Former Finance Minister and BJP politician Yashwant Sinha talks of his journey into the world of administrative services, politics, inspiration and his mentor

Here is a small story. It starts in a place called Kadamkuan in Patna in the 1940s. For those who are from the eastern part of India, they may be familiar with the place. For those unaware, Kadamkuan remains in the living memory because it was home to Jayaprakash Narayan. Jayaprakash Narayan, JP, Jayaprakash or Loknayak—one of the most prominent freedom fighters and social activists—was known by many names. He was to lead a movement in the early 1970s against the Centre’s regime. However, this is not the story of JP. It is of a young lad, also from Kadamkuan, and who was to hold JP in the highest esteem so much so to pave a path according to the elder man’s ideals. The young lad was so enchanted by the movement and the man at its helm that he would, years later, change his career path as a tribute to him. But we get ahead of ourselves. Revert to the Kadamkuan of the 1940s. The area was home to several eminent people who had made their houses with sprawling compounds in the “New Area”, built after the 1934 Bihar Earthquake—one of the worst recorded earthquakes in this country’s history. In New Area, there also lived a large family of seven brothers and four sisters and their parents in a large rented house. The protagonist of our story is the seventh brother and the ninth child of this family. The boy, as it would be clear later, was a late bloomer. Being one of the youngest, he was left to his devices for a long period of time. Till he was seven, no one in the family really worried enough about him to send him to school. His elder siblings home schooled him and he learnt the letters, alphabets and basic arithmetic thanks to his brothers. Probably, when he became too inquisitive or noisy, he is not too sure which of his attributes was to blame, one of his much-elder brothers caught hold of him and took him to the nearest school in the neighbourhood—a walk from his home. Thus, till seven, life was immersed in the blur of colours; colours of bright kites and glass marbles. These were the games he would cherish playing with his neighbourhood gang in those sprawling compounds and fields of Kadamkuan. Then, there was a game called “chance”. A mix between “catch me if you can” or “lock-and-key”, he was the master of this game, being quick on his feet. Up the walls and over the fields he would tear through, spending his hours. But, it was flying kites which he was obsessed with. So obsessed in fact that one of his recurrent childhood dreams was of him and his friends running after one particularly large bright kite. Confident of his abilities, and an eternal optimist, the lad would manage to catch the string right at the end, beating the rest; all the time. The idyllic childhood games were paused when he was led to Sir Ganesh Dutta Patliputra High English School. The name of the particular institution was longer and grander than its premises. Housed in a disputed building, there was a legal war being waged between the school authorities and the land-lord, who also happened to be the neighbourhood lawyer. One day the legal battle ended, and the boy and his friends hurried to their classes to discover (to their unbridled joy) that desks had being thrown while text books lay strewn on the ground like flotsam. With alacrity students went back to their homes to declare their independence from studies to alarmed parents. That holiday continued for fourth months, after which the school was re-started and re-established on a new premise, a little further ahead, and the kite, marble and chance games were put away for a bit longer. In that school, our protagonist continued his studies. Academics was yet to become a priority (such a contrast to his later life). His elder brothers had taken care of that legacy or burden; call it what you will. Most of them were intuitively good in their studies. There were few regrets or complaints in that family, barring one. None of the excellent academically brilliant brothers had managed to crack the Union Public Service Commission blur of colours; colours of bright kites and glass marbles. These were the games he would cherish playing with his neighbourhood gang in those sprawling compounds and fields of Kadamkuan. Then, there was a game called “chance”. A mix between “catch me if you can” or “lock-and-key”, he was the master of this game, being quick on his feet. Up the walls and over the fields he would tear through, spending his hours. But, it was flying kites which he was obsessed with. So obsessed in fact that one of his recurrent childhood dreams was of him and his friends running after one particularly large bright kite. Confident of his abilities, and an eternal optimist, the lad would manage to catch the string right at the end, beating the rest; all the time. The idyllic childhood games were paused when he was led to Sir Ganesh Dutta Patliputra High English School. The name of the particular institution was longer and grander than its premises. Housed in a disputed building, there was a legal war being waged between the school authorities and the land-lord, who also happened to be the neighbourhood lawyer. One day the legal battle ended, and the boy and his friends hurried to their classes to discover (to their unbridled joy) that desks had being thrown while text books lay strewn on the ground like flotsam. With alacrity students went back to their homes to declare their independence from studies to alarmed parents. That holiday continued for fourth months, after which the school was re-started and re-established on a new premise, a little further ahead, and the kite, marble and chance games were put away for a bit longer. In that school, our protagonist continued his studies. Academics was yet to become a priority (such a contrast to his later life). His elder brothers had taken care of that legacy or burden; call it what you will. Most of them were intuitively good in their studies. There were few regrets or complaints in that family, barring one. None of the excellent academically brilliant brothers had managed to crack the Union Public Service Commission.

