Instant History: A Memoir

By Anil Maheshwari

A very enjoyable and educative book indeed. -Bibek Debroy Chairman, Economic Advisory Council to the Prime Minister

An unusual book. -Professor S. Irfan Habib Former Maulana Azad Chair, National University of Educational Planning and Administration, New Delhi

The book is simply 'unputdownable'. -Rasheed Kidwai Visiting Fellow, ORF


Congress leader Arjun Singh was aware of the imminent appointment of Dr Manmohan Singh as the prime minister. What did he do to sway the decision in his favour?
Did Prime Minister Chandra Shekhar help the religious leader Chandraswami escape the dragnet of the Enforcement Directorate?
What prompted the editor of Hindustan Times to publish an article titled 'National Shame' on the front page of the newspaper?
How did a typo in a copy received by All India Radio lead to an inquiry by the Pakistani authorities regarding a 'mole' in their midst?

Instant History is a brilliant insight into our recent history. A treasure trove for all those who believe that journalists write the first draft of history, this is an honest perspective on various issues in the context of many geographical complexities, political realities and social dichotomies. Narrated through short pieces and snippets, it unveils several incidents and exposes ground realities that afflict politics, bureaucracy and even journalism. Moreover, serving a slice of history, it documents changes India has witnessed across the last quarter of the preceding century, providing insights into the history of public administration.

Anecdotal, humorous and often caustic, Instant History is a fabulous work on Indian journalism and politics recounted by a senior journalist with an insider view of affairs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jul 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9789390513215

Book preview

1

Missing the Bus

We often say about a reporter that the person has a nose for news! It merely means a sense for news that may be of interest to the readers. A reporter is always overwhelmed by an ocean of facts. One is supposed to choose which fact should he embolden for the day. Sometimes the same fact is inflamed by many other factors such as mindset, prejudices and biases. And sometimes facts are overlooked for a purpose, while sometimes, they are overlooked without a clue. Reporting seems like a treasure hunt where one has clues but not enough details to dig out the relics that are missing. At the same time, it embarks a reporter on a journey of separating the wheat from the chaff. Inculcation of the art of appreciating fellow travellers is a positive sign and a journey to the learning step. The practice of introspection in the output is not less important. How and why did one miss a piece of particular news? The realisation of mistakes and willingness to make amendments also help with the learning process.

The movie Gandhi was Lord Richard Attenborough’s dream project. Two previous attempts at making a film on Mahatma Gandhi had failed. In 1952, Gabriel Pascal secured an affirmative nod from PM Jawahar Lal Nehru to produce a film on Gandhi’s life. Pascal, however, died in 1954 before any headway could be made.

In 1962, Attenborough was contacted by Motilal Kothari, a devout follower of Gandhi working with the Indian High Commission in London, to discuss a movie on Gandhi. Attenborough spent the next 18 years trying to get it produced.

He was able to meet PM Nehru who approved of the movie and promised help in its production, but Nehru’s death in 1964 was one of the film’s many setbacks. Attenborough attempted to resurrect the project in 1976. Finally, shooting began on 26 November 1980 and ended on 10 May 1981 and a world-class film came into being. It was dedicated to the memory of Kothari, Lord Louis Mountbatten (the last Viceroy of India) and Nehru.

In 1963, the British High Commission had issued a press release on its light blue paper stationery with embossed coat-of-arms emblem, regarding Lord Attenborough’s ambitious project. In 1980, during its screening, the film was much discussed in Indian media. When R.L. Singhal, a veteran journalist from Meerut, decided to relocate in 1979, he gave me his bunch of clippings and other papers. This press note was part of the collection. Though I had smelled the importance of the press note I did not, naively, think that a news item around it could be filed from Meerut. I sent it in original to Rakesh Joshi, who looked after the film reviews section in the National Herald, by ordinary post. He too failed to realise its news value. Vinod Sharma, then working with the United News of India (UNI), a wire agency, as a cub reporter was a frequent visitor to the National Herald office. Rakesh Joshi handed over the press note to Vinod Sharma, who was quick to realise its value. On Sunday next, a lean day for news, he filed the story of the press note, noting that the idea of making a film on Gandhi was an old one. He did not need corroboration as the original press note was in his possession. The next day, there was no newspaper subscriber of the news agency that did not splash the news item prominently with a UNI credit line. Vinod Sharma was ‘hero of the week’ for the news wire service. I had made an error in judging that the news could not be filed from Meerut.

