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 PREM PRAKASH

REPORTING INDIA
My Seventy-Year Journey as a Journalist

PENGUIN BOOKS
 Contents

Foreword by Amit Khanna

Preface

1. Early Days
2. A Bright Start under Nehru’s Benign Watch
3. The Nehru Magic Wanes
4. Lal Bahadur Shastri Fills the Void
5. A Tough Start for Indira
6. Bangladesh on the Horizon
7. Democracy’s Darkest Hour
8. Janata Party Takes Over
9. Indira Gandhi Returns
10. Rajiv Gandhi Takes the Plunge
11. V.P. Singh Checks In
12. The Mantle Falls on Narasimha Rao
13. War in Afghanistan
14. Unstable Alliances
15. Vajpayee Ascends
16. Manmohan Singh and Narendra Modi
17. My Life Was a DIY Project

Illustrations
Follow Penguin
Copyright
To my lovely parents, Smt Sushila Sabharwal and Lala Wishva Nath, with whose
blessings I completed this journey
 Foreword

The 1950s were a heady time in India as it faced the birth pangs of
Independence. A nation struggling to get moving after a heart-wrenching partition
and 150 years of colonial rule. Those were times of abject poverty and hunger,
anguish and pain. Yet, India then was the womb of a million dreams. There was
fresh optimism in the air. A new India fuelled by restless youth was rising again.
The world’s largest democracy was on a long voyage of rediscovery.
Amid this turbulence, a young man fired by idealism followed his father and
uncles, eminent photojournalists of their time, in their profession. He would be a
chronicler of India’s tryst with destiny. A camera is the ‘save button’ of history.
Prem Prakash was to go on to become the first independent news cameraman-
reporter of modern India. For seventy years, this indefatigable man has been an
eyewitness to history as it was being made.
By the 1960s, Prem Prakash had become the India correspondent of the
global TV news agency Visnews (later acquired by Reuters), and his small
enterprise had come to be regarded as the first port of call for any foreign news
channel or publication. Often, he would be the solitary cameraman recording
people, places and events for posterity. Asian Films, as he christened his
company—with its offices at 72 Janpath in New Delhi—soon became a favourite
haunt for all purveyors of news. He was documenting India by the minute.
In my college days in the late ’60s, I was an avid reader of the American
Cinematographer magazine, because of my interest in cinema. One thing that
always struck me was the tiny ad (the only one from India) it carried in every
issue: ‘Asian Films, 72, Janpath, for your filming needs in India.’ At that time, I
had begun writing in some publications and was roped in to start a magazine,
Tempus. It was during those days that I first met him. Premji was sitting with a
couple of senior journalists in earnest conversation. I introduced myself, and
soon he was recounting his first-hand account of the 1965 war. I was enchanted
by this amazing raconteur.
In due course, I went away to Mumbai to work in films. Once I got into TV in
the ’80s, my relationship with Premji and his news organization expanded
beyond casual meetings. From then on, I would make it a point to drop in at his
office for a cup of coffee, but more importantly to hear interesting anecdotes from
this pioneering media person. I am happy that our friendship has blossomed over
the past four decades. And we meet regularly now.
In our conversations, he would recall various milestone events that he
witnessed in India and abroad. Many of these are told in this long-overdue
memoir. He is perhaps the only journalist in India who hasn’t just interviewed but
has had personal conversations with every prime minister of India. He is as
familiar with the leaders of today as he was with Pandit Nehru, Lal Bahadur
Shastri, Indira Gandhi, I.K. Gujral, Rajiv Gandhi and Atal Bihari Vajpayee. He
covered the wars in 1962, 1965, 1971 and 1999, and was a part of several
entourages of presidents, prime ministers and other delegations of that time. He
was there when Nehru suffered a heartbreak post the Chinese betrayal in 1962.
He was in Tashkent when Shastri signed the ceasefire agreement and died
mysteriously. He was in Bangladesh when the Pakistan Army surrendered. He
covered Rajiv Gandhi’s wedding. From riots and agitations to election
campaigns, triumphs and celebrations, Prem Prakash has witnessed and
recorded every heartbeat of India.
Among his most important contributions is the news agency ANI, which he set
up in 1971. In the early ’90s, Reuters bought a stake in ANI, and the latter soon
became the dominant audiovisual news agency in South Asia. Today, ANI is
among the largest syndicator of filmed news in the world and has over 300
correspondents and camerapersons working for it. Almost all international news
organizations across 100 countries source their India feed from ANI.
We are living in a networked world, with over five billion people accessing
news through different screens and mediums. News and information is the
foundation of this always-on world. As our country sits on the cusp of a unique
opportunity to become a geopolitical and economic superpower, the organization
Prem Prakash set up decades ago will continue reporting the India story.

New Delhi Amit Khanna

September 2020
 Preface

My long professional journey began in 1952, when I set sail from Bombay on
board the Italian ship M.V. Neptunia to Italy, from there onwards by train to
Switzerland and finally, to Great Britain. One of our ports of call was Aden. Here,
as a young Indian abroad, I was proud to find that my country’s reputation was
high. The Indian rupee was the currency most welcomed in shops and markets.
None of the traders were interested in the pound sterling or the US dollar. The
rupee was the currency of choice.
In Europe, too, I was happy to discover that India—my newly independent
country, prospering under the able leadership of Jawaharlal Nehru—was highly
regarded by everyone I met.
I had gone to Switzerland to attend a conference hosted by the Moral Re-
Armament movement, for whom I worked as a photographer. I soon found myself
very busy, working day and night at this very interesting gathering of delegates
from all over the world. However, I did find time to travel across the country. It
was during a trip to the city of Zurich that I met A.T. Pfister, who had set up an
international news photo agency named ATP. He invited me to join his agency as
ATP’s representative in India—a position I was delighted to accept.
ATP was based in Zurich, the financial centre of Switzerland. There were an
amazing number of banks in the city, many of which had wealthy Indians among
their customers. The rupee was a hard currency, and at that time there were no
restrictions on the movement of money from India.
Having heard about the fame of Swiss watches, I visited a few watch factories
and was impressed by the hard-working technicians I met. I bought some low-
end watches, as much as my wages permitted, for myself, my father, my mother
and younger brother.
In Switzerland, I made another discovery—wine and apple cider. Despite
working long hours, some of us youngsters did go out a bit. At one such picnic
near the village of Caux, I first came across wine and cider. In India, of course,
we had heard of wine, but most Indians who drank preferred hard liquor. Wine
was regarded as simply fermented juice. Nonetheless, I quite liked the taste of
wine and over the years enjoyed an occasional glass of wine in the company of
friends. Today, India produces some very good wine and even exports it.
 Another important lesson I learnt during that Swiss interlude: I enjoyed hard
work. I never, not even for a day, felt too lethargic to get to work. It meant I was
learning my trade, watching experienced operatives and listening to them.
From Switzerland I travelled through Europe until I arrived in London. It was
here that I received a bit of a shock. Here, in the capital of the British Empire, it
struck me that India was seen as nothing more than a land of snake charmers,
elephants and princes. So ingrained was this belief that no argument could
change this distorted view of India. After this experience, I was even more
determined than before that I would spend a lot of my time towards ensuring that
India’s standing as a vibrant, energetic, modern nation was properly recognized.
Returning home towards the end of that year, I made an appointment with B.L.
Sharma, then principal information officer of the Indian government, and sought
accreditation as the representative of the photo agency ATP in India.
Thus began my professional career. At the beginning of 1953, I was accredited
to the Government of India. This gave me easy access to no less a person than
the prime minister of the country, Jawaharlal Nehru. The officials around the
prime minister were friendly and cooperative. I requested permission to shoot a
news photo feature on a day in the life of the prime minister. Mr Bhatt, the chief
information officer, promised to mention the idea to Panditji, as Nehru was known
to his friends.
To my pleasant surprise, I soon got a call from Mr Bhatt, who invited me to go
to the prime minister’s house to meet the people who could help me.
Upon arriving at the PM’s residence, the first person I met was one Bimla
Sindhi, a refugee from West Pakistan who was now on the prime minister’s
personal staff. I knew her quite well since she was a regular visitor to my father’s
photo shop, Ajanta Photo Studio, situated at 72 Queensway, now Janpath, New
Delhi. (This was where I later began my own business—Asian Films—and
where, in 1957, I established the Indian bureau of Visnews, the international
television news agency.)
At PM Nehru’s home, I received the most friendly welcome from Yashpal
Kapoor, who was part of Nehru’s personal staff. Yashpalji made me feel
comfortable by addressing me as ‘bachche’—a term equivalent to ‘son’—which
he would use for the rest of his life when referring to me. It surprised me as to
how trusting and informal the PM’s staff was.
Later that evening, when Panditji arrived home, Yashpalji and Bimla Sindhi
virtually held me by the hand when introducing me to the prime minister. I can
never forget the amused reaction of Panditji looking at me—I must have looked
too young and inexperienced to document a day in the life of a prime minister.
But graciously, he did not say ‘no’, either because his staff had recommended
me or because he was just being kind to a young lad. I was so excited about the
prime minster giving me attention that I was willing to wait a while for his
approval. After a few weeks, when I started pestering Yashpalji for a date, his
reply would be, ‘What’s the hurry? Have a cup of tea.’ But I started getting
anxious about meeting my deadline.
I knew that Holi was a festival that India’s first prime minister loved. This two-
day festival of colours, when Indians celebrate the arrival of spring by sprinkling
coloured powder and water on each other, is a photographer’s delight. Every
year, crowds would gather on the front lawn of Teen Murti House, the prime
minister’s official residence, during the festival. Panditji used to mingle quite
freely with the crowds and join them in the celebration. It was so endearing to
see him drenched in colours and enjoying the fun. He would then visit the homes
of some of his cabinet colleagues to join in the festivities there.
I took a number of photographs of the prime minister playing Holi and then got
the opportunity to photograph him whenever important visitors came to see him.
It was a great start to my career. But soon, I moved on from still photographs—
into the world of moving pictures and newsreels.
In 1957 I had the good fortune of being a founder member of the world’s first
global television news agency, the British Commonwealth International Newsfilm
Agency (BCINA), which was set up by the Commonwealth broadcasters—BBC
and Rank Organisation of the United Kingdom; ABC of Australia; and CBC of
Canada.
The goal was that BCINA would provide worldwide news coverage to the three
owner broadcasters and also sell it to TV networks throughout the world.
Unfortunately, the name BCINA couldn’t catch on internationally, and the term
‘British’ would occasionally be used by some nations to deny access. BCINA’s
telegraphic address was ‘Visnews’, and this was adopted as the name of the
company. From the start, the agency began establishing bureaux in all the
important world centres. Delhi was one of them.
Visnews became the world’s first television news agency, delivering news
footage to and from every corner of the globe. When it opened for business,
there were no satellites, no Internet, no video or electronic devices. That meant
moving international television news film via air cargo—a slow, cumbersome
process, but one which worked well enough at the time.
While in London to discuss the establishment of Visnews, I worked out an
arrangement wherein I would cover Asia from the Visnews bureau in India but
could continue to pursue other journalistic endeavours. Thus, I was able to
manage Asian Films, which ultimately became what it is today, Asian News
International (ANI).
 As the head of Visnews Asia, I was given the job of opening Visnews offices in
various centres, starting with Singapore. In due course, that office became the
regional centre for the distribution of content produced by Visnews, although
Singapore in those days was almost like a small Indian town—far from the Asian
financial and commercial giant it went on to become.
From Singapore I moved to Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, ruled by another
giant leader and freedom fighter of Asia, President Sukarno. And from Jakarta I
flew to Hong Kong, a rather sleepy city at that time but soon to gain importance
during the Cold War.
But while expansion of the Visnews bureaux was happening, the regional cold
wars, Indo–Pak tensions, the unsettling of Tibet, China’s incursions into the
hitherto high Himalayan borders with India—all began to give a new dimension to
news coverage that I had to focus on. The number of ‘hotspots’ in Asia was
increasing.
India was now moving into the arena of realpolitik. Pakistan joined the United
States in its Cold War against the Soviet Union. In return, the Pakistani armed
forces began to receive massive American arms shipments. Peshawar emerged
as the secret US Air Force base from where U-2 spy planes would fly over the
Soviet Union.
Jawaharlal Nehru used diplomacy and friendship with China to try to contain
the Chinese ambitions on India’s borders. Panditji held the hand of Chinese
premier Zhou Enlai and brought him into the Non-Aligned Movement. This at a
time when communist China was not recognized by the United States and most
Western nations.
Was there any other way India could have handled its relations with China?
The answer to that question would in the long run lie with history. But at that time
the mood in the country was to believe that if Nehru thought it to be in India’s
best interest, it must be so. Such was the blind trust that Indians had in Nehru
regarding foreign policy, that to think to the contrary would have been a betrayal
of their national hero. By the time India became aware of China’s real intentions,
the latter had already built a road through Aksai Chin as a shortcut to Tibet. India
had neglected the region and Panditji, speaking in Parliament, described it as an
area where ‘not a blade of grass grows’. Surely, barrenness should not have
been sufficient reason to neglect such a strategic area but strangely, the media
hesitated in asking too many questions, till it was too late.
India faced its first major crisis in its relations with China in 1962, when
tensions between the two countries reached a new high. It began with the killing
of an Indian border police patrol by Chinese troops. India had not moved its army
to its borders with China despite China having done so; patrolling by Indian
police was considered sufficient. However, the Chinese had already consolidated
their position in the areas under their control. From that point on, India was
fighting a rearguard action.
Nehru passed away on 27 May 1964, in many ways a broken man who
realized that he was leaving India, a country he loved the most, with many
unresolved issues. He had worked himself to death to restore some strength and
pride to the Indian Army after the debacle of the war with China in 1962.
Lal Bahadur Shastri succeeded Panditji. As expected, the military ruler next
door—Pakistan’s General Ayub Khan—did not think much of India’s humble
second prime minister. He made his first provocative move in the Rann of Kutch,
a marshy area on the western coast of India, in the state of Gujarat. That
adventure by Ayub unleashed the first full-scale India-Pakistan war, during which
the Indian forces crossed the border, threatening to overrun Lahore.
Shastriji’s tenure as prime minister was a short one. His sudden death in
Tashkent in 1966, during the peace negotiations with Pakistan, catapulted Indira
Gandhi, Nehru’s daughter, into the prime minister’s office.
The senior leaders of the Indian National Congress opposed her, expecting her
to follow their diktat—which she refused. This led to the break-up of the party into
two parts in 1969. The splitting of the INC, which had led the fight for freedom in
India, shocked the nation. But Indira Gandhi was made of strong mettle. India’s
first woman prime minister, she fought her opponents like a tigress and served
three terms.
I was in the thick of all these events, which played a momentous role in the
shaping of Indian history.
Developments in television technology in the sixties resulted in rapid changes
in the way news and visual material was distributed. Television was fast
becoming the main avenue for delivering news. Daily TV news bulletins became
the preferred source of information rather than the morning newspaper. It was a
challenge which, I must say, Visnews and Asian Films met supremely well,
establishing their leadership in the new television era.
The year 1971 saw a huge increase in India’s TV penetration rate. Using
satellites to transmit pictures, Doordarshan, the state-owned public service
broadcaster, became a technologically advanced national television network.
There was a hunger for news, yet it would be decades before private TV
channels would be allowed to operate in India.
In Pakistan, the general election results of 1971 proved unacceptable to the
Pakistani army and to Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, the leader of West Pakistan. A Bengali,
Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, had emerged as majority leader—and rightly claimed to
be the prime minister of Pakistan. But his claim was rejected by the powerful
Pakistan Army and by Bhutto, leading to a massive crackdown on East Pakistan.
Leaders of the Awami League, which supported Mujibur Rahman, were arrested.
The Pakistan Army began pushing the Hindu population of East Pakistan and
the Awami League sympathizers into India. Soon, India had nearly a million
people housed in refugee camps. India recognized Bangladesh’s government in
exile. The Indo-Pak war broke out in December, resulting in victory for India and
the massive surrender of over 93,000 Pakistani troops on 16 December 1971.
This was the largest surrender by any army since World War II, and it brought an
end to East Pakistan as Bangladesh was born. It was the denial to Mujibur
Rahman of his rightful claim to power that ultimately led to the fight for freedom in
East Pakistan and to the creation of the new nation of Bangladesh.
I was in East Pakistan for weeks on end at the time, covering the events and
seeing history being made.
By 1973 I had set up an independent television programme production facility
in Delhi. India still had only one TV network, the state-owned Doordarshan, but I
was still committed to my dream of starting an independent TV news service to
tell the India story to the world.
When the satellite revolution hit India in 1991, there was an explosion of
independent TV news channels. These channels were uplinked via satellites
from places such as Moscow, Hong Kong and the Philippines and transmitted
throughout India. Thus, much as the Government of India did not like
independent TV channels, they were now here to stay, since their uplink hubs
were outside India’s borders.
India’s first independent television news bulletin was uplinked from Moscow, by
Siddharth Srivastava’s ATN channel. They received a regular news service from
Visnews and ANI. Visnews was later taken over by Reuters and became Reuters
Television. In a further step forward, Reuters collaborated with ANI to distribute
news from the subcontinent to the world. This is described later in the book.
A leading British correspondent once remarked that there are no full stops in
India. This certainly applies to Indian news and politics. Sure enough, I found
myself busier than ever before. The war in Afghanistan had become of major
interest (I spent a lot of time in Afghanistan 1978 onwards, covering major events
and travelling all over that country). News was now being moved in real time.
Each day saw the emergence of new technology, with TV news channels
scrambling to serve live reports to their audiences.
I have endeavoured in the following chapters to weave into a coherent
narrative my experiences of covering India from the sixties to the new
millennium. As an active journalist, with a career spanning five decades, and
then in my work guiding ANI, I have witnessed, at first hand, the India story
emerge, strengthen and thrive.
This is an eyewitness account of the huge advances I have seen the country
make in its—and my—journey since 1947. It is also an account of the exciting
changes we are witnessing now, adding momentum to India’s march towards its
destiny as a major economic and political power in the modern world—a destiny
reflected in the emergence of ANI as India’s premier television news agency.
I must also thank all those who coaxed me into writing this book and helped
me with it. To mention a few names—my son Sanjiv, Smita, Ishaan, Peter
Whittle, Amrit Maan, Colonel Jaibans Singh, Rashid Kidwai, Harinder Maan,
Surinder Kapoor and Chandrakant Naidu among others.
 1
Early Days

