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<b>Down Memory Lane by Hiro Shroff. Eeshwar, Mumbai. Pages 298. Rs 200.</b>Review by Randeep Wadehra
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<!--QuoteBegin-->QUOTE<!--QuoteEBegin-->WALKING down memory lane is seldom an entirely pleasant exercise. The lane may be strewn with rose petals, but an occasional hidden thorn does cause an element of pain. More appropriately, the whole exercise is like watching a replay of the past in a kaleidoscopic pattern. Hues are varied, bright, dull, dazzling, depressing. Memories... sweet, sad, bitter, amusing. Memories to cherish, memories to forget.

How much can an individual remember? A person who has lived a full life usually has variegated experiences which leave a permanent imprint on one’s mind.

This book is a medley of recollections by people from different walks of life, as narrated to Hiro Shroff, who is an anecdotist par excellence. Nevertheless, here he is playing the role of an oral historian. One was aware that oral history is an ancient Indian tradition, but that it has become a specialised field of activity is something new. Well, one lives and learns!

Old timers do not need any reminder of Shroff’s credentials. Born in 1926, he was a PTI correspondent for years, the first bureau chief of UNI in Mumbai, personal secretary-cum-PRO of the redoubtable Rukmini Devi Arundale, the then head of Kalakshetra in Chennai. Married to a Chinese and having lived a kinetic life, Shroff is a cosmopolitan to the core. Yet, his yearnings for the innocent days of yore bring out the refugee child from a village near Karachi.

As a reporter he covered Pakistan, Afghanistan, West Asia and China when a fresh chapter in world history was being written. He has interviewed such demi-gods as Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Nehru, Sukarno, Ho Chi Minh, Ayub Khan and Norodom Sihanouk. So also kings of various countries. Perhaps his coup was in the form of an interview with Pope Paul VI.

Through his immensely popular “Down memory lane” column, not only did he take the present generation of readers to the events, sounds and sights of more than half a century ago, but also provided keen insights into the persona of different celebrities from political, social and other fields. The details are vivid and thought provoking. The present book is a compilation of all those articles and interviews.

What would your reaction be if you found yourself face to face with a person in the buff, especially when the person was as intimidating as VK Krishna Menon, who was fastidious about dress and appearance? Soon after the Bandung conference in the mid-forties Menon had gone to Peking as Nehru’s envoy to meet Mao. Shroff followed him.

<b>Krishna Menon’s addiction to tea is legendary. One afternoon he was chatting with Menon in the latter’s hotel room over a cup of tea.Suddenly Menon stripped and went to take a shower. He continued conversing with the journalist from the bathroom. Realising that he had left some tea in his cup, Menon strolled out of the shower, dripping, finished the tea, and resumed his bath-cum-chat!</b>

The internationally noted photographer Jitendra Arya recalls that shooting JRD Tata was akin to military drill. The plug points had to be checked, angles determined, etc. Would you believe it that the man who played such a prominent role in modernising Indian industry felt “very nervous” and “intrigued” by Arya’s cameras, gadgetry and lighting equipment?

<b>Talking of Amitabh Bachchan, Arya recalls that when he first took his pictures he did not think much of him and accordingly gave Bachchan a treatment that the great actor never forgot. Years later, on achieving stardom Amitabh refused to give time to Arya and reminded him of the shabby treatment meted out to him by the photographer. Moral: Never scoff at an underdog, he might turn out to be a superstar some day!</b>

The 1950 Nehru-Liaquat pact facilitated an exchange of journalists between India and Pakistan. Though a Sindhi Hindu, Hiro Shroff’s surname gave him a Parsi “identity” that stood him in good stead in Pakistan. While having tea at Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan’s residence the latter praised the Indian government for sending a Parsi as the press correspondent and joked, “This makes you the father-in-law of Pakistan,” as Jinnah’s wife, Ruttee, was a Parsi.

Liaquat prided himself on his quick wit, but India’s High Commissioner in those days, Sir Sita Ram, was better at repartee. <b>When the Nizam of Hyderabad’s Sadr-ai-Riyasat, Laiq Ali, escaped to Pakistan after the “police action” Liaquat introduced Liaq to Sir Sita Ram remarking, “Your excellency, may I introduce to you Mir Laiq Ali, who, until the other day, was your prisoner.” The Indian envoy quipped, “Mr Prime Minister, he is your prisoner now.”</b>  <!--emo&:lol:--><img src='style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/laugh.gif' border='0' style='vertical-align:middle' alt='laugh.gif' /><!--endemo-->

At Karachi, Shroff once had to escort Mridula Sarabhai to Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan’s residence. She placed before the Frontier Gandhi a snuff box and a framed photograph of young Sanjay and Rajiv Gandhi. Ghaffar wept unabashedly and remarked that India had thrown him to the wolves in Pakistan. Though the great Pathan accepted the photograph, he returned the snuff box.

Quite early Shroff had discovered that rewriting history is not a malady peculiar to the saffron brigade. While on board the INS Delhi (formerly, HMIS New Delhi, not to be confused with the latest destroyer INS Delhi commissioned in 1999), he came across a publication entitled: “INS Delhi, 1948-1978”. It mentioned that Indira Gandhi was the first Indian lady to travel on board that ship en route to Jakarta on June 2, 1950. But Shroff recalls that in fact Maniben, daughter of Sardar Patel, is the rightful claimant to that “honour” because she had travelled on the same ship in April, 1950, from Bombay to Cochin. Quarrelling over trifles? Right!

