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Like A Storm In A Gandhi Cap

The father of Indian democracy was a vain man, and could be quite a boor if he chose to

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Like A Storm In A Gandhi Cap
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aaraam haraam hai

Being human, Nehru had his human failings. K.F. Rustamji of the police service, who was for six years his special security officer and as close to him as his shadow, noted them down in his personal diary day after day. He donated his diaries to the Nehru Museum library and let his friend P.V. Rajagopal examine, select and publish them in book form. There is little in it that is not common knowledge but there are some observations about the foibles and eccentricities of the great man which make interesting reading. I was also for a brief period Nehru’s shadow. When he came to London to attend the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference, I was attached to him as his press officer. My observations tally with Rustamji’s. The only difference is while Rustamji adored him, I only admired him.

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Rustamji saw more of the women in Nehru’s life than I. He mentions four: his sister Vijayalakshmi Pandit, Edwina Mountbatten, Padmaja Naidu and Mridula Sarabhai. Vijayalakshmi took pains to see that she appeared beside her brother in photographs published in papers. Padmaja, who was the plainest of the lot, was more vivacious than the others and enjoyed reading pornography. Mridula—known in the family as Boss and who played a heroic role in rescuing abducted women from Pakistan and India during the partition riots—tried to boss over Nehru. He had his own way of freeing himself from their possessiveness. Vijayalakshmi was appointed an ambassador, Padmaja sent off as governor of West Bengal, poor Mridula locked up in jail. Edwina could not claim exclusive rights on him as she was mostly in England. Of these ladies, the only one I did not meet was Padmaja Naidu.

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Rustamji notes that Nehru was vain about his looks. He wore his Gandhi cap at a rakish angle and was never seen without it. He was bald as an egg. I noted that he insisted that every photograph taken by our photographers be shown to him before being released to the press. If one had caught him yawning, asleep or picking his nose, he tore it up with his own hands.

Rustamji has a lot to say about Nehru’s unpredictable temper. If his breakfast was late, he stormed into the kitchen or the servants’ quarters to berate his cook. Once, on a visit to Sira (in Mysore), "he barged into the kitchen in a temper, like Jesus among the moneychangers, and almost chased out all the cooks from there," Rustamji notes in his journal. At almost every public meeting, he found something wrong about the police bandobast to control the crowds lining his route and the distance at which milling crowds surrounded the platform. And let everyone have it. Even before he became prime minister, he slapped the president of the Punjab Pradesh Congress Committee in full view of the crowd because the microphone went dead while he was speaking. Lashing out at unruly mobs became a habit. During a visit of the prime minister of Pakistan, Mohammed Ali, in 1953, Nehru was furious at the inadequate arrangements for containing the crowds: "JN got angrier and angrier. He flung about—pushing people, running after cameramen, shouting, firing. I had never seen him so angry. Somebody opened the door of a car for him; he banged the door and beat people with a large, dishevelled bouquet," Rustamji noted. However, his vocabulary of abuse was limited and the worst he could yell was badtameez or bewakoof. I was at the receiving end on two occasions. Once he arrived in London past midnight. I asked him if he would like me to accompany him to his hotel. "Don’t be silly; go home and sleep," he ordered. Instead of going to his hotel, he drove to Lady Mountbatten’s residence. The next morning one of the papers had his photograph with Lady Mountbatten in her negligee opening the door for him. He was furious. On another occasion he took Lady M out for a quiet dinner to a Greek restaurant. The proprietor recognised them and informed the press. Their photographs were in many papers. I was summoned to his presence. He gave me a withering look and said: "You have a strange notion of publicity." I thought it best not to say anything in my defence.

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Like most Indians, Nehru treated whites with more courtesy than his countrymen: he spoke on the level to whites but tended to talk down to Indians. At times he could forget his manners. Once I had to host a lunch for the editors of leading British newspapers to meet him. Halfway through the meal he fell silent. When a couple of questions were put to him, he simply looked up at the ceiling and did not reply. The questions froze in the air. As if to lend the air some warmth, he lit a cigarette while others were still eating. To add to my discomfiture, Krishna Menon fell asleep. It was a disastrous attempt at public relations.

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Rustamji noted that his idol was a tireless talker. He started talking to men and women in the car taking him to the venue of his meeting. His rambling speeches would at times go on and on for over an hour while many in his audience dozed. In England his audiences were limited. I noted that even during musical performances Nehru, sitting in the middle of the front row, kept talking to men and women sitting beside him. However, he did not indulge in gossip and small talk. When he met U Nu, prime minister of Burma, his host tried to show off how interested he was in India. "Panditji, I like your Vyjanthimala very much," he said. Panditji turned to his ‘shadow’ and asked in Hindustani, "Kaun hai yeh Vyjanthimala?" U Nu also advised Nehru not to lose his temper at the conference. "I will try my best," Nehru replied. "But if I do, U Nu, you must kick me hard under the table."

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While for the most part Rustamji bends over backwards to make allowances for his idol, he confesses that Nehru had his share of "littleness": "It would be difficult for a person who has not known JN from close to imagine what a petty, cantankerous man he could be at times. How rude and arrogant and full of prima donna tantrums—how irascible and selfish in small things! How childish and unbearably inconsiderate he was, not only to me but to those who were supposed to be his trusted advisers! And more than anything else, how impossibly sure he could be of himself and his dictums..."

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After six years of devoted service, Rustamji was replaced by another man as chief security officer. I was luckier. When Panditji came for the next Commonwealth meet I was no longer in government service.

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