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An evening with Galbraith
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R.V. Smith recalls the day when he met a heavyweight on a light stomach
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Illustration: Tony Smith
An evening with John Kenneth Galbraith at the Vatican Legate in Delhi comes to mind. That was 43 years ago when a function was held by the Papal Internuncio, the Rev James Knox, in connection with the installation of Pope Paul VI (the sport news board in Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg proclaiming "Montini of Milan elected Pope"). This scribe landed up early at the Chanakyapuri venue and was introduced by the Legate secretary to two others who had also come before the other guests - Prof. Galbraith and the then Vice-President Zakir Husain.
Galbraith was a lanky 6 feet, 8inches, Zakir Husain of medium height, with you faithfully fitting somewhere in between. So most of the time we were looking up at the U.S. Ambassador, who graciously did not stand up to his full stature but preferred to keep his head and shoulders bent.
The two VIPs conversed with easy grace, and so as not to ignore a junior scribe, tried to keep him in the conversation with general questions about his profession and the beat he was usually assigned. One no doubt felt tongue-tied in front of such eminence but questions had to be answered all the same.
"Which paper do you represent?" asked Galbraith. "It's not a paper, sir, it's a news agency-PTI", was the reply one stammered out. "Do you cover economic subjects? "No Sir, that's left to the special representatives". "Ever read about bad money driving out good money?" "Yes, Sir, in college when we were taught Gresham's Law." Probably JKG was trying to hint that what was stated in 1579 still held good.
All this while Dr. Husain nodded. He used to wear tinted glasses and spoke English with some finesse. His questions centred more on the Capital's life. He asked about the Old Delhi-New Delhi divide and how it affected newsmen. When informed that one was staying in The Walled City, he was quick to ask, "Which part?" The answer was "Sir, the Jama Masjid area." What all interests you there?" One told him about the food, better than what you get in New Delhi. Have you tried it in Ballimaran?" he asked. My answer in a `yes' seemed to have pleased him. Only later one learnt that in his early years Dr. Zakir Husain was a regular diner at Hafiz Hotel (now no more).
Galbraith then pitched in with a question on old monuments. When told they were good but, except for the Qutb and Humayun's Tomb, inferior to those in Agra (one's home town), he began to laugh, with Dr Husain also joining in. Just then other guests arrived and one was able to beat a hasty retreat to a corner, where one or two other journalists, including Naville Maxwell of The Times, London, were standing.
The Don
Maxwell was a frequent visitor to the PTI office, then housed in the red bungalow vacated by Jackson of Reuters. He was a university man, who was known as the Don (not in its present connection of mafia bosses) because of his academic associations in London. And he looked every inch a professor. As a matter of fact, he went back to university teaching after his stint with The Times, though he did return to Ink Street some years later. Maxwell was an associate one could count on. The question Maxwell asked, in a patronising tone, was: "What on earth were you discussing with Galbraith and the Vice-Prez?" "Don't ask. I did spend some 15 minutes with them on pins and needles," was the reply. Maxwell smiled and walked away to meet a friend from the U.K. High Commission.
As the evening worn on, Dr Husain nursed his glass of cold drink, Galbraith something stronger but this scribe went on enjoying the beer. It made one feel hungry and the macaroni, fish and other savouries could not stifle the pangs in the stomach. One remembers landing up at Madras Hotel after that and gorging on vada and dosa, as that was the cheapest stuff available, and feeling sick after it not because of the food but probably because of the tall glasses of beer at the Legate.
Well, the story had to be filed, and so on to office at 4, Parliament Street. After that it was night duty at the desk (a daunting task that came on alternate weeks). The next morning, when one told people at home about the meeting with Galbraith, they were quite amused.
"Was he talking about The Affluent Society?" they asked. One didn't know which way to look but managed to say "not really" before tucking into the omelette and paranthas. They tasted delicious after the frugal meal of the Deprived Society the previous evening. Galbraith's death revived old memories all right and his pearls of wisdom, though he was only 54 then.
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