Mark Tully and the BBC radio were synonymous all over the subcontinent
Saeed Naqvi
In the front seat, with the driver, was Mark Fineman of Los Angeles Times, when their car was stopped at an improvised toll barrier outside Lord Krishnan’s town, Mathura.
“Mark” an Indian reporter in the rear seat shouted. “Tell him you are a journalist and he will let you go.” The toll keeper had heard the name, Mark. His eyes lit up. He waved to his friends smoking bidis on a cot by the roadside. They leapt to their feet and surrounded the car. ‘Mark Tully! Mark Tully!’ Before the impersonation travelled, an infuriated Mark Fineman pulled out a ten rupee note and threw at the toll keeper.
“Here’s your f…..ing toll and let me go.”
Fineman was probably scarred for good. In the ranks of foreign correspondents, there would always be one above them—Sir Mark Tully. And he was on a higher pedestal for good, professional reasons—balance, dependability, diligence and a distinct personal charm which attracted all shades of people, intellectually lively in most cases, to his Salon, first in Jorbagh, facing Safdarjung Tomb and later Number 1 Nizamuddin East.
The character of his salon changed over the years. His Wife, Margaret, from whom he had two sons and two daughters, was a lively Victorian lady of the style his father would have approved of. The senior Tully whom Mark always referred to as ‘Burra Saheb’ of Gillanders Arbuthnot, headquartered in Calcutta, which is where Mark was born. Quite predictably, he attended St Paul School in Darjeeling as a boy, before he was transferred to Marlborough College which experience he was more proud of than the next station, Trinity Hall, Cambridge where he studied theology. His career as priest was grounded partly by himself and more by his tutor at trinity hall, Robert Runcie, who later became Archbishop of Canterbury.
“Master Tully,” Runcie told him, “You appeared to be more suited to the public house(pub) than to the pulpit.” Although this was said in ample good humour, Mark spotted in Runcie’s observation a grain of truth.
Yes, Mark did enjoy his beer. Since his favourite, flat, bitter beer was not available in India, he even run through a spell of trying to brew at home. Eventually, he made compromises with Lager which he had in his range of pewter and in sundry China mugs. All of his life, Mark remained torn between his early Christian training and his real life which was seldom free of fun, frolic, mischief and a personal morality which he found hovering on what his faith had told him was sin. For instance, in the second half of his innings in Delhi, he fell in love with Gillian Wright, writer who, translated classical novel like Raga Darbari and Adha Gaon. Mark, even though he lives with Gillian, he was always afflicted by a certain guilt. He never divorced Margaret, with whom he reinvented a life of laughter and affection which I was witness to in their house in Hampstead, not far from the Washington pub, which became our rendezvous.
I can put a date when Mark’s romance with Gillian burgeon—April, 1979. I was to accompany Atal Bihari Vajpayee to Peking, China. Since the visit was coinciding with Pakistan’s Prime Minister Z.A. Bhutto’s case reaching a crescendo, I decided to pick up another story in Islamabad on my way to Peking. To my delight, I found myself in the Flashman’s hotel, in Rawalpindi where Mark was also staying in the adjacent room. In those days, Gillian used to write letters in Urdu but in the Roman script. In this fashion ‘Gilli’ became something of a bridge between the Englishman, who was keen to deepen his understanding of the country he had made his home. On this count also, Mark was torn: he remained an Englishman who loved India. There is poetic justice in the fact that he received Padma Shri, Padma Bhushan as well as a Knighthood.
My room at Flashman’s had a clear view of the procession of contacts visiting Mark. Many of them belonging to orthodox sects of Islam. I felt secure that even though I had no connections in Pakistan, I will nevertheless be able to pick up the story from Mark on whether or not Bhutto is to be hanged.
At the crack of dawn, one morning, a cousin of mine in Karachi called me up.
“Bhaiyya, I am sure you have got the story of Bhutto having been hanged since you are staying in the same hotel as Mark Tully.” I was hurt. Mark had filed what was clearly one of his many international scoops and yet I had the foolish expectation that he would tip me off. When I complained, Mark was blunt with me.
“I am a professional, Saeed and my loyalty on that count is with the BBC.”
An Indian’s loyalty is to his village. My friendship with Mark and Gillian acquired a new dimension when they accompanied me, for Moharram observances, to Mustafabad, my village past Lucknow, Raebareli and Unchahar railway station. Since the extended families of the Naqvis, a total of about 50, scattered all over northern India, congregated in Mustafabad for Moharram, Mark and Gilli endeared themselves to the whole Qasba which is, after all, a network of cousins. All of Mustafabad was flattered that the two visited the Qasba several times. Gillian even became a fixture reciting passages from Anis’s Marsiya on the Mimbar, the pulpit.
The fact that he was expelled from India during the Emergency interfered with his balance when he returned to cast his eye on a somewhat altered India. He began to see Nehruvian secularism as inimical to India’s ethos which was primarily religious. That this was the thin edge of wedge of Hindutva was something Mark needed to clarify.
The reach and credibility of BBC radio in the subcontinent and across the globe is owed to Mark and Mark alone. During an election survey, Mark, Waqar Ahmad, and Mark’s trusted deputy Satish Jacob travelled to a village near Mahmudabad. We approached an old man lying on a cot. We tried to engage him.
“We are trying to find out which candidate would you and most of this village vote for?”
The man got up, frowned.
“I will tell you nothing until I have heard the BBC.” He said pointing to the transistor kept neatly near his pillow.
It would be a surprise if there is no response in Kashmir to Mark's departure. In their perception, the BBC was only reliable outlet.
