who has the courage not to add to the destruction is Vasant Mehta. Humphrey sees him as a hero.

  I don’t. Turning the other cheek is a sign of strength only if you have the power and the will to fight back. India has the power but its Prime Minister does not have the will. I see Vasant Mehta as weak, vacillating, indecisive and ultimately incapable.

  But the point goes beyond a fictional prime minister. Isn’t this what Mr. Advani meant when — admittedly sometime ago — he used to ask if India was a soft state? Toughness lies in taking difficult decisions where a gamble may be well-calculated but is, nonetheless, unavoidable. Vasant Mehta ducked these. He — or Humphrey — may wrap his choice in moral imperatives but that only raises a deeper question. Does India’s self-respect demand a tougher response? Doing nothing when your Parliament is attacked, turning the other cheek to a nuclear bomb, may avoid further destruction but surely it’s demeaning of a nation’s self-respect?

  So beyond the question is India a soft state — and Humphrey’s India seems to be — is the trade off between morality and self-respect. Where does one end and the other begin? Ultimately, soft states may claim to be peace-loving but are they self-respecting?

  You could even ask if its moral to standby and be beaten but not strike back? If standing up to a bully or a wrong is the moral thing to do, turning the other cheek to gratuitous violence cannot be.

  Humphrey’s book raises issues that Mr. Advani once used to touch upon. Of course, I’m not sure Humphrey intended this or fully realises how effectively he’s done it. After all, he is only writing fiction. But his story is too close to the bone to laugh away.