Sunday Sentiments

by Karan Thapar

  10

  Boot is on the Other Foot!

  Have you ever been in the uncomfortable position of having your views deliberately and maliciously distorted to create a completely erroneous impression of what you actually said? And have you then discovered how fast and how wide Chinese whispers can carry this falsehood? In such circumstances, lies travel farther than the truth.

  I realised this when I met Jairam Ramesh last week. He was a guest at one of my programmes and he walked in with a big smile on his face.

  “Hey.” He suddenly said with a twinkle in his eyes. “What’s all this you’ve been saying in conferences about Kashmir?”

  “Huh.” I replied. Honestly, I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  “I gather you’ve declared that Kashmir is Pakistani and that India should hand it over.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, you apparently said this at a seminar where Arun Jaitley was present and you brought the Pakistan High Commissioner’s daughters along with you for support.”

  Suddenly, the rupee dropped. Jairam was referring to a seminar organised by Suhel Seth (a friend) at the Habitat Centre on the 19th May 2000. In addition to Arun and myself, the participants included Mehbooba Mufti, Prem Shankar Jha and Shujaat Bukhari of The Hindu. Rajdeep Sardesai was in the chair.

  The object of the seminar was to discuss solutions to the situation in Kashmir. Now I’m not an expert on the subject and I was uncertain of what to say. As I drove to the Centre, it occurred to me that I should start by accepting this fact. And then it dawned that perhaps there were other facts that had to be accepted as well. Otherwise, a solution would not be possible. These are facts that have been brushed aside. The longer we deny them, the longer we prevent our quest for a solution proceeding down potentially successful tracks.

  So what are these facts? Well, they are the substance of what I spoke about. The first is that the people of Kashmir feel a sense of hurt, a grievance and even alienation. If we cannot acknowledge this they, in turn, will never feel their emotions are understood leave aside shared. The second is that this alienation has been largely caused by us, may be unwittingly but nonetheless we are substantially to blame. The events of 1984, when Farooq was bundled out of office at midnight, is just one if perhaps the worst example. The rigged elections, the broken promises, the deceit and slights are far too many to mention but not hard to identify. The third fact is that whatever our governments may say (and they’ve all said it regardless of their complexion) Kashmir is the real dispute between India and Pakistan. Whether you wish to call it the core dispute or the central issue is ultimately a matter of terminology. But ask anyone at a dhaba or a paanwalla’s what he or she thinks is the problem between India and Pakistan and the answer is bound to be Kashmir. The fourth fact is that just as we in India are convinced of our case and hold it with passion so too are they in Pakistan convinced of their’s and equally emotional about it. I was not comparing between the two nor was I suggesting that one was better than the other but simply stating the obvious: they believe they have a right to Kashmir just as much as we are convinced that legitimacy and legality are wholly and irrefutably on our side. The fifth fact is that we have to sort out this issue by talking to Pakistan. Of course, there is need for dialogue between Delhi and Srinagar and there is no doubt that cross-border terrorism has to be tackled and that Pakistan is heavily involved in it but still, we have to talk to Pakistan. We cannot wish that away.

  Now, tell me, what is so hair-raising about any of that? In fact, were you to say that I’ve only stated the obvious and that behind the guise of trying to be profound I’ve been mundane then, perhaps, I would have to plead guilty. But to claim that any of this, in any way, under any interpretation, could amount to handing Kashmir over to Pakistan is not just bizarre, it’s simply impossible to comprehend.Yet that’s precisely what Jairam was talking about. Someone — he didn’t say whom but perhaps there were several of them — had told him just this.

  The irony is that if we cannot accept these obvious facts, we may well be in danger of handing over Kashmir to Pakistan. But will my faceless critics pause to consider that?

  P.S. As regards the Pakistan High Commissioner’s daughters, we met in the lobby outside the seminar hall and walked in together. So what? I happen to know them extremely well. Their mother has been a friend since I was six. That’s 38 years. They haven’t influenced my views nor I, sadly, theirs. But give me time!

