An extract from ‘The Marigold Story’ : Indira Gandhi and others’

Indira Gandhi ’s death had decidedly created a vacuum. For people like me, who were a generation apart, it had also posed the ‘who ext’ question

Indira Priyadarshini Gandhi, India’s third prime minister,was allergic to marigolds. Throughout her life, her lieutenants stopped people from taking the gold- lower near her. While no one could stop her admirers from bringing them in bunches, the garlands were immediately taken away, and the petals were swiftly brushed aside. If someone still ma aged to smuggle the flower in, Indira Gandhi would frown to show her displeasure. Her silence was signal enough that she hadn’t taken well to the transgression.

But her anger was never directed at people who spent days, often weeks, to meet her. It was her staff who had to face her ire, for they were trained rigorously to handle her likes and dislikes. It was incumbent upon them to ensure that things went the way she wanted: perfectly, with clockwork precision. A slip-up may not have cost them their jobs, but it did earn her indignation. For the faithful, including the man who routinely carried an umbrella over her head, it was worse than being booted out.

It was therefore ironic that in her death, several such detailswere missed out. Were Indira Gandhi to have her way, she wouldhave never allowed for what she may have described as ‘violations’.But she lay still and lifeless: her bullet-ridden body bedecked inmarigolds. The gold-flower that was kept away during her entirelife, clung to her in death.But the shock of her sudden and violent death was so intensethat even for her coterie, the issue of her allergyo he flower m yhave seemed trivial. Death numbs everyone, but for someone likeIndira Gandhi to die the way she did, it wasnothing short of acatastrophe. For India, it was like hitting a dead end, or at leastthat is what it had seemed like at that point in time.

She had ruled with an iron hand for almost sixteen years and for most parts, turned around the country when few had the grit and determination to steer the fortunes of hundreds and thousands of deprived Indians. Equally t was true that she did not encourage a second line of leadership, making it clear that none other than a Nehru-Gandhi was fit to rule India.

Indira Gandhi ’s death had decidedly created a vacuum. For people like me, who were a generation apart, it had also posed the ‘who ext’ question. Sanjay Gandhi, the obvious heir-apparent, had died before his mother, and Rajiv Gandhi, the reluctant one, was a n vice. M re than Indira Gandhi’s death and the sorrow that came with it, what was worrying was India’s future and thelonely road that lay ahead.

On some lonely, dark nights, Alfred Tennyson and William Butler Yeats are my companions. I can’t explain the how and why of it, but I have often read and re-read their verses and liberally quoted and often misquoted them while churning a story in my head.

But in the context of ‘India without Indira’, I’d failed to evokeTennyson’s optimism about the old order changing, yielding place to the new or like the Victorian poet, comfort myself. His lines simply did not fit in the turbulent times India was facing.

Introspect what I’d felt was more in sync with Yeats’ The Second Coming:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

Like millions of Indians, I was unsure if the Second Coming was at hand; whether another messiah would descend from the heavens to bail out a country that had more problems than solutions.

Of course, Indira Gandhi was no messiah. She was more of a cross between a goddess and the poet’s vision of a rough beast. Among the uninitiated, she was worshipped; in the politics she practiced, her opponents l k n h r to a typhoon which destroyed at will. At one level, she had built India; at another, perhaps, destroyed its core. But as I had felt then, and do so even now, I believe that she did more good than harm.

From a distance, I watched Mrs Gandhi’s body lie in state. It was in New Delhi’s Teen Murti House, where she had spent several years as a you g woman with her father, Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister.

It was the late Vasant Sathe, the Congress leader from Maharashtra and once Union Minister for Information and Broadcasting in Mrs Gandhi’s Cabinet, who had taken me along to Teen Murti House. All through the drive, I don’t recall howlong it was, but Vasant Sathe had sobbed like child. For him, it was like losing his mother, as his wife later told me.

We entered from the ante-room and stood near where her head lay: bereft of the uneasy crown that she had symbolically andwillingly worn. Her head was covered with the pallu of her sari. Her face was swollen and looked nothing like it once had. It wasdifficult to see her the way she was. Silent and still.

It was equally tough to see people bring in marigolds and addto the layers over her body. I wanted to step over and remove each one…specially those which touched her face. That I thoughtwould be my tribute to a woman who had allowed me easy accessinto her home.

There was no special bond between us, except as journalist, I would often hover around her for off-beat stories, a d Mrs Gandhicooperated to the extent that I usually we back with one. ‘Marigolds,’ Indira Gandhi often told me, ‘arenot for me.’Her words came back as I helplessly watched hundreds of peoplecome in and heap them over her.

Her marigold allergy seemed to have skipped R.K. Dhawan’smind too. He wasin a daze. It was too much to expect him toworry about suchdetails; it reallydidn’t matter anymore.

But Mrs Gandhi was a woman who had a keen eye for detail. Hadthis happened to anyone else, she sure would have stepped in tocorrect it.