Jaito Then, Jaito Now

One early October day in 1988, PM Rajiv Gandhi visited terrorism-infested Punjab and addressed three public meetings. With modest audiences of a few thousand people, there were no cheers and no clapping. What greeted him instead was an unnerving silence and that summed up the response of the people of the state—indifference and scepticism.

The rather bland and unimaginative fare that Rajiv dished out had failed to enthuse people at the public meetings at Goindwal in Amritsar district, Jaito in Faridkot district and Jalandhar. People had been ferried from other places after elaborate security checks to make up the audiences as Punjab was reeling under violence. I was covering Jaito while my colleagues were covering Goindwal and Jalandhar. As usual, the public relations (PR) department took the press party from Chandigarh to Jaito in a cavalcade of cars. Packed breakfast from a reputed restaurant was served while travelling. The PR team had also put together a bunch of cyclostyled papers from a relevant book about the historical Jaito Morcha of 1923.

Rajiv Gandhi offered the same package to Punjab in all three meetings. The same speech was repeated everywhere. There was elaborate bandobust for the press at the Central Telegraph Office of the nearby town Bathinda. Cups of steaming coffee were being served. Typewriters were lined up and teleprinter operators were waiting to transmit copies. We reported the speech. Inputs from all three places were summed up by newspapers to make a single comprehensive news item. But the Statesman stole the show. Its young reporter Sanjeev Miglani filed an altogether different story. He compared Rajiv Gandhi’s Jaito visit to the visit of Jawahar Lal Nehru and other freedom fighters on 21 September 1923 to take part in the morcha of the gurdwara reforms movement. Jaito was the part of Nabha State, ruled by a feudal lord. The entire population had, with unprecedented enthusiasm, thronged the venue of the morcha in 1923. This time, however, an undeclared curfew had forced residents of the town to remain confined to their houses. The town bore a deserted look. As mentioned earlier, the audience comprised of people ferried from other places in trucks and buses. He merely compared the two moods of the people. It was a hit. Despite having the relevant material, I failed to use it in making the news more interesting.

Scrubbed Shoes

In 1980, Maya Tyagi, a homemaker, was allegedly stripped and paraded naked in broad daylight by the Baghpat Police. A police constable pulled her breasts while another shoved a lathi into her private parts. She kept resisting. She squatted on the ground naked and was not prepared to move despite the cruelty. A spectator dared to give her a lungi to cover her bruised body.

The case caused a stir in political and social circles. The police’s version was that she and three other dreaded criminals, including her husband Ishwar Tyagi, were travelling in a car. Her accomplices were killed in a police encounter. The ugly incident was reported in detail in the newspapers. I failed to visit the spot, about 50 km from Meerut, and committed the blunder of reporting merely the police version. Later, the court convicted the police officer and awarded capital punishment which was, on appeal, converted into life imprisonment.

‘Oversmartness’ of a Colleague

Efforts to use the exclusive material I had managed to lay my hands on were in vain on account of my cartographer colleague Lokesh Bhargava’s attempt to earn some brownie points with the editor. In the first week of January 1993, I was asked to rush to Varanasi to cover the simmering communal tension on account of the proximity of the Gyanvapi Mosque and Baba Vishwanath Temple. The senior superintendent of police there was on friendly terms with me. I succeeded in getting a copy of the security arrangements that had been strengthened around the mosque-temple complex in the wake of the happenings in Ayodhya. There were only two copies, one with the district police chief and another with the superintendent of security at Lucknow, who also happened to be friendly with me. To dispel the impression that I got the copy from the Varanasi police chief, I talked to the concerned police officer at Lucknow, asking for that vital and confidential map. As expected, he declined and suggested that I get it from the Varanasi police chief. Feigning innocence, I asked, ‘Do you think he will share it?’ He said he should not. Armed with the map, I returned to my office in Delhi and gave the map to the cartographer Lokesh Bhargava for making a copy for publication. He complimented me on getting such a vital plan but the map was not used by the newspaper.