  11

  One Simple Question

  I’m not the philosophical sort and I don’t spend time struggling over big questions or deep issues. Nor am I the type of individual who is concerned about his personal identity or the future of his community. I tend to accept things as they are and take events as they come. In fact, others often do my thinking for me. But in the last few weeks, I’ve become aware of a question no one can really answer. Surprisingly, it didn’t strike like a bolt of lightening out of the blue. On the contrary, it crept up on me and until I realised its implications, I wasn’t even aware of its significance. But since then, events have repeatedly brought it back to mind. Not once, not twice but times without number. Consequently, today it’s become an echo that simply won’t fade away. No matter where I look or what I hear, its resonance is always around.

  Why is it that Hindus, who represent 82.5 per cent of the population, or in absolute terms an astonishing 842 million, feel threatened by Muslims who are barely 12 per cent and Christians who are just 2.34 per cent?

  Oh, I know the conventional answers that purport to explain away my incredulity. That Muslims have been spoilt and pampered. That they are treated as a vote bank, they are permitted their own personal religious code whilst Hindus have been straightjacketed by the 1956 Code Bill, the Constitution has been amended to appease them etc, etc. Or that Christians are seeking to convert by inducement, they are trading in human souls, they regard their faith as superior and they owe their ultimate allegiance to an authority outside India whose interests may not be the same as ours. But do these arguments really answer my question? I doubt it.

  Pause for a moment and think about the actual situation. We, the Hindus of India, are 82.5 per cent of the population. Can anything or anyone threaten us in our own country? Do we need to prove to ourselves that we aren’t second-class citizens? Do we need to fight for our fundamental rights as Hindus? Who’s threatening them? Who possibly could?

  Yet this is the concern that lies at the core of the VHP’s mission. Worse, it’s this call that many fear will move voters, whether to violence before or in the way they vote, at the forthcoming Gujarat elections. Hinduism is not in danger. It couldn’t possibly be. Yet millions, may be hundreds of millions, are ready to believe it is and act accordingly.

  The truth is something else. Of all our communities, the Muslims of India are the poorest, the least educated and the worst represented in government, the civil service or the private sector. Very little or may be nothing at all seems to be changing that. And no matter what the appeasement, whether it’s overturning the Shahbano judgement, permitting four wives or just buying their votes, they are likely to remain the poorest, the least educated and the worst represented. So tell me, how can they threaten us? If anything, we have them in our thrall. In fact, whatever appeasement we give them only serves to ensure they stay there.

  Now turn to the Christians. In 1961, they were 2.80 per cent of the population. By 1991, the figure had fallen to 2.34 per cent. And if leaks from the 2001 census are to be believed, their number has further reduced to just 2.18 per cent. Does this suggest that they are busy converting, reaping harvests of faith, buying Hindu souls? If they are, quite frankly, they are doing an appalling job of it.

  But clearly such facts have nothing to do with the way vast numbers answer my question. Stop a man on the road in Delhi and ask him about the Muslims. If he’s being honest, he’ll probably reply “Sar pe chada ke rakha hei.” When you hear such answers, only one conclusion is possible. The truth is
not what moves them.

  It’s a perception, may be a prejudice, more likely a fear that has clouded their rational judgement. If they think of themselves as second-class citizens, as adherents of a faith under threat, as a ‘minority’ in their own country, then that can only be because powerful and persuasive voices have deliberately misled them. The only saving grace is that by the same token, it also shows that convincing arguments and emotional reassurance can move them back to reality. People don’t normally opt for being silly. When it happens, it’s always an aberration.They need a hand, a guiding light, to lead them back to sanity.

  But where is that hand? Where is that light? I see only dummies around me whilst the shadows are steadily growing longer.