Rawalpindi, a lively city in the north of pre-Partition India, was where I was born. I
have only hazy memories of that city because my father moved to Delhi long
before I could form lasting impressions. But the pull of Pindi has, of course,
remained as strong as ever. My father told me how our ancestors had moved
from Central Asia to the Indian subcontinent, stopping first in Peshawar and then
moving to Miani village near Rawalpindi—all now part of Pakistan.
India’s education system in those days was very good. Though my father left
school early, the school had imparted to him a well-rounded personality and
given him a good hold on languages. He dropped out of school in response to
Mahatma Gandhi’s call to join the freedom movement. Part of my father’s great
influence on me lay in what he taught me about the India of those times.
My father was responsible for building and launching the first cinema in north
India—or should I say undivided Punjab?—when he opened the New Rose in
Rawalpindi. This thread that linked our family to the world of film was to help
shape my own career in later years.
India was a vast country but its population was small. People moved regularly
from place to place, looking for new opportunities. However, in my father’s case,
it was the terrible recession of the 1930s that prompted the move to Delhi, the
city that became the capital of India in 1911, when the British decided to move on
from Calcutta.
My father’s family settled in old Delhi, finding a new home in Kucha Natwan in
Chandni Chowk. Old Delhi was very small compared to the sprawling bustle that
it is today. Chandni Chowk was still the heart and hub of the city. I can never
forget the daily routine when a ‘mashak-wallah’ would appear at around four
o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of the street. The mashak was a bag of
goat or sheep skin with an opening on one side from which water would be
sprinkled to settle the dust and keep the street cool.
Later in the day, the kotwal, the head of the kotwali (police station), would
emerge on horseback from the kotwali, followed by two constables also on
horseback. They would slowly trot towards the mosque at the end of the street,
then turn around and ride to the Red Fort before returning to the police station.
This exercise would attract crowds of onlookers. This was a kind of
demonstration by the authorities to show that law and order was being
maintained and that the city was well under the control of the government and
police. The police force was not large but sufficient for the population at that time.
As my father used to say, governments don’t run by force. Ninety per cent of
the respect for the government comes from what they call iqbal, or majesty.
The kitchen of our house was on the top floor, which meant my mother had to
face daily raids from bands of hungry monkeys. One of our domestic helps would
always be on hand for her to help keep the monkeys away, but the monkeys
knew there was food in the kitchen and would not be deterred. (The monkey
menace in Delhi has still not been resolved! It has spread so wide that even the
Central Secretariat offices of the Government of India are overrun by hundreds of
monkeys. The government makes special effort to keep the simians away.)
Another childhood memory of the city takes me back to an inkmaker’s shop
right below our flat. I would watch the men stir a thick black concoction, which
they would spread on leafy sheets shaped like small tablets. They would then let
these dry in the open until they hardened and became ink tablets. Adding a little
water to them produced black ink.
There were a few private schools in Delhi for British children, but Indian
children mostly went to government schools, where the standard of education
was very high. My younger brother and I first started studying under a tutor, who
came to our house to prepare us for school. We were admitted to a municipal
primary school in old Delhi’s Bhagirath Palace area. From there, we were moved
to another municipal school at Kashmere Gate. I have happy memories of my
schooling. The teachers were hard-working but severe punishment was the order
of the day, even in primary schools. So you had to do well.
After finishing school at Kashmere Gate, I moved to the higher secondary
school which was opposite our house in Chandni Chowk. When the term at my
Kashmere Gate school ended, I was transferred to a different branch of the same
school located in Gole Market in New Delhi. In Doctor’s Lane to be precise.
My father had set up a photo studio in Kashmere Gate, a locality popular
among the city’s elite in those days. New Delhi was still being developed and
many who lived there would come to this area for shopping. Close to Kashmere
Gate was an area known as Civil Lines. In most Indian cities the British had built
exclusive residential areas for their own comfort—and these were known as Civil
Lines. It was here that the privileged lived.
The charms of Chandni Chowk
I grew up in Chandni Chowk, and I have some fond memories of my childhood
there. Chandni Chowk was not as crowded as it is today. In the Mughal era, I am
told, there used to be a canal flowing through what is today’s main street. The
canal was filled in sometime during the 1920s.
Kuchas in old Delhi are gated communities. Entering through their gates back
in the day, it was as though one had arrived in a miniature city. The kucha had its
own streets, shops, homes—everything. Our home was very close to the
entrance of Kucha Natwan. Located here were several food shops, especially
sweetmeat shops which were the pride of the residents of Chandni Chowk.
Even today, Chandni Chowk is famous for the delectable food it offers. Delhi’s
bedvi (called puri in Punjabi), made with wheat flour and other ingredients, is one
such Chandni Chowk specialty that my family loved. It is served with potato curry
cooked in Delhi style and Suji Halwa, with chutney on the side. This was our
breakfast on many occasions. Another Delhi specialty is nagodi, a smaller puri
which is filled with halwa and is eaten whole.
The reason I mention this is that on the rare occasion that I find myself eating
these delicacies, it just isn’t the halwa I savour, it is the flood of memories that
comes gushing into the mind. Every family member had a favourite dish and
whenever we had guests visiting, my father would send for some local specialty
and my mother would make steaming cups of strong tea.
Cheek by jowl with the street food shops were the shops selling ittar or
perfume. Their fragrance pervaded the whole street. The shops were mainly run
by Muslims. One shop in particular had very kind owners who would call in young
men like me and sprinkle some ittar on us.
Another thing unique about such neighbourhoods in those days was that we
could hop across each other’s terraces, balconies and verandas, and nobody
raised any objections. There was no concept of privacy! The footpaths were
wider and there were hardly any motor vehicles on the roads, so we youngsters
were not bound by space or safety concerns.
Chandni Chowk had tram cars. Children from the kucha, including me, would
run after a tram and jump on for a free ride. It was great fun. Life as a child was
most enjoyable. We played in a playground behind the Town Hall. (The
playground is now known as Gandhi Ground.)
There were murmurs of impending ‘trouble’ after India’s independence in 1947,
but they didn’t bother us. Such was our faith in our leaders. In 1942, when the
freedom struggle gained momentum and Mahatma Gandhi called on Indians to
protest against the British as part of the Quit India Movement, there were
demonstrations in Chandni Chowk. However, the police dispersed the protestors
quite easily; the protests had lasted barely three days before Chandni Chowk
was back to its old routine.
The street behind our house was lined with colourful shops—not just those
selling perfumes, as mentioned earlier, but also a number of clothing shops. As
you moved down the road, towards the Fatehpuri Mosque, on the left was
Ballimaran, an area largely inhabited by Muslims. Ballimaran, too, was full of
colour, with food outlets everywhere.
Right adjacent to Ballimaran was Katra Neel. After the mutiny of 1857, when
the British began taking over the properties of various officials working for the
Mughal court and, in general, hounding Muslims and Mughal supporters, a lot of
people were brought from the Punjab region, particularly Lahore, and moved into
Katra Neel. The confiscated properties were auctioned by the British government
and were mostly bought by the newcomers from Lahore. They became big
landowners of Chandni Chowk and the kuchas. Among them, Chhunna Mal was
reputed to be the biggest landlord of Delhi.
At the heart of Chandni Chowk stood a very tall clock tower. The British loved
clock towers. They built them in most cities. They also placed huge clocks on the
facades of railway stations. I don’t remember if the clock installed in the Chandni
Chowk clock tower was similar to the one at Big Ben in London, but I can clearly
recall that the tower here was quite imposing. The bells chimed loud enough for
people all over the neighbourhood to hear. Many a time, much to my mother’s
annoyance, I would use a stepladder to climb to the roof of our house to look at
the clock tower. And I took great pleasure in her chiding me afterwards, ‘You
could have fallen and broken your bones.’
Nearby, to the right of the clock tower on the street leading to the Fatehpuri
Mosque, was the majestic Town Hall. This heritage building still stands gracefully
today, but no one seems to know what to do with it. It used to be the office of the
city’s municipality. The Delhi of today has many municipalities, and the Town Hall
is hardly used. There have been many ideas on how to repurpose it. It would, for
example, make a very nice hotel since it has gardens all around it. But it takes a
long time to take decisions in our country . . .
Close to the Town Hall was the Garam Hamam or hot bath. Again, this was a
tradition which came from Turkey or Central Asia, where there are public baths
with hot water. Delhi gets pretty cold in winter, so these hot baths were a
welcome facility.
I love the street in Chandni Chowk where I lived. Only once in the last few
years, sometime in 2015, I took the metro to Chandni Chowk. Of course, the
place I saw was not the Chandni Chowk I knew in my childhood. For one thing, it
was difficult to walk on the crowded pavements. And the traffic was like it is in the
rest of Delhi. I don’t think I will go back to the street where I lived. Those
memories should stay how they were, unsullied by the present.
My memories of my first school are very limited. The classes had only about
thirty students and the teachers, mostly male, were addressed as ‘Masterji’.
Then, from the primary school in Chandni Chowk, I was moved, along with my
younger brother, to another primary school in Kashmere Gate because that was
closer to my father’s photography studio.
The major shops those days used to be at Kashmere Gate, which was the first
big shopping centre in Delhi. This market grew in importance when the British
moved into Delhi after the mutiny, and again after 1911, when Delhi was declared
the capital.
I remember the governor general’s house, built near the Civil Lines, where the
University of Delhi’s North Campus is located today. The university vice-
chancellor’s office was once the governor general’s house. It is in this house that
Lord Louis Mountbatten is said to have proposed to Lady Mountbatten. I
remember, too, the Secretariat building and the Assembly House, which now
serves as the Legislative Assembly of the state of Delhi.
I really enjoyed my schooling in Kashmere Gate. Being there gave me the
chance to frequently walk to the photography store that my father and his elder
brother had opened. It was fun to be there and there were cinemas just down the
street. There was also a sweet shop near the school and we used to visit it often
to enjoy Delhi’s speciality, the bedvi. The shopkeeper’s name was Mitthan. Later,
when I joined Hindu College, I found that Mitthan’s shop was right next to it.
My parents moved to New Delhi sometime during the mid-1940s because
Kashmere Gate was losing its charm. New Delhi had been built. It was the time
of World War II. Lots of American troops had arrived in India and some were
stationed in Delhi. By this time my father had opened his photography store at 72
Queensway and had two other businesses, one at Parliament Street and
another, a restaurant, in Connaught Place.
I must give you give you my impression of Connaught Place, which was once
the most beautiful shopping centre in the world. I would often go around CP.
Even in summer you could go around the market because the walkway is like a
circular veranda—shaded, absolutely comfortable. It remained so till the late
sixties, when it began to decay. In the evenings, some friends and I would take a
leisurely walk around and then go to one of the restaurants, like La Boheme,
which was in the outer circle and run by Nirula’s. They had a lovely Chinese
restaurant on the mezzanine floor. Eating there meant you felt like you were in a
dining car of an Indian Railways train, the decor was such.
 I would regularly go to my father’s studio at Queensway and gape at the
American soldiers who came to get their photographs taken. Their barracks were
nearby and the Americans had all kinds of offices in the Queensway area.
Life in New Delhi was quite different from what it was like in Chandni Chowk.
Close to our flat in CP’s outer circle was the Railways Playground where I went
with friends to play cricket. That was how I was introduced to the sport that I, and
the rest of India, love.
Meanwhile, my father built his own house in Karol Bagh. I am not sure why he
chose that place because the area was more expensive than Sundar Nagar in
Lutyens’s New Delhi and other places. A lot of the areas in New Delhi were
regarded as unliveable because of large open spaces but Karol Bagh was a
lively place, a little posher than old Delhi. So, we moved to Karol Bagh. By that
time, the war had ended and the Americans were leaving.
During the war, the government had requisitioned the school building in Anand
Parbat which belonged to Ramjas School. So after the war the school moved
back here from Doctor’s Lane. Living in Karol Bagh was very convenient for me
as it gave me easy access to Anand Parbat and to my school, which occupied a
beautiful old heritage building set in lovely grounds. Here again, the teachers
would make every effort to ensure that students did well in exams, and I did well
there.
Every year at my school, there was an inspection by a British education
inspector. That was quite an event in the school with the principal and teachers
under a lot of stress, hoping that the school make the grade. There were other
activities too. I joined the boy scouts and I was awarded a few medals—one for
cooking! I love my amateurish cooking even today.
I thoroughly enjoyed going to camps with the scouts. One such camp was in
Tara Devi, just below Shimla. It was my first visit to the region. We went to by
train to Kalka, then took the Toy Train and stayed at the Tara Devi Hostel. It was
all great fun. I ranked second in my school-leaving exams.

