My tryst with Vajpayee

My father was studying to be an officer at the Indian Military Academy when Independence happened. Overnight, fellow cadets of a different faith were removed and flown across freshly denoted, bewildering borders to a country newly named Pakistan without being offered a choice of citizenship. That was not true for their families, several of whom opted to stay “home” in India. Not only did friends become adversaries, even families now had “enemies” within their fold — sons, brothers, nephews — for no cause of their own. Over time, those families became strangers. Seventy-one years later, to acknowledge a relative in Pakistan is to invite opprobrium or have your patriotism questioned. 

Amidst the hate stories that is the new normal we must not forget what so many newspapers have reminded us of these few days — of former prime minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s ride for armistice across the unbridgeable border in a bus that went bearing messiahs of peace. In that moment, it was possible to believe that it was thinkable to still unite — as people if not as countries. For his troubles, Vajpayee was betrayed, but that faint beacon of hope he lit must count among his great accomplishments. It takes a tall leader to remind us that the strong need not be bullies, that the weak must not be made cowards. 

Even if you don’t much care for politics, it felt good to have a prime minister who was not a hypocrite, liked his prawns as much as his sundowner, and was never apologetic for either. Much is made of abstinence in India; Vajpayee taught us to celebrate life a little. He had a childlike glee you sensed when you shook his hand. Unlike the many who have written so eloquently about him, my only trysts with Vajpayee were at Rashtrapati Bhawan “at homes” when you nodded across the barrier separating the VIPs from the guests, or, once, exchanged greetings across the same barricade.

It was at a book release foisted into a chambers of industry event that I had my Vajpayee moment. I was co-editor of a book the prime minister was expected to launch at Vigyan Bhawan. I was given two passes for the ceremony. My parents were visiting at the time so my wife suggested I take my father along instead of her. What with my father fussing over his morning ablutions and our delayed arrival, we were ushered to our seats in the nick of time, missing the protocol briefing in the excitement. 

As far as I knew, the book was to be presented to the prime minister after his speech — which, that day at least, did not live up to its promised oratory — and he was to unwrap it for a photo-op. Nothing more had been anticipated. Except, here was the emcee extolling the editors to stand up in the auditorium and be acknowledged. From the corner of my eye, I saw my co-editor to the far left stand up respectfully. My father, hard of hearing, seemed to have heard well enough and propped me up, but the prime minister’s attention seemed drawn to the side of my colleague. When the emcee called my name again, Vajpayee said, “Arre, khade ho jao bhai.” I waved to catch Vajpayee’s attention, who then promptly waved back. I was pulled up for the gaffe later by officials who said decorum necessitated a polite namaste, nothing more, but I’m glad of that irreverent moment. I hope it offered some little salve to my father for his snatched fellow-cadet friends.