  12

  The Case for Wit

  By and large, we are not a witty people. We tell jokes and play pranks but very few of us – and only very occasionally are subtle or sophisticated. Our eloquence is of the long-winded variety, strong on emotion, heavy with content but rarely sharp and piercing. Our repartee, such as it is, is smug and childish. Its aim is to put down rather than amuse.

  In contrast, the clever answer is both pleasing and effective. It makes its point without hurt or boastfulness. In fact, even the victim breaks into a smile.

  Last week, I got to re-interview Kapil Dev and, no, he didn’t cry. But he was extremely witty. Going over his cricket career, I asked him about his alleged rivalry with Sunil Gavaskar.

  “The Press used to speculate about your relationship with him.” I said. “You were said to be rivals, there was tension between you and they even claimed you didn’t like each other. What was the truth?”

  The smile on Kapil’s face was the first indication of how he would answer. Then, his eyes started shining. I could sense that he was up to something.

  “The best part,” Kapil began, “was that Sunil wasn’t an all-rounder. So there was no fight as such.”

  Kapil knew his answer was a winner. Without saying anything, he had said it all. That’s why he allowed a little laugh to punctuate the first sentence. Afterwards, he went on to praise Sunil, generously and warmly. But he had already made his point.

  My friend Ashraf Qazi had a very similar tale to tell. It was about the legendary Hashim Khan, one of the world’s great squash players. Interviewed on television, Hashim was asked about his nephew, the reigning world champion Jehangir Khan. Hashim praised the young man’s style, his stamina and his incredible scores. Jehangir had just won his tenth consecutive British Open, a record that still stands, and was considered invincible.

  “Tell me,” The interviewer suddenly asked. “If you and Jehangir were both in your prime and had to play each other, who would win?”

  At first, Hashim refused to answer. The interviewer pressed him but he continued to evade. Then, at the end, the question was put again. This time, Hashim relented.

  “Let me put it like this.” Hashim said. “Jehangir plays exactly like his father, Roshan and Roshan never beat me!”

  Whenever Ashraf told the story, he would burst out laughing well before the end. I’ve started to do much the same when I recount the Kapil anecdote.

  Often the best way out of a tricky situation is to be witty about it. In 1842, Sir Charles Napier had been expressly forbidden to conquer Sind but the temptation was too great. So despite the strictest orders to the contrary, he defied them. Now, how was he to bell the cat? Delving into his Latin, he sent a telegram to the Court of Directors of the East India Company in London. It was a single word: ‘Peccavi.’ It means ‘I have sinned’.

  Or you can use wit to put someone gently in their place. It’s said but I doubt if it’s true that George Bernard Shaw was once sent an invitation by the Duchess of Norfolk, a lady he had little regard for. The invitation read, “Her Grace the Duchess of Norfolk” will be at home this Sunday evening between the hours of 8.00 and 10.00 p.m.” He replied promptly. “George Bernard Shaw is delighted to learn that the Duchess of Norfolk will be at home this Sunday evening. So will he.”

  But my favourite story and I’m assured it’s not apocryphal is one I read in The Times whilst I was still at school. That little fact made it all the more poignant. The year was 1973 and it was, I think, a Saturday in summer. In those days, The Times used to publish a long essay in its weekend supplement. On this particular occasion, the piece was by Peregrine Worsthorne, later editor of The Sunday Telegraph and an Old Stoic like myself.

  In the article, Worsthorne described a meeting with George Melly’s wife. In the ‘70s, Melly was a famous jazz saxophonist, possibly the best. But forty years earlier, Melly and Worsthorne had studied together at Stowe.They were old chums.

  Now, Melly’s wife apparently snubbed Worsthorne. Peeved by her snooty behaviour, he strode up and said loudly so that everyone could hear.

  “I don’t see why you should be so bloody stuck up, my dear.Your husband seduced me long before he seduced you.”

  Finally, there’s that little throwaway line. If someone is trying to be funny but proving tiresome, you could always take a leaf out of the good Reverend Spooner’s book. Call him ‘a shining wit’ and see if he understands!