R.K. Dhawan was Indira Gandhi’s closest aide. As long as she lived, he was forever by her side, ensuring that nothing went amiss. There are however no easy answers for how things had gone so horribly wrong on the last day of a nippy October morning in 1984.

Dhawan was ‘Dhawan Sahib’ to his Hindi-speaking loyalists. For the rest, he was just, RKD; few knew him as Rajinder Kumar Dhawan. He began his career with Mrs Gandhi as her personal assistant, but in short span of time, he emerged as the powerful force behind a near-invincible woman.

I recall one afternoon when Dhawan was sitting in his chair in office when Rajiv Gandhi had walked into his room. For R.K. Dhawan, the presence of the prime minister’s son did not matter. He made no effort to get up, even as the well-bred Rajivwaited for the information he had come looking for.

Had it been Rajiv’s younger brother, Sanjay for instance, hewould have summoned RKD to his chamber and ensuredh t hecame there running. But Rajiv was not Sanjay—for one, he wasnot an egoist. If anything, he was polite to a fault. He recognizedthat RKD drew his power from his mother. In more ways thanone, Dhawan had pledged his life to her; he was fiercely loyaland dedicated: qualities which were rare in politics even then, as they are even today.

After Mrs Gandhi died, R.K. Dhawan had felt ‘orphaned’ inevery sense of the term. He was hounded by investigating agenciesfor allegedly conspiring to assassinate her and was in a politicalwilderness ora long time.

The erstwhile kingmaker, suddenlyfound himself alone. H s house, where people queued up for an audience or weeks on end, was deserted.RKD was under surveillance and it was too much of a risk to be associated with him. No one was willing to stand by the man who had scripted careers and was ever ready to go that extra mile for his friends.

It was a sad commentary on the kind of people power attracts.

It was widely speculated that had he by chance decided to singto investigating agencies, many would have had to run for cover. But he bore the cross alone. He could not bring himself to betray the trust of the woman he had virtually worshipped.

Even after his name was cleared by the agencies, RKD remained nowhere man. The gates of power had closed on him. With the new dispensation at the Centre, he was persona non grata; a tough situation for someone who had ruled the roost for several years.

But much like his mentor, RKD had nerves of steel. He didnot yield or succumb to poor alternatives.

For instance, he hadspurned several offers to write his memoirs. That it would havebeen a bestseller, was a given.

The writer is a senior Indian journalist, political commentator and columnist of

The Independent. She can be reached at: [email protected]

The book has been published by Westland  

 

 

An extract from The Marigold Story : Indira Gandhi and others

Indira Gandhi s death had decidedly created a vacuum. For people like me, who were a generation apart, it had also posed the who ext question

