Memories & a promise

By Karan Thapar

Memories can be tricky, even unreliable. But those I have of the Taj and Oberoi in Bombay most definitely are not. They’re vivid, detailed and unshakeable. They capture something of the special quality of these hotels — their indomitable spirit, air of privileged class and soothing service.

It’s the shining brass surfaces of the Oberoi that first come to mind. Even late at night, there was a discrete footman ready to rub off grimy fingerprints as guests pushed the large revolving door to enter the hotel. Having done so, he would melt away as swiftly and silently as he had emerged.

In the mornings there was a similar attendant with a dust cloth standing by the lifts. He kept the brass surfaces so highly buffed you could check your hair or the crease on your jacket in the reflection. And, if I’m not mistaken, he was always smiling. A boyish, perhaps impish grin, that seemed to forgive you for soiling the gleaming brass.

Wood was the dominant feature of the old Taj. It gave the hotel its historic look. As you walked past the rooms, your hand dawdling on the smooth painted balustrade, you could feel yourself travelling back in time. And if you walked down the grand stairs, you half expected to see a horse-drawn carriage or, at least, an open top Ford Model T waiting for you.

Unless someone had told you, you’d never have realised the Taj was built the wrong way round. But this meant the pool was always bathed in sunshine. And there was always laughter from the happy guests surrounding it. The back verandahs were a favourite place for tea and snacks.

But the memory that I cherish is of a quiet swim late one summer evening as dusk began to fall on the city. As the gold and auburn colours of the setting sun fell across its surface, the pool seemed to turn magical. I was alone and the only sound apart from the swishing water was a gentle breeze in the trees.

Both hotels maintained coffee shops that welcomed fugitives escaping the hot sticky Bombay afternoon. If the Shamiana was better known, the Samarkand, as it used to be, had the advantage of a location outside the hotel itself. I read Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children in 1981 over two consecutive afternoons and several cups of espresso. Cappuccino was still unknown in India. The waiters knew I was a student who couldn’t afford more but they treated me like any other guest.

I was a teenager when I first dined at the Zodiac Grill. The restaurant had an awesome reputation and I was both excited and intimidated. Sitting at the table, facing its collection of glass and shining cutlery, I felt awkward and self-conscious. Yet the waiter, who shook open the napkin before handing it over, treated me like an adult. When he realised I was ordering injudiciously, guided more by the cost than an understanding of the dish, he gently steered me 

to a wiser choice. It turned out that Sole Albert, my initial pick, was just a fancy name for a very expensive steamed fish.

In the 90s, when work took me to Bombay three times a month, my favourite was the lobby level coffee shop at the Oberoi. I would often weekend in the city and brunch on Sunday morning was a particular pleasure at La Brasserie. There was so much to choose I was often paralysed by indecision. “Try a little bit of everything,” one of the waiters said on my first visit. I did. I ended up changing plates seven times.

But I do have one regret I could kick 

myself for. I wish I had spent more time in the Sea Lounge at the Taj. I meant to but apart from tea on a couple of occasions we remained strangers. Now I promise 

to atone as soon as it reopens. I’ll find a place by an open window, looking out, beyond the promenade, deep into the azure Arabian Sea, where I shall sip fragrant Darjeeling tea and nibble Petit Beurre biscuits.

When Zardari came to town

By Karan  Thapar

“There’s a little bit of India in every Pakistani and a little bit of Pakistan in every Indian. I do not know whether it is the Indian or the Pakistani in me that is talking today”

The more I think about what he said, the more stunned I am he said it. But it’s not just his content that is startling. The fact that Asif Zardari was speaking as President of Pakistan to an Indian audience, in full knowledge that he was doing so on live television, makes his statements all the more amazing. Not one of his predecessors would have spoken so openly and with such obvious personal conviction. Indeed even his late wife, Benazir, would have been more circumspect.

To begin with, it’s the number of commitments he readily made. Pakistan has accepted a no-first-use of nuclear weapons policy. “I can assure you that Pakistan will not be the first country ever to use (nuclear weapons)”, he said. When I asked if this was a no-first-use assurance, adding “if so you have just made headline news”, he immediately replied: “most certainly”.

At one stroke, the Pakistani President reversed his country’s traditional insistence on keeping open the option of using nuclear weapons first. I don’t know what his army thinks, but Nawaz Sharif’s PML (N) has publicly endorsed the Zardari line. So even if voices in the press are critical, he has majority support in Parliament.

Next were two expressions of future intent. He wants to see India and Pakistan establish an economic union. He did not explain in detail but he said they should aim for joint economic super power status. And he said he was in favour of “a flexible visa regime, eliminating travel documents … replacing them with (a) smart card enabled E-visa system.” 

“We don’t feel threatened by India”, Zardari said. “India should also not feel threatened by us.” And then, to re-inforce his point, he added: “I want change and reconciliation.” 

For me, however, the most important thing Asif Zardari said was not in response to questions and so it can’t be explained away as an off-the-cuff or unthought-out answer. It was part of his prepared speech. It was, therefore, a well-considered, planned and carefully crafted statement which, of course, makes it all the more incredible.

“There’s a little bit of India in every Pakistani and a little bit of Pakistan in every Indian”. As he said those words a perceptible hush fall on the audience. They literally couldn’t believe their ears. But Asif Zardari wasn’t finished. “I do not know whether it is the Indian or the Pakistani in me that is talking to you today”. As I looked at the seated dignitaries in front of me I saw a sea of flashing smiles and sparkling eyes looking at Zardari on the big screen. Seconds later, they were vigorously applauding.

Asif Zardari said he was quoting his wife. Benazir Bhutto had spoken in 2000. In fact in 2005, when he visited Lahore, L.K. Advani said something very similar. But both of them were leaders of the opposition, a post that allows the holder to speak freely. And they weren’t speaking at a high profile gathering broadcast live. In contrast, Zardari is President of Pakistan. He was addressing one of the most publicised conferences in India. And he knew the media was waiting for every word he said.

I’m not sure if the presidents of North Korea or East Germany (whilst it existed) have ever spoken in such terms, but I doubt it. Certainly the leaders of divided Ireland have not. Nor the Malays and Singaporeans or the Indonesians and East Timorese. Yet the President of Pakistan has! I see this as an indication of Asif Zardari’s thinking and his attitude to India. And I believe he meant it because if he did not the sentence would have got stuck in his throat. It’s almost impossible to express such sentiments when you are lying.

The only question is can he deliver? And, I suppose, how soon? But there is another question we should pose to ourselves: how can we strengthen his hands without, of course, embarrassing him? If a friend can help you, whilst helping himself, it makes sense to help him too. Kids understand that instinctively, adults sometimes forget!