The Taste by Vir Sanghvi: The story of Natwar Singh

We first met in the early 1990s when we were on a panel discussing something or the other (I have forgotten exactly what) at some Chamber of Commerce type event in Kolkata. Natwar was the star of the event but the organisers had also invited Lord (Robert) Armstrong, the former British cabinet secretary, who was visiting India, to join the panel.

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Most people in the audience had never heard of Armstrong but I knew of his role in the Spycatcher trial in Australia. The British government had tried to ban Spycatcher, a book by a former MI5 officer called Peter Wright who had retired to Australia. The case had come before an Australian court, Armstrong had given evidence on behalf of the British government and had — or so it seemed — lied to (or misled the) court.

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When he was caught out in an untruth and asked by Wright’s counsel if he had lied, Armstrong responded that he had only been “economical with the truth”. It was a great phrase and it has since passed into the language as a euphemism for lying. (The British government lost. Wright won and Spycatcher was published.)

Before we began the discussion, I had a coffee with Armstrong and I asked about the Spycatcher case, a subject he was, naturally enough, not keen to talk about. As it had no relevance to our panel discussion, I thought that was that.

I had not counted on Natwar. A few minutes into the discussion, without any relevance to the context of the interventions, he suddenly told the audience, “You know, I used to be a government servant. And nobody ever remembers anything we say. But Bob Armstrong has,” he paused to point at poor old Armstrong, “got himself into all the books of quotations as a truth economist.”

And then, as Armstrong turned redder and redder, Natwar proceeded to tell the story of how the British government had tried to lie to the courts.

As far as I know, there was no history between Natwar and Armstrong. There was no ill-will either (at least till he brought up the ‘truth economist’ bit). He told the story because it was fun and he thought it would entertain the gathering. (Actually, it shocked them but eventually, the audience tittered a little.)

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It was always this mischievous side of Natwar Singh that appealed to me. He was a no-bullshit kind of guy, and no respecter of positions or reputations. Years later, when he became a minister in Manmohan Singh’s government, he was the only member of the cabinet to talk to the Prime Minister (PM) without undue deference. (Sample: “Oh for God’s sake Manmohan. Don’t be so frightened. For once in your life, take a stand!”)

If you asked him a question, he would either answer it honestly or not answer it at all. I remember tracking him down in New York after Manmohan Singh had hosted a disastrous dinner for General Musharraf. Till that point, Manmohan Singh had adopted a fairy-tale approach to Pakistan and its leader (“a man we can do business with”) believing that he would solve the Kashmir problem with the kindly General’s co-operation. Musharraf ran circles around Manmohan Singh while the foreign ministry, which did not approve of Manmohan’s ‘and they all lived happily after’ approach, watched warily.

Finally, at this dinner in New York, it became clear that Musharraf (who had just torn into India at a speech before the UN General Assembly) was not going to play ball. The dinner was a fiasco. The Indian side refused to brief journos afterwards while the Pakistanis made sure their version dominated the media.

Nobody had thought of asking Natwar who had been present at the dinner and when I tracked him down, he was happy to offer a blow-by-blow account of what had transpired (on a not-for-attribution basis). I filed the story for the HT and the PM was not pleased.

Some of this mischief and candour emerged from Natwar’s sense of security about his position. As a young Foreign Service officer, he had worked with Jawaharlal Nehru, and had gone on to become Indira Gandhi’s favourite diplomat. I doubt if very many people had anything resembling an equal relationship with Mrs Gandhi but Natwar was, at least, more honest than most. When he was deputy high commissioner in London during the Emergency, he had the unpleasant task of conveying to Mrs Gandhi that even old friends of India like Lord Mountbatten and Michael Foot felt unable to support what her regime was doing. Eventually, it was this sort of feedback that contributed to Indira Gandhi’s surprising decision to call a general election.

Mrs Gandhi later asked Natwar to join politics and Rajiv Gandhi made him a minister. When Rajiv was assassinated, Natwar was one of the few Congressmen Sonia trusted enough to convey messages to the party: that she would not accept the post of PM, that she supported Narasimha Rao for the post. And when Rao turned against Sonia halfway through his tenure, Natwar openly took her side and along with ND Tiwari and Arjun Singh, split the Congress.

For all that, he never fully understood Sonia Gandhi. He genuinely believed she would be PM in 2004 and was shocked when she declared that she would not accept the job. In his memoir he suggests that her refusal to become PM was motivated primarily by Rahul and Priyanka’s objections, which, her friends say, was not the case.

He did not also understand why Sonia Gandhi insisted that he resign when his son was named in the Iraq food for oil scam. He was right to argue that the evidence was not compelling but failed to see that once an accusation of corruption had been raised on an international platform, Sonia would insist on taking action. If he had just waited it out, he would probably have been reinstated — which is what happened with Shashi Tharoor who was also made to resign over charges that did not hold up.

But Natwar treated Sonia’s behaviour as a personal betrayal and went a little berserk. She, in turn, felt betrayed by his behaviour and their relationship crossed the point of no return.

Which was doubly sad because Natwar’s relationship with the Gandhis had dated back to Nehru’s time. And because Natwar was an unusual sort of politician, the kind we don’t have enough of. Till the end, he remained obsessed with books and with literature. He had been friends with EM Forster and continued to value writers and to encourage younger authors in his many foreign postings. He was immensely well-read and when he discussed books, he brought a sharp technical skill to the discussion.

The last conversation I had with him was a quick phone call when I was abroad on holiday. I noticed three missed calls from him, wondered if something had gone wrong and called him back immediately.

“I have been reading your book”, he said, without any preamble.

I waited. These words sounded ominous; especially since he featured in the book.

“I like it. It’s a very enjoyable book.”

I was relieved. I asked him what it was about the book that he had enjoyed.

“Short sentences. Short paras. Good,” he said.

And that was that.

Shortly afterwards his health began to fail. And we never had a chance to speak again.

I miss him. And I miss politicians like him who valued literature and ideas and went beyond the petty politics of the day. We have too few of them.