College days
At the Hindu College, my first day was quite interesting. I was warned about
seniors ragging junior students to intimidate them, and I arrived at the college a
bit apprehensive but seemingly bold. The college had a huge bicycle stand
where I saw some seniors waiting. They grabbed me and took me to the
cafeteria. There, they ordered samosas, tea and cold drinks and handed me the
bill. Thank God I had enough money to pay for it all!
 But I made some lifelong friends. Among them were my dear friends lnder
Sharma, Dr Pabley, Bhagirath Bhalla, Kanwar Rajender Singh, Madan Nayyar,
S.D. Pandey, Satya Dev Sharma; and the girls were Aruna Sharma, Indira,
Nirmal Randhwa, Urmila, Swaran Kapoor. Inder later married Aruna. Kanwar
Rajender Singh married Indira. Swaran was a close friend, but when I went away
to Europe we lost touch. We stayed friends all our lives, marriages, children,
grandchildren, bereavements—we have been through it all on the road of life.
I took an interest in the Boat Club and became the secretary. The Yamuna
River used to be so beautiful back then. When I see the river now, overflowing
with effluents, it makes me weep.
In those days, I used to love taking a boat on the Yamuna, rowing down to the
railway bridge and then rowing back upstream to the club. We had a large
membership at the Boat Club and competed in an annual race with St Stephen’s
College. We always did well in this contest because we took our rowing and
boating seriously.
I also liked debating. We had an excellent teacher named Professor
Premchand who used to preside over what was known as the Hindu College
Parliament. My friend lnder was elected our ‘Prime Minister’ that year, and I
became his ‘Home Minister’. Professor Premchand used to coach us in public
speaking and he taught us how to debate effectively. It was a splendid training
ground for later life.
When I was in the second year, we all went to the launch of the National Union
of Students in Bombay. There, I was elected to the national executive, with Ravi
Verma as the president. He was later to become a minister in the cabinet of
Morarji Desai. He was a Congressman at heart and a great gentleman.
After arriving back in Delhi from Bombay, I wrote a complete report on the
launch of the National Union of Students. I detailed properly how a nationwide
body of students had become a reality. That was, in a way, my first attempt at
what was to become my career later on: journalism. I am happy to say that my
report was greatly appreciated by the college principal and the staff in the
common room, as well as by other professors and teachers.
I graduated from college in 1951 with excellent grades and distinction in three
subjects. I was keen to begin my career in photography and news. But my father
wanted me to study further. A compromise was reached, and I was asked to
work in the family owned photo studio.
My first cousin, a news cameraman, offered me apprenticeship as his assistant
and soon afterwards my father introduced me to an outstanding documentary
maker, Dr Pathi, who took me to Kullu, where he was shooting. He took me on as
his apprentice, and that proved to be a great learning experience for me.
 The visit also opened my eyes to what was happening in post-Independence
lndia. There were no hotels in Kullu back then and we were staying at a ‘circuit
house’, which is a kind of guest house for senior civil servants and those
recommended by government officials.
One day, the caretaker of the circuit house came crying to Dr Pathi. The man
was upset because the wife of the district commissioner had taken away
expensive carpets from the circuit house and replaced them with ordinary ones.
The man was scared that he might be accused of stealing the carpets. As a
young lad, I was shocked to hear this. The circuit houses, I am told, were so well-
furnished that carpets used to be imported from Persia and they were, of course,
very expensive. I have never forgotten that unhappy event—my first brush, as an
adult, with government corruption in free India.

Independence on the horizon

Memories of the dawn of independence are still etched on my mind. The year
1946 was when we all started looking forward to independence with great
expectation. I was a boy but I heard all the stories told by the adults at home and
in the neighbourhood. It was a strange time. The Americans had left New Delhi.
The city was being deserted and some British troops were also leaving. I
remember the summer of 1946 and the later years when Delhi was practically
emptying out.
There was a lot of speculation in the air. I had the good fortune, even at that
age, to see Mahatma Gandhi. He was staying in what was then known as the
Bhangi Colony of New Delhi, during the period of the independence negotiations.
I was there, helping my cousin Ved Prakash film the event. (I still feel that the
area’s name, Bhangi Colony, was derogatory and discriminatory towards the
people who kept New Delhi clean; the word ‘bhangi’ was used as a pejorative for
lower castes.)
I will always remember the sight of Mahatma Gandhi and the other great
Indian leaders I saw at that time. Until then, I had only heard about them or seen
their photos in newspapers. But I will never forget the day I actually saw them.
As a young boy of around fifteen, it was quite an experience for me to stand by
the side of Ved Parkash as he covered the arrival of the Congress leaders to
meet Gandhiji, about the ongoing freedom talks with the British. Pandit
Jawaharlal Nehru, Maulana Azad, Sardar Patel and others arrived one after the
other. We then went into the room where they were sat on the floor, with Gandhiji
at the other end of the room. Gandhiji was dressed in his dhoti and was sitting
with papers in his hand. My first impression was that he looked very thin and
small. Even as I held the light for the camera, my eyes were on Mahatma
Gandhi, who looked like a sadhu to me. Filming and photography took place for
just a few minutes during which the leaders were either quiet or talking jovially.
Gandhiji remained quiet all through.
I also had another occasion to watch Mahatma Gandhi when he came to the
meeting of Asian Relations Conference held just before Independence. Gandhiji
came to address it, as usual, in his dhoti. This Conference was attended by
many figures from across Asia who were leading independence movements in
their countries.
As India moved towards independence, tension was building in the air. There
was talk of partitioning the country into two. A new viceroy, Lord Mountbatten,
had arrived in New Delhi. He was said to be very friendly with Jawaharlal Nehru,
who was heading the interim Indian government at that momentous time.
The whole country, and particularly Delhi, was brimming with anger at the
thought of partition. The proposal was straining the relations between the Hindu
and Muslim communities. There were no riots at that time, only tensions. Then
came that great night of independence. We were all glued to the radio as India
became free. There were great celebrations. My mother made home-cooked
sweets to distribute in the neighbourhood, but there was a sense of foreboding
about troubling times ahead, even though we had become a free nation.

