Bangladesh Diary

Man And Moment

At Calcutta international airport, while we wait for the much-delayed Bangladesh Biman flight to take off, my mind goes back to my first-ever encounter with Dr Manmohan Singh—which was at this airport. I was a junior external affairs officer charged with ensuring relief supplies to Bangladesh to enable them to take back their refugees. Over the next few months, I found myself increasingly drawn into the architecture of our economic relationship with our newly liberated neighbour. One of the steps I took was the establishment of a joint study group on jute and since the economic advisor to the commerce ministry had made his name with his doctoral thesis on international trade in jute, I had asked Dr Singh to kindly head the team from our side. I had not, however, personally met him; so was quite excited about making his acquaintance in the transit lounge while we awaited our connection to Dhaka. With the enthusiasm of youth, I enquired whether he had seen the brief I had delivered to his home in Model Town on the outskirts of Delhi University. With that look of sour annoyance I was to get to see so often in later life, he said, No, he had not. I realised then that I had delivered the top-secret brief to the wrong Manmohan Singh—refugees of that name being rife in Model Town! So when my immediate boss, Peter Sinai, and I returned to Delhi, we rushed out to Model Town and a very old man came out doddering and shaking, the envelope unopened, proclaiming his innocence and wondering who was conspiring to get him involved in “gorment bijness”.

The Ex Did It

It has thus taken nearly four decades to restore some sense to India-Bangladesh relations, with Sheikh Hasina securing a three-fourths majority in Parliament and dedicating herself to conscientiously implementing her breakthrough agreement with our PM of January 2010. It is in this context that I have been invited to resume my tentative efforts of 40 years ago by bringing a 35-member business delegation to sensitise the Bangla business community to the huge openings available to them to become our partners in the Northeast where the government of India is pledged to invest at least Rs 14 lakh crore of Plan funds before the end of the 13th Plan in 2022. I was to have gone in March last year when I was minister for the development of the Northeast region (DONER), but the visit had to be called off at the last moment because of the massacre of several Bangladesh Rifles officers by their own men. Notwithstanding my defeat in the Lok Sabha elections, my Bangla friends insisted on my making the visit—and we are treated royally, although I keep stressing that I used to be an Excellency but now only the first two letters apply: ex!

Wrong End Of The Candle

Sheikh Hasina goes so far as to describe Bangladesh as a “natural country of transit” and assure “all connectivity by water, rail and road”, subject only to our sharing with them a reasonable part at reasonable prices of the 42,000 MW of power that has already been contracted for by the Arunachal government, which needs Bangladesh territory to transport the vast quantities of heavy equipment that would have to be carried to the foothills of Arunachal to realise the dream of Arunachal becoming the Saudi Arabia of hydro-power. To my fellow-delegate Kiren Rijiju, former BJP MP and now, more sensibly, principal advisor to the Congress CM of Arunachal, goes all the kudos for opening Sheikh Hasina’s eyes to this fascinating prospect.

In the VIP lounge at Dhaka airport waiting for our flight to Chittagong, I am reminded of the last time I was there to catch a flight to Sylhet. My lonely vigil was broken by someone banging open the door and proclaiming that he was my biggest fan. I simpered modestly. “Every word you write, sir,” he said, “I read.” And then, exiting, announced, “It has been a great honour meeting you, Mr Nayyar.” I then had to disillusion the man explaining that I was not Kuldip Nayyar but merely a humble Aiyar!

Avoid Punjabis After Dark

My wife insists we stay at the Chittagong Club because friends tell her it is the last magnificent relic of British India. As we try to enter the main bar, a functionary sternly tells me, “No Punjabis allowed after 6.30”. I am taken aback at this insult to my Sikh wife, when I realise that in Bangla “Punjabi” is what they call the kurta-pyjama I am wearing. Thwarted, we go to a grand Bangladesh feast where I recount the incident. My dinner table companion smiles and tells the tale of how in the days of united Pakistan, a Bangla friend of his had gone shopping in the Sadar district of Karachi and ordered the shopkeeper, “Mujhe do Punjabi chahiye,” to which the shopkeeper had retorted, “Kyon, ek Sindhi nahi chalegi kya?”