Disappointing memoir

Lucknow Boy — A Memoir by Vinod Mehta; Penguin Viking; Rs.499; 325 pp

Although there is a school of stern opinion which tends to disparage autobiographies as too indulgent and self-centred, there’s another school of thought — to which your reviewer subscribes — which welcomes them, because they embellish and enrich history and narrate how momentous events unfolding upon the national and international stage, impact the lives of ordinary people. Indeed it’s regrettable that the tradition of great men and women explaining or defending their acts of omission and commission by scripting their memoirs, is conspicuous by its absence in the subcontinent.

For instance, while the controversial British prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, wrote The Downing Street Years (1993) which has provided a mother lode of rich material for professional historians, our own equally combative and controversial woman prime minister Indira Gandhi, neglected to recount the depths and shallows of her eventful life in what would have undoubtedly been a fascinating autobiography. And it’s hardly disputable that the world is richer for Mahatma Gandhi having written his Experiments with Truth, which has cast valuable light on his thinking and enduring philosophy.

Yet an omnipresent danger surrounding authors of this genre is of a descent into self-absorbed navel gazing including the petty and trivial, while giving insufficient coverage to watershed events at which the author may have had a ringside seat. Given that there’s vast history in all men’s lives, there’s always the conundrum of what to include and what to dismiss while writing their life stories.

Unfortunately that’s the failure of Lucknow Boy, an engaging but finally disappointing autobiography of Vinod Mehta, the founder-editor of several newspapers including the Sunday Observer, Pioneer, Indian Post, The Independent and magazines including Debonair and Outlook, the weekly newsmagazine which he edits currently. Although most of these publications have collapsed in a heap of rubble, Mehta is unquestionably a heavyweight within the nation’s media circus and has made a significant contribution to the growth and evolution of Indian journalism, the print medium in particular.

Given this impressive track record in kick-starting so many dailies and magazines, it would be reasonable to expect some insights into the mechanics of newspaper publishing — how capital is mobilised, budgets are prepared, journalists are recruited, poached and trained, insights into firewalling editorial content from the pressures of marketing personnel, establishing distribution networks and so on. But readers (such as your reviewer) who entertained such expectations while paying up Rs.499 for this book are likely to be disappointed.

Regrettably, with the author’s propensity to dwell on the minutae of his personal life including “au pair hunting” in London, pivotal events and turning points in the nation’s history are relegated to the background, despite Mehta’s accumulated experience as an influential editor, with a ringside seat in the political arena of the Delhi imperium. For instance, the many tumults of the Emergency declared on June 25, 1975 following which over 100,000 political activists were jailed, newspaper censorship imposed and unspeakable atrocities were committed against the population by the Indira Gandhi government, seem to have sped past Mehta, and are dismissed in two paragraphs.

Likewise, the momentous initiative of the late P.V. Narasimha Rao during his brief prime ministerial tenure (1991-96), to liberalise and deregulate Indian industry which doubled the annual rate of GDP growth of the economy and enabled an estimated 200 million citizens to rise out of poverty — finds not even a fleeting mention in this volume. Instead, the author narrates in boring detail of how Outlook, which Mehta had started at the time for real estate tycoon Rajan Raheja, scooped a pre-publication manuscript of Rao’s sex-laced novel The Insider, which has since sunk without a trace.

Further, as recounted in Lucknow Boy, the author developed an intimate friendship with former prime minister Atal Behari Vajpayee who headed the BJP-led NDA (National Democratic Alliance) government of 1999-2004 with a fair measure of success by the rock-bottom standards of Indian politics. But the causes and effects of the unexpected defeat of the BJP in the 2004 general election remain mostly offstage. All Mehta has to offer about the NDA era is some tittle-tattle about the power equations between national security adviser Brajesh Mishra and the PM’s foster son-in-law Ranjan Bhattacharya and daughter Namita, which resulted in Outlook’s proprietor Rajan Raheja being raided by the income tax department, forcing the editor’s intervention on his behalf.

Similarly, a stand-off with Maharashtra strongman Sharad Pawar, whose alleged nexus with the Dawood Ibrahim global crime syndicate was exposed by Outlook in 1996 resulting in a Rs.100 crore defamation suit filed by Pawar, is detailed to the point of out-of-court settlement. But the author has nothing to say about the rise of the politician-crime nexus, its impact on the polity and ways and means to smash it. Mehta’s final judgement on Pawar, the incumbent Union minister for agriculture and still one of the most powerful political bosses of the country — “I wouldn’t send my wife to the jungle with Pawar.” Whatever!