Riots ruin freedom delight

The next day, 16 August 1947, brought with it tragic stories. Riots had broken out
in Punjab. We heard stories of people crossing the new border and walking
towards India. Photographs of the first migrants arriving in Delhi from West
Punjab appeared in newspapers. There was an attempt by the government at
that point to stop them from entering Delhi, but that did not work.
Once they came to Delhi, riots broke out. People in the city were angry at
seeing the refugees arriving en masse. But the new arrivals had left their homes,
businesses and everything behind in Pakistan and were not mentally or
physically capable of handling a hostile response.
When people from West Punjab arrived in Delhi, having lost their homes and
belongings in Pakistan to Muslims there, they were angered that many Muslims
were living in Delhi and had not vacated their homes to leave for Pakistan. In
their conversations with residents in Delhi, they said that they had left West
Punjab because they were told that all Muslims were leaving Delhi to come to the
new country of Pakistan, and that getting accommodation in north India would
thus be no problem for them. Hence they were livid that many Muslims had
chosen to stay back.
Riots broke out in the city when the refugees and the original inhabitants
couldn’t control their anger over the shock of what they had lost and what they
were potentially going to lose. The crowd that later turned into a mob clearly
wanted the Muslims to leave their homes. The government evacuated several
thousand Muslims to camps for their safety. Their homes thus vacated were
occupied by the refugees from Punjab. Their logic was simple: Muslims must go
and take their homes in Pakistan. The swap, they felt, was legitimate. The riots
also resulted in several Muslim families leaving the city on their own for Pakistan
after making arrangement with refugees from Pakistan about exchange of
homes. Lala Yodh Raj, chairman of the Punjab National Bank, exchanged his
palatial house in Lahore with an equally palatial house on Hailey Road in
Lutyens’s Delhi which belonged to a Muslim family.
I watched in horror from the top of the Tropical Building, people rushing here
and there in anger, going towards Paharganj, where a sizeable population of
Muslims had settled. Many of the Muslims thought that they had no option but to
leave for Pakistan.
Tropical Building was situated in Block-H of Connaught Circus, as Connaught
Place was once known. (It is still there.) The building was owned by Tropical
Insurance Co. Ltd of Calcutta. This insurance company had been started by Lala
Shankar Lal, an associate of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose. Lala Shankar Lal was
also the chairman of the company. He was sent by Netaji to Japan as early as
1939 to make contact with the Japanese leaders.
According to building rules in Lutyens’s Delhi, the ground floor was reserved
for shops, the first floor had offices and residential flats were on the second floor.
My father had moved to a flat in Tropical Building and had left Chandni Chowk
when the business moved from Kashmere Gate to 72 Queensway. Though it was
a two-room flat, it was spacious enough, with a large terrace where we slept at
night during the summer. There were no air conditioners or coolers in those days.
Thus, when our relatives exiting west Punjab arrived here, they were all able to
sleep in relative comfort on charpoys or stringed cots under open skies at night.
Of the two bedrooms, we used one as a sitting room.
Among the flood of arrivals were all our relatives from Rawalpindi. Our small
flat in Connaught Place was suddenly cramped with relatives. Since it was
summer, everyone could sleep on the terrace in the open. We had a huge
terrace and lots of cots. One of the families staying with us was that of my
father’s uncle, Lala Hansraj Sawhney, who was a leading advocate in
Rawalpindi. We all managed extremely well. Mother and the other women would
cook food and everybody was in good humour, even though many had left their
old lives behind.
Lala Hansraj Sawhney had left behind his prized possession, his entire library.
He was hoping to go back one day, which, as was now clear, was never going to
happen. But the Royal Air Force was helping evacuate people from West
Pakistan, and it so happened that my father and my cousin were covering this
airlift for foreign broadcasters. My father was able to hitch a ride on an RAF
plane to Rawalpindi for him and his uncle to bring back whatever they could.
I was told that when they got to the house in Rawalpindi, they found it
occupied by a friend of Sawhney Sahab who was shocked to see them. He was
not happy but could not refuse them entry. So they were able to bring back a few
trunk loads of books. They were so heavy that one of the RAF officers asked my
father, ‘Hey, hey! What have you got here? Stones or what?’ And that’s how
Sawhney Sahab’s library came back to New Delhi.
Soon, riots engulfed all of Punjab. Trains filled with slaughtered people arrived
at and departed from stations. It was all very tragic and no one knew how to stop
it. I remember reading at the time—and my father talking about it—that Prime
Minister Jawaharlal Nehru himself came out on the streets to try and control the
crowd and help the police. Of course, he was taken away by his security detail
because the crowds had become very angry.
After a few seemingly endless weeks, things settled and Sawhney Sahab
found accommodation in the Pearey Lal Building in Connaught Place. He moved
in there and life steadily got back to normal. But his family had lost everything.
My own family lost everything in the village of Miani in west Punjab, including the
land and the house that stood there. There was also a house we owned in the
Naya Mohalla in Rawalpindi which was also gone.
Another memory of Partition is of people with loud speakers in cars and jeeps,
driving around the area and making announcements regarding the mass exodus
from west Punjab to lndia. They said we needed to airdrop food for the refugees.
Everybody was expected to cook food and pack it very securely so that the
parcel would not burst open when dropped from the air.
So all families, all households, everyone in the neighbourhood and, in our own
house, my mother and all the women who had come over from the ‘other side’
(we still couldn’t call it Pakistan) and were staying with us, made parathas with
aloo, added some achar (pickle) and wrapped it in a very strong cloth packing.
From our home, dozens of food packets were given to the people collecting
them. The packets were loaded in jeeps, taken to the airport and airdropped to
feed the advancing crowds. This mass migration created more tension and
bitterness among communities, as photographs started appearing in the
newspapers each day of the sea of humanity moving towards India.
Groups of people on both sides were attacked as they moved. There were
horror stories of women being kidnapped and taken away. I remember reading
how Lady Mountbatten and an Indian minister named Rajkumari Amrit Kaur
travelled to what had become Pakistan to see if they could find abducted women
and try and bring them back safely.
It was tragic. The mayhem continued for a while until, at last, people began
settling down. Having left their homes across the border, many had come to
Delhi, to Amritsar. A large number had even gone to Kashmir. Sadly, they were
rejected again because Kashmiris didn’t want them there, thinking their presence
might trigger more riots.
There were losses in our family too. My father told us of one Lala Amolak Ram
who entrusted his friends with the task of escorting him to the railway station.
Instead, they attacked him and escaped with all his money. He never reached
the railway station. Such things happened frequently and left deep psychological
wounds on Punjabis—wounds which, I am afraid, remain to the present day.
But my family was, of course, settled in Delhi. Our suffering was indirect and
could be borne.

Take-off in the profession

I began my career as a news photographer. I chose to work on photo features,
which gave me the opportunity to write while I took photographs.
The Illustrated Weekly of India was the country’s leading pictorial magazine. It
was published in Bombay and was extremely popular. I started submitting my
features to them and was thrilled when they carried my first feature with three
pages of photographs. More such features followed. In a very short while, even
at my young age, I was gaining a reputation as a photojournalist.
At the same time, I was taking whatever news photos I could in and around
Delhi and submitting them to the local newspapers. I was thrilled when Evening
News, the evening newspaper of Hindustan Times with a large circulation in
Delhi, carried a picture taken by me.
Seeking international exposure, I contacted the London news photo agency
Planet News and began submitting photographs and news features to them. The
Illustrated London News, a prestigious London magazine, also carried my
photos. Meanwhile, I became one of the prime contributors to the Illustrated
Weekly of India.
 I once covered a trade union meeting at the Talkatora Gardens in Delhi,
addressed by a British delegation. My photograph of that meeting was published
by Evening News. Soon afterwards I got a telephone call from an Englishman
named Roger Hicks, who had been at the meeting. He had seen the photograph
in the newspaper and invited me over for a cup of tea. I was quite excited
because it was my first encounter with a foreigner, apart from the ones I used to
meet at my father’s studio.
I found that Hicks was a representative of the Moral Re-Armament (MRA)
movement, about which I knew nothing. He explained how they were trying to
generate interest in the movement and asked if I would care to attend their
forthcoming assembly in Switzerland and perhaps work with their photographic
team. All my travel and accommodation expenses, he told me, would be borne
by them.
I gave the idea some thought. It looked like a great opportunity for me to learn
how English people went about the business of photography and journalism. I
was also impressed by Roger Hicks and his colleague David Young, who would
accompany me to Switzerland. I said I would certainly talk to my father about this
and get back to him. My father gave me the go-ahead and told me not to worry
about New Delhi but to work hard on my future. Thus began a new chapter in my
life.

A milestone
The invitation to attend the Moral Re-Armament Assembly in Switzerland was an
early milestone in my long professional journey. It was the summer of 1952.
Hicks told me that I had to take a ship from Bombay in three weeks’ time. I didn’t
have a passport but he introduced me to a senior ICS officer, Krishna Prasad,
who signed my passport application form, which was rushed to the police station
at Kashmere Gate for background check and verification. I received my passport
one week later. There was no requirement for a visa to the UK in those days. But
one required a visa for Switzerland, which could be obtained from the Swiss
embassy in Delhi.
My whole family came to see me off with garlands, as was the tradition, at the
railway station in Delhi. My cousin Ved Prakash escorted me to Bombay where
Hicks had made arrangements for our comfortable stay. Finally came the day
when I had to board an Italian ship bound for Genoa in Italy. I was to go from
there to Switzerland, where the conference was taking place. And later to
London.
So there I was, a twenty-year-old lad starting a new journey to unknown lands.
 Sailing from Bombay, I looked at the Indian coast as we steadily moved
towards the Arabian Peninsula. At our first stop, Aden, I went ashore and bought
a few things from shopkeepers who asked to be paid in rupees, not dollars or
pounds. The Indian rupee, as I have said before, was a strong currency, even
stronger than the US dollar. At the time of India’s independence, one Indian
rupee was equal to 1.12 US dollars.
I made a few friends on that voyage but I still remember one fine lady named
Sangeeta who took me under her wing like an elder sister. She was going to
Milan to her brother, having divorced her husband in Delhi. I had heard about
divorce but was astonished to hear that such things happened in India too. The
ship took us to Alexandria and from there to Italy. I went on to Milan, where I bid
goodbye to Sangeeta.
In Milan, I was welcomed by some of the Re-Armament people. The next day, I
took a train to Switzerland and arrived at Montreux. From Montreux, a mountain
train took me to a small village called Caux. The place had a huge assembly hall
and hotels mainly catering to guests attending conventions.
I was welcomed by David Channer, head of the photography division of the
organization, who escorted me to my room. I was to share the room with David
who, later, became a lifelong friend. This was the beginning of another stage in
my career.
I was well settled at the Grand Hotel with my room-mate. David would wake up
early every morning to meditate. He followed this with a diary-writing session,
which he called ‘guidance from God, listening to the inner voice’. David told me
that this was how he focused and prepared his plan for each new day. It was my
first experience of this kind of discipline. Thereafter, I would sit with David and
work out my own plan for the day—whether it was writing letters to the family,
work, or going sightseeing, you decided what you wanted to do during the day
and that became your plan.
I was fascinated with all the new photographic equipment in the office. I would
put it to the enthusiasm of youth that besides taking photographs every day I
would spend a lot of time in the darkroom to ensure everything was done
correctly. I knew this was a crucial step to producing top-quality photographs.
You had to master everything, from developing negatives and making prints to
composing pictures. It meant a great deal and I learnt a lot.
I sent some pictures back to India and some were published, much to the
delight of my friend Roger Hicks. I made great friends during my time in
Switzerland, and it was as though I’d been given an acknowledgement for my
hard work when I was invited to dine with the organization’s founder, Frank
Buchman.
 He talked of my joining his organization, but I was unsure if I wanted to make
that commitment as yet.
Switzerland was beautiful, but let me tell you about the first shock I got in that
country. I was on a train to Montreux. When I left the train I realized I did not
have my camera. I rushed to the station master’s office to report my loss. He
alerted the next station but nothing was found. The station master said there
were some Italian thieves on the train and perhaps they had taken it. I was
heartbroken. I wrote to my father and told him what had happened. He promptly
responded, saying the camera was fully insured. He sent me a form, which I
completed, signed and sent back. I received the full value of the camera before I
left Switzerland.

Off to Paris and London

From there I moved to Paris. Since I had very little money, I decided to explore
Paris by foot. To this day I remember almost all those streets and areas. I wanted
to see the historical places I had read about in books. It was such an exhilarating
stay for me, and I have often revisited Paris whenever time and opportunity
allowed.
After three days in Paris, I took the train to London. In those days there was no
tunnel under the English Channel, and the whole train, with all its passengers,
had to be loaded on to a ferry, transported across the Channel and then taken off
the ferry at the other end.
I shared my compartment with an elderly American gentleman. I had the lower
berth and offered it to him, at which he was delighted. The next morning we
chatted, and it turned out that he was the founder and chairman of America’s
leading weekly newsreel, News of the Day. He gave me his business card, told
me which hotel he was staying at in London and asked me to meet him to
discuss the prospect of working for him in the United States.
When the train chugged into London, I was met by someone from the MRA.
He took me first to Berkeley Square and to a house which had once belonged to
Lord Robert Clive, also known as ‘Clive of India’.
I was finally taken to 39 Charles Street, Mayfair. The house belonged to
General George Channer, who had worked in India and was the father of my
friend, David Channer. It was only later that I learnt that Mayfair is part of west
London, one of the most expensive areas of the city. Unfortunately, I was still
suffering from the cold I had developed in Paris and wasn’t allowed to leave the
house for five days.
 When I felt well enough, I made a beeline for the hotel where that kind
gentleman from News of the Day was staying, but much to my disappointment he
had already left for America. There ended the first part of my dream. But I have
always believed in a Punjabi saying my mother taught me, ‘Rabb jo karda ae,
changey wasdey karda ae (Whatever the Lord does, is for your good).’
I returned to learn that my colleagues had organized a job for me at a London
studio. I joined the next day and learnt a lot about studio photography. Later, I
went with them to the field, covering news events. I also went to the Rank
Organisation film studios and spent a fortnight there, working on some of their
newsreels.
By December 1952, I had already celebrated my twenty-first birthday in
Switzerland. I was happy, but London in winter was a very dark place. Each
house had a basement full of coal, used for heating purposes. Every chimney
belched out smoke, making London perhaps the world’s most polluted city.
Englishmen kept two detachable shirt collars with them at all times: one for the
day and another for when they went out in the evening. Even breathing in that
city was painful. That very year many people in London died from what they
called smog—a deadly mixture of smoke and fog which hovered over the city.
I stayed in London for two more months, but my main memory of the city is of
waking up in the dark and going to sleep in the dark. I did go out a bit, but
London was very foggy and you did not see much sun.
As my time in the UK neared its end, I made plans to return home. Roger
Hicks was disappointed that I had decided not to continue with the MRA. I was
grateful for all he had done for me, but it was time to get back to India, to get
back home.
And so I took my first flight. I flew on an Air India Super Constellation to
Bombay via Paris and Rome. I spent the night in Bombay and took another Air
India flight, albeit on a smaller plane, to Delhi. In Delhi I was welcomed by all my
friends, family and some of my father’s staff with garlands.
The next day I asked my father to introduce me to B.L. Sharma, who was his
friend and the principal information officer of the Government of India. I was
ready to go to work. I had a business card from the ATP photo agency and a
letter stating that I represented the company in India. B.L. Sharma took me to the
press facility officer and asked him to process my credentials.
Two weeks later I was accredited to the Government of India and my career
had begun.
 2
A Bright Start under Nehru’s Benign Watch

I was just about twenty-two when I reached an important milestone in my

professional journey. In 1953, I was accredited to the Indian government, of
which Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was the prime minister. To be able to cover news
concerning the Government of India and its ministers at that time, one needed
accreditation from the Press Information Bureau (PIB).
Fresh from its newly won freedom, India was a rather innocent nation—
perhaps still overawed by the memories of British rule. There were no security
threats of the kind we see today. Getting accredited to the central government
was a much simpler affair in those days, perhaps because there were not too
many journalists in Delhi. The accreditation usually came through after security
clearance by the police. The PIB worked as the main department of the
government for journalists looking to get information about or access to various
government departments.
Being a freelancer and reporting for the Swiss news agency ATP, I soon learnt
that Jawaharlal Nehru was in great demand internationally. The PIB accreditation
brought me close to the prime minister’s household, where I got along very well
with the staff, particularly Yashpal Kapoor and Bimla Sindhi.