Indira Priyadarshini Gandhi, Indias third prime minister,was allergic to marigolds. Throughout her life, her lieutenants stopped people from taking the gold- lower near her. While no one could stop her admirers from bringing them in bunches, the garlands were immediately taken away, and the petals were swiftly brushed aside. If someone still ma aged to smuggle the flower in, Indira Gandhi would frown to show her displeasure. Her silence was signal enough that she hadnt taken well to the transgression. But her anger was never directed at people who spent days, often weeks, to meet her. It was her staff who had to face her ire, for they were trained rigorously to handle her likes and dislikes. It was incumbent upon them to ensure that things went the way she wanted: perfectly, with clockwork precision. A slip-up may not have cost them their jobs, but it did earn her indignation. For the faithful, including the man who routinely carried an umbrella over her head, it was worse than being booted out. It was therefore ironic that in her death, several such detailswere missed out. Were Indira Gandhi to have her way, she wouldhave never allowed for what she may have described as violations.But she lay still and lifeless: her bullet-ridden body bedecked inmarigolds. The gold-flower that was kept away during her entirelife, clung to her in death.But the shock of her sudden and violent death was so intensethat even for her coterie, the issue of her allergyo he flower m yhave seemed trivial. Death numbs everyone, but for someone likeIndira Gandhi to die the way she did, it wasnothing short of acatastrophe. For India, it was like hitting a dead end, or at leastthat is what it had seemed like at that point in time. She had ruled with an iron hand for almost sixteen years and for most parts, turned around the country when few had the grit and determination to steer the fortunes of hundreds and thousands of deprived Indians. Equally t was true that she did not encourage a second line of leadership, making it clear that none other than a Nehru-Gandhi was fit to rule India. Indira Gandhi s death had decidedly created a vacuum. For people like me, who were a generation apart, it had also posed the who ext question. Sanjay Gandhi, the obvious heir-apparent, had died before his mother, and Rajiv Gandhi, the reluctant one, was a n vice. M re than Indira Gandhis death and the sorrow that came with it, what was worrying was Indias future and thelonely road that lay ahead. On some lonely, dark nights, Alfred Tennyson and William Butler Yeats are my companions. I cant explain the how and why of it, but I have often read and re-read their verses and liberally quoted and often misquoted them while churning a story in my head. But in the context of India without Indira, Id failed to evokeTennysons optimism about the old order changing, yielding place to the new or like the Victorian poet, comfort myself. His lines simply did not fit in the turbulent times India was facing. Introspect what Id felt was more in sync with Yeats The Second Coming: Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. Like millions of Indians, I was unsure if the Second Coming was at hand; whether another messiah would descend from the heavens to bail out a country that had more problems than solutions. Of course, Indira Gandhi was no messiah. She was more of a cross between a goddess and the poets vision of a rough beast. Among the uninitiated, she was worshipped; in the politics she practiced, her opponents l k n h r to a typhoon which destroyed at will. At one level, she had built India; at another, perhaps, destroyed its core. But as I had felt then, and do so even now, I believe that she did more good than harm. From a distance, I watched Mrs Gandhis body lie in state. It was in New Delhis Teen Murti House, where she had spent several years as a you g woman with her father, Jawaharlal Nehru, Indias first prime minister. It was the late Vasant Sathe, the Congress leader from Maharashtra and once Union Minister for Information and Broadcasting in Mrs Gandhis Cabinet, who had taken me along to Teen Murti House. All through the drive, I dont recall howlong it was, but Vasant Sathe had sobbed like child. For him, it was like losing his mother, as his wife later told me. We entered from the ante-room and stood near where her head lay: bereft of the uneasy crown that she had symbolically andwillingly worn. Her head was covered with the pallu of her sari. Her face was swollen and looked nothing like it once had. It wasdifficult to see her the way she was. Silent and still. It was equally tough to see people bring in marigolds and addto the layers over her body. I wanted to step over and remove each onespecially those which touched her face. That I thoughtwould be my tribute to a woman who had allowed me easy accessinto her home. There was no special bond between us, except as journalist, I would often hover around her for off-beat stories, a d Mrs Gandhicooperated to the extent that I usually we back with one. Marigolds, Indira Gandhi often told me, arenot for me.Her words came back as I helplessly watched hundreds of peoplecome in and heap them over her. Her marigold allergy seemed to have skipped R.K. Dhawansmind too. He wasin a daze. It was too much to expect him toworry about suchdetails; it reallydidnt matter anymore. But Mrs Gandhi was a woman who had a keen eye for detail. Hadthis happened to anyone else, she sure would have stepped in tocorrect it. R.K. Dhawan was Indira Gandhis closest aide. As long as she lived, he was forever by her side, ensuring that nothing went amiss. There are however no easy answers for how things had gone so horribly wrong on the last day of a nippy October morning in 1984. Dhawan was Dhawan Sahib to his Hindi-speaking loyalists. For the rest, he was just, RKD; few knew him as Rajinder Kumar Dhawan. He began his career with Mrs Gandhi as her personal assistant, but in short span of time, he emerged as the powerful force behind a near-invincible woman. I recall one afternoon when Dhawan was sitting in his chair in office when Rajiv Gandhi had walked into his room. For R.K. Dhawan, the presence of the prime ministers son did not matter. He made no effort to get up, even as the well-bred Rajivwaited for the information he had come looking for. Had it been Rajivs younger brother, Sanjay for instance, hewould have summoned RKD to his chamber and ensuredh t hecame there running. But Rajiv was not Sanjayfor one, he wasnot an egoist. If anything, he was polite to a fault. He recognizedthat RKD drew his power from his mother. In more ways thanone, Dhawan had pledged his life to her; he was fiercely loyaland dedicated: qualities which were rare in politics even then, as they are even today. After Mrs Gandhi died, R.K. Dhawan had felt orphaned inevery sense of the term. He was hounded by investigating agenciesfor allegedly conspiring to assassinate her and was in a politicalwilderness ora long time. The erstwhile kingmaker, suddenlyfound himself alone. H s house, where people queued up for an audience or weeks on end, was deserted.RKD was under surveillance and it was too much of a risk to be associated with him. No one was willing to stand by the man who had scripted careers and was ever ready to go that extra mile for his friends. It was a sad commentary on the kind of people power attracts. It was widely speculated that had he by chance decided to singto investigating agencies, many would have had to run for cover. But he bore the cross alone. He could not bring himself to betray the trust of the woman he had virtually worshipped. Even after his name was cleared by the agencies, RKD remained nowhere man. The gates of power had closed on him. With the new dispensation at the Centre, he was persona non grata; a tough situation for someone who had ruled the roost for several years. But much like his mentor, RKD had nerves of steel. He didnot yield or succumb to poor alternatives. For instance, he hadspurned several offers to write his memoirs. That it would havebeen a bestseller, was a given. The writer is a senior Indian journalist, political commentator and columnist of The Independent. She can be reached at: [email protected] The book has been published by Westland