Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru: A Personal Glimpse

Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru:

A Personal Glimpse

A comfortably furnished room; deep inviting armchairs; low handsome divans; a soft subdued ruby glow lamp; the smell of freshly prepared pan; the lingering fragrance of the finest Turkish cigarettes; the eternal trill-trill of the telephone bell; a bevy of secretaries moving noiselessly to and fro; and amidst all this curious mixture of Oriental ease and Western smartness, the figure of an exceedingly picturesque-looking man sitting at ease in an armchair, now speaking to his guests, now speaking, to his secretaries and playing with a pretty little child sitting on his knee.

That is how I remember Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru as I sat with him late one evening talking over many things–politics, literature, music and what not. Two other persons were there too–Mr. Jayakar and Miss Shyam Kumari Nehru, the pretty young advocate who works with Sir Tej as his junior.

I remember as we pulled at our straws and enjoyed the iced sherbet, we talked over many things. Not many months have passed since I had the privilege of spending that hour with two of India's remarkable men. Events of outstanding importance have been happening since then and No. 19, Albert Road has, to all purposes, become No. 10, Downing Street, and its hospitable, cheery owner has reached a position that might well be the envy of many a politician or statesman in India today.

But then, Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru has still remained the same old ‘Sapru.’ Whatever people may say outside of his politics, his moves or his views, they are all agreed that Sir Tej is a fine man. Still has that dignified old world courtesy, and the desire to understand the viewpoint of the other man before he criticised him, not left Sapru.

I forget just now where we began that evening. Those were the days when the peace negotiations were still on and Mahatma Gandhi stayed at Anand Bhawan. The Nawab of Bhopal had arrived earlier in the day and most of us had a trying time rushing about and interviewing and hunting for ‘copies.’ Prayer time at Anand Bhawan, when Mahatmaji retired for the hour from all pressmen and politics, was a welcome relief to us, the harassed newspapermen, and any relaxation was welcome.

With a young man's impudence I fell to comparing the two men who sat opposite each other, Sapru and Jayakar. The former easy, graceful, polite and chatty, whilst the other suave, urbane, and with all the mannerisms of an Oxford man, taking care of his pronunciation and not caring to open his lips more than a fraction of an inch, sitting stiff and alert in the armchair with his clerical looking black coat buttoned up to the very chin. The other, dressed in soft ample folds of muslin, chewing pan, and vigorously moving his arms and emphasising each word or remark with a gesture or some action.

What strange circumstances had brought these two distinguished lawyers together, I wondered. What stranger destiny had ordained that these two men from two different provinces of India should meet and be in the limelight of Indian politics?

However, it all made a very good picture and the memory of that evening I spent there in the company of these two men often comes to my mind. Our ways have been different. For theirs was to do and to achieve great things, and mine was to give to a hungry public an account of what they did, and what these men tried to achieve. We have often the queerest phenomenon, that of a public knowing all the details of man's life or his profession or politics but never the man himself. Thus we all know what Sapru or Jayakar or a Mudaliar thinks of the Communal Award or something else, but what sort of a person is Sapru or Jayakar or a Mudaliar one may not know.

My thoughts wandered somewhat on these lines that evening. It was a rare feeling and a pleasure to discover that a person like Sapru was very, very, human; that he could laugh heartily over a story in the Oudh Akhbar; that he could wink his eyes at a sly tale; that he could recite a not very polite or fashionable Urdu couplet; that he could be pleased with small marks of attention and praise; that he could talk of the gay life led by the young ‘bucks’ of Lucknow and their many indiscretions, and amidst all this gaiety and light talk, that he could suddenly take you on to Anand Bhawan, talk to you of the spacious days when the distinguished Pandit Motilal ruled Allahabad and controlled the destinies of the Swarajist Party in the Assembly at Delhi and at Simla; or that he could take you again to the politics of Mahatma Gandhi and his impossible political ideal.

And so Sapru spoke and entertained us that evening. It was a treat to listen to this fine man and the life he had lived. And often the flow of that brilliant conversation and talk was pleasantly interrupted by Mr. Jayakar who quoted a line here or a verse there in his melodious Sanskrit.

It was only an hour I spent that evening at No. 19, Albert Road. But what an hour and what an impression I have yet of that hour?

Night had fallen when I rushed to Anand Bhawan, for the question and answer meeting which Mahatmaji was going to have after his evening prayer, had already begun. There were many there in that small group whose face has become a memory to me, and alas, who are now in the various prisons allover India. Over them all, Mahatma Gandhi presided and patiently answered all questions. At the end of that ceremony–as it seemed to me–a little girl sang a song. That pretty thing in a blue skirt with the finest of Lucknow's embroidery sewed on to it, I was told, was Sapru's grand-daughter. Mahatma Gandhi took the child up and she sat daintily on the brown lap of the great man, all unconscious that he was a Mahatma, that she herself was the grand-daughter of Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and that almost all prominent leaders in India had listened to her babbling voice, that evening.

The next day Sapru had won. He had induced Mahatma Gandhi to listen to his negotiations. I do not know who was responsible for it. Whether it was the pretty grand daughter of Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru or the great Sapru himself, is more than I can tell.