Nehru effect
I had open access and made frequent visits to the prime minister’s house, and
soon Panditji would treat me like a family member. I was a young, lean guy at
that time, and quite uninhibited. I spent a lot of time in that magnificent house,
Teen Murti Bhavan. Panditji’s wise guidance played a major role in my career.
As a photographer, I used my own Rolleicord, a very small German camera
that outperformed the ones used by more senior cameramen around me. All
other cameramen in those days used Speed Graphics, huge American plate
cameras. Panditji was always amused to see me working with my small camera
and was quite pleased when he saw the results. He was very photogenic, which
made my task easier in a way!
 The other photographers were dismissive of me at the start but soon found
that I was making my mark with the Rolleicord. The old veterans were sceptical.
Their motto was, ‘Yeh ladka kahan se aa gaya (where has this lad come from)?’
My photos were getting published everywhere, so within a year they, perforce,
admitted me into the News Cameramen’s Association (NCA), a position earlier
denied to me as I was too junior. Not only did they admit me, they later elected
me general secretary. I then led the association, and to make it really effective I
ensured that NCA got affiliated to the Indian Federation of Working Journalists
(IFWJ).
Some of the photographers had thought that by admitting me into the IFWJ,
they would inveigle me into getting them access to Panditji’s house. But I didn’t
misuse my access to the PM; it was for purely professional work. The
photographers wanted the government to stop the sale of the PM’s pictures at
cheap rates, because it was hurting their own prices. But the government wanted
the PM’s pictures to be made available to all, including Indian publications that
could not afford the exorbitant prices of private photographs.
Panditji took a keen interest in my work, knowing my pictures would be seen
abroad. Throughout his tenure as prime minister and external affairs minister, he
personally took note of India’s image abroad, even though this was the job of the
publicity division of the foreign office.
I vividly recall an American network asking me to get the prime minister’s view
on what the twentieth century would hold for Indian children. Panditji was very
fond of kids and agreed to do the interview. I borrowed a movie camera (which
could record sound) from a foreign network in Delhi and, following official
suggestion, set it up in his house.
As he sat down for our exchange, he asked me the subject of the interview
and how I intended to handle it. Raw as I was, I simply handed him the cable
from the American network. He read it and suggested that I first start the camera,
then ask the question, go back behind the camera and record his reply. The
interview turned out to be a big hit in America.
Another unforgettable moment from that time was when I acquired my own
sound camera, an Auricon Cine Voice. I asked the prime minister for an
interview, to be shot with my new camera, and I was instantly given the
permission to set it up in Nehru’s Parliament office. I was allowed just fifteen
minutes to do the interview. Before starting, I told Panditji that my camera would
only run for two-and-a-half minutes, whereafter I would need to change the film.
He was very accommodating and ensured that his replies were not too long.
The interview lasted for well over half an hour. Panditji’s dreaded secretary,
M.O. Mathai, was making angry gestures at me from outside the office. He
wanted me to come out. It was Mathai’s job to ensure that no one spent more
than the stipulated time with the PM. He had earned the reputation of being a
tough person. But as he tried to interrupt the interview, I refused to look at him.
When the interview ended, he told me that I had encroached on the prime
minister’s teatime. Nonetheless, when Mathai came in, Panditji asked him to
arrange tea for me too. Over tea, he asked me all about my new camera and
inquired when I would get a bigger one.

Movies versus television

My main aim now was to move into television news. Television had made its
appearance in the West during the 1950s. But people who owned television sets
in Europe at that time would lock up their precious new devices, which is exactly
what happened during the early television days in India. Television as a medium
did not have the reach or popular appeal of cinema newsreels. My father
launched India’s first independent newsreel soon after Independence. There is a
story behind that event and how it happened.
In 1942, after the Congress party had voted not to cooperate with the British in
pursuing the war, many Congress leaders found themselves in jail for supporting
the Quit India Movement. However, the British war effort was promoted by the
popular cinema newsreel Indian News Parade, controlled by the British
government, and proved very popular in gathering Indian support.
The interim government of India, which was in place by 1946, did not approve
of this newsreel. It was felt that Indian News Parade had defeated the purpose of
Congress party’s non-cooperation call. So the government shut it down. This left
a vacuum in the cinema newsreel sector. My father filled it by launching his own
version, called Eastern Movies, which ran for two years.
Within a couple of years after Independence, the honeymoon period of India’s
new government was over. People became critical when cases of corruption
began to surface. So the Indian government once again decided now to launch
its own cinema newsreel, Indian News Review. They felt the need to educate
people and inform them about government activities. But this time, unlike under
British rule, they brought in a law requiring cinemas to devote twenty minutes of
screen time to government newsreels—ten minutes of news and ten minutes of
documentary. It meant cinemas were forced to run twenty minutes of government
propaganda as well as ten minutes of material from my father’s Eastern Movies.
In those days, Indian movies invariably ran for three hours.
Soon, the cinema owners realized this was unviable. They were losing time for
commercials. They told my father that, although Eastern Movies was very
popular unlike the government-sponsored Indian News Review, they could not
afford to run it any more. So that brought about the death of Eastern Movies.
The idea of going back into that business continued to nag at me. The big
American and British newsreel companies already had their own staff in India, so
I looked elsewhere. I eventually went into business with two foreign companies—
Warner–Pathé News in America and Deutsche Wochenschau in what was then
West Germany.
I loved working in the newsreel world again but the days of cinema newsreels
were coming to an end in 1957. I began to think seriously about television. I
heard that the newsreel companies Paramount News, Warner–Pathé News and
Rank Organisation were thinking of forming a television news agency. I decided
to get involved.
Thus it was that in 1957 I landed in London to join the founding team of the
British Commonwealth International Newsfilm Agency Limited (BCINA). By
strange coincidence, the first editor of the BCINA was Tony Whyte, son of Sir
Allen Whyte, who was the first speaker of India’s Central Legislative Assembly
that came into being following the Government of India Act of 1935. The act
created bicameral legislature at the centre—Federal Assembly, or Lower House;
and Council of State, Upper House, like the Rajya Sabha of today.
It was not long before it became clear that the name BCINA did not convey the
company’s purpose, and that the word British in the name made it seem like a
government agency. So the name was changed to Visnews (Visual News), which
was BCINA’s telegraphic address. Ultimately, this is what became the world’s
greatest television news agency. I am so proud to have been a part of the team
that founded Visnews, and I will cherish this association all my life. The agency
was later taken over by Reuters and became Reuters TV. It is still the world’s
largest TV news agency.

Beyond snake charmers

I had seen India’s image projected abroad as a country of snake charmers and
elephants. This image, as I was to find later, was deliberately chosen by the
British to humiliate India. Once, when I was invited to the home of a nice
gentleman who was a BBC cameraman in London, I was amused to find that my
friend’s children had expected me to be dressed like a ‘Red Indian’ and were
afraid of meeting me. This may be an odd incident, but it has stayed with me.
Thus, when preparing to launch my own agency—later to become ANI—my
aim was to correct this distorted image of India, and I believe I have succeeded
to a considerable extent in doing that, for ANI today has a global reach.
Global breakthrough
I made contact with a French newsreel company, Gaumont Actualités, who were
keen to get film material directly from India. Political pictures, being treated as
commodities, could hardly move from India in those days. One had to get a
permit from the Reserve Bank of India (RBI) to be allowed to send photos or
newsreels abroad, apart from a special customs clearance. I managed to get
these, even though it meant huge paperwork and sending quarterly reports to the
RBI.
I had already been to West Germany and found Deutsche Wochenschau
equally eager to receive items from India, particularly feature items to keep their
audiences aware of the real India.
One of the first stories I was asked to cover for Gaumont Actualités was about
the situation in the French colony of Pondicherry in southern India. The French
had made all-out efforts to colonize India and had fought wars with the British.
Finally, they could only stay in a few enclaves like Pondicherry, Mahé and
Karaikal. I discussed the idea with Kewal Singh, India’s political agent in the
territory, and he thought I should include coverage of the anti-French agitation
starting to erupt there. I said I would.
My first predicament, as a young fellow who hardly knew the bureaucratic rules
of India, hit me on this important assignment when I landed in Madras on the way
to Pondicherry to find I needed a Pondicherry–India passport, which the
authorities in Madras were refusing to issue. However, I knew some officers in
New Delhi who would willingly help young journalists. One such officer was Mr
Bhat. He put his foot down and said the passport should be issued without delay.
It was, and I continued my journey to Pondicherry.
It was a quiet place with a lovely seafront. I met Kewal Singh and toured
around to assess the situation. I met the French governor, who explained how
happy the people of Pondicherry were with the French. ‘They are French
citizens,’ he said. The French authorities were quick to realize that the story I
was filming could get them into trouble with their government back home in
France. They also got to know that I was meeting the dissidents against French
rule. Kewal Singh read the signs and warned me to be careful.
I was to film a ceremony at which the French governor was to raise the French
flag—a symbol of French authority in the region. Kewal Singh drove me to the
event but told me to keep my bags in the car, ready for a quick getaway after the
filming—before the French could lay their hands on the material I had shot.
Back in Delhi, I edited and dispatched the film to Gaumont Actualités, just the
way they wanted it—all about Pondicherry, its location, etc. Then I cut a
documentary about the anti-French demonstrations to be shown in India. It was
all about French rule in Pondicherry and was titled Towards Freedom. Kewal
Singh mentioned the idea to the prime minister, who welcomed it. This was my
first foray into documentaries aimed at promoting the real India and serving the
national cause.
It soon became evident to the French that India was firm on getting back the
French enclaves in India. The Indian government released my documentary
critical of the French on the day talks opened with the French regarding this
issue. The documentary became a major influence on the French delegation.
When the talks ended, it was agreed that Pondicherry and other French-
occupied areas would be transferred peacefully to India. I covered that event in
the prime minister’s office. As I left, Kewal Singh came running after me.
‘Wait, Prem,’ he said. ‘The prime minister wants you.’
I went back. Panditji was smiling and said: ‘Shabash. Well done.’

