Free The Good, the Bad and the Ridiculous by Khushwant Singh Page A

photographs and originals of letters exchanged between Gandhi and Sir Stafford Cripps, Gandhi and Prime Minister Attlee, all praising Sudhir Ghosh. It was quite evident that Sudhir was having trouble with Krishna Menon and was not on good terms with Indian journalists. He showed me to the tiny cubicle I was to occupy and introduced me to an English girl, Pamela Cullen, who was to be my assistant. He did not tell me what I was to do. ‘You can ask Menon when you meet him,’ he said. He studiously avoided calling Menon high commissioner, or even adding a mister to his name.
    I had no idea what public relations meant, nor what I was to do to promote them. Not having been briefed or charged with a specific task, I decided that perhaps the best I could do was produce booklets on India—its people, resources, flora, fauna, etc. For the first four days after my arrival in London, I reported for work at India House every morning. I signed the visitors’ book and reminded Sudhir Ghosh to introduce me to the high commissioner. He didn’t think it was urgent. I asked Arthur. He said it was not for him but Sudhir to do so. However, he told Menon that I had wanted to call on him. On the fifth day, Sudhir Ghosh took me up to Menon’s room.
    I had a broad grin on my face when I greeted Krishna Menon and extended my right hand. He brushed it aside with his claw-like fingers. Instead of a smile of welcome, he had an angry frown on his face. I cheerfully reminded him that I had once travelled with him and Rajni Patel to Paris. He ignored my self-introduction and barked, ‘Sardar, haven’t they taught you any manners in India? You have been here four days and haven’t had the courtesy to call on me. I am the high commissioner, you know!’ My smile froze. I protested I had done my best—signed the visitors’ book, and asked both Sudhir Ghosh and Arthur Lall to get me an appointment. Sudhir interrupted to say that it was his fault. ‘I’ll send for you later,’ said Menon, dismissing me. ‘I want to speak to Mr Ghosh.’
    I returned to my cubicle very shaken. No one had ever spoken to me the way Menon had done and without any reason whatsoever. I was determined not to put up with it. I swore to myself that the next time Menon said anything harshly I would hit back, put in my letter of resignation and tell him to stuff it up his dirty bottom. I was out of sorts all afternoon. Instead of doing any work, I took a long stroll along the Thames embankment till my temper came down a little.
    In the evening, there was a tea party in the main reception room. I went, took a cup of tea and sat down in a corner. Menon breezed in; I pretended not to have seen him. He came up to me and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Sorry for ticking you off this morning,’ he said. ‘I hope you had the sense to realize it was not meant for you.’ I stood up, somewhat flabbergasted at the change of tone. ‘I was a little taken aback,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t have that much common sense, you’ll never do as an information officer,’ he said to me. He then patted me on my back and went to shake other hands. I was utterly deflated. The fellow obviously meant to be friendly towards me; it was Sudhir Ghosh he was gunning for. Menon had a convoluted mind.
    It did not take me long to get a hang of India House politics. Krishna Menon had his coterie of faithfuls. At the top of the list was Arthur Lall, his trade commissioner. His other favourites were junior members of his staff; some, like his personal secretary, Captain Srinivasan of the Indian Navy, he savaged till they proved their loyalties to him. Menon had scant respect for the deputy high commissioner, R.S. Mani, also of the ICS and his number two man. Mani was a flabby man with a flabbier Belgian wife. He did his best to ingratiate himself with Menon and suffered being treated like a doormat—he remained a doormat. Menon was also allergic to men in uniform and treated his military, naval and