Silence On The Tape

A little dark boy in his knickers was pestering one of P V Narasimha Rao’spersonal assistants to get him an autograph of his celebrity client in thewaiting room outside Rao’s suite in Bangalore’s Raj Bhavan in July. Theboy’s father, the master masseur, was adding pressure with a supplicatecontortion on his face. The assistant, with a moustache gently rolled up at theedges and a frown that by default encompassed all on Rao’s entourage waspleading helplessness. "He does not like doing all this, he does not listento me, why don’t you let me alone," the assistant was saying in a gruffAndhra voice.

The boy was just persistent, followed the assistant through his walk in thelong and lonely corridors of the Raj Bhavan and somewhere in between, it seemed,they had stuck a deal. The boy came back to the waiting room, running, to pickup his cloth bag. There was a smile on his face. My photographer-friend askedhim if he had been successful in his effort? "No, but I have theassistant’s signature. He has promised to get me the master’s signature thenext time," he blurted out in Telugu and vanished. But little did the boyrealise then that the opportunity had been lost forever. For chances are that henever met him again. And now can't.

Rao had come to Bangalore a couple of days earlier, on July 29, for therelease of his book's [Insider] Kannada translation. At the function Raohad spoken with the renewed energy of a politician and had promised a sequel to Insider,which would be a ‘bare all’ book of contemporary Indian politics. He hadraised expectations through his speech, not exactly a Rao trait. There was aclear departure from his dull, monotone rendering that gave him astatistician’s persona. It had surprised many. A reflection of Rao’s buoyantmood was in the newspapers next day. The pictures exposed his teeth.

I sought an interview with Rao for what we thought would be a"blockbuster" interview for our "What If" Independence Dayspecial issue. Rao initially resisted an interview but relented when we gotSachidananda Swamy, an old loyalist, to speak to him at the Rajarajeshwari Nagartemple where Rao and his daughter had organised a special pooja.

So we were waiting outside Rao’s suite in Raj Bhavan when the massage boywas dancing all around the place for an autograph. We had been told earlier inthe evening that we would be allowed in only after Rao had had his bodymassaged, taken a bath and had had a bowl of soup. The first two were done andwe were expecting the bearer to be out of the room any time with empty silvercrockery and give us a cue to enter in. We had been waiting for two hours, therewere no other visitors for Rao, there was quiet all over, though occasionally, afunny buzz in the garden bushes or a shrieking horn in the busy streets outsidejolted the stillness. Honestly, it was an uneasy, mournful milieu, almost anexegesis to life after power and politics in India.

Now that the personal assistant was free, he sat next to us and asked what wewanted to ask Rao. Even before we replied, he warned, "don't ask himanything about politics, he hates it." Lest that he would prove a hurdlefor an interview that was professionally so valuable, I said, "No, no ithas nothing to do with politics, we'll ask him only about history." Theassistant seemed to be convinced, "Yes yes, he is a great scholar, he'dlike to talk about books," he said. We wondered later if we had shown ourquestions, would the assistant have probably attempted answers? just as he hadautographed on Rao's behalf for the masseur boy.

Within the next few minutes, we were sitting in front of the former primeminister. Rao was wearing a spotlessly white dhoti, simply wrapped around and abanian.A towel covered his shoulders the way a shawl covered his formal attire. He was shockingly frail, he was drooping forward and the characteristic poutseemed to aggravate his falling posture.

I gave him the 'What if' brochure which was in the form of a kite, preparedfor advertisers, and took a few minutes to explain the idea behind thesupplement. "So you are kite-flying with history," he murmered andfell silent.

I said, "we have a set of questions for you."

"What are they like?" he asked. I had carefully worked out thehierarchy of questions.

"The first one, Sir, is: What if you had not made Manmohan Singh financeminister? Do you think he would have become the prime minister? Do you thinkreforms would have taken place?"

Total silence, no reply, no expression, but he was looking into my eyes. 

I moved on after a few seconds, "What if you had confined yourself toAndhra politics? What if Rajiv had not been killed?"

Still no reply. Staring continued. "What if Babri Masjid had not beendemolished?" 

More silence. I was reminded of the assistant's tip. I moved away frompolitics, "What if you had been a fulltime writer? You think you would havewritten in Telugu or in English?"

Nothing seemed to move him. I just turned to look at my photographer-friend.Our agreement was he would start shooting when Rao began speaking. He waswaiting and also trying to record the conversation. There was only silencerunning on the tape.

But suddenly Rao murmered somthing. "Pardon me sir," I said.

He repeated: "What if Outlook did not exist? I don't want toanswer your questions."

"But, Sir... you had given us time"

"Why don't you understand, I am sick, I am suffering fromjaundice."

I tried to be a little persistent, "I'll not insist that you shouldanswer all the questions you could pick what you want to answer."

"I don't want you to give me concessions, I can't answer yourquestions."

"Sir, could you answer at least one question."

"I have also been a journalist. You guys are always looking for yourstory and nothing beyond that. Why don't you leave a sick man alone."

I was quiet. He came back again, "I don't know if you know Outlook'sfirst issue carried an excerpt from my book's manuscript, I had given it to ajournalist friend and I think he passed it on to Mr. Mehta. And what's thatgirl's name Bhaskar Ghosh's daughter, she interviewed me for such a long timebut finally produced very little in the magazine."

"This time it is unlikely to happen that way sir."

I don't mean it as a complaint," he retorted.

"So would you answer a couple of my questions sir?"

"If you continue to insist then I'll have to conclude that journalism isa profession of sadists. Why don't you understand, I am suffering fromjaundice?"

I said sorry and got up. He must have felt bad, or perhaps he just wanted tooffer some consolation, so he said, "I look forward to reading this specialissue with interest." Probably he did.

We came out and Chetan Sharma, Rao's secretary, who had gone out hadreturned. He checked our deadline for the issue and asked us to send thequestions by e-mail. "I'll get them answered once we reach Delhi," hesaid. I sent the mail and a dozen reminders but no reply came.

Our deadline expired.