On the road with Rajiv Gandhi (who often drove his car himself): A journalist remembers

In September 1986, eight months before the state was to go to the polls, Rajiv descended in Kolkata with a planeload of central ministers and secretaries to have a marathon meeting with Jyoti Basu at Raj Bhavan, the governor’s residence. The initiative took everyone by surprise, more so the state rulers who had to hurriedly prepare themselves with a credible charter of demands. In a joint press conference after a daylong meeting, Basu and Gandhi announced a host of decisions to address and alleviate Bengal’s economic woes. Most of them, however, remained on paper.

I found a place in the prime ministerial helicopter at the initiative of Priya Da who introduced me to Mani Shankar Aiyar. Rajiv Gandhi needed widespread publicity in West Bengal and in those days of pre-24/7 news television he could not have chosen better than ABP, by far the leading Bengali newspaper in West Bengal. Mani had a good rapport with Priya Da and agreed to take me in the entourage with one rider: “At Priya’s insistence I have been hedging a bet on you. Please do not disappoint me.” Since then I was a regular co-passenger in every trip Rajiv Gandhi made to my home state.

I took full advantage of travelling with the prime minister to write exclusive stories, giving graphic details of whatever unfolded before my eyes involving the country’s prime minister. For me it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I have cherished.

For the three days following the Raj Bhavan meeting in Kolkata, Rajiv criss-crossed Bengal on road. He drove his own Jonga, gifted to him by the King of Jordan. Sonia sat next to him on the front seat like a Barbie doll draped in a dupatta, waving occasionally at the cheering crowds waiting at the roadsides. Priya Da sat behind, with a well-built SPG commando who lost his life in the blast at Sri Perumpudur in Tamil Nadu that claimed Rajiv’s life on May 21, 1991. I was accommodated in the fourth car of the convoy along with some officers of the PMO. During the journey, however, I took the liberty of hitching a ride in one of the cars closer to Rajiv’s Jonga.

Rajiv was always in spotless white, a pair of Lotto sneakers and expensive sunglasses. He drove like a Grand prix driver on the state roads, sanitised, well in advance, by the security forces.

As a result, the official white Ambassador cars trailing him often fell far behind, unable to keep pace with the prime minister’s breakneck speed.

Once, somewhere in North Bengal, the prime minister’s Jonga came to a screeching halt, as if to avoid an imminent accident. The cars following him almost crashed into each other causing a flutter and minor injuries to some. I ran close to his car to find no encumbrance to warrant such an emergency brake. The next thing I saw was a senior official alighting from his car and walking across the road to pick up an empty food packet from the street. As it transpired, Rajiv saw in his rear view mirror the elderly gentleman throwing the lunch packet from his car window. The sight irritated him so much that he decided to teach the senior civil servant a necessary lesson in civic senses.

The official put up a brave face despite the drubbing he got from the prime minister and I got a good snippet for my diary on Rajiv’s Bengal safari.

The purpose of Rajiv’s road journey was to meet villagers impromptu without giving any notice to anyone in the local administration. The road map of his tour was shared with the Intelligence of course, but not where he might stop, simply because no one knew that. As a result, none could predict where he would slow down his vehicle and take a turn to enter a village. He chose them at his own free will after getting a general background of the area from Priya Da. That meant I had to stay alert and vigilant so that I could run and quickly reach the spot to witness the drama. After a couple of such stopovers, the prime minister’s security guards became friendly and allowed me to stand close to Rajiv inside the security cordon.

The reactions and facial expressions of the villagers as they saw the country’s prime minister walking to their doorsteps braving broken and muddy roads, littered with animal waste, clearly varied from being amusing to bizarre. Some cried out in utter disbelief, calling upon neighbours to come out quickly and share the unexpected spectacle. Some wanted to touch Rajiv Gandhi to be reassured they were neither dreaming nor hallucinating. Women in many Hindu villages blew conch shells and held impromptu arti to greet him. Everywhere, the villagers took quite a while to come to terms with reality before striking conversation with the prime minister. Priya Da acted as the interpreter between Rajiv and the villagers, occasionally distorting their answers so that a horrific picture of Bengal’s rural life and economy emerged before the prime minister.

Rajiv asked simple and pointed questions, often very personal. He also tried to dig out facts about the implementation of various central welfare projects meant for the rural poor. He heard complaints everywhere, natural and predictable, from those living on the margins, often without basic amenities. Most of the respondents were vocal against the partisan behaviour of their local panchayat functionaries belonging to the Left parties. Doles and benefits, they said, were only for those who swore allegiance to the rulers. Once in a while, Rajiv lost his cool when he heard complaints of rampant corruption.

Sonia stood beside her husband all the while without uttering a single word.

In a small village, dominated overwhelmingly by the lower castes, a newborn goat caught Rajiv’s eyes. He picked it up, put it on his lap and called Sonia aside. The couple patted the baby goat affectionately, admired its fur while asking the house owner about details of their livestock. As he handed it back to its owner, Rajiv said, “Take the poor thing to its mother. Looks like it was born only today.”

In another Muslim village in West Dinajpur, on the third and last leg of Rajiv’s Bengal tour, the couple walked straight inside a dirty, dingy and dimly lit cowshed, infested with swarms of mosquitoes. Perturbed and embarrassed, the security guards did not know how to protect the prime minister and his wife from such alien invasion. The hosts produced a few handheld fans and I grabbed one of them to give Sonia Gandhi a little comfort. Convinced she would be mighty pleased with my gesture, I mustered the courage to ask her a pro forma question about her experiences on that trip. Sonia turned and gave me such a stern look that my confidence wilted. I stepped aside leaving her in the company of friendlier insects.

Seventeen years later, I narrated the experience to Sonia Gandhi at a dinner hosted by her at 10 Janpath for a group of language editors before the 2004 Lok Sabha polls. I went from Kolkata to attend it. Manmohan Singh, still recovering from his second heart surgery stood at the gate to greet and receive the guests. After the introduction, when he learnt I represented Anandabazar Patrika, he said smilingly, “Aveek offered me a job with an astronomical salary. I told him I did not want so much money as a retired person.” Hardly did he or the world know then that the same man would be chosen to become India’s prime minister for two consecutive terms just a few days later.

Excerpted with permission from My Date With History: A Memoir, Suman Chattopadhyay, Rupa Publications.