National objective
I realized then that honest, straightforward journalism, used properly, can play a
major role in serving national objectives. There was no turning back now.
The visit to the French-ruled colony in Pondicherry and subsequently to
Portuguese Goa helped me understand the cultural differences between the
British, French and Portuguese occupants of Indian territories. The French
appeared quite suave to Pondicherry residents, while the Portuguese had left the
Goans emotionally attached to them. Though people may have resented foreign
rule, both the French and the Portuguese made many friends in India. Goa was
not a colony, but a province of Portugal. And Pondicherry was like a province of
France.
Both the Portuguese and the French mixed freely with the locals, even
marrying them. They did not treat these places as their colonies. The British in
India were generally aloof and practised discrimination in certain areas of life.
There were coaches in trains meant only for the British. Thus, there never was
any bonhomie with the British as one could see in Goa with the Portuguese or in
Pondicherry with the French.
It is a matter of record that when the French and Portuguese departed India,
practically all the Goa and Pondicherry locals who could travel left, respectively,
for Portugal and for France or other French colonies. When I covered the
liberation of Goa, I found the Goans were really upset that India had moved in.
Nehru’s style and ideas
I have long believed that as a leader, Jawaharlal Nehru represented the hope of
a great majority of Indians. He had his failings. But he had the vision needed to
develop a newly independent nation and for India to join the international
community on equal terms. He truly loved India and the people of India trusted
him implicitly.
Upon taking over the government, Nehru did not nationalize many private
industries except for the aviation sector. And, even when turning Air India into a
national carrier, Nehru ensured that J.R.D. Tata continued as chairman of the
airline he had originally founded. Nehru had a very high regard for J.R.D. Tata—
not only for his work as an industrialist but also as a civil aviation expert. Thus,
Air India’s quality of service and reliability was not disturbed even after
nationalization. Although it was a very small airline compared to giants like Pan
American Airways and British Overseas Airways Corporation, Air India was
considered to be one of the world’s finest airlines during its time under J.R.D.
Tata.
Panditji did not believe in wasting money on nationalization but in using
government funds to create new assets. He believed in Fabian socialism,
promising equitable distribution of the nation’s assets and gains.
The Fabian Society of Britain believed in socialist economy minus the Marxist
revolutionary approach to it. They believed that socialism could be introduced in
society through democratic means. Prominent Fabian thinkers included Harold
Laski, who had an influence on Nehru. Thus, giving up the free market economy
that the British had left behind, India’s first prime minister slowly began
implementing a socialist economy in the country.
However, Fabian socialism brought communist-style controls on industrial
growth for the first time. The government now decided which areas were to be
taken into the public sector and which were to remain private. British companies
continued to function and operate as before because they were, after all, covered
under Indian laws.
Among the institutions nationalized were insurance companies and a giant Life
Insurance Corporation was created. There had been far too many insurance
companies and quite a few had collapsed. This meant heavy losses to the
people insured. As citizens began losing faith in the institution, Nehru
nationalized the sector to restore their confidence in the safety of the investment.
The Life Insurance Corporation was created to serve the whole country. LIC’s
guiding principle or motto, yogakshemam vahamyaham, is a Sanskrit phrase
which loosely translates into English as ‘your welfare is our responsibility’. It is
drawn from chapter nine, verse twenty-two of the Bhagavad Gita.
An occasion I have never been able to forget—and which haunts me still—is
when I filmed an interview with Panditji about the population explosion. I asked
him pointedly why the government was not doing anything about the population
of India growing at a rapid rate. Panditji replied that it was really not a major
issue and that with full industrialization India could well support twice the size of
its then current population. I have often wondered whether he knew or realized
that our population was growing at an exponential rate. The government’s
inability to meet the needs of the growing population was perpetuating poverty.
Over the years and, more so, after the removal of the Fabian socialist-style
economy, a large middle class has emerged in India, although poverty remains
the harsh reality for about one-fourth of our population.

The royal couple visits India and Pakistan

The first major international visit during Panditji’s term was in 1961, when Queen
Elizabeth II and her consort, Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, visited India
and Pakistan. Queen Elizabeth II became the head of the Commonwealth upon
the death of her father, King George VI, on 6 February 1952. The queen’s visit
was to be the first by a British monarch since the Delhi Durbar of 1911, organized
for King George V. King George had then been invited to be crowned as
‘Emperor of India’. It was here that King George declared that Delhi was to be
the capital of India. Until then the British had been ruling from Calcutta.
I was part of a pool of photographers covering the royal tour. The queen was
welcomed by Panditji and President Rajendra Prasad and was greeted
everywhere with great enthusiasm. I was astonished to see the number of people
who had travelled to Delhi to see the royal couple en route from the airport to the
President’s House, where the queen stayed. I also had the privilege of travelling
with Prince Philip when he went ahead of the queen to preview places on her
itinerary.
The tour was extremely successful, and Panditji ensured that the royal couple
enjoyed it. It was so successful that the queen chose to make a private visit to
Jaipur to meet the maharaja of Jaipur, Sawai Man Singh, and his gorgeous
consort, Gayatri Devi. The state of Jaipur had long since become part of
Rajasthan, and the maharaja was known as ‘Rajpramukh’. The Jaipur royals
organized a huge durbar and reception for the queen and Prince Philip. They
both arrived riding an elephant. It turned out to be a very colourful event, with
everyone in the durbar and reception dressed in royal finery. Princely India was
alive again.
Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip also toured other parts of the country. The
maharaja and maharani of Jaipur organized a shikaar (hunting expedition) for
them in Sariska. I think they killed eight tigers. This was feudal India at its peak.
The entire event was a visual treat for international publications, but the sheer
audacity of privilege that was on display left me feeling quite uncomfortable.

Splendour of Swat
The queen then travelled to Pakistan, starting in Karachi, where General Ayub
Khan put on a big show for her. For me, the highlight of this trip to Pakistan was
a visit to the North-West Frontier Province (NWFP), including the state of Swat.
At that time, it was a small principality and its head was known as the amir. The
general had chosen this region because his son was married to the daughter of
the amir of Swat.
Nestling in the Karakoram mountain range, Swat is a beautiful part of the
subcontinent with a tremendous Buddhist history. However, what I saw at that
time was that the amir of Swat and the rest of his family, like General Ayub Khan,
were more British than Muslim in their demeanour, and even in that remote area I
didn’t see any purdah among the ladies of the amir’s household.
But as we know from recent history, it is the same place where people tried to
kill Malala Yousafzai. It is quite confounding to think how a place that had been
so advanced for so long could become the site of the attempted murder of a
young girl. But that’s a different story to be discussed in some other context.
We were conducted on the royal tour of Pakistan by an Anglo-Indian man who
used to be the principal information officer of the government of Pakistan. He
said he knew my father very well and was very pleased to see me. He confessed
that it was because he remembered my father that he authorized our Swat visit.
Otherwise, Swat was said to be closed to Indians.
Of course, the Pakistan of that time was not what it has now become. Yes, the
Kashmir issue was there, but we were not out to break each other’s heads over
that.
In the tribal areas towards Landi Kotal and Khyber Pass in NWFP, I was
amazed to see the names of all the Indian military contingents which had served
there. I was surprised and charmed. Landi Kotal, though part of Pakistan, was a
free-trade territory. No Pakistani laws or customs duty were applicable there. It
was known as ‘Ilaqa Ghair’ or foreign territory. Even today, the tribes on both
sides of the Pakistan–Afghanistan border are autonomous. They didn’t recognize
British rule, and they don’t recognize the Pakistani government as such.
The British worked out a very sophisticated system via political agents, who
would ensure tribal leaders were happy and distribute allowances—bribes, really
—to keep them from violent retaliation against the British. The tribals amassed
weapons and ran Landi Kotal as a free-trade area, but the British did not
interfere.
At Landi Kotal, the other thing that surprised me was that all the goodies in the
world were available at rock-bottom prices. Smuggling was rife across the
Afghanistan border. Goods, smuggled across on camel trains, found their way
into Pakistan and were transported in the cars of government officials, into cities
like Peshawar, Rawalpindi and Lahore, to be sold at much higher prices.
In the Khyber tribal area, I could sense the hostility that the locals felt towards
Pakistan. There were three of us Indian journalists on that tour, and we became
very wary of people in that region. Yet the royal tour to Swat was an experience
to cherish.
We stayed in a hotel that once happened to be the house and residence of the
former chairman of Punjab National Bank, Lala Yodh Raj. A gentleman received
us at the hotel. He said he was waiting for us because he had been told three
Indians from Delhi would be staying here along with other members of the press
party. In no time, he was telling us how he hated Pakistan, hated Pakistani
officials and regretted the day he arrived in that country. It was very
embarrassing for us to hear his tirade against Pakistani officials, the government
and the kind of country it was turning into. He said so in the presence of
the officials.
He rued the day he left Delhi. One sentence I can never forget was: ‘Janab
aap gundo ke mulk mein aa gay hain. Aap kyon aaye yahan par? Main toh inko
zeher khilana chahta hoon . . . Aapka khana mere ghar se aayega. (Sirs, why
have you come to this country of ruffians? I want to serve them poison . . . Your
food will come from my home.)’
The gentleman especially wanted us to tell Lala Yodh Raj in Delhi that he was
looking after the temple in the house and that a Hindu family came there
regularly to perform puja. Such was the level of understanding and love between
some people in the two countries. No doubt the gentleman looked after the three
of us very well. He would tell us how he would spend his evenings at the
Chelmsford Club in New Delhi, among very civilized persons. And here he was
among ruffians!
I was born in Rawalpindi, and this was the first time I was returning to the land
of my birth, now a different country. Did I feel a twinge of regret or empathy? I
don’t really know. I was just too busy working and maybe was too young to be
sentimental about such things. Even the fact that I now had a Pakistan visa on
my passport did not seem a big deal.
The queen then went to Nepal. Travelling with her to Nepal was another great
experience. That tour remains a great memory for me, as one of those happy
occasions covering India and the subcontinent. This was a time with no tension
and no talk about war.

Nehru’s sagacity
The people of India went out of their way to welcome the royal couple. Indian
hospitality blossomed into its best. There was no evidence of any bitterness
towards colonial rule or hostility towards our former rulers, only a certain sanctity
of protocol prompted by traditional warmth for the guests.
Besides, it had been more than thirteen years since Independence. The
transfer of power had been facilitated by friendship between two men—Nehru
and Mountbatten. If there was any rancour, it was defused by Nehru. After all, the
Indian leadership had allowed Lord Mountbatten to continue as governor general
while the nation formulated its Constitution.
Remember, after the overthrow of the white regime in South Africa, Nelson
Mandela distinguished himself by ensuring that there was no reverse apartheid.
The native South Africans didn’t retaliate, and everything legitimate in the old
system that was nonetheless in favour of the ‘whites’ was allowed to continue
because Mandela displayed that magnanimity. Was there this kind of sagacity in
India’s attitude? I would say Nehru set the precedent that Mandela followed.
Mandela was, in a way, inspired by Nehru as much as he was by Mahatma
Gandhi.

Brits opt out of service

Nehru, as I said, did not nationalize British industries. Strangely, however, at
Independence, the British nationals who formed the bulk of the Indian Civil
Service opted to leave India.
It should also not be forgotten that the Mountbattens—and particularly Lady
Mountbatten—were popular for their work among refugees at the time of
Independence. Edwina went to refugee camps. She helped to bring back
abandoned and separated Hindu and Sikh women from West Pakistan to India
and helped to send Muslim women left behind in India back to their families in
West Pakistan.
 Perhaps not many Indians remember it, but the Mountbattens did make a
remarkable effort to counter the anger felt among various groups. Their actions
helped reduce anti-British feeling considerably.
People ask me if I had captured anything on camera of that anger and its
manifestation in riots and disturbances.
No. I was too young. In 1947, I was a young boy.
 3
The Nehru Magic Wanes

At the end of the 1950s, history was taking a different turn.

The McMahon Line in the north-east was drawn during the British rule as
India’s eastern border with Tibet. It was demarcated in Shimla, in 1914, after the
British government of India signed a treaty with Tibet. Long before that, on 12
November 1893, the Durand Line had been drawn to demarcate the border
between India and Afghanistan. This was done after an agreement between Sir
Mortimer Durand and Abdur Rahman Khan, who was the ruler of Afghanistan.
Ladakh had been neglected by the erstwhile ruler of Jammu and Kashmir. The
British also paid scant attention to that area, which was strategically significant
because it bordered Tibet. Since there was complete peace between India and
Tibet, there had hardly been any activity on the border. Once the accession of
Jammu and Kashmir took place in 1947, Indian police started patrolling areas in
Ladakh, including the border with Tibet. They found that the Chinese had not
only moved significantly into Indian territory but had even built a road in Aksai
Chin, which was news to the newly formed Indian government as well as to the
Indian forces in the border area.

Chinese invade vast areas

In 1959, a large Indian police patrol was challenged by the Chinese. Fighting
erupted. Nine Indian policemen were killed and some taken prisoner. As usual,
Indian authorities protested, but the Chinese laid claim to the area.
Tragically for Pandit Nehru, the Chinese returned the dead bodies of the Indian
policemen on the eve of his birthday. So Panditji did not celebrate his birthday on
14 November 1959.
A point of no return, I felt, had now been reached between India and China.
The prime minister tried to play down the importance of the area when, in one of
his interventions in Parliament, he declared that ‘not a blade of grass grows
there’. In retort, a senior Congress leader, Mahavir Tyagi, pointed at his own
head, saying, ‘Nothing grows here. Does it mean it is to be given away?’ Was
Panditji trying to prepare the nation to surrender that territory to China? Perhaps.
But the Chinese had already determined that the area belonged to them.
After this major incident, the Indian Army was directed to protect the border.
The situation remained grimly quiet. Clearly, Panditji was making every effort to
deal with it diplomatically. Looking back, most historians have termed the Indian
prime minister as being romantically naive, but those of us who had faith in him
were ready to believe in the power of diplomacy. The Chinese, of course, were
quick to move into Tibet.
In 1961, the Portuguese enclave of Goa, in western India, became a centre of
interest. The Indian leadership felt this could be dangerous for the nation. The
Americans had been fighting in Vietnam, and Hong Kong had become a holiday
centre for US soldiers. The ongoing American military presence in South Korea
and its increasing involvement in Vietnam prompted some reports to suggest that
Goa might be turned into an ‘R&R (rest and recreation) base’ for American
troops, bringing the Cold War to India’s doorstep.