Failure to Do Justice with the Reporting of a Train Accident

I missed an opportunity to cover the third-biggest train accident in India as I was unwell. The Gaisal train disaster occurred on 2 August 1999 when two trains with about 2,500 people on board collided at the remote station of Gaisal in Uttar Dinajpur district of West Bengal, about 70 km from Siliguri. One of the trains was travelling at such a high speed that the trains exploded on impact, killing at least 285 persons.

The crash occurred past midnight when the Avadh Assam Express from New Delhi was stationary at the Gaisal station. Due to a signalling error, the Brahmaputra Mail from Dibrugarh was transferred onto the same track. No one in either train or on signal duty or in the station master’s office noticed the error. As a result, the Brahmaputra Mail crashed into the front of the Avadh Assam Express. The engine of the Avadh Assam Express was thrown high in the air, and passengers from both trains were blown into neighbouring buildings and fields by the force of the explosion.

The official death toll released was 285 killed and over 300 injured. Unofficial estimates have put the toll at over 1,000 or more, which included 90 soldiers. Early next morning, coordinating editor A.R. Wig called to inform me about the ghastly tragedy. I visited the spot and was able to establish a rapport with the general manager, Northern Western Railway, who had come from his headquarters in Guwahati. He was a Mathur. I was aware that Mathurs greet each other saying, ‘Jai Ram Ji ki.’ I used the trick successfully, but I failed to do justice with the copy I filed.

Double Checking Information

The police opened fire on an unruly crowd of students inside the campus of Aligarh Muslim University (AMU) in 1980. One student, Qazi Aftab, was killed. The National Herald, where I was then working as a stringer, asked me to rush to Aligarh and file a story. Giani Zail Singh, the then union home minister, flew in by helicopter. The district information officer, Sardar Khazan Singh, was friendly with me since his days in Meerut. He took me in his official jeep to the ground where the helicopter landed. My sources in the state police intelligence told me that the vice-chancellor (VC) Saiyid Hamid was so upset with the incident that he had tendered his resignation. I came to Delhi and reported the resignation of the VC. It was the banner lead—‘AMU VC resigns; sequel to police firing’. But the next day, R.C. Takru, the home secretary to the state government, denied the resignation. The fact was that the VC had resigned but PM Indira Gandhi, who was abroad, had asked him not to press his resignation. The denial did not come from the VC but the state government. The lesson I learnt was that I should have written the story more carefully as I did not have evidence. Instead of reporting resignation, I should have written ‘the VC perceived to have resigned’.

Rectifying an Error

During the Janata Party’s rule in 1977, a bumper crop of sugarcane was recorded in Uttar Pradesh. At that time, Charan Singh was the union home minister. When sugarcane cultivators approached him for a solution to the problem they were facing, the Jat patriarch took the Gandhi cap off his head and pointing at his bald pate asked the visiting farmers to sow sugarcane on ‘this vacant patch’ as well. He was referring to the farmers’ short-sightedness in vastly increasing the area under sugarcane cultivation. I interviewed Ramamurti Yadav, deputy cane commissioner at Meerut. A knowledgeable person, he educated me about the intricacies of sugarcane farming. Making an estimate of the leftover sugarcane in the fields, he calculated that it could fetch a price of around ₹30 crore. He was apprehensive that the cultivators had no other choice but to burn it in a bid to clear the fields for the next crop. The officer had shared only his apprehension but I made the mistake of reporting this as a fact and quoted the officer. When the story appeared in the Indian Express, sugarcane minister Shiv Mangal Singh angrily sought an explanation from the concerned officer. Yadav contacted me in panic. I admitted my mistake and filed a corrigendum the next day. The minister was satisfied and the sugarcane officer was saved.

The nose of a reporter needs to be sensitive to the smell of news; once the information has been gathered, each reporter processes it in her/his way. Then comes the execution of the report. The execution tests the craft. A reporter has to be at the right place for the right news, report what one sees, never overextend the interpretative skills to twist the bare facts and always be ready to rectify them if one ends up sweating more than required at one’s keyboards. Like a single act of infidelity in a marriage, one transgression—no matter how momentarily pleasurable/beneficial—forever tears apart the fabric of trust reposed in a reporter by readers. But at the same time, it is the issue of dual loyalties to fact and to invention, the interplay between fiction and facts. These two genres are entwined like lovers, sharing mutual influence, quarantined to keep them from being fatally infected by each other. The line between the two is porous and blurs often.

