Nothing rude about this life

 

(A review of veteran journalist Vir Sanghvi’s memoir, ‘A Rude Life’)

By Shevlin Sebastian

One afternoon, in 2007, Vir Sanghvi, the editorial director of the Hindustan Times, strode into the Mumbai office. He had come straight from the airport following a flight from Delhi. After conversing with the resident editor, he came to the features section, pulled up a chair and requested a sub-editor to open a word file. Then he dictated his column, which would appear the next day. In his dictation, he would also say, ‘Comma’, ‘question mark’, ‘open quote’, ‘close quote’, ‘para’, and ‘full stop’.

Twenty minutes later, the column was finished. Later in the evening, a sub-editor gave Vir the proof of the page where his column had been placed. He made a few changes, using a gel pen, and it was ready to go.

Those of us who watched the afternoon dictation could only watch with envy, this effortless ability. I am not sure I can write anything by dictation. I have to sit and hit the keys. And it takes time to frame thoughts and move from one sentence to another. I cannot get so much clarity in the first draft, as with Vir. I need to work on the copy.

Throughout his career, Vir has written lucid articles. It gripped the reader, as it is mostly about well-known people.

So, no surprises, his just-released memoir, ‘A Rude Life’, is an easy read. I read page after page without a pause. When I looked up from the book, the 61st episode of Season 1 of the hit series, ‘Resurrection: Ertuğrul’, on Netflix, was on freeze-frame at the 21st minute. But Vir could easily keep me away from the twists and turns of the 12th-century fictional story set in Turkey.

Thanks to his father’s time in the Communist Party of India, Vir met notable people from his childhood. The then Defence Minister VK Krishna Menon, a friend of his father, Ramesh, often came to the Sanghvi house for dinner whenever he was in Mumbai. It was Vir’s duty to lead Krishna Menon from the car to the fourth-floor flat.

In November, 1961, Yuri Gagarin, the first astronaut to go to space, came to Mumbai. Ramesh was invited to dinner with the astronaut. Vir wanted to come along. Ramesh agreed. But Ramesh coached his son that the name was Yuri and not Urine, which was how Vir called him.

Throughout his life and career, Vir knew all the notable people so well he had lunch or dinner with them.

Vir became friends with the late Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray at the beginning of the latter’s career. And when, after dinner, Thackeray would come to the car to see Vir off, he would sign off by saying ‘Jai Maharashtra’. Vir countered it with ‘Jai Gujarat’. “He would laugh and eventually we reached a compromise, ‘Jai Mumbai,’” wrote Vir.

What became clear soon enough is that all these affluent and powerful personalities went through the same reactions as us normal human beings. They had the same insecurities and inferiority complexes, and ego battles. The only difference was that while our fights affected our family and a few other people, in their tussles, they could affect the destiny of a nation.

What was also clear from reading the book is how having contacts is so important for a successful career, especially in a country like India. Take Vir’s case. His best friend in school was Nikoo Bhullar. Nikoo’s mother Mohini worked for Thomson Press. When the company started ‘India Today’, Mohini asked Vir to write for the magazine. Later, the ‘India Today’ management, through a nudge by Mohini, appointed Vir as the editor of ‘Bombay’ magazine. He was only 22 years old. Later, his father’s friend, RV Pandit, who owned ‘Imprint’ magazine, appointed Vir as editor.

Vir may be one of the few journalists who could cold-call Aveek Sarkar, the owner of the Ananda Bazar Group, asking for a job. The result: he became the editor of ‘Sunday’ magazine at 30. Later, he became editorial director of the Hindustan Times and did many TV shows on various channels and published books too.

Everybody used contacts. Vir recalled that when ‘India Today’ wanted to do a cover story on the famed director Raj Kapoor, who was making the sensual, ‘Satyam Shivam Sundaram’ and remained inaccessible, Vir turned to ‘India Today’ editor Aroon Purie for help. Aroon asked his father, V V Purie, who had financed many of Kapoor’s films to secure the interview. End result: Raj Kapoor spoke to Vir.

Vir’s education was also elitist. He studied at the Mayo College in Ajmer, Mill Hill School, London, and later, at Oxford University.

However, his turning point was a tragedy. When Vir was 15, his father, Ramesh, whom he idolised, died of lung cancer at New York University Medical Centre. On his deathbed, Ramesh told his son, “You are my link with the future. There is enough money. Look after your mother. You will do much better than I could ever do.” It was at that moment Vir realised he could not depend on anybody but himself.

The book is awash with unforgettable anecdotes about the who’s who of Indian society. They include politicians like Sharad Pawar, industrialist KK Birla, actor Dilip Kumar, author Dom Moraes, and director Satyajit Ray. You can plonk down the money to buy the book and remain satisfied.

The book has a striking cover, although it puzzled me about why the designer shifted Vir’s head so much towards the spine that an ear has been cut off. There was enough space on the right to get the full image.

Ah, well, everybody is entitled to his or her creativity.