Not a Nice Man to Know

by Khushwant Singh

  This last bit seemed like a possible loophole. Menon plugged it at once. ‘I want to know the precise minute in which you sent out this press release, the time a copy was delivered to Ghosh, and the time he left the office. There will be no mistakes. I rely on you. This is most serious. Report to me within half an hour.’

  I checked the timings. The Indiagram had been sent out as usual sometime between 4 and 5 p.m. A file had been left on Sudhir Ghosh’s table. I found it on a mound of Indiagrams in the ‘In’ tray. I peeped into Ghosh’s engagement diary lying on his desk and saw that on the day in question he had no afternoon engagement. I made my report to Menon. ‘Tell Ghosh to see me the moment he comes in. Leave a note on his table.’

  I wrote a note and placed it under a glass paperweight on Sudhir’s table. This note became an important weapon in Menon’s hands.

  Ghosh sauntered into the office at 11 a.m. and leisurely began to peruse the daily papers, starting with the Times. He summoned me to his office. ‘Why was this Indiagram sent out without my approval?’ he demanded somewhat haughtily.

  I could afford to be cheeky. ‘It is always sent out between 4 and 5 p.m. You are seldom in the office at the time. If you like, we will dispatch it a day later. Only, the high commissioner is anxious that it should get to the papers that very day. Incidentally, he is most anxious to see you at once!’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will see him when I am free. There is no urgency. In future nothing should leave this office without my approval. These are my orders. I will circulate them in writing. I will see you later.’

  I refused to be snubbed and played the double game as adroitly as I could. ‘I wish you could settle these matters with the high commissioner. I get one set of orders from him, another from you. And rudeness from both. I will just throw in the sponge.’ I marched out triumphantly.

  At midday, the high commissioner’s phone rang again summoning me up to his room. ‘What time did Ghosh come in?’

  ‘About 11 a.m., sir.’

  ‘Did you tell him I wanted him urgently?’

  ‘I did, sir. I had left a note to that effect earlier.’

  Menon sent his personal messenger to fetch Ghosh. A very pale and ruffled Sudhir entered the High Commissioner’s room. Menon thundered at him, accusing him of deliberate disregard of orders. Sudhir replied blandly that he had come in a few minutes ago and had just then been told by me that he was wanted by the high commissioner. He said that he had seen no note on his table. Menon knew that Sudhir was lying and took the chance of my finding the note. He asked me to leave so that he could deal with Ghosh, by himself. I went straight to Ghosh’s office and picked up my (now crumpled) note from his wastepaper basket. Without ceremony, I re-entered Menon’s room where the two were having it out and placed the note on the table. Sudhir persisted in his denial. He insisted that he did not see the note.

  Menon took it upon himself to suspend Ghosh and ordered me to take over till a new PRO was appointed. He sent a detailed report of the incident to the government, backed by a written statement by me. A personal letter was addressed to Nehru, mentioning amongst other things, Ghosh being a Patellite. Ghosh sent his own version of the affair to Sardar Patel and a personal explanation to Mahatma Gandhi. A week later both men flew to New Delhi to fight the last round of their battle. We were left in peace. India House became, as Menon liked to describe it in his absence, ‘a mausoleum’.

  There is little doubt that Menon was in the right. And Menon knew how to press his advantage to the full. Neither Gandhi nor Patel could save Sudhir. Patel did, however, wreak his vengeance. By then I had come to be known as a ‘Menon favourite’. While Menon was on his way back from Delhi to London, Patel sent telegraphic orders transferring me to Ottawa.

  Ghosh was crestfallen. When I went to see him in his office, he was sitting hunched with his elbows on the table and his head between his hands. ‘I have no malice against ‘Menon,’ he said looking straight at me. ‘I have no hatred against anyone. I have been with the Mahatma.’