Goa liberated without fuss

It was probably then that Prime Minister Nehru decided to liberate Goa, and the
issue was handled by the then defence minister, V.K. Krishna Menon. Goa was a
sleepy little territory with a tiny airport from where planes flew to Karachi via
Colombo and on to Lisbon, Portugal.
On 19 December 1961, India sent a large contingent of troops to the Goan
border and moved in. Portugal hardly had any military presence there, so it was
an easy operation, especially since the governor of Goa had decided not to put
up a fight.
I went to cover the story but found that the Indian Army would not allow
journalists to accompany them. Once again, I had to call on an old school friend
for help—a young foreign office diplomat named S.K. Singh. He solved my
problem by giving me the ‘password’ I needed to cross into the war zone.
The next day, 20 December, a few of my journalist friends and I reached the
point by road from Belgaum where we were met by the military police. At first,
they tried to stop us, but I insisted that we had to go in.
‘Bakwas karte ho! Password bolo (You are talking nonsense! Say the
password),’ the officer said. We gave the password and crossed into Goa.
Our big problem was that we had no transport. We managed to hitch a lift, but
the guy drove us straight to the police station. Some Portuguese police officers
were there, but they didn’t bother us. And so, we drove on. We were taking a
huge risk, because we had heard that the Portuguese had planted landmines on
the roads to stop or slow down the march of the Indian Army. Luckily, the local
villagers had spotted this activity and put up little flags along the highway,
marking the places where the landmines had been laid.
We were able to reach the banks of Mandovi River in Panjim and cross the
river by ferry. We caught up with the army just as they were accepting the Goan
surrender. The same officers and the same intelligence guys who were against
having us there now welcomed us cheerfully, asking how we managed to get in.
So that was my first experience of covering a war. A war that was really not
fought.

Kerala takes a left turn

When the second general elections in independent India were held in 1957, the
Indian National Congress suffered its first setback, with the loss of the state of
Kerala to the Communist Party of India (CPI). The party had been banned soon
after Independence. At that time, Joseph Stalin suspected Nehru of continuing to
harbour soft feeling towards Anglo-American ideas of democracy and
governance and was suspicious of Nehru’s tilt towards the West. He also called
upon the CPI to bring about a revolution. The CPI seemed to respond to Stalin’s
appeal and was soon banned. Later, this ban was withdrawn and the CPI could
fight elections in Kerala.
The emergence of communist power in Kerala under E.M.S. Namboodiripad
was seen all over the world as the beginning of the end for Indian democracy,
before the communists take over India. This was a cause for concern, since the
Cold War between the West and the Soviet Union was now beginning to
intensify.
Indira Gandhi had been elected the president of the Indian National Congress
while her father was the prime minister. My own feeling in later years was that
this was done by elements in Congress who didn’t have the courage to face
Nehru directly. They thought they could use her. But they would discover that she
had her own ambitions.
In one of his remarks to the press, Panditji had said he did not very much
appreciate the idea of having to sit down for breakfast with the Congress
president—his daughter—every day!
Against the wishes of many, Indira Gandhi started work on her plans to
overthrow the duly elected government of Kerala. A so-called agitation was
launched there. The Congress party joined forces with all those who were on the
war path with the communist government of Namboodiripad. They included the
Catholic Church, which was at loggerheads with the government over the
education bill that curbed their power; and the Muslim League, who were
promised portfolios in the new government if they supported the Congress.
I travelled to Kerala to cover the story. It was an odd place. For one thing, it
was under prohibition. Now, I loved a drink or two in the evening, so I asked the
hotel staff where I could get the stuff. They told me I could get it in the city.
‘How?’ I asked. ‘The city is under prohibition.’
They said there was a very big bar next to the police station. I couldn’t believe
it.
They said, ‘No, no, no! You go there. There is a curtain . . . Just lift the curtain
and go inside.’
Yes, it was very true! I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were lots of men sitting
around tables. That’s when I found out that Keralites love their brandy with soda.
One of the local journalists, who had helped me in getting to know the area
and the goings-on there, told me about Kerala: ‘Sir, don’t worry. This is not
politics in this state.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
He said, ‘It is just a big industry here.’
That was the first time I heard politics referred to as an industry.
Then I met Namboodiripad, leader of the Kerala government, and was very
impressed by the clarity of his thought and the sense of purpose he had in what
he thought was the path India should follow.
The Congress aligned with communal elements to campaign against an
elected government. The agitation was organized in such a way that the central
government in Delhi was eventually able to dismiss the elected government in
Kerala. This was done through a presidential proclamation on 31 July 1959.
Was there any violence during the agitation? None that could warrant pulling
down an elected government for any good reason. Demonstrations and protests,
yes, but there was no destruction of public property. Nor did the state
government resort to any repression in cracking down on protests.
Another example. When the communists were trying to advance their cause in
Calcutta, there was some kind of demonstration every evening around four
o’clock, near the governor’s house. There were clashes with the police. The
demonstrators would burn a tramcar or bus, and it would make headlines all over
India. Such demonstrations involved a few hundred people and had little public
support. People would be happily playing cricket or football just about half a mile
away.
Kerala was no different. But with people’s aspirations being trampled on
undemocratically, one saw Kerala finally turn into a left-dominated state. This
happened because the Congress party under Indira Gandhi’s leadership turned
very hostile towards the government of Kerala. The agitation was not really
called for. Finally, Nehru’s hand was forced to dismiss an elected government.

Ties with China turn sour

After the easy job of liberating Goa, the central government probably believed
that India’s army was strong enough to deal with any external threat. That belief
was to be put to the test soon enough.
Relations with China were deteriorating. A visit by the Chinese prime minister,
Zhou Enlai, along with his deputy in 1960 was designed to defuse the tension
between the two countries. The Chinese leaders were not only to meet the Indian
prime minister but other leaders of the Indian National Congress and members of
Nehru’s cabinet.
It was said to be so important that India’s leading newspaper editors—Frank
Moraes, S. Mulgaokar and D.R. Mankekar—came out of their offices to cover the
story alongside their reporters. I was also running helter-skelter, getting as many
visual stories as I could.
The talks opened at the prime minister’s house. Panditji and Zhou Enlai were
supposed to have good personal relations, but when I was covering the talks I
saw considerable tension between the two leaders. The term body language is a
modern construct, but we had developed a cameraman’s way of spotting unease
between world leaders. The talks broke down. The die was now cast. India
demanded that the Chinese withdraw from the areas they had occupied.
In mid-1962, when he was travelling to Sri Lanka, Nehru was answering
questions from newspaper reporters, and in one remark he said that he had
asked the Indian Army to evict the Chinese aggressors from Indian territory. It
was a huge statement. The Chinese construed it as almost a declaration of war
on China. Things moved very fast after that.
The Chinese amassed their troops along the north-east and in Ladakh.
Skirmishes began to erupt between the Chinese and the totally ill-equipped
Indian outposts, which were occupied by the Chinese, one after the other.
Many reporters and photographers from the international press moved towards
Tezpur, in the foothills of what was then the North-East Frontier Agency (today’s
Arunachal state). The Indian Army in those days was governed by a World War II
mentality in relation to censorship, and we were refused entry.
I sent a telegram to the prime minister’s office saying that the media was not
being allowed to go to the front line. Panditji immediately cleared the press to be
taken to the scene of action. But that did not end the matter. When I again tried
to cross the front line I was told I could not proceed. On asking the reason, I was
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
batter and probe, dragging out the unfortunate wights who cannot
show a wedding license. It appears that the actor and his fair
conquest, after leaving the pajama party, had experienced some
embarrassment, at least such was the impression the man left by his
startling conclusion. He said:
“It’s getting so you can’t take a decent married woman to a
rooming house in this town without running into some cops looking
for a bunch of painted dames.”
Needless to say the fair charmer, who had been listening
somewhat nervously to the initial outbreak, all but collapsed when
she heard the final denunciation. If her husband hasn’t heard the
story, he’s the only one in town not laughing about it.
The midnight bathing parties in Los Angeles and Hollywood are a
little passé just now, on account of the weather for one thing. Since
one of our best known citizens was suddenly taken with cramps in
one of the Romanesque pools without wearing even his B.V.D.’s, the
sport has assumed a classification regarded as “dangerous indoor
sports.” In this instance most of those who ran to the troubled man’s
assistance are said to have been ladies with—well, the wife of one of
our leading politicians was nervous for some weeks lest the
newspapers print the names of those present, so we’ll pass her up
this time.
The ladies who bathe in midnight pools, especially if considerable
liquor has been provided, are not particular about their sea-going
attire. They quite often prefer the no-piece bathing suit, although
the shock of the water often arouses a sober moment. Then milady
wonders with dismay how she can emerge amidst the highly
interested group of lookers-on.
The cops who raid the little rooming houses and resorts of the less
elite would reap a mighty harvest if they cared to intrude upon
Wilshire or Hollywood. But what’s a little party of pajama-clad men
and women bred in the purple if the copper gets a few choice jolts.

* * *
 Talked Like a Tailor
The members of the choir were practicing the well known anthem
“As the Hart Pants After the Water Brooks.”
The rendering of the opening stages was apparently not quite to
the satisfaction of the gentleman who wielded the baton.
He considered it necessary, therefore, to tender some advice to
the soprano section, and caused great consternation and not a little
embarrassment among his flock by the following announcement:
“Ladies, your expression is simply splendid, but the time is very
poor—really, your pants are far too long.”

* * *

How Perfectly Lovely

“Is this—can it be love?” sighed Angebella, as she sat on a seat in
the park with MacCuthbert’s arm around her waist and his soft voice
whispering fondly in her ear. Oh, it was lovely! “It is, my darling,”
MacCuthbert assured her. “But tell me, sweet one, how do you feel?”
“I feel,” cooed the lady, “as though my heart would leap from my
throbbing breast! My parched throat contracts and then expands,
while my breath comes in quick, choking sobs.”
There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them as a
sleeping tramp crawled forth and glowered at them. “I’d take
something for it, miss,” he growled. “That ain’t love you’ve got; it’s
hiccups.”

* * *

Ruined Reputations
“Whisky has ruined the reputation of many men.”
 “Yes,” replied Broncho Bob, “and at the same time, I ain’t so sure
that a lot of naturally no-account men haven’t done their share to
ruin the reputation of whisky.”

* * *

Do You Blame Them?

A “strong-man” actor, wishing to demonstrate his strength, made
the following announcement from the stage:
“I would like to have three young ladies volunteer from the
audience to come up on the stage, stand on my chest and I will then
sing a song.”
Needless to say, none responded.
 Strolling With Jane Gaites

To Love

Love, once you came to me,

I laughed the long day through;
For I was young, and happily
I reveled in this love so new.

Oh, it was good to live and love!

I vowed that I’d be true,
And of the sob behind the smile
I never dreamed—I never knew.

For every joy I’ve shed a tear;

Love left me long ago.
I’ve nothing now but memories—
How could you hurt me so?

* * *

Outside the Movies

By JANE GAITES
After wrecking a dozen homes or more and crushing at
least six or nine perfectly good hearts, the movie “vamp”
quickly slipped into her street clothes and hurried away
from the noisy studio to buy her baby a doll.
After completing the “Adventures of Nan,” the little
“convent” girl rushed into her dressing room and was not
surprised to find a note from her husband saying that
business had called him out of town.
She smiled somewhat significantly and then, carefully
powdering her saucy little nose and arching those two tiny
perfect lips, she hurried away from the noisy studio to keep
an appointment with the “vamp’s” husband.

* * *

Silly Sonnets
By JANE GAITES

“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”

“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.
“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”
“If it so please you, sir,” she said.

“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”

“What is your income, sir?” she said.
“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”
“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.

* * *

Dickory, dickory dock,

A mouse ran up the clock;
But this clock, I find,
Was a different kind,
And her cries could be heard up the block.

* * *
 Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,
Sharing her good curds and whey;
They were hugging and kissing,
When her Ma found her missing
And frightened fond lover away.

