Sunday Sentiments

by Karan Thapar

  The Close Circle

  1

  The Tie that Really Binds

  There’s nothing I like more than a nice tie. Although I’m proud of my collection of Hermes and Ferragamo, they are by no means the only ones I’m fond of. Yet sadly, some that I’ve taken a fancy to have been meant for other people. If that doesn’t make immediate sense, read on for in the mystery lies a pretty tale.

  In December 1976, a year and a bit after my father’s death, I happened to be holidaying in Delhi. Mummy had arranged a small dinner and I was commanded to attend.

  “But I have nothing to wear.” I desperately pleaded. I could have added that I had nothing in common with the generals she had invited but I knew that would be brushed aside. So I stuck to the excuse of my supposed sartorial inadequacy.

  “Open Daddy’s cupboard and take whatever you need.” Mother swiftly responded. “You won’t find better ties than his.”

  Now Daddy’s ties were nice but they were almost entirely regimental. Stripes, conventional in colour and old fashioned in style – or so I thought at the time. But there was one that jumped out at me. It was – if I recall correctly – orange and red. Striking, in fact eye-catching.Without hesitation, I took it.

  Mummy smiled when she saw my choice. I assumed she was amused by the bright colours but as she said nothing we left it at that. The party began, I overcame my nerves and slowly, cautiously began enjoying myself. And then it happened. A tall dark gentleman strode up and as I looked up at him I noticed he had on an identical tie.

  “Young man,” He started, “where did you get that tie?”

  “Oh.” I replied, somewhat sheepish about the admission I was forced to make. “From my father’s cupboard.”

  “And do you know that you’re not entitled to wear it?”

  “Why?” By then, my voice was barely a whisper.

  “Because it’s the Colonel of the Guards’ tie. Your father held the post and so do I but I don’t believe you do.”

  Perhaps he was teasing but I never wore it again. I never had the guts to risk a repeat. In the meantime, regimental ties came back into fashion and London stores were overflowing with them. I often thought of buying one but memories of the last time I had worn one would flood back and I would walk away. If only I were ‘entitled’ to wear one.

  Last Sunday, that happened. I was invited by General Rai to speak to the Rajputana Rifles Officer’s Association. The Raj Rif is Daddy’s old regiment and I was visiting the officer’s mess after almost forty years. As an unkempt civilian, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb but I was nonetheless welcomed and presumably forgiven. When I left, General Rai gave me a large wrapped present. I waited till I got into the car to open it. I assumed it would be a fancy calendar or perhaps a regimental insignia of some sort. I was wrong.

  It was the Raj Rif tie. Deep green with bright red stripes. Dignified, distinguished, dashing. I’ve always wanted to wear it. Lewin’s in Jermyn Street, one of my favourite shirt shops, has a Raj Rif tie hanging in the display window. Many are the times I’ve been tempted except memories of the Colonel of the Guards’ came in the way. Now I had been given one by the Raj Rif officers themselves.

  I’m not an officer and I doubt if I’m a gentleman but I do have a regimental tie with full authority to wear it. I’m itching for the next general to walk up and ask questions.

  2

  On Kissing Women

  Would I kiss a woman when I greet her? Yes or, to be honest, usually. In actual fact, it depends on her appearance. But don’t misunderstand me: I don’t mean her looks but something far more subtle and perhaps less obvious. I mean the image she conveys of herself. That would help me judge whether she will take the kiss in the spirit in which it is meant or misunderstand the gesture.

  If I may so put it, in my time I’ve kissed women of all ages, races and sizes. More to the point I’ve done it instinctively. It’s not something you plan in advance, unless it’s a different sort of kiss you have in mind, or think about thereafter. It happens automatically, even reflexively, and usually you get it right. Of course, every now and then you might make a bloomer and end up looking and feeling like a fool. But even so, it’s not the type of mistake you might have in mind. In fact, that’s the point I really want to make.

