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.

PV Narasimha Rao’s first television interview as Prime Minister was granted to us at Newstrack. Shot against the backdrop of a simmering Mandal agitation and Ram Janambhoomi movement—both events in which the Congress had a dubious role of fuelling the crisis to encash political brownie points—it was a combative interview. Though PM Rao went along and answered all the questions with his trademark poker face, he was evidently perturbed.

I know this because I had barely reached home when I got a call from a person named Qureshi; he demanded that I deliver the original master tapes of PM’s interview at Rao’s Avenue Office. When I refused, he started threatening me. He told me: “Bibi, jallus laaunga”( I will bring protesters) along with other dark warnings about mobs etc. With my editor Madhu Trehan out of the country, I hesitantly called the group editor Aroon Purie. He silently heard all the details about the threat calls, and then said: “Keep the phone off the hook and go to sleep—we are not sending any tapes out.”

The next day I got a call on the office landline. A lady operator on the other side of the phone put me on hold and soon, it was PM Rao on the phone asking whether I could visit him with the VHS versions of his interview. I took this opportunity to mention the phone calls I received from Qureshi and enquired politely if these calls were really from someone who knew him. “Oh, forget Qureshi—he is just a butler,” exclaimed the PM with a mild chuckle. “I just want to see how the frame is looking. You see, I am an amateur photographer too,” he continued in a pleasant tone. We did not send the tapes to PMO for pre-telecast approval, and the content went on air as planned.

The All India Congress Committee (AICC) plenary session at Tirupathi was the start of tectonic changes triggered by Rao. Stuck in a five-mile-long traffic jam and looking at Rao’s tall standees dotting the rice fields like telephone towers, our press contingent got a sneak peek into the ‘new cult’ creation. In bright white dhoti-kurta, the ‘Telugu bidda’, Rao sat leaning on a round bolster in the centre of the catamaran-like-stage and announced a financial rejig.

Trying to catch the PM’s eye during the press briefings or in the lunch shamiana proved unsuccessful. Patrolling around the Padmavati guest house—the VIP venue of prime ministerial meetings—we were digging for at least a small bite. On one occasion—face to face and within talking distance—I put the mic towards the PM and posed a question. In return, he gave his classic pout and a totally blank look! Rao didn’t ‘let go’ easily.

Despite inheriting a turbulent political landscape and a minority government, Rao did a credible job of bucking up sagging national financials. But by shifting the focus to the economy, the Rao regime ‘moved the cheese’ for us reporters. Like mice in a new maze, a lot of us had to scramble and quickly acquire new skills for financial reporting.

My new learning came from Vikram Chandra, then a new recruit at Newstrack. With stylish cuffs peeping from a perfectly fitted blazer and sparkling shoes blinking under the studio light grid, Chandra stood out in a sea of us jholawalas. He had just returned after graduating from Oxford. In a time when the political beat reigned supreme, he spoke about investigating the share market! My senior colleague Manoj Raghuvanshi and I rolled our eyes and told him to do ‘solid stories’ instead. A plan was hatched to immerse Vikram into the dust and grime of ‘real’ reporting.

On our various forays inside the labyrinths of villages in Uttar Pradesh, we had heard the dreaded legend of ‘Dadhua Dakoo.’ Like a mythical Yeti, there was no photographic trace of this Dadhua Daakoo, but nearly everyone had a demonic tale to narrate. Horror stories of how Dadhua drowned his enemies into a pool of hungry crocodiles, poured hot oil over investigating police officers and chopped off the noses of informers, gripped the minds of Bundelkhand people.

Palming off a concoction of folklore and homegrown thriller to the starry-eyed ‘phoren return,’ Vikram was packed off for a long dusty ride into the hinterland to buttonhole the yet unseen outlaw. We reckoned that if Dhadhua were caught on camera, it would be a jackpot for Newstrack. If not– it would still be great training for the in-house cub reporter. Vikram returned a fortnight later from a back-breaking voyage of Bundelkhand, empty-handed and without Dadhua Dakoo. In frayed denim and a crumpled T-shirt, he agreed that the ‘dakoo chase’ was a priceless crash course, but he still wanted to dig into the Bombay Stock Exchange.

Shaking our head in a ‘bhai iska kya hoga’ gesture, we were about to give up when Sucheta Dalal broke the Harshad Mehta scam. This turned the tables on us! Now none of us had the skill to report this story—much less to understand it. Meanwhile, Vikram happily bounced off to lasso the colluding brokers, and we sat down highlighting the clues on pink papers. “Hain—how did fraudulent bank receipts and forward deals help big bull Harshad scam 40 billion!” we wondered.

Soon, the securities scam created a political ripple when Harshad’s counsel Ram Jethmalani in his famous ‘suitcase press conference’ claimed that his client Harshad had paid one crore rupees to PM Rao to douse the scam. Most felt that this was a legal gimmick. Surely the PM would come on record (hopefully to ‘yours truly’ ) to debunk this allegation! But my request for time with the PM was met with radio silence. Did I regret being inflexible in my first interaction and losing my access to the PMO? Yes, I was conflicted.

Years later at Star TV, my boss Ratikant Basu asked if I could do a roving series with all the prime ministers of India. I promptly agreed, but my heart skipped a beat because I remembered there was a stubborn bottleneck. A historical recap was enticing, but without PV Narasimha Rao, I knew it would be a lame duck series.

Diving into my contact sheets to find an ideal wingman, I had multiple chai-samosa sessions with different correspondents, who threw up different names. Most were false starts. Finally, I was led to Devendra Nath Dwivedi. A former Congress General Secretary, this scholarly politico was an old pal of Rao’s. I requested Dwivedi to help thaw the freeze. Nothing happened for a while…and then finally one day, I was summoned.

Few in the Congress now visited the recluse PM, and his Moti Lal Nehru residence now had an air of forgotten kingdom. Armed with Rao’s newly released semi-autobiographical ‘The Insider,’ I entered his book-lined library. We had an interesting chat about the various scenes that take place in the book, as also about the political ecosystem of South India in the 50s and 60s—as it was sketched in the book. It was heady stuff, and I came back floored by the former PM’s scale and depth of historical perspective as also his engaging storytelling. I actually did not feel like popping up the interview matter, but soon it was conveyed to me by Dwivedi that the former PM had agreed to come on board.

Wrapping up the shoot, I asked PM Rao why had he blocked off my access during his prime ministership after our first interview. He smiled broadly and said, “Please understand, you were trying to do your job—but I was trying to save my job.” We both laughed at his sudden candour.