REMINISCENCES ON NEHRU
Prof. HIREN MUKHERJEE
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 back 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 back. He did, for example, when about Goa,
then still under Portugal, I said, “I felt like hanging my head in shame”, he
shot back 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 back 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.