  He told me of all that had taken place in Delhi between Gandhi, the Prime Minister, Sardar Patel and other senior officials. He told me of the ‘lying and trickery’ Menon had employed to get rid of him. ‘But I have no malice against Menon or anyone else in the world; I have been with the Mahatma.’ He shut his eyes and meditated for a few moments. He smiled and continued his narrative. Menon, he said, would stoop to anything to gain his ends. He was an intriguer, he had poisoned Nehru’s ears against him (Sudhir) and spread stories that Sudhir had become too big for his shoes. Menon was envious because Sudhir was a friend of all the people that mattered: Cripps, Attlee, Sorensen, etc. ‘But I have no malice against Menon or anyone else in the world. I have been with Bapu.’1

  Menon stood by people who stood by him. He refused to give my replacement, P.L. Bhandari (now our Ambassador in some country), who knew the PRO’s job far better than I, a chance. He ‘talked’ Nehru into taking over external publicity from the information and broadcasting ministry. And as soon as that was accomplished he manoeuvred my transfer to London.

  Five months later I was back in England. So began my second tenure with Menon.

  ~

  I was drawn closer into Menon’s circle. I rented one floor of the house in which Arthur Lall was living. Lall had become Menon’s chief confidant. Menon used to often drop in at the house at Walton Place (behind Harrod’s) and after a while began to summon me down into the sitting-room.

  Arthur Lall was hypnotized by Menon’s personality. He could indulge in the most outrageous flattery. ‘You are the greatest speaker of the English language in the world. If I may be permitted to say so to your face, you have a far greater mind than Stalin’s or anyone else’s. I should know because I work with you.’ He would ring up Menon long after midnight and often the two conversed like lovers.2 I shared a part of the confidence reposed in Lall and though I could not match his words, I did the best I could to give currency to the legends of Menon’s great intellect, his brilliant oratory, his contempt for worldly goods and his celibacy.

  It was not easy for outsiders to enter Menon’s circle. Most tried; few, a very few, succeeded. Menon reacted violently to people’s looks and gave them short shrift simply because he did not like their noses or the colour of their skin. He had ways of making them feel small. An excellent information officer working under me, called Pendsay, he always addressed as Bhonsley. An officer who spoke indistinctly was ‘Mr Baw Baw’. Two brigadiers of the Indian Army were made to share a tiny cubicle meant for the PRO’s stenographer. Some, however, broke through his resistance by sheer persistence.

  During my stay in India House there were two notable examples of people who made Menon’s charmed circle.

  Shri K. was a junior officer in the education department. His sycophancy had been of little avail because Menon simply did not like him. I was present on one occasion when he was particularly savage with K. He was looking through some files when I noticed his eyebrows twitch and his face go pale with anger. He pressed his bell and barked at the messenger. ‘Get that ass K.’

  He began to mutter. I caught some disjointed words: ‘No brains—really the worst of fellows the government sends me!’

  Five minutes later K. entered the room rubbing his hands with invisible soap and a nervous, fawning smile hovering on his face. ‘Sir, you sent for me.’

  The storm broke. ‘Have you any brains?’ roared Menon, flourishing a file in front of him. ‘Did you read my instructions? Do you ever apply your mind to your work?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, I . . .’

  ‘Get out!’ thundered Menon. He flung the file at him. K. collected the papers strewn on the floor and quietly walked out.

  Menon clutched his head between his hands. He remained in that position for a long time till the temper was drained out of his system. He looked up and asked me, ‘I was very rude to him, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you were a little rough.’

  He dialled the internal telepho
ne. His voice was now soft and heavy. ‘K., will you come up!’

  A minute later a very pale K. re-entered Menon’s bureau. ‘I am sorry, K., I lost my temper with you. I apologize.’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ replied K. ‘It’s a privilege to be ticked off by you. It’s only then we know we are in the wrong and can rectify our mistakes.’

  K.’s promotion was rapid. He was seconded to the Foreign Service by the same board that selected ‘Miss Singh’. He served with considerable distinction as India’s ambassador in many countries.

  Equally successful in gaining Menon’s affection (though not respect) was the new military attache, a Sikh Brigadier. The Brigadier belonged to a landed family of the Punjab and was adept in durbardari—courtcraft. His wife was the daughter of a wealthy man listed in Griffin’s Chiefs and Ruling Families of the Punjab (a sort of Debrett’s Peerage of the Punjab.) Although her father was neither a chief nor had any ruling powers, the daughter made up for these shortcomings by acquiring the maiden name ‘Queenie’.