2

Drawing Roadmaps

The principle of planning the work and then attempting to implement that plan works wonders in journalism. Advanced planning for even the smallest of things helps a lot even in the toughest of assignments. This is also known as idea mapping in modern context. Drawing a roadmap to a report is an unwritten element of reporting. The charm of the profession is not only its grave and dead seriousness but the spurts of funny and lazy tantrums that make the working life colourful.

Way back in 1953, Raj Kanwar was a rookie sub-editor on the staff of the Indian Express in Delhi. That paper had just started its Delhi edition from a dilapidated building in the Mori Gate area in the walled city.

Kanwar was then a regular visitor to the libraries and reading rooms of both the American Library (formerly known as the United States Information Service [USIS] Library) and the British Council Library that are located on Curzon Road, now Kasturba Gandhi Marg, New Delhi. One day, he found out that Sir Arnold J. Toynbee—the world-famous historian and author of multivolume A Study of History—would shortly be visiting Delhi and would stay with Sir Girija Shankar Bajpai, the then secretary-general in the Ministry of External Affairs. Kanwar decided to interview Toynbee, come what may. For the next three consecutive days, he studied laboriously in the American and British Council libraries to put together whatever material he could find on Toynbee.

Current and old issues of the Time magazine came in handy as they had substantial inputs on Toynbee. He also consulted other American and British newspapers and made his notes. Knowing well that Toynbee would not have enough time for a detailed interview, Kanwar prepared a list of questions to be asked and wrote possible answers as well, based on the published information. Thus, he had a full text of an expected conversation with Toynbee with questions and answers ready for publication even before the interview could be sought.

The following day, Kanwar cycled to the residence of Sir Girija on Teen Murti Lane to interview the historian without any appointment. Those days there was scant security and it was possible for one to walk into a VIP residence. There were nearly half a dozen chairs in the verandah and Kanwar sat on one. In a while, a peon appeared and Kanwar told him that he wanted to see Professor Toynbee. The peon, as was his wont, haughtily said that the professor had no time as he was just about to leave for the airport to catch a flight. Carrying a briefcase, Toynbee appeared briefly. Kanwar wished him good morning and introduced himself, saying that he would like to interview him. Toynbee politely said that he was on his way to the airport and had no time for an interview. Kanwar looked at him, beseechingly and pleaded for just five minutes. Before he could say ‘No’, Kanwar handed him a bunch of handwritten papers that had both the questions and the answers. A smile appeared on Toynbee’s face as he read those papers. ‘These would have been my exact answers to your questions. Where did you get them from?’

‘Sir, I picked these from the published material at the American and British Council libraries. I would appreciate it if you would kindly approve these,’ Kanwar answered.

Toynbee looked admiringly at the young reporter and signed the handwritten papers. ‘Yes, young man, go ahead and publish this interview as mine.’

The same day Kanwar typed out the interview and handed it to his resident editor who read the story and congratulated Kanwar. It was the first lead front-page story in Sunday Standard (the Sunday edition of the Indian Express) the following day. Kanwar earned the admiration and envy of his senior colleagues.

Tricks of the Trade

It was indeed an ingenious way of beating a rival wire agency. The judgement of the historical election petition by socialist leader Raj Narain against PM Indira Gandhi was scheduled to be delivered by Justice Jagmohan Lal Sinha of Allahabad High Court. The office of the Press Trust of India (PTI), one of the two premier wire agencies, was situated in a house opposite the majestic building of the Allahabad High Court.

On the other hand, the office of the UNI was about 3 km from the high court. Prakash Shukla was bureau chief of the UNI. He came up with an ingenious plan for beating the rival, as the wire agencies used to call each other. He prepared two copies—one in case the petition unseating Indira Gandhi was allowed and another if it was disallowed. He marked one ‘A’ and the other ‘B’. As soon as the operative part of the order was pronounced, allowing the petition, Shukla rushed to a predetermined place, that is, the chamber of a leading lawyer with a landline telephone connection. He dialled his office number and instructed the operator to feed the copy marked A. The entire country was stunned by the news. UNI beat its rival PTI by as many as 11 minutes and carried the day.