  13

  The Right to be Wrong

  “Switch on the BBC.” said Ashok eagerly as he rushed into my office. His normally placid features were in a state of considerable excitement. His eyes were shining.

  “What’s happened?” I was struggling with Ian McEwan’s Atonement and now that I had found a way into the book I was reluctant to give it up.

  “Look,” He said switching on the television and gesticulating towards the screen with a sweeping flourish. A practised impresario could not have done better.

  I stared uncomprehendingly.The channel was in the middle of another Hard Talk. The only difference I could detect was that they had three guests and not one. But why would that work Ashok into such a lather?

  “They’re discussing whether the Queen serves any useful purpose. That man,” and Ashok stabbed one of his stubby fingers in his direction, “is saying the monarchy should be abolished. And he seems to be winning the argument.”

  “So?”

  I was perplexed. I couldn’t fathom why this discussion was so important.

  “Have you forgotten that today is the Queen’s Jubilee? The BBC is marking 50 years of her reign by questioning her utility! What an amazing country! Can you imagine anything like that ever happening in India?”

  It took me a while to understand Ashok’s response. He was marvelling at the fact that the BBC could question the monarchy, the very symbol of British life, on such an historic occasion. But he was also surprised the British did not find this an unacceptable thing to do. Practically all day, the BBC had broadcast the Jubilee celebrations live. The gold coach, the church service, the Guild Hall lunch and the speeches. But now in the afternoon they were questioning all of it.

  In fact, the BBC seemed to have provided a platform to the Queen’s Republican opponents. Ashok found that unbelievable.

  “Kamal hai yaar.”

  He was now sitting opposite me. But I don’t think he was listening to the interview so much as lost in his own thoughts about it.

  “Agar aisi cheez Hindustan me hoti to isse anti-national samjha jata. Humme is mulk se abhi bhi bahut seekhna hei.”

  Ashok’s incredulity reminded me of my own reaction to the BBC years before. My mind went back to a night in 1983, in the middle of the Falklands war and shortly after a British hunter-killer submarine had blown up the Argentinean warship Belgrano. Five hundred Argentine sailors had been killed. The BBC programme Panorama questioned whether this was necessary. As I watched I knew I was witnessing one of the most extreme examples of freedom of speech. Questioning your country’s ‘victories’ in the middle of a war, when your own soldiers are under attack, is never easy. An expression of concern for the enemy’s dead is even more difficult. However, the BBC had put the value of free speech above the price it would have to pay for it. Mrs. Thatcher and the Tories
were furious. The tabloid press weighed in on their side. But the BBC stood by its convictions.

  A few years later, after the Lockerbie crash, when American and British planes bombed Tripoli killing Gaddhafi’s three year old daughter, the BBC was once again at the forefront questioning whether this was a justified response. I remember their footage of Gaddhafi’s destroyed home. It infuriated the government. It also proved the BBC’s point.

  “You know the interesting thing about all this?” Ashok suddenly asked as I finished recounting my own experiences. He had the look of a man who has just discovered a startling truth. Archimedes, no doubt, would have worn a similar expression when he had jumped out of his bath.

  “The test of freedom of speech is not when the point you’re making is right.” he said. Ashok’s smile suggested he was rather pleased with this discovery. I waited to hear more. “The real test is when the point could be wrong.”

  He could have added that the test could also come when the point is hurtful, or embarrassing, or just controversial. But that would be mere detail. We’re all prepared to hear the other man’s view when we agree with him. It’s when we don’t – or, worse, when he’s criticising you – that tolerance or acceptance becomes difficult.

  “Would we in India pass this test?” It seemed the obvious question to ask. But Ashok took his time answering. For a moment, I even thought he had not heard. When he replied, his voice was unusually soft. It was almost as if he was speaking sotto voce.

  “We don’t know the difference between criticism and disloyalty.”And then, after a long pause, he added, “We can’t accept that criticism can be a sign of concern, even of fondness. In our eyes, criticism is always proof of dushmani.”