P Kharel 

Going through the daily flow of inspired news planted by government agencies in India, this scribe recalls a less-than-pleasant encounter with Indian diplomats more than a generation ago.  They have not learnt much from history. Sometime in June 1989 when Nepal was reeling from the harsh economic blockade New Delhi imposed on it, Indian external affairs ministry’s spokesman Aftab Seth held one of his daily press briefings while the Shastri Bhawan canteen caterer served a glass of cold coffee at his office. After about 20 minutes or so, there was a pause to allow some of the journalists to exit.  

Then Seth shed his earlier smile and began briefing on Sri Lankan government’s handling of Tamil insurgency. Commenting on Lankan President Ranasinghe Premadasa, he raised his middle finger and fumed: “Premadasa deserves this!” (Lanka’s third president, who had served as prime minister for 11 years before being sworn in as president in early January 1989, was assassinated four years later in 1993.) 

But before Seth could go further, his South Indian secretary bent low to whisper an account in his right ear, apparently about the new guy from Nepal in the press crowd. In response, Seth tilted his head a little for less than a minute before he reposed to his as-usual posture with a quick glance at this correspondent representing the Gorkhapatra Corporation and remained silent with a weak smile manufactured for the situation. I instantly raised by hand for my debut-making question at XP [External Publicity] Division: “Mr. Spokesman, is there anything new on Nepal?” He responded with a bigger smile: “No, there is nothing.”

Uneasy start
Sensing something amiss, I left the room for the Press Lounge some 25 metres away. S. Venkat, a busy and freelance journalist of repute, explained an unwritten rule requiring all foreign journalists to leave after the first part of the briefing was over, which was to be figured once the question and answer session began to stutter and get paused and most local journalists showed no sign of leaving. Subsequently, twice or thrice in the course of my year-long stint in India as a full-fledged news correspondent, some Indians working for foreign news media were heard smugly muttering with an obvious dose of sarcasm when time came for the second part of a press briefing: “Now time for the patriotic press.” 

In contrast, Pavan Kumar Verma, who later shifted to President’s Palace and began dabbling in literary works, was a different character. Apparently on the advice of the North Desk, looking after Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan, he expressed unhappiness over my stories carried in The Rising Nepal. When on a short leave to join Tihar festival with family in Kathmandu, the Indian External Affairs Ministry erroneously obtained information that I was enrolled at Jawaharlal Nehru University as a Master’s degree student in Chemistry. This was against the terms of the don’ts given to foreign correspondents at the time of applying for a press pass. Also, no foreign correspondent could take a job other than for the media mentioned in the application form, which was vetted also by the Home Ministry. 

Returning to my quarters at Todarmal Road, some 200 metres from our embassy at Barahkhamba Road at the dead of the night the very next day of Tihar festival, I scrutinised the registered letter’s envelope, including the type font and postal office stamp mark. The Indian government’s letter sought an “explanation” within a week, failing which, I was told, I would be disqualified for the press pass given me. 
Sleep having taken leave, I began tapping my type-writer’s key board for the next hour or so crafting a response designed to be officially correct but professionally defiant in its own clear and no-nonsense style. The response rebutted all the major points in the letter signed by the XP Director Verma. The first part read: “By the time you receive this letter, I would already have met with you. I am writing this letter only to complete the formal cycle that you set in motion in your post-dated letter”. The envelope stamped by the Postal Office read three days prior ahead of the date in Verma’s letter head, apparently to give me practically a shorter deadline than the unintended “within a week” to respond.

The key part of my response: “I have neither the interest nor the desire to seek any degree from any Indian university, as I have already obtained a Master’s degree in History in 1975.”  The mention of my degree certificate year was a deliberate dig at Verma, his official bio showing him a year younger to me. Having completed the final copy, it was 3 in the morning. Six hours later at precisely 9, I walked the 20-minute distance to Sastri Bhawan and had the letter formal registered at the ground floor of Satsri Bhawan, which also housed the XP office, Information Offices and Press Lounge. 

Professional price
I decided to let Verma talk first. Visibly confident, he started to the effect: “So you are enrolled in JNU?” Postponing the pleasure of firing a resounding rebuttal, I chose to become barely audible: “No it’s not like that.” Then he burst: “What the hell! We know you are enrolled…” When he finally paused for breath, I coolly expressed surprise over his tone and tenor of language, after which he straightened a bit. Like a bolt out of the deep blue, he realised how gravely ill-informed he was. Stunned, he quickly cooled down: “If you say so, we leave things here.” My defiant reply: “No, you do your job, and I am available for all the required response. But I will let my Editor friends at the Press Lounge know what went through your office.”

Verma’s successor, too, called me twice to say that my reports did not contribute to improving Nepal-India relations, which had dipped following India’s economic blockade and media blitz against Nepal. Later, when he was told that I was leaving New Delhi to take up the editorship of the Sunday Dispatch newspaper being launched that March in 1990, the director made a parting shot: “Whatever the situation now, we will have to sit across the table for talks at the end of the day.”

(Professor Kharel specialises in political communication.)