Thapar - Devils advocate: the untold story

Devils Advocate

THE UNTOLD STORY

KARAN THAPAR

For Mummy, Daddy, Waffles and Abo

CONTENTS

I m not sure if it was a bright and sunny day in Srinagar, but 5 November 1955, the day I was born at twenty minutes to 9 in the morning, was a Saturday. My arrival was not what my parents had expectedafter three daughters and twenty years of trying and failing to have a son, they were convinced that I would be another girl. In fact, they had already arranged to leave their fourth daughter and a nanny with my grandmother when they would depart six weeks later for a year in London.

Mummy was even reluctant to accept either the doctors word or Daddys that shed finally had a boy. She thought they were hiding the truth from her. So as soon as she got a moment on her own, she undid my nappy to check for herself. Unfortunately, she got caught in the act and was mercilessly teased thereafter!

Once my parents accepted the fact that their long-sought-after son had arrived, everything changed. The nanny, Abo, and I were part of the family that sailed from Bombay. This little anecdote is an example of the upbringing I have had and, for some, an indication of the sort of person I would grow up to be.

My eldest sister Premila, who was a year old when Abo first joined us, couldnt pronounce the nannys proper name, Dharmo Devi. And her married name, Havaldarni Khazan Singh Salaria, was even more complicated. So Premila called her Abo and the name stuck. In turn, Abo taught me to call Premila Bobo, the Dogri word for elder sister!

I adored Abo, as did my three sisters, Premila, Shobha and Kiran. By the time I was born shed been with us for nearly twenty years. By the time she died it was over half a century. All four of us were brought up by her and I guess each one was spoilt in the same way. But I suspect that my relationship with her was different, for one significant reason. By the time I was born, my parents were a lot older, and that accounted for the difference. Daddy was a senior general in the Indian Army, commanding XV Corps. The demands on their time meant that I was placed more in Abos charge than my sisters had been when they were young.

Abo would wash, scrub and dress me. Shed supervise my eating. At night Id insist on sleeping in her bed. Except for the fact that she wasnt, she was like a mother to me.

When I was young, I often wondered why my parents had named me Karan. One of the explanations given was that my third sister, Kiran, was determined that her brother should be called Karan. Perhaps she thought there was something apt about names that almost rhymed. But it turns out that the idea of calling me Karan was proposed by a dear friend of my mother, Maharani Tara Devi of Kashmir. During the years my parents spent in Srinagar, Mummy had become close to the maharani, who used to call her Generalni. It was her idea that if the child my mother was expecting turned out to be a boy, he must be named after her son Karan Singh. In fact, when I received the G.K. Reddy award in 2018, Dr Karan Singh, who was presiding over the ceremony, regaled the audience with this story. As he put it: Im to blame for his name!

Given that my parents were quite old when I was born (Daddy was fifty), it was perhaps inevitable that I would be pampered. Rarely did Daddy scold, and there was nothing that he would deny me. He was unfailingly indulgent. He seemed to enjoy my occasional naughtiness, as if it was proof that his son was spirited and not a sissy.

There was, however, one occasion when I was five when he did try to discipline me. Im not sure what I had done, but I remember sensing that he would not be forgiving. At the time, we were living in Army House in Delhi and he was the army chief. As I saw the anger on his face I scarpered out of the room, ran down the corridor and out of the house. Daddy ran behind me. When the guards on duty saw us, they joined the chase.

This hilarious situation ended when I stumbled in the garden, giving Daddy and the guards the opportunity to catch up. But instead of the slap Id expected, he picked me up in his arms and roared with laughter. Even though my behaviour had been unforgivable, my spunk had won his admiration.

After I was packed off to boarding school at the age of eleven, it was usually Daddy whose eyes would fill with tears when I would walk into his room to say goodbye before every school term. The paradox of the situation would lift my downcast spirits. His parting words were always the same: Remember, he would say, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I could never fathom why he thought his son was a tedious bookworm!

Mummy was different. She consciously attempted to make up for Daddys softness by putting on a tough exterior. Consequently, although everyone could see that she adored her son, I knew she wouldnt forgive my pranks and lapses.

Youre ruining the boy! she would admonish Daddy each time he laughed away my bad behaviour.

Oh come on, Bimla, hes only a child!

And hell remain one, she would riposte, if he doesnt learn how to behave himself.

I guess thats why I was put into school when I was barely two-and-a-half years old. Perhaps Mummy also feared that in the company of three older sisters, her precious son would start behaving like a girl. So the nuns at Loreto Convent, Tara Hall, Simla, were prevailed upon to take me into their kindergarten. This, of course, meant that I began my education as a convent-school boy!

Im not sure how much I learned, but Im told that my daily hollering would bring the school to a stop. Kiran, who was sitting for her Senior Cambridge exams at the time, was repeatedly summoned to calm me down. Mummy, however, was adamant about keeping me in school and, despite the chaos I created, I was unfailingly sent every day.

A few years later, when Daddy was the Indian ambassador in Afghanistan, I was admitted to the American School in Kabul. It was the only English-speaking educational establishment in the country. It was here that I acquired a fondness for peanut butter, which my parents put up with and which, consequently, Ive retained all my life. However, Mummy didnt take too kindly to the Americanisms I picked up. She wasnt happy with the gee whizzes and aw shucks I would expostulate when I came home but, no doubt, she hoped Id grow out of them. But as soon as she heard me pronounce aluminium as aloominun she decided that the situation needed immediate rectification. There was no way she would let her little boy end up with a Yankee accent!

So I was packed off to Doon School in Dehradun. Mummy organized my departure with the exactitude of a sergeant major. At the time I almost thought she was happy to be rid of me. Daddy, on the other hand, took to his bed. He didnt demur, but he wasnt at all convinced that his little boy needed to be sent to boarding school.

I cant deny that I didnt like the idea at all. As I waited in the airport departure lounge, surrounded by my mother and sisters, the Indian Airlines manager, a well-built gentleman called Anwar Malik, came up and addressed me. He thought he was speaking to a happy eleven-year-old looking forward to a big change in his life. Well, young man, everything under control?

Yes, I bawled. Everything but my tears.

Whoever said that schooldays are the best days of your life was more than an ordinary pessimist. Logically, he must have been close to suicide!