  Menon took an instant dislike to the Singhs. The Brigadier’s obsequious manner and nasal tone irritated him. He was calculatedly rude to the couple, referring to him as a moron or the Chief of the Morons. The Brigadier’s reaction was charming in its naivete: ‘Sir, who cares about such things these days; we are a democracy now.’ Menon rightly suspected that ‘Queenie’ was a gossip. He ignored her at official functions and within the hearing of many people described her in the most uncomplimentary terms. His vocabulary was enriched by years among English working classes. ‘Bitch’ and ‘slut’ came easily on his tongue.

  The Singhs set about winning over Menon in classic oriental style. They discovered who Menon liked and proceeded to cultivate them. I being a Sikh and therefore a natural rival, was left out. Other favourites were entertained lavishly. ‘Queenie’ paid special attention to ‘Miss Singh’ and the secretary of the India League. ‘Miss Singh’ was courted with flowers and flattery. The secretary had an insatiable thirst which she was willing to slake at anyone’s expense. When all seemed to be going well, ‘Queenie’ slipped up by being indiscreet about ‘Miss Singh’s’ relations with Menon. She was subjected to a terrible tongue-lashing; Menon said to her face what he had been saying in public behind her back. A few days later, the couple called on Menon to crave forgiveness. ‘Queenie’ made an abject and tearful apology to all parties concerned. Menon stopped referring to the Brigadier as a moron. ‘Not a bad chap at heart,’ he admitted grudgingly. A few months later the Brigadier claimed with pride that Menon was not only a boss he was proud to serve but also a close friend of the family.

  Most people who joined the high commission staff started by being extra loyal to Menon. They denounced his critics and informed Menon of them; they tried to cultivate members of the ‘inner cabinet’. Some were soured by their experience, particularly Menon’s habit of taking subordinates into confidence and encouraging them to defy their seniors. Some took the discourtesy and mauling they received from Menon as ‘all in a day’s work’. Outstanding of this class was the late R.S. Mani who was the first deputy high commissioner when I joined office. Seldom have I seen a senior official treated more like a doormat—and like a doormat keep the ‘Welcome’ sign on his face. Most seniors boasted that they brooked no nonsense and spoke their minds to Menon. I never heard anyone do that in my presence. In my time very few had the courage to hit back. Those who did like Ashok Chanda, for a short while Menon’s deputy, or Subimal Dutt, later secretary-general who investigated India House affairs and described them officially as ‘chaotic’, soon learnt that nothing they said or wrote about Menon made the slightest difference in the esteem in which Prime Minister Nehru held him. In any case most of Chanda’s battles with Menon were fought on paper. ‘Hum shala ko aisa file men mara’—I gave the bounder such a hiding on the file—was a Chanda favourite. Others learned from the experience of these men and simply bided their time. M.J. Desai, who succeeded Chanda as Menon’s deputy, would shrug his shoulders and say, ‘Sab chalta hai’—everything goes. Sir Dhiren Mitra, legal adviser, remained behind a screen of pipe smoke and muttered philosophically, ‘Pagul hai (He is mad). He was however the first man to draw Nehru’s attention to financial irregularities committed by Menon. Some threw caution to the winds. The air attache, Shivdev Singh (now air-marshal) ordered his staff to keep away from Menon’s receptions. A telephone operator told him to ‘go to hell’. It was to Menon’s credit that he went up to apologize to her.

  There were aspects about Menon which were akin to madness. He was a demon for work. But a more disorganized worker I have never met. He would waste hours checking menus of the house cafeterias and the mileage and petrol consumption of the fleet of motor cars he had bought for India House, while contracts for supply of jeeps and aircraft involving millions of pounds were bungled. He would spend many hours at conferences where nothing was ever done and then punish himself by keeping awake, till the early hours of the morning—and punish others close to him by summoning them at odd times. (For many days I had to sleep in my office.) I suspected he took drugs or sleeping tablets because I often found him half asleep at his desk. Dozing off at a formal lunch or dinner was a favourite pastime. (A curious trait he shared with Nehru. At a lunch I gave to editors of English papers, both men slept through most of the meal.) Like many men, he was very ill-tempered in the mornings. By noon his bile juices would begin to flow and a more affable Menon would emerge. He could be most cheerful about midnight. I imagined there was something symbolic in the fizzy lemonade he drank before retiring to bed and his own late night effervescence.