  One such occasion was in London. I was at a wedding where I joined a group of friends who were sitting together. As one does, I proceeded to kiss the women. They were all old friends. One of them, however, was new to me so I pulled up short and offered my hand instead.

  “Discrimination.” She teased.

  “You mean you want a kiss too!” I retorted and then, turning to the others I knew and squaring my shoulders with mock pride, I added, “See how popular I am.”

  “Don’t bet on it.” came the reply from the lady. “But if your kisses are for the asking why leave me out!”

  My mistake was to stop at the wrong point. I had allowed a false propriety to restrain me. I should have been more confident instead. The opposite, however, simply could not happen. Never would I be so confident as to kiss a woman who doesn’t look as if she would understand. A sort of sixth sense would prevent it. And it works not just for me but for each and everyone of us. Try it, it won’t let you down.

  That’s why the mistakes that happen are not straightforward leave aside obvious. They are of the opposite variety: you would never kiss a lady who thought it wrong to do so but you might fail to kiss someone who would have happily taken it in the spirit in which it was meant.

  If you still haven’t worked out what I’m saying let me put it differently — even bluntly. You would never kiss a bhenji. Her desi touch is enough to prevent an accident. Nor would you kiss a Miss Prim — unless, of course, you simply wanted to tease her. But, occasionally, you might fail to recognise that a lady is cosmopolitan or, as we lads put it, one of us. And when you do, prepare yourself for a stinging retort. For, as Shakespeare did not quite say, hell hath no fury like a woman who thinks you should have kissed her!

  What I don’t understand is why our society finds a man kissing a woman and on the cheek at that, objectionable but doesn’t even blink when two men hold hands in public, or saunter down the road arm-in-arm, or — and this is the wackiest of the lot — cross monsoon puddles maintaining physical contact by holding their little fingers together. This sort of thing is so common most of you wouldn’t even remark on it. But then abroad, a kiss in greeting is so common it is equally unremarkable too.

  Let me point out two little things. Abroad, two men holding hands would send eyebrows shooting skywards. The gesture would convey all sorts of meaning and no one would believe it was innocent. The other point is that abroad as well as in circles in India where it happens, when a man kisses a woman in greeting, there is no implied intimacy. Often it’s not even a sign of affection. It’s just social etiquette. No more, no less. Of course, we already know that in India, in both cases, the opposite is also true.

  So doesn’t that prove it’s all in the mind? The West cannot accept or understand easy-going physical contact between men and our people are embarrassed or shocked by easy-going physical contact between the sexes. Perhaps we need to learn from each other.

  3

  Presentation Before the Queen

  Sometimes you hear stories you want to remember. The other day I did. It was a hot breathless evening. The lights had also failed. We were sitting on the verandah and I could hear frogs croaking around Mummy’s old well. But oblivious of the stifling stillness, she was reminiscing. At 86, her memory stretches back almost to the Russian Revolution.

  We started with The Queen’s jubilee. It was in June but few in India noticed. In Oxford, whence she had just returned, Mummy had watched every moment on television.

  “You know.” She suddenly said. “I was presented at Court. In facts twice. First to King George VI, then to the present Queen.”

  I sat back and listened. Her soft voice contrasted with the heavy black night.

 
; The initial occasion was in 1939 just before the war. It was the last of the old style presentations. My father was a captain and one of the first Indian officers to be sent to the senior staff college at Minley Manor. Mummy was 22.

  General Paget, the Commandant, who had taken a shine to the Indian captain’s chatty wife, pulled strings to arrange an out-of-turn presentation. It was an unexpected honour. So in a hired car, with Daddy’s batman in front, they drove to Buckingham Palace.

  “You can’t imagine how excited I was.” Mummy recalled. “It took me a full hour to tie my sari.”

  They were ushered into an ante-room where attendants were straightening the ladies trains. Today the term suggests locomotion. But in the ‘30s, it was an essential part of every debutantes dress.’

  Unfortunately, the attendant was not familiar with sari pallus. In his enthusiasm, he assumed it needed a tug to fall properly. And that’s what he did. Mummy’s carefully tied sari fell apart.