While travelling from Cochin to Jakarta in 1950 on the INS Delhi, Nehru was accompanied by Indira and her two sons Rajiv and Sanjay. On board was Lt Jadav Chatterji, who later on retired as a Commodore. He recalls in the book that one day while he was in the wardroom he saw two small heads peering at him from the quarterdeck above. They threw small missiles at him. Irritated, the subaltern chased them and shook one of them by the scruff. It was then that he noticed Nehru standing there watching the whole episode and smiling.

During his visit to Indo-China Nehru was visiting certain monuments. He expressed a desire to climb a hillock to enter a particular monument. But that country’s security men turned down his request. He started looking intently up the hillock. When he sensed that the security had relaxed a bit he dashed forward and ran up the step to the monument, leaving the security men wide-mouthed.

You must have heard of the legendary Piloo Mody who one day entered Parliament with a placard around his neck that read, “I am a CIA agent.” His brother Russi Modi is no less famous. But they had another brother named Kali Modi who brought the Diners Club into India. Their father, Sir Homi Mody had a sharp brain and ready wit.

After independence, Nehru wrote to him thus, “Homi, you have served the British well and you have been knighted but now we have become independent and you must help me. We need you in the new Parliament, in the Lok Sabha, because things are going to be tense and tempers will fray and there will be all kinds of ugly scenes. You, with your wit, can defuse everything and you can help me a lot”.

Homi was reluctant, as he was busy with several activities. <b>When Nehru persisted and emphasised the importance of his wit Homi replied, “Panditji, if you need only my ‘wit’, why don’t you take my three sons; any one of my three sons?” When Nehru asked if any of his sons had Homi’s wit the latter quipped, “Oh yes. One is a Dim Wit, the other is Nit Wit and the third one is a Half Wit. Take your choice.”</b>

Hiro Shroff talks lovingly of the quaint customs of the pre-partition Sindh, the glimpses of which he occasionally gets in Ulhasnagar a predominatly Sindhi suburb of Mumbai. But I like the one about the Chinese custom wherein the newly wed couple’s parents pay the taxi fares of all the guests invited to the wedding!

Shroff recalls that journalists in his time were by and large true to their profession. Instead of hankering after give-aways and other “perks”, they concentrated on ferreting out news stories. They would be happy if they were able to “satisfy” their boss by being the first with a “scoop” rather than angle for what was not rightfully theirs. The “implements” at their disposal too were simple — primitive by today’s hi-tech standards — yet the professional standards were high. Perhaps it had something to do with the value system prevalent in those days. The newspaper managements too did not interfere as they do now.

After the formation of Pakistan, Mohammad Ali Jinnah hired the renowned journalist Pothen Joseph, a Malayali Christian, as editor of the Muslim League’s Dawn newspaper, much to the chagrin of the fundamentalists “PJ” was given a free hand as editor. Once, in one of his editorials PJ praised Mahatma Gandhi as a result of which he received threatening letters. When he brought this to Jinnah’s attention the great man wrote the remark, “Ignore it !” <b>The importance of free press was recognised by Jinnah. I am sure Najam Sethi must be envying PJ, and wishing that the Quaid-e-Azam were alive today.</b>

One wonders if the half a dozen or so bloody confrontations between India and Pakistan would have been avoided if the subcontinent’s press were absolutely free from eternal pressures and interference. At least this part of the world would have been a far more pleasant place to live in. Perhaps, if wishes were horses ....

You must have heard many anecdotes about Gandhi. But here is one that is delightfully at variance with his popular image. He was passing through Rawalpindi. It was his day of silence. Shroff was a mere boy then. He along with his father went to the local railway station to have the Mahatma’s darshan like many others.

Inside the compartment Shroff jingled the coins in his pocket. Gandhi promptly seized all the coins and asked through a written query how far the boy lived from the station and what would be the tonga fare. Shroff replied that it would be six pice. Carefully, the Mahatma counted out six pice, handed them to Shroff and pocketed the rest! Gandhi as penny pincher? Hardly, it was one of his techniques of collecting funds for running his ashram, and sustaining the freedom movement.

He could be despotic too. Dojay, son of Pothen Joseph, recounts an incident.

When the Quit India resolution was to be moved Nehru had certain reservations. Mahatma Gandhi told KM Munshi to tell Nehru that if on the next day — when the Quit India resolution was to be moved — he did not support it, Nehru’s political career would be zero in India. Well, well, well! The old man certainly knew how to bring his blue-eyed chela in line if the latter chose to be recalcitrant. The apostle of nonviolence did not hesitate to get tough and crack the whip if the situation so demanded. His clashes with Kasturba are the other examples of this .

Nostalgia is a powerful medium through which one can relieve one’s past. However, it can unleash powerful emotions and impulses that a novice might find impossible to handle. We all are aware that life is seldom sedate. Various contrasting experiences weave a mosaic that one can neither shed completely, nor would one like to claim as entirely one’s own. They are fortunate who can focus on the pleasant and productive sides of their past lives, rejecting the unappetising parts. Hiro Shroff is one of them. His own reminiscences are remarkably free of rancour and those who have shared their experiences with him too have followed suit. Only a seasoned journalist who has seen life in all its shades and experienced its different nuances can achieve the ease and finesse that he depicts while dealing with the various subjects.

This book gives us glimpses of the mental make-up of such varied personalities as mountaineers like Gyan Singh, Tenzing, Hillary and Bachendri Pal, political stalwarts like Mahatma Gandhi, Acharya Kripalani, C. Rajagopalachari, etc., of ordinary mortals like that, the Muslim Sindhi village bumpkin who despite his poverty was happy with the world thus putting us, the participants in the perennial rat race, to shame.

There are others, the arrogant and the humble, the crafty and the naive, the lofty and the debased, the flamboyant and the simple, who have been portrayed in this excellent book of memoirs.
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