Manmohan & Gursharan

It is around half past six in the morning. We are reading the newspapers as we wait for tea. As he scans the headlines, my father asks me what I am doing these days. He asks me this question frequently. Clearing my throat, I announce that I have an idea for my next book. My mother smiles encouragingly. My father shows no sign of having heard. He is immersed in an editorial, no doubt another scathing comment on the state of the nation. Bravely, I continue. I say I am thinking of writing a book about them. ‘How wonderful!’ My mother is delighted. The newspaper in my father’s hands collapses noisily. As expected, he is horrified. Luckily, the tea arrives just then.

Quickly, I remark that they must surely have fascinating stories to tell. Stories that their grandchildren would love to know. The look of disbelief does not leave my father’s face. ‘Besides,’ I remind him, ‘I am a writer. I have to write about something. And here is a great story right under my nose.’ He points to my mother and tells me to write about her. ‘Of course I will,’ I assure him, ‘but I have to include you as well. I simply can’t leave you out. After all, she has lived most of her life with you.’ My mother declares that I am right, absolutely right. ‘And your life is so much more exciting than mine,’ she adds.

Exciting is clearly not the adjective he would use to describe his life. ‘Beta, it is too early,’ he says. ‘In two weeks I’ll have the time to think about this. Now I don’t have the inclination, the mental peace. You should wait. I am anxious about what is going to happen to the election process. My mind is not on small things.’ I do not tell him what a big thing this is for me. ‘That’s all right,’ I concede generously. ‘We can start working on it after the election results are out.’ Then a thought strikes me. ‘But what if you come back as prime minister?’ It is nice to see him laugh. The last five years have not given him much to laugh about. ‘No no,’ he says, ‘I don’t think we’re coming back.’

***

As a postgraduate student, Manmohan was looking at two career options — teaching and the civil services. ‘I toyed with the idea of appearing for the IAS examination. But ultimately I gave up the idea.’ ‘Why did you give up the idea?’ ‘I found teaching a nobler profession.’ ‘You said that you were interested in the problems of the country. As a civil servant, you would have been able to do something about them.’ ‘Maybe,’ he concedes. But he clearly has no regrets. Two years at Hoshiarpur obviously convinced him that his interest and ability lay in academics. As for dealing with the problems of the country, there would be plenty of time for that one day.

***

Being brown (at Cambridge) did not bother Manmohan. On the contrary, he was among many who felt a genuine sense of pride in being Indian. But at times he did feel self-conscious about his turban and beard. He took to bathing very early in the morning to avoid calling attention to his long hair. In those days the only other Sikh was Swaranjit Singh, a burly off-spinner who played cricket for the university team ‘Light Blues’.

***

Gursharan had no preference for any profession. All she wanted was a good-looking husband who liked music. Her own qualifications were impressive. She came from a respectable family, she had been brought up strictly, and she was beautiful. To top it all, she was a college graduate — a commodity that was still rare in the marriage market.

Manmohan was also quite a catch. Numerous offers of marriage had reached his parents while he was away in England. Gursharan was the first serious candidate on their list. Wearing a white salwar kameez and white dupatta, Gursharan marched over in her prized platform heels. ‘Then,’ she says, ‘we were kind of told to sit and chat. Everything was fine — he was educated at Cambridge, England-returned. He simply asked me, “What division did you get in BA?” So I told him, “Second.” And he said, “If you have to live in a foreign country, how would you like it?” I said, “How should I know?” That meant that it was sort of okay with him.’

During this conversation she got the impression that he was very sure of himself. And that he was quite keen to marry her. This was not surprising, for as she modestly says, ‘I’m sure he didn’t find me unattractive.’ As for him, he thought she was very pretty, ‘bholi-bhali’, somewhat shy.

***

Once we had settled in (after he joined the Delhi School of Economics), my father promptly went out and bought a car — a white Fiat. Then he engaged a man named Chintaram to teach him to drive. At the same time, my mother was taking lessons on a lumbering Ambassador from a local driving school. Both applied for their licence. Luckily for him, my father cleared the driving test, although he would admit that he was never a good driver. He liked being at the wheel and had a weakness for driving at high speed. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat, Chintaram had intoned, ‘Sullow sahib, sullow.’ We took up this chorus when Chintaram was gone. My mother, widely acknowledged as an excellent driver, got to know the city as though she had lived there all her life.

