I had known of Natwar Singh virtually all my life, but the first time I really got to know him was probably in 1976. He was deputy high commissioner in London. I was the president of the India Society at Cambridge and using it as a stepping-stone to the Union presidency. The Emergency, which was on at the time, made India topical and controversial. It was Natwar Singh’s job to defend it.
I invited him to an India Society meeting to do just that. He came armed with some 500 glossy brochures. “This should convince your membership”, he quipped, smiling broadly, as he stepped out of his Mercedes. We took him to Pembroke College for dinner.
That’s when the embarrassment began. From soup onwards, I kept getting messages that no one had turned up to hear him. The hall where he was due to speak was empty and it stayed that way. So, after coffee, when we finally got there, it was bare. Its silence was all you could hear.
“Ah”, said Natwar Singh, “this is the penalty of popularity!” Whilst the other officers of the Society and I were speechless with embarrassment, not him. “This is a good excuse for me to buy you boys a drink”, he offered. “I take it your college bar won’t be shut?”
He stayed for almost two hours, bought all the rounds and did most of the talking. We were riveted. Natwar was a raconteur on a range of subjects and had a wicked sense of humour. Needless to say, the Emergency was not discussed. I don’t think he was sorry about that. We certainly weren’t.
Decades later, by when we were almost friends, he became India’s foreign minister, and I telephoned him early in the morning after his swearing-in. “BBC World Service want to interview you for HARDtalk India”, I explained. “Would you agree?” I didn’t think he’d refuse and, in fact, he didn’t. But five minutes after our conversation ended, he rang back.
“Have you told the BBC I was a friend of EM Forster?” I had not. I didn’t think it was important. But it was to Natwar. Far more, it seemed, than being foreign minister of India. It was the first time I realised how different he was to other politicians. Most of them wouldn’t even know who Forster was!
Of his many achievements, I would say Natwar was probably most proud of his books. His biography of Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, his grandfather-in-law, is a delight. But I would say his put-downs were classier. Once asked if he was a hawk or a dove, he riposted: “I’m running a foreign ministry, not a bloody aviary!”
Of Jaswant Singh, his predecessor as foreign minister, who always spoke slowly in lugubrious, measured tones, Natwar once said: “In his case slowness of speech does not equate with profundity of thought”. Even Jaswant, to whom this was promptly reported, smiled warmly. Natwar’s quips were witty but never offensive or hurtful. They made you smile, not wince.
Not surprisingly, Natwar wasn’t very good with gadgets. Mobiles confounded him. During the live recording of a discussion in front of a large audience in a Doordarshan studio, his phone began to ring. Sitaram Yechury, who was speaking, paused hoping Natwar would kill the incoming call. But Natwar couldn’t find the phone. He tried his various pockets, searched the floor, and looked helplessly at the rest of us. Meanwhile, the ring got louder and louder.
Finally, Natwar discovered the phone. “Answer it”, said a very irritated Sitaram. “It’s probably Sonia.” “Nahi”, Natwar shot back grinning, “Bibi hai”. And switched the phone off with a flourish. The studio audience was in splits.
In fact, the call was from his driver, but Natwar knew his version was funnier. More importantly, it would relieve the tension that had built up. He had this instinctive skill of knowing how to retrieve lost moments. It was one of his most winning qualities.
Karan Thapar is the author of Devil’s Advocate: The Untold Story.The views expressed are personal
