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Literary Review
The resurrection man
ap
Henry Kissinger.
HENRY KISSINGER'S resignation, as Chairman of the Commission appointed by the Bush administration to investigate into the September 11 terrorist attacks, has brought him back into limelight. He may be called the American Chanakya, or the proverbial cat with nine lives, because he has manoeuvred his resurrection from time to time as adviser to several American Presidents since Nixon. Writer, scholar, political strategist, administrator and playboy, he is indeed a multifaceted personality.
I first met him at Harvard in 1953, as an Indian delegate to his International Seminar. I owed my participation to my research supervisor at Cambridge, only to find myself in a group of celebrities from all over the world — statesmen, philosophers, journalists, Members of Parliament and poets. I felt embarrassed to be the youngest and perhaps the least deserving of them all. But since I was then 28, the same age as Henry Kissinger, I was able to establish an instantaneous rapport with him. We shared our experiences as research scholars. I learnt that he had come to the United States as a Jewish refugee from Germany, at the age of 14, to have his schooling and university education in New England. In the early 1950s, he edited a journal, Confluence, as a forum to bring together a diversity of cultural perspectives. He invited me to be his Indian correspondent but I never got down to writing anything for his journal because of my preoccupation with research at Cambridge — and my laziness. When a few years later, he published his book on Bismarck, I felt privileged to have known someone who was lauded by the Times Literary Supplement as the most outstanding political analyst of his time. If Bismarck has been described by historians as a political juggler who could keep swinging half a dozen balls in his hands simultaneously, so could Henry Kissinger, whatever the political complexion of the administration in Washington.
What impressed me most about this man was the amazing range of his interests; he could speak authoritatively on art, philosophy, literature, history, current affairs — anything whatsoever. And then there was his playful irony too that sometimes lapsed into scathing sarcasm. I recall a breakfast meeting with him in his two-room apartment on campus. His first wife, Barbara, had fixed me a spaghetti "without meat balls". (Incidentally, it was my vegetarianism that stood me out of the seminar crowd as an odd creature from India). That morning, he suddenly burst into a tirade against women, "Tell me, Shiv, have women made any contribution to human civilisation? Any woman painter, philosopher or scientist?" While his needle-sharp eyes were riveted on me, I saw Barbara flinch back for a moment, but soon she let a stoic, enduring smile ripple over her face.
On another occasion, he jabbed at me, though quite playfully. But this time I was to blame for my bizarre behaviour at a party he'd thrown in his apartment. He'd fixed a strong punch in a globe-like crystal bowl, with all kinds of liquors mixed into it — rum, gin, whiskey, vodka, juices and what not. Being a strict teetotaller, I was unaware of the explosive stuff in that bowl. To me the frothy, yellow stuff floating on top looked like a generous measure of juices — oranges and tangerines. So, while I saw the guests sipping niggardly the punch in their short glasses, I helped myself to a decanter. The next moment, I felt knocked out, my eyes glowing like red embers. From across the table, I heard Henry quip: "There's a tough Indian, folks." (I now recall that, years later, he hurled the same jibe at Indira Gandhi — "that tough woman!"). But that evening Kissinger didn't stop at that, and added: "These Indians, you know, preach meditation and renunciation, but they go in for the real stuff whenever possible." But gently, he had me escorted to my room on campus, where I slumped on the floor and threw up.
The only time I felt provoked to send him a strong punchy letter was when he flew out on a secret mission to China, in the early 1970s, as Nixon's special messenger. Why was he so anti-Indian, pro-Pakistani and pro-Chinese, I wondered. But I earnestly believe now that he must have fully understood the ground political realities: to perceive Pakistan as the epicentre of global terrorism, and China as its close ally — its supplier of nuclear know-how.
I really got down to writing him a letter only when he was convalescing at a Boston clinic, after a stroke. Not only did I send him a get-well card but also reminded him of our days together at Harvard. Promptly and graciously, he responded to me:
March 17, 1982
Dear Dr. Kumar:
Thank you for your letter of February 24. It was nice to hear from you and to learn of your remarkable career.
It was thoughtful of you to write me, and I appreciate your good wishes.
Best regards
Henry A. Kissinger
Henry Kissinger is undoubtedly a man of extraordinary brilliance whose writings are incisive, insightful and securely based on facts. He is also a man who exudes warmth and understanding. And as for his playboyishness, if women fell for his charm, who was to blame?
Poet, novelist, short-story writer, translator, playwright and critic, Professor Shiv K. Kumar has been awarded Padma Bushan for literature.
SHIV K. KUMAR
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