  “I’m very sorry Madam.” He apologised.

  “It’s no use being sorry.” She shot back. “Help me put it on again.”

  The deed done, the grand doors were flung open and the assembled guests ushered into the throne room. One by one, they were taken to the King and Queen.

  “In those days, he was known as the King Emperor.” Mummy explained. “But Indians did not courtsey. We were told to namaste.”

  She walked straight up to them, well past the point where others stopped. Staring the Royal couple straight in the face she folded her hands together.

  “What did they say?”

  “Charming!” She replied. “I wanted to chat but Daddy whisked me away.”

  As she tells the story, my parents found themselves seated beside an elderly ducal couple. Daddy’s sword got stuck in the Duchess’s lace dress.

  “Psst.” He hissed. “Look!”

  The sharp point of the sword had pinned the dress to the carpeted floor.

  “I had to pretend to drop my hanky.” Mummy said. “When I bent to pick it up, I tugged at the sword. The old dear never found out. She continued to smile.”

  They moved on as fast as they could. Mummy headed for the champagne which proved to be her undoing.

  If I heard correctly, she had had two glasses when Daddy saw her reaching for a third. In seconds, he was beside her. His arrival, however, coincided with the Royal Couple processing through the room. As was the custom at the time, they were preceded by two pages who would not turn their backs.

  “Oh look.” Mummy exclaimed. “They’re walking backwards!”

  They were, but I suspect my father feared worse indiscretions from his young wife and decided to make a graceful exit. Their evening ended at Van Dyke’s studios and the picture taken there captures her happiness. Her eyes are lit up and she’s smiling.

  The second presentation was 17 years later in 1956. India was independent and my parents were taken to the Palace by our High Commissioner, Vijayalakshmi Pandit, and her visiting brother, Jawaharlal Nehru. The only thing was Daddy was back in college. Not Minley Manor but the Imperial Defence College. A fact that sat incongruously with his white hair and evident age.

  “How do you like London?” the Queen asked him.

  He said he liked it very much when Mummy interrupted.

  “It’s all very well for him.” She blurted out. “But when people ask what does your husband do and I reply, he’s at college they always say ‘well, my dear, I’m sure he’ll find a good job soon’!”

  The Queen’s eyebrows shot up and stayed there. But Prince Philip roared with laughter.

  “I know exactly what you mean.” He said without elaborating.

  “And what about Mrs. Pandit?”

  “Oh, she was furious.” Mummy replied.“ ‘You silly girl’ she said. But Panditji loved the story. ‘Good for you,’ he told me afterwards. Then, looking straight at Daddy, he added. ‘She deserves another glass of champagne’!”

  “And?”

  “I had several. What did you think?”

  4

  Are You Married?

  Have you been in one of those situations where the conversation takes a turn of its own? It usually starts with an innocent enquiry, you reply with an equally considerate answer and then suddenly, without anyone knowing how it happened, the person jumps to the wrong conclusion. Or, wors, it becomes horribly embarrassing.

  In the early 1990s, this sort of thing used to happen a lot when people asked if I was married. I am. But the truth is I am also a widower. Nisha, my wife, died thirteen years ago. But that doesn’t undo the marriage. If I had said ‘no’, that would be a lie. If I had said I was ‘a widower’, I might embarrass the questioner who could feel he had accidentally trod on delicate territory. So when the question was popped, I simply said ‘yes’. Incidentally, that also happened to be how I felt about it emotionally. But the conversation never ended there. That’s the problem, Inevitably the outcome would go in the wrong direction.

  Let me illustrate.

  “Nice to meet you.” The person would begin as I was introduced to a stranger at a party, or as I sat down beside a lady I’d never met before and struggled for something clever to start a conversation.

  “Are you married?”

  It’s the sort of thing most people always asked. At the time, I was in my 30s with a head full of relatively black hair and it was, I suppose, a natural question. Now that I’m grey, the question feels redundant. Most people assume I am.