  Menon was a poor judge of men. He disliked the well-bred and warmed towards the vulgar. Snobs and the old-school koi hais he insulted in and out of season. This trait often landed him in trouble—as it did when he got the dubious Mr Potter to handle contracts for the supply of defence equipment for the Indian Army. Potter was Menon’s friend. So also were a film producer and his sculptress wife. The former was a Cockney and as poor a film producer as he was a translator of Russian poetry. The latter was a talented artist but also a shameless grabber. The two together made an impossible pair. But with these types Menon was most at ease. And he stood by them in times of trouble. He sheltered them against charges of corruption. If they sired bastards (some did in office) he protected them. If they were down and out, he found them jobs and money. But he also expected lifelong gratitude. He seldom got it.

  It was hard to judge the sort of people Menon would like or dislike. As a rule he was suspicious of journalists; for Indians of that fraternity he had a positive aversion. Sundar Kabadi, who was then president of the Indian Journalists’ Association, was a thorn in Menon’s side. He addressed Menon without any honorifics and could be as rude to Menon as Menon was to him. Alec Reid, a Scotsman with the Hindustan Times and his wife Ela Sen;3 K.P. Ghosh of United Press International (UPI) and his wife Paula Wiking of Blitz; and Taussig of Eastern World were absolute anathema to him. Amongst the few he liked were Shelvankar of The Hindu and Parthasarathy of the PTA, whom he was instrumental in having taken into the Indian Foreign Service. Of the English journalists he often expressed regard for David Astor of the Observer. Nevertheless, in my presence he savaged Astor and his colleagues William Clarke and Sebastian Haffner. ‘You English are a race of brigands,’ Menon exploded apropos nothing before dismissing them. I recall Astor’s remark as I was taking him down the lift. ‘Public relations for Krishna must be quite a job!’ It was.

  I tried to discover what exactly it was that Menon liked or disliked about the men and women he met. He had a sense of beauty and the one thing that his favourites had in common were good looks. Lall and Prithi Singh were handsome men. ‘Miss Singh’ attracted him as a symbol of modern India. He had left Malabar thirty years earlier when Indian women were inhibited. Her chi-chi convent accent and coquettishness completely captivated him. Of the officers’ wives, Arthur Lall’s wife, Sheila, and mine were favourites for the same reason. They also sha
red the distinction of being ‘misunderstood’ by their husbands. And Menon had great understanding of misunderstood wives. In those four years, the only two whom he liked and trusted who could not lay claims to looks were the League Secretary Bridgitte Tunnards (she was in her late fifties and had goitre) and myself. Menon liked tidiness. He liked people to be well dressed. He was himself always immaculately clad in expensive suits. My creaseless grey flannel trousers and tweed coat irritated him to the point of distraction. One morning when I went to show him the press clippings he looked me up and down with a sense of disgust. He rang ‘Miss Singh’, asked her to cancel his morning’s appointments and sent for his Rolls-Royce. A few minutes later he came into my room and literally dragged me by the sleeve into his car. He did not tell me what it was all about. We drove across London to High Street, Kensington. I found myself in a tailor’s establishment. Menon ignored my suggestions, chose two of the most expensive pieces in the shop and then asked the tailor to take my measurements. I submitted with embarrassment. On the way back I thanked him profusely as I believed he intended making these a present to me. They were worth more than fifty guineas each. They were not a present—Menon was very close-fisted with his money: the only generosity he ever showed was in sending flowers to ladies he was courting or buying toys for children—whom oddly enough he also courted. Nevertheless, the suits were an excellent buy; I wear them to this day.

  Menon disliked most people and made no secret of this. It was not unusual for him to start a conversation with a senior officer with the words, ‘Mr So and so, I do not like you . . .’ I was often put in situations of extreme embarrassment by his outbursts. One which stands out in my memory was an encounter with the philosopher Dr C.E.M. Joad, who was celebrated for his quick wit and repartee. I had thrown a party for my friend Govind Desani on the publication of his novel All About H. Hatter and had persuaded Menon to come. By coincidence Menon and Joad arrived one after the other. I was helping Menon take off his overcoat when he rasped loud enough for Joad to hear, ‘If I had known you were going to have that bounder, I would never have come.’ I hurried Menon up the stairs and turned with a fawning smile to help Dr Joad take off his leather jacket. He was smoking his pipe unperturbed. He took it out and asked me in his loud, squeaky voice, ‘Isn’t that fellow called Menon?’