Karan Thapar - Sunday Sentiments

Karan Thapar, 2006
Cartoons Sudhir Tailang, 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. The inclusion of all articles in this book is with due permission from Hindustan Times.

ISBN: 978-81-8328-445-5

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Printed in India

For Mummy, who made this possible half a century ago !

Introduction

I suppose I should start with hello. Although Ive been part of the column Sunday Sentiments in Hindustan Times, its quite possible we havent met. Hitherto, Ive lived in a different neighbourhood. My home was the Sunday magazine and although it altered considerably in the half decade I knew, I did not budge. Instead I chose to develop with it. From a diary, to a set of different stories, to a single idiosyncratic piece, I metamorphosed and put down roots. Ultimately, I came to belong. Let me therefore use this first knock on your door to introduce myself.

Im a bit of an odd ball. That may sound affected but its true. I try to be unclassifiable, different and readable. Sometimes amusing, occasionally passionate, often provoking but always myself. Consequently, there are days when you will like me and nod in vigorous agreement but others when you might want to crumple the page and even throw the paper away. Since I aim to be noticed I cant say Im displeased with either response. Its your indifference I dread. To be passed over, as your eyes flick away from my column, would be a sentence I would find difficult to accept.

Yet I do more than simply cry out for attention. I also try to please. Not in the gross way of our false and flattering politicians nor with the slime and oily metaphors of Uriah Heep Im too proud for that but by trying to engage your mind and tickle your wit. As I have read all of PG Wodehouse, whose wit is delightful, I too have absorbed his structures consciously or unconsciously! And if it trickles into my writing, it is often unconscious.

However, a word of caution. My arguments are rarely profound and my humour might take a little getting used to. Im not an original thinker and usually dont understand an original thought. But Im good at repeating whats been said before and occasionally end up saying it better. Once youve learnt to laugh with me, Im sure well get on well. I believe that if you make the effort to read me I, in turn, must ensure you dont feel its wasted.

My world, as youll discover, is not filled with Vajpayee and Advani, Sonia or Chandrababu Naidu. Though they do make an occasional appearance, they live in its periphery. I meet celebrities occasionally in closely defined, formal circumstances, cant profess to know them and they are not friends. My central characters are the more ordinary people of my daily existence like Pritam, Pappu and Pertie, Ashok and Aru and, of course, Nisha and Mummy. The things they do might not make headlines but theyre more relevant and interesting. Even if they dont matter in the big scheme of India on a Sunday morning, they can be great fun.

I should also make a small admission. I can be rather obsessed with myself. Not uncritical, of course, nor even, I hope, uninteresting but I, me and myself are never far from my concerns. There are shades of my personality in my writing and even in front of the camera, I am a different person from programme to programme. So as the and the personalities topics unfold, you will get to know me. Quite literally. In fact, sometimes warts and all.

And now, like a new next-door neighbour who is hesitantly calling on you, Im anxiously waiting to see if you will let me in. This, actually, is a test for both of us. Are you a welcoming reader who, gingerly perhaps but with an open mind, reaches out to embrace the new or are you a creature of tired habit, scared to experiment and unwilling to meet strangers?

Through this book Sunday Sentiments, well both find out.

Contents

Portals of Power

As I Remember Him

I cant claim to have known Madhav Rao Scindia well. Although we met frequently, there was a hint of reserve that surrounded him. He was friendly but never familiar. Open and candid, without wearing his emotions on his sleeve. But he had a loud, infectious laugh. At such times, his eyes would twinkle and shine. It reminded me of the little boy in the Asian Paints advertisement. A combination of mischief and innocence, playfulness and fun.

Sitting in a Doordarshan studio as the 1998 election results started coming in, I mentioned this to him during a commercial break.

You are the second person to have said this. He replied, laughing as he spoke.

Who was the first?

My wife. But she meant it as a compliment.

In a sense, that remark was typical of our relationship. Mr. Scindia, thats what I called him, always thought I had a trick up my sleeve. I dont think he distrusted me. I dont think he was the sort to distrust people. But in my case, he was never sure if there wasnt more to what I was saying, a devious strategy behind a thinly-disguised opening tactic. I cant say I blame him for his suspicions. Not that I was guilty but unwittingly, I had given him occasion to think so.

The story of that incident is the tale I want to recount today. It catches some of the greatness of Madhav Rao Scindia but also a little of his touching human frailty. He knew his weaknesses, he never shied away from admitting them and he was never too big to apologise for them. At the time, he was a minister one of the gods of the Indian political firmament and I, a mere journalist on a poorly-viewed video magazine.

It happened in 1995. After an absence of eighteen months, Scindia had just returned to the cabinet as Human Resource Development Minister. I approached him for an interview for Eyewitness (the video magazine). I wanted his first interview but he was reluctant.

What can I say? He asked. Ive only just taken over. Surely we should wait a while.

Scindia had a point but I was scared that if we waited, others would pip me to the prize. So I insisted. In doing so, I gave him every assurance I could that the interview would go well. My object was to persuade him and I had few qualms about what I had to do. After a while, to be honest, after several phone calls and a little friendly intervention from my then boss, Shobhana Bhartia, he agreed.

I can still vividly recall what he was wearing as he arrived at our studios at Jamia. It was around six in the evening and shadows were starting to fall across the Jamia forecourt. There was a hint of chill in the air. Scindia had on a deep blue shirt with sleeves slightly rolled up. On top, he was wearing a grey collarless bandhgala jacket. Its buttons had been left jauntily undone. He looked informal but by no means casual.

His appearance was very different to the sort of ministers we had grown accustomed to. In those days, white kurta-pyjamas or dhotis were de rigueur. They shuffled in looking ill at ease and made you feel very similar. Scindia looked like one of us.