Narayani Basu - VP Menon: The Unsung Architect of Modern India

V.P. MENON

The Unsung Architect of Modern India

Narayani Basu

For Precious

Foreword

V.P. MENON? OUR DEFENCE MINISTER?

Its a common mix-up. V.K. Krishna Menon was, obviously, a far more compelling man. He strode into the political limelight as though he was born to it, and his relationship with India was both controversial and very public.

V.P. Menon, on the other hand, merits a furrowed brow and a blank expression. Nobody knows anything about him, and yet, his importance to the Government of India, at a time when India stood on the verge of independence, remains unparalleled. He drafted the Plan that would play midwife to Indias birth as a free nation. He was Reforms Commissioner to Indias last three ViceroysLinlithgow, Wavell and Mountbatten. As Secretary, States Ministry, he was Sardar Patels right-hand man, coaxing, cajoling and coercing Princes across India to accede to the Union of India.

He was my great-grandfather.

That is not why I wrote the book, however. There are countless books and biographiescollections of letters, evenon and about the stalwarts of Indias freedom movement. However, deafening silence envelops the man who was responsible for nearly every major document that paved Indias path to independence, and for the shaping of the Indian state into the map we know today. As his great-granddaughter, as a student of history myself, that seemed almost painfully unfair. VPs story, I decided six years ago, must be told.

Predictably, that was easier said than done. There are no books or biographies on Vappala Pangunni Menon. He has been allowed to languish on the sidelines of history for over seventy years. There is the odd reverential blog, run almost always by a fellow Malayali, on the man. L.K. Advani was the last public figure, of both influence and power, to have blogged about VP. This biography, then, is the first to be written on VP, and it is constructed, almost entirely on official documents found in archives in Delhi, London and Kerala, and on the letters and papers in my familys possession. I was fortunate enough to discover V.P. Menons last interviews, recorded by his best friend and boss, Harry Hodson, in 1965. Hodson stayed at Shelter, the Menon family home in Bangalore, for close to six months while he was researching his own book, The Great Divide. VP was already a very sick man by then, his breath rattling in his lungs as he spoke in his thickly accented voice. The words tumbled out as he told Indias story, and though he often paused for breath, it was clear that his mind was still as clear as glass. For those reasons, I have let his voice do most of the talking, especially in the latter half of the book. It is his story, and it is only right that he tell it the way he lived it.

NARAYANI BASU
Delhi
15 December 2019

Prologue

IT WAS THE day before he died.

He was confined to just a bedroom in his step-daughters house. It was in this room that he half-sat, half-lay in bed, propped up against a wall of cushions and pillows positioned to help him breathe, at least a little and a little more comfortably.

One evening, recalls my uncle, Lakshman, my mother went to check on him. V.P. Menon was, by then emaciated and ashen-faced, with the veins on his neck and temples thick with the constant effort of breathing. Premilla Menonmy grandmother and VPs daughter-in-lawsat by his bed. It was clear to both of them that he was dying. As she sat there, he spoke, painfully and raspingly, Do you know, Precious, he said, the only thing in life thats free is airand I cant even get a lungful of it. He spoke without self-pity. It was a statement of fact.

The next morning, my grandfather, AnantanVPs eldest sontelephoned, as he did every day, to ask after his fathers health. His stepsister, Meenakshi, answered the phone. Theres no change, she said as much to reassure herself as to reassure him. Dont worry.

My uncle recalls how his mother took the phone from Meenakshis hand, If you want to see your father alive, she told her husband crisply, drop everything and come here right away.

My father didnt hesitate, remembers Lakshman.

Anantan and his driver, taking turns, drove 780 kilometres that day, crossing Hyderabad and through to Jabalpur, without food or waterstopping only to go to the loo.

It was evening when he arrived. Not wanting to appear before his father covered in dust and sweat, he had a quick shower. VP was awake when his son entered his bedroom. There were no words exchanged between the two of themjust one long final look.

PART I

A Bend in the Road

THE FIRST MEMORIES, as they usually are, seem sepia-tinted and wistful. He never knew his real name until he began going to school and had to write it down in full. Until then he was always Kuttan. Indeed, if you asked the grown man what he remembered most about his childhood, it was more a question of taste, of colour, of soundthe sweet explosion of ripe mangoes in his mouth under hot, blue summer skies; the squelch of mud and boyhood shouts and laughter during monsoon games of football; the warm mix of coconut oil and paan he associated with his mother. But the memory of the day he ran away from home was crystal-clear and stayed with him all through his life.

To the boy, it was a thrilling adventure. To the man, it was a fantastic tale told with a slightly incredulous laugh, as if he were amazed at the devil-may-care attitude of the child.

The darkness of night would have been edging towards an indigo dawn when he awoke. Soon, his mother would awake. Perhaps her eyes were already open. Kunjukutty Amma was a light sleeper. She had to be with seven small and very active children to look after. Kuttan did not want to disturb her or let his mother know that he would be gone long before she began preparing breakfast. He hadnt planned on leaving but events had forced his hand. Only Chinnan knew his secret but he had trained his devoted younger brother well. Chinnan would tell no oneat least not until his family made the discovery for themselves. Moving stealthily, Kuttan rose and went to the door of his open room. The sky was brightening, the indigo edging towards gold in the east. Vappalakalam lay quiet in the first light of dawn. The estate sprawled over some acres of gently undulating land cupped in the bowl made by the necklace of hills known to that part of Malabar as the Anangan Mala. For Kuttan, the hills were home. He had spent his life racing across the slopes, hunting for wild mushrooms with his friends, or simply sitting at the top of his favourite hillock and absorbing the view of the vista below him.

But he did not dare delay. It was a school day and it would not be long before the news of what had happened reached his fathers ears.

Chunangad Shankara Menon figured in Kuttans life as an aloof, shadowy figure of authority. He was the much-feared and deeply respected headmaster of the local school and his marriage (as the eldest of the venerable Chunangad family in the neighbouring village) into Kothakurussis leading clan had served to enhance his image as an upright citizen, with rigidly upright morals and a stern sense of discipline. He was a constant presence but a distant father, and at their current ages of thirteen and eleven, Kuttan and Chinnan accepted him as such. Both boys however, adored their mother. Kunjukutty Amma (or, as some knew her, Unni Madhavi) was a fiercely independent yet very practical woman. She ran the household with a velvet fist and an iron will. She had a weakness for tobacco and paan, a formidable temper (which young Kuttan inherited) and decided opinions on almost every subject under the sun. In Mattathodi, her word was law and not even her husband dared to cross her. Kuttan and Chinnan were her unabashed favourites. Her eldest child, Kalyanikutty, a somewhat sickly girl, was married off at the age of fifteen, leaving six of the younger ones at home. Though he was the second oldest, Kuttan retained no memories of his sister except that she had died fairly young and that too soon after her marriage. For him, his mother was all-important and from what he was to relate to his family, Kunjukutty Amma was a wonderful mother full of the stories small children love to hear and always ready to soothe fretful tears. To leave her was a wrench, but he didnt want to think of that just yet. He had a little time before the house awoke and began the bustle of the daily morning routine and he wanted to soak in every minute.