Prime Ministers speak through their announcements, their schemes, and their financial reports. They also speak from the ramparts of Red Fort, from podiums of big rallies, and from the inside of plush recording studios. But, more importantly, prime ministers give us a glimpse of their real persona and character through their reactions and unspoken behaviour towards the press and the people.

In this throwback series, Nutan Manmohan recalls some on- and off-camera moments with Indian Prime Ministers that give us a glimpse into their personalities.

My first meeting with Atal Bihari Vajpayee happened when I was a new recruit at Newstrack. I was part of a team that was on a mission to shed some light on leading political heavyweights who could possibly be the prime ministerial choice during the 1989 general elections. In the aftermath of the Bofors scandal, Opposition party leaders were in frenzied parleys to cobble a united front to batter down the crumbling Congress party. Though most of the press felt that the BJP’s prime-ministerial choice would be Lal Krishna Advani – since he was the epicentre of the ‘Ram Janambhoomi Mandir’ movement – our editorial team felt that it could instead be Atal Bihari Vajpayee since he had ‘consensus appeal’ for gathering support from across the political spectrum.

As I entered the Vajpayee residence, I bumped into one of the most jovial and welcoming family members I have ever met while profiling political families. Namita or Gunu—as Atalji’s foster daughter is known—met me in the driveway, just as she was leaving for an errand. I asked for her help to get ABV on camera for a short vox pop. Stepping out of her car and abandoning her errand, Gunnu went back into the house. After a few minutes, she returned and told me that Atalji did not wish to come on record right now but would surely call me later. Not keen to give up, I said– “Fine—no interview. But can I get a cup of tea with him?”

Sure enough, I was led into the backyard where a cosy garden chair arrangement was waiting for us. A few minutes later, ABV walked into the sunshine. With twinkling eyes, he asked us: “Bhai, kya khichdi pak rahi hai?”. Pitching for an interview, I said: “Khichdi nahi—pulao hai” since we are about to interview the next Prime Minister of India. He brushed off my attempt at enticing him with a compliment, with a quick repartee of “khayali pulao na pakao!”

ABV sat down for a cup of tea and gave us an off-camera brief on how the BJP was prepping for the upcoming elections. I again requested for at least something on my tape. Rooting strongly for me, Namita said to him “Bapji, itna keh rahee hai – kuch toh de do [Father, they are requesting so much—give them something].” ABV said “Accha kuchh de deta hoon” with a phonetic emphasis on ‘kuch’. Looking at the crew, he told them “Kholo apna pitaara.” We quickly set up the camera and reflector lights, and over the next one hour, Atal ji regaled us with a fired-up session of his own poems.

Pavon ke neeche angare, sir par barsen yadi jwalayen,

Nij hathon mein haste haste, aag laga kar jalna hoga,

Kadam mila kar chalna hoga.

He seemed to be reflecting on the determination within the BJP ranks to rise from the meagre two seats that they had procured in the 1984 general elections. ABV had refused to give us an interview but had given us so much more in poetry. This is how the man was. He would not send-off even a junior rookie reporter empty-handed.

Newstrack was committed to creating a genre of television that let the pictures speak for themselves. Breaking away from the stuffy studios and celebrity interviews by opinionated anchors, ours was a brand of journalism that believed in putting the viewer at the ringside of national events. “Seeing is believing” is what we felt. In this scenario, one of the most important jobs of a TV reporter was to jostle and create access for her crew constantly.

For one of the important BJP rallies, a Newstrack vehicle had been granted access but our supervising producer still sent me to try and wrangle a spot for the crew on the main rath. I was pushing the point hard, and ABV was hearing me out in silence. Soon, a staffer appeared with two dainty bowls of piping hot kheer. Feeling a bit formal, I declined when ABV said with a meaningful smile: “Kheer mile toh kha leni chahiye—rabri kaa intezaar naa karo.” It was only after I had polished off the last bit of the flavoursome homemade kheer that I realised Atal ji had declined my request with a delicious dessert.

Next day on the shoot, my camera assistant Machinderam and I, half hung out of the open sliding door of our omni van, with one arm clutching on, to save the person who was shooting the video from sliding off the top of the van. But actually, it was a boon not to be constricted atop the rath because out in the open, our van constantly weaved through the crowds, taking top shots of men chanting slogans, women doing the garba, and police controlling the surging mass. Nudged between the pilot car and the rath, we got the best shots. A three-sixty-degree coverage became possible only because of ABV’s tip of going ahead with ‘kheer’ without waiting for ‘rabri’. As an erstwhile reporter, ABV in his own enigmatic way had made me re-visit the golden rule of journalism—“Go with what you’ve got.”

Another significant interaction was during his first tenure as Prime Minister of a minority coalition. It was a short, troubled stint when ABV had been put in the saddle atop an unreliable and rebellious steed. With great difficulty, I managed to persuade the PM’s communication team to give me an interview slot. But on the morning of the interview, my daughter developed a high fever. Unsure of being permitted in by the PM security, I still took a chance and took her along. A flurry of walkie-talkie messages greeted the diminutive visitor who had no prior permission to be in the vicinity of the Prime Minister. Soon a lady cop came and briskly scanned my daughter’s neon-coloured water bottle and Casper-shaped backpack, and permitted her to carry all of this in! When the interview got over, the crew captured snapshots of the PM as he indulged my daughter with a fistful of candies. Atal ji glowed in the company of kids, and it soon became apparent who had fast-tracked the child’s entry into the PM residence.

Years later, for ‘Prime Ministers Speak,’ a series I was anchoring on Star TV, he summoned me to his office. “Kaun kaun hain apke dabbe mein abhi tak,” he asked. I told him that all the Prime Ministers — including VP Singh, Chandra Shekhar, Deve Gowda, IK Gujral, and Narasimha Rao were already profiled. We just needed him to complete the series, I pleaded.

“Par main bhoot nahi hoon,” he said looking at me with a straight face. Now the Hindi word ‘Bhoot’ has two meanings. One is ‘an ill-tempered spirit’ and the second meaning is ‘past’. I burst out laughing as I realised that he was punning on the word ‘bhoot’—and possibly applying both the adjectives to his predecessors. He was the current prime minister, and he did not wish to be clubbed with former prime ministers. He turned down my request—but with trademark humour and wit.