Reporting a Massacre

A reporter/correspondent has to plan before proceeding to cover an event—contacting sources, consideration of journey time, transmitting the story to the centre of publication, etc. One morning as I reached my office, I came to know about the gruesome murder of more than 40 people by Sikh terrorists in the Tarai area of Uttar Pradesh. I brought this fact to the knowledge of the chief reporter A.R. Wig, who was an alert, dynamic newsman besides being a good team leader. Somehow, it took him till afternoon to decide on sending a reporter. When asked to depute a photographer, Chief Photographer N. Thiagarajan offered his services. Perhaps the seniors in the office had realised the problems in filing the story the same night and since the next day was a day-long newspaper strike, I was advised to take a tour of the spot and file the story at leisure, maybe after coming back to the headquarters. The taxi cab was a rickety one. By eight in the evening, we had covered only about 100 km. The incident site was another 150 km away.

As we neared Moradabad, I took the chief photographer into confidence and asked the driver to take a right turn to reach the office of Amar Ujala, a regional newspaper. I was quite friendly with Nar Narain Goyal, its resident editor. He welcomed us. I asked for the use of the hotline between Moradabad and Bareilly offices of the paper. My contact man in Bareilly informed me that all the victims had been beaten to death. The rest of the details were already out. The agency and state correspondent copies citing the statement of the home secretary to Uttar Pradesh government at Lucknow were in the newspaper offices. I wanted to type my story and fax it. Goyal pleaded his inability to spare a fax machine during those rush hours.

I wrote one paragraph and made a call to the Hindustan Times office. Deputy News Editor S.P. Singh attended my call and asked a sub-editor to take dictation from me. I gave the opening paragraph and told her to take the rest from the agency wires or the Lucknow correspondent. She helped me but forgot to add the line ‘our Lucknow correspondent adds’. The result was that the 18-paragraph story was splashed with my byline. The only trick that I played was that the story was datelined Bareilly. It was the banner news.

We stayed the night at Moradabad and rushed to Pilibhit the next day via Bareilly. Chief Minister Kalyan Singh was visiting the affected areas. The photographer had ample opportunity to click pictures.

In the afternoon, we came to the PWD rest house at Pilibhit. Thiagarajan was a heart patient and had undertaken a field job after a long time. His wife had instructed me to allow him not more than two pegs and no greasy food. Thiagarajan was hungry but the only food available was pakoras sold by the wayside. I was helpless. I spotted Mohammad Naeem, executive engineer, PWD. He was a friend of my uncle. I asked him about the food arrangement for the chief minister and his escort. He said that the additional district magistrate C.P. Yadav was looking after that. Incidentally, Yadav, hailing from Ballia, happened to be an old pal from Meerut days. I told him about my problem. He took us to the dining room where sumptuous vegetarian food was served to Thiagarajan who was surprised that a few minutes after I had explained to him the problem of lack of food, such a spread was made available.

From filing an urgent report while working against the odds to finding nourishment for my colleague, all was made possible due to the contacts and working experience in district towns. The Hindustan Times was the only newspaper that had the story from the ground of that ghastly event. I was told by one of the editors that next day, when there was a strike but senior officers had attended the office, Editor H.K. Dua had not minced words in telling them that only Anil Maheshwari could have pulled off such a miracle.

Pirating to Glory

One rookie journalist started his career with the Chandigarh edition of the Indian Express. A night bird, he was a late riser. The Tribune, under the editorship of the legendary Prem Bhatia, was the market leader in northwest India. There was no imminent threat to the burgeoning circulation of this paper. The Indian Express, on the other hand, had a print run of about 30,000 copies only. Every night, at around 11, the rookie reporter of the Indian Express would go to the local bus stand of Sector 17 from where the Dak edition of the Tribune was ferried to cities in Punjab, Haryana and Himachal Pradesh and procure a copy of the newspaper. He would then rehash the Tribune’s best stories and file them for the Express. Though this fact was brought to the knowledge of Prem Bhatia, he overlooked it in his usual flamboyant style. The denouement for the Express reporter came when Abdul Sattar, high commissioner of Pakistan in India and a personal friend of Bhatia, came to stay at Kasauli in Himachal Pradesh. He granted an interview to a correspondent of the Tribune that, naturally, was slated to be carried rather prominently by the paper. Without realising the attendant sensitivity, the Express reporter rehashed the interview in his characteristic manner. His copy