***

In 1984, Pakistan hosted a meeting of the governors of central banks in Asia. I assume that this is the only trip my father made to Pakistan. But I am wrong. ‘No, I made two trips. The first was in 1968. I went to see Mahbub ul Haq. At that time I was with the United Nations in New York. UNCTAD had a meeting in Delhi. From Delhi I went to Islamabad.’ ‘What was that like?’ ‘Well, I didn’t see much. But I did go to Panja Sahib. I was given my name there. When I first saw Panja Sahib, my impression was that it was bustling with a lot of activity, a lot of people. But when I saw the gurdwara this time, there was nobody. It was in isolated glory, a lonely place. I felt very sad.’

***

Conversations between father and daughters tended to be brief. Many of them were intended to drive home the distinction between the official and the personal. The telephone was official. We were therefore supposed to restrict ourselves to urgent communication only. In a neatly labelled notebook, our mother obediently wrote down details of the two or maybe three long-distance calls she made each month… The staff car was also official. This meant that he would not give us a lift, even if we wished to be dropped off at a point that lay on his way to work. Everything ranging from official stationery to official status, was similarly off limits. As regards the personal, his paramount concerns were our safety and our health.

To remind us of the hard realities in life, there was ‘Don’t Be Soft’, and ‘What Cannot Be Cured Must Be Endured’. And since a family of five lived rather precariously on a government salary, we were frequently told that ‘Money Does Not Grow On Trees’.

***

A bit of a clown myself, I found my father a very funny man. When in a reflective mood, he sat with an index finger perched on the side of his nose. He was completely helpless about the house and could neither boil an egg, nor switch on the television. Due to unknown reasons, he was unable to regulate the pace of his walk. Once he took off he would charge forward at top speed, leaving his companions straggling in the distance. He also exercised at a furious pace in a flurry of flapping arms and legs.

***

Unless they were economists, visitors filled him with panic and he desperately tried to escape them. When he failed, he would make piteous attempts at small talk. He was at his best with young children whose language skills were limited. Older children foxed him completely.

***

Fully aware that ‘An Old Dog Learns No New Tricks’, we simply accepted that our father was differently abled. It was therefore our duty to humour, reassure and protect him. This mission was led by our mother and the three of us faithfully followed.

***

Gursharan was pleased that she and her husband shared similar preferences. Both liked to keep things simple. Neither was comfortable with pretension or guile. Both sought out the company of friends. Neither could deny a friend in need.

***

As far as I was concerned, my mother was invincible. She could do anything, go anywhere, and tackle anyone — except my father — anytime. She ran the house virtually single-handed. She drove, shopped, cooked, baked, pickled and dusted. Till the point that Kiki (elder sister) rebelled, she tailored our clothes and knitted sweaters. She sang like an angel and told stories like a book. She also entertained a steady stream of relatives, and hosted visiting economists. She was always, always busy.

***

Gursharan and Manmohan have lived on Race Course Road longer than anywhere else. He has always kept his professional life away from life at home. Thanks to decades of training she knows to stay out of his work. But as a conscientious citizen, she is often alarmed by what she reads in the newspapers. Time has taught her skilful ways of making her views known. And she is delighted on the rare instance that they evoke a thoughtful response. In family matters she is undoubtedly the resident dragon, laying down the law and making sure that it is observed. Keeping tabs on three daughters, three sons-in-law, and grandchildren is difficult but she does this with diligence.

Thursday evening is reserved for music. She sings her favourite verses from Gurbani with devotion and with pleasure. Classical music continues to be one of her many interests. Close friends often drop by for a chat, a cup of tea, a stroll in the garden. Or else they go out for a movie or play, a concert or dance recital. Now in her seventies, she finally allows herself to spend on clothes and accessories. She indulges herself cheerfully, although with a firm hand on the clasp of her purse. The house teems with books, old and new. She picks out one to read before she goes to bed.

In a world that transforms itself through the passage of time, my mother has discovered that there is always more to life than she can imagine. In many ways, she is still a lot like the girl sailing away on a bicycle. Looking back in astonishment at how far she has come.

(With permission from HarperCollins)