  Anyway, this is when the problem started. I would answer ‘yes’.

  “Is your wife at the party?” the person would continue. I’d never know how to reply. ‘Yes’ would be a lie. ‘No’ was the truth but it would indubitably lead to further questions about where she was and that, in turn, would only make matters worse. Suddenly, I would realise the folly of my first answer. But I’d only said ‘yes’ to the original question because I did not want to embarrass the person by saying I was a widower. It always makes the questioner feel awkward. After all, polite questions are not supposed to elicit painful memories.

  Things are a lot different now that I look visibly too old not to be married. My hair is more salt than pepper, my face has crow’s feet — if not reptilian lines — and because people think they know me, they also feel my life must conform to the norm they expect of people my age. So they assume I’m married. This is how our conversations now fare.

  “Where’s your wife?”

  It’s meant as a pleasant opening gambit. They don’t know that she’s dead. They’d be horrified to find out. But because they’ve assumed I’m married they also assume she’s around.

  Tell me, in my position what would you say? Thirteen years after Nisha’s death, I feel I can blurt out the truth without feeling pain. Also, since I’m conscious of not wanting to embarrass, I’m aware it’s better to be honest at the outset even if that makes for a brief awkward moment.

  In fact, I’ve toyed with several answers. “She’s not here” is one but it doesn’t help. People immediately want to know where she is and when they find out they’re embarrassed. Another is to say “I’m no longer married.” But that doesn’t help either. The person always wants to know why. The inquisitive think I’m divorced and there’s a story to ferret out. The supportive assume I need help. Whilst the solicitous offer to arrange a marriage!

  But once and only because I was a wee bit tight, I answered with the bald, blunt, brutal truth. This is how it went.

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “Dead.”

  “What do you mean? When did that happen? Oh God, how terrible! You poor poor chap.”

  The person got into a terrible fluster. In fact, he went beetroot red. I knew I was being heartless but who told him to start by assuming I was married and that my wife must be around? The fault – if that’s how I can describe it – was his and I did not feel like pushing myself to give a deceptive but gentle answer. However, after a bit, I decided to soften the blow.

  “Don’t worr
y. She died thirteen years ago.You weren’t to know.”

  It worked. His face broke into a smile. Relief flooded his features as inwardly he excused his own faux pas.

  “Well.” He said, his confidence restored. “Time for round two. I’d try again if I were you. You need a woman by your side as you head for the grave. Your second wife is bound to outlive you. And then she can face the question ‘where’s your husband?’

  5

  Baba Gajju and House of Mewar

  Arvind Mewar has just published a sumptuous history of his ancestors. Although a coffee table presentation, it’s very readable and the pictures are stunning. But it’s the little stray facts that I found the most surprising. I had no idea the House of Mewar was the world’s longest serving dynasty, although that service surely terminated in 1947 if not earlier when the British Residents muscled-in. It was equally eye-opening to find that Maharana Pratap never really defeated the Mughals. I always thought he had and I’m a little sorry to know the truth. But I’m inexplicably thrilled to discover that it was a maharana called Karan who conceived of and started work on the Lake Palace!

  My point is that ancestors are a good thing. We all have them though most of us have an unfailing tendency to lose them. Once they disappear into the mists of time, they are easily forgotten. Actually the point is not mine though the credit for that cannot be claimed by me.

  My cousin, Romilla, a historian of some repute, has researched the foundations of the family.We may not stretch as far back as the suryavanshi Mewars (although their policy of adopting heirs when no bloodline descendent was available does make their family tree look a little contrived) but we do at least make it back to Babar.

  The first Thapar, or so Romilla claims, came across with the Great Mughal. The year, I believe, was 1526. His name was Baba Gajju. What he did in Babar’s entourage, Romilla has not disclosed. I suspect he was a boot-black but he might even have been a bhisthi. Perhaps Gunga Din was one of his great grandsons! However, family lore maintains he was a noble man. Years ago, we used to have great fun about this.