Reminiscences on Nehru

Perhaps it is unfashionable these days to write on Jawaharlal Nehru except in a tone of sneering superiority; but it is not possible for those of us who were often sternly critical of him ­which I can truthfully claim I have been, for many years, and specially in Parliament from 1952 onwards–it is not possible for the likes of us to try in facile fashion to denigrate him and deny his place in history. There is no doubt that he has a sure seat among the great ones of our land. It was in October 1936 when, with my friend Sajjad Zaheer and a few other “Congress Socialist” comrades, I went for the first time to Anand Bhavan in Allahabad for an informal discussion with him. A burning issue those days was the relationship between socialism and independence, the priority, if any, between one or the other target of the national movement. I clearly recollect a simple but profound formulation that Jawaharlal made when he said: “Look, it is not as if there are two laddoos to be grabbed, one by one and one after the other. Our aim is to get both and fight for both, and time will decide which we get first.” Here lucidly put in uncomplicated terms was the concept, which we know is important, the concept of the integral relationship between a country’s independence and socialism, the latter being to those of us who thought, like Jawaharlal also then did, that freedom of a people can only find fulfilment in socialism.

The second time I met him face to face was around early February 1942 when, after a stint in jail for ‘Individual Civil Disobedience’ launched by Gandhiji in late 1939, he came to Calcutta. I met him with my close friends Jyoti Basu, now Chief Minister of West Bengal, and Snehangshu Acharya, Advocate General, in connection with the work of our newly-started organisation: Friends of the Soviet Union. He had received in jail some of the publications we had sent, but what I wish specially to recall is his characteristic personal touch. We arrived at the house of Dr. B. C. Roy, who was hosting Jawaharlal, a little before 4 o’clock, the time of our appointment. However, his Private Secretary Upadhyay took into his chamber an English friend, Leonard Schiff, an author on India I was annoyed–it is amusing to recall it now – and I immediately sent in a chit saying: “We were waiting, but if someone else had found precedence on account of the colour of his skin, well, please let us know and we shall quit.” Jawaharlal at once came out and said he was sorry. He never knew what had happened and, putting his arms about us, took us inside the room where we laughed, with Leonard joining us, about the little episode.

In Parliament, where I was elected in 1952, I met him almost every working day for some twelve years till his death. And, it is one of the joys of my life, that Jawaharlal admitted me to his affections, in spite of the many sharp political exchanges we had in Parliament, ever creating ‘scenes’, from time to time, when we were locked, as it were, in combat. This is why I would often write to him not only as the Communist Party spokesman, but also purely personally, which he liked me to. I remember how he liked my telling him on one of his birthdays that it was a tall order on providence to wish anybody happiness during these distressing days. Besides, as Nietzche had said long ago, “Who wants happiness? Only the Englishman does.” I would only tell him that from a railway carriage window the Supreme Court building hurt my eyes, while the sight of Humayun tomb soothed them; but would never dare whisper a word to others who would just not understand.

How I remember my Party’s characterisation of the 1952 President’s address as “a declaration of war on the people”, to which he replied, “Well, in that case, there is war between ‘them’ and ‘us’. I had myself sought td twit him by saying that he had missed his place in history for the sake of a tinsel portfolio. His reply was striking: “I don’t know about tinsel; but I would be content with a place in the heart of my people, if not in history.”

Too many things rush into my mind, but I must share the happiness I felt when, early during our Parliamentary contacts, Jawaharlal at a dinner in Constitution House asked me about my wife and children. Then, saying he always had time for children, if not for adults, he asked us all to breakfast with him, an unforgettable experience for my wife and our two children–a girl of eleven and a boy of six–to sit with the great man who easily made friends with them while I took, metaphorically, a seat.

In Parliament, Jawaharlal always behaved with dignity and, for one in his position of strength, showing remarkable tolerance towards opponents. He would be present in Parliament for long periods which made the members generally attend in fair numbers. Jawaharlal was unique in his respect for Parliament and his desire to be fair to all elements. Of course, he was primarily a political personality, ready to uphold his Party’s interests, but by and large he did respect the proprieties of debate and the role of an elected body like Parliament.

One could attack him and not find any malice in his responses. I have described him as “a minor poet who had missed his vocation” or as “one specialising in omniscience and orchestrating platitudes rather than concretely improving the living conditions of our people.” Not that he would not strike . He did, for example, when about Goa, then still under Portugal, I said, “I felt like hanging my head in shame”, he shot saying. “There must be something wrong in that head.” He would not be easily rattled; for, in the early ’Sixties, I said that the Prime Minister did not deserve to be a Leader of the House – this was later even expunged by the then Speaker – but it had already come out in the papers. His Chief Whip, Satyanarayan Sinha, felt panicked by presumption but Jawaharlal was not.

The India-China imbroglio between 1958 and 1962 gave Jawaharlal a jolt from which he never recovered. Parliament at that time developed a certain mysterious unruliness with which he could not quite cope. Towards the end of his life, a certain melancholy crept into his mind and affected his work. He was impatient but felt himself bound to accept constraints. One can discern a painful personal note in the Robert Frost lines he scribbled on his pad not long before he died:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep.

He wrote to me in a letter of 18 May 1963:

Repeatedly in the course of my life, I have felt pretty miserable and there has been une faibless D’esprit (a weakening of spirit). Some turn of events or something inside me made me get over that particular weakness. The rush of activity and hard work has helped me to carry on and not lose myself. I realize that is not enough and what I do may not be very worth-while. Still, I suppose, at the of my mind, I feel that there is some worth in what I do. If I did not feel that way, I could not carry on.

Such words would warm me towards him. Of course, he was on a different pedestal; yet, in spite of the barriers of age and political difference, could be deeply friendly. And for myself, I am happy I could be so near a man who in his own way was one of the finest world figures of our times.