(This is an excerpt from ‘Devil’s Advocate: The Untold Story’ by senior journalist Karan Thapar. The book has been published by Harper Collins India.)
Poet, Painter, Photographer: Karan Thapar on V P Singh
V P Singh and Chandra Shekhar were people I got to know after their fall from power. I had heard that V P Singh was a poet, artist and videographer. That was my convenient excuse when I asked him to agree to a documentary profile. He readily accepted.
We must have devoted three or four days to this project, enough time to get to know the person. Once I had won his confidence, he gave me access to his collection of paintings and his poetry. He seemed particularly pleased when the cameraman started recording him filming flowers in his own garden.
Till then I had known him only as a politician and, like many others, thought of him as an astute if not crafty tactician. The person behind the politician was unknown.
A Prime Minister’s Pastime
Singh’s poetry was in Hindi, therefore I’m not equipped to assess it. But his paintings were striking, both in terms of their colour and the images they portrayed, while his video documentaries revealed a light-hearted humorous side that was so different to the serious and often silent politician.
The one that I vividly recall is of a dog on the veranda of his house looking out at the heavy monsoon rain. What brought it to life was the soundtrack he had added. It was the song ‘How much is that doggie in the window?’ I think he was rather proud of this.
By the time the crew finished filming, Singh and I had become friends. On my last day he suddenly said to me: ‘Now it’s my turn and you can’t say no.’ Another of his hobbies, he revealed, was photography and he wanted to take pictures of me.
Greasy Hair, Awkward Smiles
We agreed to do it on the following Sunday but then, inexplicably, I forgot. A phone call at 11 in the morning from his office reminded me that I was expected half an hour earlier. The problem was that I was unshaven, wearing an old pair of jeans and, worst of all, my hair had been oiled. My plan had been to play squash in the afternoon and then take a thoroughly well-deserved bath. All of that was now thrown out of the window as I rushed to V P Singh’s house.
He must have taken a hundred pictures. He seemed unconcerned by my appearance or the fact that my hair was greasy. His biggest problem was to get me to smile or laugh and do so naturally. Whenever I tried he would wince, claiming that it looked artificial.
When he finished two or three hours later, Singh declared that he had perhaps a handful of decent pictures and promised to send me the best. It arrived after a week. It’s a mugshot with the cheesiest grin on my face, huge teeth flashing out from between my lips. And there’s nothing to hide the greasy mop of hair on my head.
Sweet Revenge
‘This is exactly what you look like,’ Singh said when I rang to thank him for the picture. He was rather pleased with it. I, however, was convinced that this was his revenge. When I put that to him, he merely laughed.
‘Ask anyone and they’ll tell you this is how you really look.’
Singh was an enigma for most people during his life. Many did not know what to make of him. Some saw him as a canny politician, others as a man of high principle and a few as a misfit. But behind the political facade he was a warm human being with a finely developed aesthetic sense and a gentle manner. Sadly, he chose to keep that hidden from all but a few close friends and the odd lucky journalist.
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