Sheila Dikshit’s Heart

(Written c. 2013)

»Delhi Chief Minister Arvind Kejriwal called on his predecessor Sheila Dikshit before her departure for France for an aortic valve replacement. Kejriwal tweeted the news of his visit, but did not add that he stayed for barely five minutes. If his visit had been slightly longer, he could have picked up some helpful pointers from a veteran like Dikshit, who successfully ran the Delhi government for three terms without any major hitch even though the NDA was in power at the Centre for some of that period. The 80-year-old Dikshit courteously came down to see off the CM and was taken aback to find that Kejriwal was accompanied by a long convoy of cars, including several police vehicles. Kejriwal, who joined politics claiming to be a man of the people, could have taken a lesson from Dikshit who crisscrossed the city most unobtrusively. People in Nizamuddin East recall that Dikshit frequently visited the colony when she was in power, as her sister lives there, but few got to know since she travelled without any fanfare.«  Coomi Kapoor, The Indian Express, 2 September 2018.

I would normally not quote Coomi Kapoor, who is after all not much more than a political gossip columnist. And I do not know whether or not Kejriwal was accompanied by a long convoy of cars.

But I can confirm that on the two occasions that I met her, Sheila-ji was not at all officious as a CM, especially when it came to using transport and the trappings of office. In 2000, after my father had received the Indira Gandhi award for National Integration, we were crossing the road to get to our car parked in a patch behind Shastri Bhawan. A white Maruti Gypsy stopped next to us, and the lady in the passenger’s seat rolled down the window and addressed my wife: “Young lady, you look like someone I have met before. Can I drop you and your family home or somewhere where you want to go?” It was Sheila Dikshit, Chief Minister of Delhi, seated next to her driver. (Her son Sandeep and my wife had been fellow students over a decade earlier, and knew each other in the NGO sector).

The next time was when she came home to express her condolences to my mother when my father died (ten years ago, almost to the day). A white ambassador pulled up, and the CM got down from the front passenger seat (she always sat next to the driver; this time there was one policeman who sat in the back). No airs about her. My mother told her that seeing her smile would cheer her up more than anything else.

The horrific rape of Jyoti Singh (I wish people will stop using the moniker “Nirbhaya”, possibly coined by Times of India) happened at a time that Sheila Dikshit was in and out of hospital for a heart surgery. Sheila-ji was in no physical condition to address the apprehensions of the public. One of those who gained advantage of her incapacity was her successor as CM, who would exploit that moment to its fullest.

As someone who will also eventually need an aortic valve replacement, I hope the surgery goes well and I wish her a speedy recovery.

Where there’s a will

(Written about 2020)

Where there’s a will, there is the weight of something to be done usually. But there are wills that embody a life style.  

I recently found two old wills written by my father. The first, dated 16 December 1983, is typed up on that yellowish paper of peculiar dimensions that used to be found with notaries and in government offices. It was witnessed by two of his colleagues -- his devoted assistant P Sethumadhavan, and Raju Korah. The later one is handwritten and dated 17 June 1990. The provisions of the two testaments are substantially the same --- leaving his small savings and modest flat to my mother, and expressing gratitude to her and to his sons, friends and colleagues. Both conclude with a desire that there be no religious rituals post his death. 

The first Will (of 16 December 1983), written before he was 60, begins with a bland statement that he retired from government service on 30th April of that year, and while he was continuing to work in the same position, “it is an appropriate occasion to think of a time when I shall not be around”. He goes on to write: “I have travelled light and do not have many belongings. The act of writing a will therefore becomes an academic exercise. But it is good to make things easier for those who survive.” Well, one could quibble that he did have a large number of belongings, in the form of nearly ten thousand books, but these are not the kind of effects that get listed in a will. In any case he spent the last few years of his life in the “academic exercise” of selecting and handing off those books to people whom he thought were appropriate recipients for them, an act he likened in an article to a traditional father finding grooms for his daughters. He goes on to write: “My father did not leave any immovable property. I have failed to follow his example, and am trying to acquire a house by becoming a member of the CIS Officers’ Cooperative Group Housing Society...”, listing the modest amount he had paid up till then. The rest of his assets, around a few tens of thousand rupees in various bank accounts and savings schemes, and some objects, books and a couple of paintings given to him by friends, were bequeathed to my mother. Having no belief in ritual, he wanted a plain, unsentimental farewell -- for which he depended on his wife and sons, who he says “meant much to me”.

The second Will, dated 17 June 1990, begins with “Wills are left by those who have wealth. I did not make money and money did not make me. During the forty-four years of my working life, I acquired a small flat <details elided>, and a car, which I bought twenty years ago, and saved about Rs 1,75,000, which I have deposited in <bank account details elided>. All these I leave to my wife, Kamalamma, the person who means most to me in life, who has shared my outlook and has helped me to resist ambition.” He goes on to write: “With my physical problem of a blocked carotid artery, my sincere hope is that I shall not become so incapacitated as to be a burden on my wife. She knows I do not believe in rituals, and I do not want any religious rites when I am no more.”

This desire was not to be, for he suffered Parkinson’s disease for several years, with my mother bravely looking after him through his physical ordeals. But his Will was done -- there were no religious rites at his funeral, at which several friends and colleagues were present. With my mother’s firm veto, we were able to quash an attempt from one quarter at performing some rituals.

In the years after he wrote these testaments, there came up two new major “claimants” to his legacy -- his grandsons. While he gave them little by way of material possessions, what he left for them was far more precious: his unconditional love and his integrity.