However all this is not to say that Lucknow Boy is not an interesting read. The story charting Mehta’s rise from modest circumstances into one of the country’s most famous editors — and in particular his skill and confidence which enabled him to repeatedly take bitter reverses in his stride and conceptualise several ground-breaking publications culminating in Outlook — is admirable. But by glossing over central questions about the state of the nation and causes of its pathetic human conditions, Mehta has written this memoir in the manner of a self-congratulatory walk down memory lane.

As a sharp-eyed observer of contemporary history in the making, Mehta should have written with a sense of balance, bringing into perspective decisive events and wrong-turnings which have reduced this high-potential nation — gifted with an enterprising and ready-to-learn population — to this sorry pass. Instead it’s a memoir replete with ephemeral gossip, trivia — too much dessert, little meal.

Dilip Thakore

Bandit king captives

Birds, Beasts and Bandits: 14 Days with Veerappan by Krupakar and Senani (Translated from the Kannada by S.R. Ramakrishna); Penguin; Price: Rs.275; 175 pp

In his time, he was Karnataka’s  — and perhaps India’s — most feared bandit who evaded the law for several decades before finally falling to police bullets in October 2004. Veerappan, elephant poacher-turned-kidnapper, was among the most dreaded outlaws, who during his lifetime annihilated over 120 policemen and villagers while also slaughtering hundreds of elephants for ivory.

The bandit king — romanticised as a latter day Robin Hood by some — is the subject of this charming “caper story” written by well-known naturalists Krupakar and Senani. In October 1997, they were kidnapped and held hostage by Veerappan’s gang.

This book (translated from the Kannada original) is their account of a close encounter of the dangerous kind with Karnataka’s legendary outlaw. It offers a truthful and intimate profile of an individual whose notoriety is known only through second-hand accounts.

Born in 1952 to a family of cattle-grazers in Gopinatham village in Kollegal taluka of Karnataka, bordering Tamil Nadu, Veerappan took to a life of crime when he was 18 by joining a gang of poachers. His early life is not well recorded and little is known about the reasons which drove him to a life of crime. While some Gopinatham locals say he was inspired by Malayur Mammattiyan, a notorious bandit of the 1950s, others believe he was hell-bent upon avenging the suicides of his sister Mala and brother Arjunan, for which he held the police responsible. Nevertheless, he shot to prominence as a dreaded bandit when he killed Tamil Nadu forest officer, Chidambaram, in July 1987.

“In a life spanning 52 years, Veerappan’s murders add up to 120 (some put the number at 184). He also slaughtered hundreds of elephants for their ivory. However, in the last 15 years of his life, he found kidnapping more lucrative. Newspapers and TV channels across the world woke up to Veerappan in 2000 when he kidnapped the much loved Kannada actor Rajkumar… His kidnapping at Veerappan’s hands trigged a political crisis. In some quarters, Veerappan was being portrayed as a Tamil warrior who had crushed the Kannadigas by kidnapping their hero. He released Rajkumar after 108 days but not before he had paralysed two state governments and sparked fears of large-scale rioting,” writes S. Ramakrishna in the translator’s note.

In Krupakar and Senani’s account, however, the man is stripped clean of his Robin Hood image. Veerappan comes across as a slightly muddle-headed man, albeit with some remarkable talents. Experienced naturalists, the authors express admiration for Veerappan’s keen perception and sensitivity to forest environments. In the wild, he could mimic the trumpet calls of elephants and monkeys, and had the predator’s ability to hunt down prey and live off the produce and wild life of the jungle. These abilities among human beings are either extinct or on the verge of becoming so, and to the authors it was a rare privilege to observe humans adopting strategies and techniques of hunting and survival that aren’t even documented.

Beyond the perils of jungle survival and hunting, are some offbeat revelations about Veerappan’s philosophical side. The two naturalists engage the bandit on a range of topics, and some of his reactions are surprisingly humane. On the controversial Ram Temple issue in Ayodhya — the site of so much unnecessary bloodshed — Veerappan wonders why people fight over a temple, when God is in their hearts!

Even more affecting is the discussion about Mahatma Gandhi. Despite their polar opposite views on the use of violence to attain objectives, Veerappan held Gandhi in high esteem. At other times, he fondly recalls the pristine forests of his childhood, and expresses deep disgust at the killing of elephants and other animals. These insights lend validity to the charge that the dreadful Veerappan we know, could be the outcome of deliberate demonisation of a simple villager.

By the end of this short and entertaining book, it becomes obvious that Veerappan, notorious though he was, was another victim of a brutal system. He greatly valued nature and given education opportunities, he could have become an active naturalist or biologist.

Veerappan’s brief accounts of why he turned a brigand offer an insight into the socio-economic iniquities and depredations of the law enforcement authorities in India’s shrinking forests, where homo sapiens in uniform are perhaps the greatest threat to tribal people. Little wonder their youth are the foot-soldiers of the spreading Naxalite armed revolt against the Indian State.

Dev S. Sukumar