* * *

The Lure
By JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY

“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,

“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”
“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,
“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”
“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”
Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;
And a thing I hate is to change my bait,
So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
 Whiz Bang Editorials
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

ature moves oftener to the time of “L’Allegro” than “Il

N
Penseroso”—the major, not the minor chord, predominates.
The carol of birds, hum of insects, rustle of leaves, ripple of
water and chirrup of cricket are only sad to those whose
natures are harsh. There is more of light than shadow, and
we feel it as we look at matchless sunrise and sunset, glinting stars,
deep green of forest, lighter color of meadow and grain field, and
the sunbeams chased by the wind across hillside and valley.
The church is not a cemetery, the minister is not a death’s head,
and his church members should not be mummies. The world was
given us to cheer our hearts; religion was never designed to make
our pleasures less, and when it does we have less of religion and
more of something else. To be a child of God is to be a happy
member of his family in a present Eden which thrills the brain, fills
the heart, and makes us rejoice in the hope of a home where sin
and sorrow shall never enter.
The historian Hume found that King Edward II had paid a jester a
crown to make him laugh. That was a good investment. How much
better it is to have a fool to make one merry than experience to
make one sad. Why not have Christmas cheer fifty-two weeks in the
year and let it brighten and bless spring, summer and autumn till
winter comes again?
Shakespeare says, “One may smile and smile and be a villain,” but
I think the man who does not smile is the villain “fit for treasons,
stratagems and spoils.”
 A smile is the difference between a man and a brute, though a
laughing hyena is preferable to a scowling misanthrope, and a
heathen who only wears a smile to a Christian garbed in gloom.
Cheerfulness does more for health and holiness than pills and
preaching. Why not smile in a good world with a gracious God?
The man ought to be arrested who comes downtown in the
morning with an insulting scowl that curdles the milk of human
kindness. One smile is worth a dozen snarls.
Horace, the Latin poet, taught truth by laughter; in politics a smile
has controlled kings; and Swift and Heine did more by their smiles
for freedom than swords. We can’t all be poets, painters and
presidents, but we can all be end-men to Life’s minstrel show. Mark
Tapley was always cheerful, and Sydney Smith said, “I have gout,
asthma and seven other maladies, but otherwise, thank the Lord, I
am very well.”
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

* * *

acific Coast physicians are conducting a campaign which has

P
for its aims “the conservation of public health”—specifically,
the elimination of the advertising doctors, whom they
designate quacks, and the squelching of “cranks” who oppose
vivisection.
The editor of the Whiz Bang may be put down by the doctors as
among the “cranks” because he doesn’t like the idea of vivisection. I
suppose I’m one of those sentimental birds, but any goop who tries
to carve up my dog, my pony, or even Pedro, my pedigreed bull, will
have a fight on his hands.
If surgeons must have live bodies upon which to experiment, it is
suggested they utilize some of the less useful members of the
medical profession. Most doctors are good citizens, and we include
some advertising doctors, too. They have, it is true, a somewhat
exaggerated idea of importance in the general scheme of things, but
their delusion is honest. They regard the profession highly, and
rightly so.
This being the case, nobody would object if a doctor showed the
courage of his convictions by allowing his fellow “cut-ups” to strap
him on an operating table and dissect his carburetor and other inside
machinery.
But until doctors assume this attitude, most regular people will
regard vivisectionists as a low species of bloodthirsty coward,
pandering to a perverted taste for twisting entrails.

* * *

uritans of the city of Spokane, Wash., are seeking to have a

P
city ordinance regulating the length of skirts. Our
correspondent in that neck of the woods says he sees no
need for such an ordinance, and that the girls are wearing
skirts now that are as long as the distance from Spokane to
the Canadian border, 100 miles, and that anyway he would rather
live on the border.
However, that’s neither here nor there. The big question in
Spokane, now that the old maids and senile lawmakers have agreed
that the skirts ought to stay below the knees, is to whom should
authority to enforce such an ordinance be given?
Some seem to think the ordinance ought to be enforced by the
commissioner of public health, while others want the commissioner
of public safety. Therefore, the question seems to be whether short
skirts are a menace to somebody’s health or whether they are
dangerous to public safety.
We’ll say that it depends largely on circumstances. If a girl’s short
skirts cause a crowd to gather in the street, and automobile drivers
to look around while driving, then it’s a question of safety.
Otherwise, and in certain other circumstances, it might bring about a
danger to public health.
 In any case we declare it to be interfering with the liberties of the
subject. Our sympathies are with the fair sex all the time. If a girl
has a shapely ankle, why should she hide it? It is part of her stock in
trade—in fact, a show window for the male-and-female market, or
marriage market, or whatever you want to call it. Frequently it
enables a girl to obtain a good position, it is said.
You might just as well expect a girl to cover up her face if she is a
good-looker, or place blinders or goggles on her eyes if they sparkle
too much. Besides, we have the poor policemen to consider. Do we
wish to take all the joy out of their lives? These cops virtually live on
the streets. Their pleasures are few. Are we to deprive them of
viewing shapely ankles, etc.? Do let us be a little broad-minded and
give the girls liberty.

* * *

Roughly estimated, 14,000,000 microbes, scientists reported,

gathered on our grandmother’s skirt. Now it would require a germ a
foot high to catch on the hem of a damsel’s garment. Isn’t that some
compensation?

* * *

If some married women would only realize the value of a chic robe
de nuit en crepe de chine, and other dainty lingerie in retaining their
hubby’s admiration, they’d never be found sleeping alone in
flannelette while he entertained a bit of fluff outside the home circle.

* * *

Give Him a Little Time

“She says she has an ideal husband.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Three weeks.”
 “Shucks, all husbands are ideal for the first three weeks.”

* * *

Sweet Essence of Prune Juice

He had known her for years. He had seen a good deal of her—in
more ways than one.
He had sat across the parlor from her; she had, of course, crossed
her legs; he had seen her trim ankles, her…
He had seen her at the seashore, wearing her tantalizing, silky
bathing suit, with its short dress, with its cute little slippers, with
its…
He had seen her in her traveling suit; in her cape; in her house
dress; in her…
He had seen her at full dress affairs, and considering these
dresses as they are, he had, of course, seen…
But it was not until a long, long while that he approximated the
ultimatum. It was just a parlor date—one of many—which did not
give promise of being any different from all the others. But one thing
will lead to another! Finally, by a little slip of the arm, by a little jerk
of the head, a little this, and a little that, some hairpins came out;
her hair hung a little loosely at the sides; and—essence of
compromise!—he saw her ears!

* * *

Probably Their Face

Shaving off the eyebrows and substituting a thin black painted line
is said to be a remarkable new face fashion adopted by a section of
smart women. Really one begins to wonder what they will shave
next.
 Smokehouse Poetry

Whiz Bang, in its next issue, will bring back to life Robert W.
Service’s “Lady That’s Known as Lou,” and the picturesque Alaskan
barroom of his tragical masterpiece, “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”

“But I want to state, and my words are straight,

And I’ll bet my poke they’re true,
That one of you is a Hound of Hell,
And that one is Dan McGrew.”

That’s a flash of the trail which Service leads to the realm of

Dangerous Dan. It will be republished in full in the March issue.—The
Editor.

The Shimmy Shaker

By CARL M. HIGDON
Did you ever hear the story
Of the shimmy-shaking maid,
Who could shake a wicked shimmy
But of men she was afraid?

She could shimmy in the morning,

She could shimmy in the night,
She could shimmy in a bedroom,
She could shimmy loose or tight.

She could shimmy in the ballroom,

She could shimmy on the street,
She could shimmy after dinner
With a wiggle slow and sweet.

She could shimmy on a mountain,

She could shimmy in a pool,
When it comes to shimmy-shaking
She’s a shimmy-shaking fool.

* * *

A Tom Fooler Rhyme

It was midnight on the ocean,
Not a street car was in sight,
The sun was shining brightly
And it rained all day that night.

It was a summer night in winter,

The rain was snowing fast,
A barefoot boy, with shoes on,
Stood, sitting on the grass.

It was evening, and the rising sun

Was setting in the west,
And the little fishes in the trees
Were huddling in their nest.

The rain was pouring down,

The moon was shining bright,
And everything that you could see
Was hidden out of sight.

While the organ pealed potatoes,

Lard was rendered by the choir,
While the sexton rung the dish-rag,
Someone set the church on fire.

“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;

In the rain he lost his hair;
Now his head resembles Heaven,
For there is no parting there.

* * *

How’s Business
 “Business is poor,” said the beggar;
Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”
“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;
The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.

“It’s all write with me,” said the author;

“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;
“My business is sound,” said the bandman;
Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”

* * *

Answer from Your Heart

Note: The author of the following poem is an ex-sailor who now
lives in Long Beach, California. It is a poem that all red-blooded men
should read and then ponder a bit. Here is the writer’s prelude,
explaining how he happened to bring forth such a gem:
“In and out of the service, I have noted that when two or more
men engage in conversation, their talk eventually turns to women.
Women—bad, indifferent, and sometimes good—is generally the
chief topic of the man, but when one brings in some word about a
good woman, he is often silenced by stares or cutting remarks.
Recently I was confined in a naval brig (no need to mention the
offense), and a conversation was being carried on in the “bull pen”
that caused me to write the following lines:
E. H. GANTENBEIN
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—
Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—
I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,
You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.

You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have
been,
And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon
gin;
While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,
And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at
sea;

The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,

And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—
You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a
name,
You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the
same.

Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girls

Have you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to
you than pearls?
How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God
for you,
Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.

Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,

Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.
Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:
Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a
man?

Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your
wife,
And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that
 right?
Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do
your part,
Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.

* * *

A Sailor’s Delight
By HAROLD TAYLOR
When I was young and handsome,
It was always my delight
To go to balls and dances
And stay out late at night.

’Twas at a ball I met him,

He asked me for a dance,
I knew he was a sailor
By the buttons on his pants.

His shoes were nicely polished,

His hair was neatly combed,
I danced with him all evening,
Then he asked to see me home.

He pressed me to him gently,

Then heaved a heavy sigh
And said: “Dear Nellie, darling,
My love will never die.”

Now all you girls, this warning,

Just take a tip from me:
Don’t ever let a sailor
Take you sailing o’er the sea.

For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,

And say there’s none like you,
But when he gets that bit of love
He’ll sail across the blue.

* * *

The Hop-head Blues

By B. T. Los Angeles
 “In this land of dopey dreams, smiling, hoppy-headed scenes,
where the Chinamen are smoking all day long; as I lay me down to
sleep, hoppy visions o’er me creep, then I hear the snow-birds sing
this evening song: Tam, tam, tam the coke and morphine; I can hear
my mother’s moan; underneath the starry flag, we must take
another drag, and return some day to our beloved home.”
Yep, Whiz Bang readers, here are some more selections written by
a dope fiend, the first of his series appearing in the January issue.
From the standpoint of human interest towards the unfortunate
victim of the drug habit, his poems are mighty interesting.
Furthermore, they point a strong moral to lay off the “junk.”—The
Editor.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,
Reclined on a bamboo bunk,
With a bamboo pipe and lighted pot
And a deuce-spot smeared with junk.

For when I feel downcast and blue,

Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,
Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,
Forgetting the weary world a week.

Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,

Dope has led me far astray,
Still I think of the one who left me
A year ago on Christmas Day.

My love for her has never left me,

And I know it never will,
Even though I’m a fiend to dope
And a slave to the hashish pill.

But here I lie in a suey-bow,

With another night half spent,
With a pipe and a card of poppy mud
And a hop cook from the Orient.

* * *

Pangs of Conscience
By B. T., Los Angeles
 For now I’m down and out,
And broken is my will,
I’d sell my very clothes
For a marewanna pill.

O, once I was good,

But now I’m very bad,
For the Chinks took from me
Everything I ever had.

It’s the white man’s curse,

The yellow man’s joy,
The angels’ dread
And the devil’s toy.

No good ever comes,

And no good ever will,
To anyone who smokes
The hashish pill.

* * *

She May Remember This

 Your hands were made to hold, my dear;
Your hair to lure me on;
Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;
Your face to gaze upon.

Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;

Your waxen ears petite
Were made to catch the silver strains
Of music soft and sweet.

Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;

Your arms were made to cling;
Your voice was made to speak, my dear,
Not to sing.

* * *

Still at It

My loveless lady of the ancient day

Sought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.
I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,
She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.

* * *

The Land of the Swinging Door

When night steals up from the golden cup
And the cares of the day are done;
In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,
As we watch the dying sun;
Oh, memory strong with its ancient song
Goes back to the days of yore,
When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,
In the Land of the Swinging Door.

Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,

Where our foot in comfort sat;
Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,
And the dear old bar-room cat;
Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,
And the highly polished floor,
Belong to the show of the long ago
In the Land of the Swinging Door.

Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,

Has finished this land at last,
And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,
Are memories of the past;
Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda loke
And drinks we now abhor,
Are but empty chimes of virile times
In the Land of the Swinging Door.

Oh, a lemonade or a cocalade

Sounds good in a “pro-hi” town,
But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizz
To our friend, the old rumhound;
Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,
And the beer and wine’s no more;
So let them fret, we won’t forget
The Land of the Swinging Door.
With nicotine, our ruling queen,
And a match and an easy chair,
We lie at ease and smoke as we please
And dream of the bar-room fair;
With purity waves and reforming aides,
Tobacco will soon be o’er,
But they can’t legislate our mental state
And the Land of the Swinging Door.

* * *

Down in Oklahoma
We’re down here in Okla.,
Where you never have the blues;
Where the bandits steal the jitneys
And the marshals steal the booze;
Where buildings horn the skyline;
Where the populace is boost;
Where they shoot men just for pastime;
Where the chickens never roost;
Where the stickup men are wary
And the bullets fall like hail;
Where each pocket has a pistol
And each pistol’s good for jail;
Where they always hang the jury;
Where they never hang a man;
If you call a man a liar, you
Get home the best you can;
Where you get up in the morning
In a world of snow and sleet,
And you come home in the evening
Suffocating in the heat;
Where the jitneys whizz about you
And the street cars barely creep;
Where the burglars pick your pockets
While you “lay me down to sleep;”
Where the bulldogs all have rabies
And the rabbits they have fleas;
Where the big girls, like the wee ones,
Wear their dresses to their knees;
Where you whist out in the morning,
Just to give your health a chance,
Say “Howdy” to some fellow who
Shoots big holes in your pants;
Where wise owls are afraid to hoot
And birds don’t dare to sing—
For it’s hell down here in Okla.,
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