THE PATLIPUTRA BAGGAGE

There are few people who can narrate a story well. There are even fewer still, who can do it quickly. Former Finance Minister Yashwant Sinha is one of the few who blessed with a sharp memory, solid hold over words, and more importantly, a deliciously self-deprecating, yet confident, sense of humour, which makes him an excellent narrator. He not only tells a story crisply and lucidly, but also, takes his audience into its very fabric. Thus, when he speaks of his seven-year-old self—dreaming of a kite and running after it—you are with him. You can sense his hope and determination. A bureaucrat-turned-politician, Yashwant Sinha is considered by many as one of the Finance Ministers who transformed the Indian economy. He has been held in high-esteem by his friends, and more importantly, by his foes, as a man of character. His life has been impressive—early on he tasted success as a bureaucrat. Then Sinha took a U-turn to enter Indian politics with a ticket from Janata Dal. He served as a spokesperson for Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), served stints as the Foreign and Finance Ministers in the Atal Bihari Vajpayee government. However, Sinha is perhaps best remembered as an administrative officer who held important posts for 24 years upholding Indian concerns in international conferences and in social and political delegations. At the end of the day, the man who sits across me in his political uniform of a crisp kurta-pyjama and a Nehru jacket, is ready with a smile. Being the storyteller, he does not make his life seem less or more than what it was, or is. He swings between being self-deprecating and confident. Sometimes, with a hearty laugh or with a smile that his seven-year-old self might have flashed, he admits to being quite an arrogant person. From his stories, however, the BJP member emerges as an intuitive person—in control of his destiny. As he shares his life story, the root cause of his confidence emerges. As a student hailing from a Hindi-medium, neighbourhood school, Sinha struggled to gain the confidence of his new teachers in the reputed Patna Collegiate School. And the label of being a “Hindi-medium student” was one that he carried into his college and Master’s days. Sinha recalls one particular teacher who seemed to take pleasure in pointing out his mistakes. He took to referring Sinha as the “Patliputra Boy”. In those days of strict attendance and roll calls, students quite an arrogant person. From his stories, however, the BJP member emerges as an intuitive person—in control of his destiny. As he shares his life story, the root cause of his confidence emerges. As a student hailing from a Hindi-medium, neighbourhood school, Sinha struggled to gain the confidence of his new teachers in the reputed Patna Collegiate School. And the label of being a “Hindi-medium student” was one that he carried into his college and Master’s days. Sinha recalls one particular teacher who seemed to take pleasure in pointing out his mistakes. He took to referring Sinha as the “Patliputra Boy”. In those days of strict attendance and roll calls, students (Master’s), a fierce debater, the young man was preparing himself unknowingly for a life under the public glare. The pressure he put himself through, was not for a career. He wanted to be a man of several parts, and shed the Patliputra label. This was like his dream again—chasing a goal, only this time, his rivals were not his neighbourhood boys but young men who came from English-medium schools. “Everyone in the college was a friend. I have some of these old friends in my life still. However, there are a core group of three of us who came from Hindi-medium background. One day we decided that we would speak to each other in English and English only. Determined, we dispersed for the day. Next day onwards, we started to avoid each other like plague. If we spotted anyone, we would try to look the other way. For a while, we judiciously continued to avoid each other, till I decided that we couldn’t carry on. My friends and I decided we would converse in English, but occasionally,” he said breaking into a booming laugh.

THE PUNJAB MAIL

“In college, I decided to break my Hindi-medium mold and joined the debate team. The best orator among us was a young man who came from Doon School. There was no way I could beat his skills. Instead, I decided to be the second-best. I joined his team for an Intermediate Debate, a pretty prestigious event, held between top colleges in Patna, namely the Patna Women’s College, Magadh College and some more. I doggedly prepared a five-minute speech. And then rote learnt it while pacing the banks of the Ganga. I went and delivered it without pausing. Friends later informed me that I had earned a nickname—Punjab Mail—one of the few fast trains travelling from Patna in those days for my non-stop rant. Though, I was forewarned, I continued in the same breathless fashion in the main debate. Thankfully, my partner, (Doon student) was an excellent orator. Together we bagged the team cup. I realised that I loved debating.” Due to his relentless pursuing of all debate competitions, he soon became one of the busiest and best debaters of his college. The incident sheds light on yet another impressive attribute laudable in Sinha. Faced with any impediment, he has always managed to see it as a challenge, and turned it around to his advantage. And through it all, he often manifested the energy and rigour of a seven year old pursuing his kite. In college he took up multiple activities; theatre being one. He played Lord Hastings in Richard the Third (“His remains were discovered recently, I hope you have heard”, he informs me). He also played Sergius in Arms and the Man. He was one of the active members of the National Cadet Corps from his school days. His participation also earned him a seat at Indian Military Academy in Dehradun. “I took part in the Republic Day parade, I was an NCC cadre. I was on stage acting and debating. If there is a single regret that I have, is rejecting the military academy offer. I was and remain fascinated by the military uniform. I have a tremendous respect for the men and women who go to war for our well-being. I have to make do by reading fiction based around wars,” he says. Even if the Army uniform was not for him, another uniform was waiting. That of a civil servant. He was almost ready for his role having chosen the “right subject” and the “right attitude”. Sinha interjects and states he just had an attitude. Though he was one of the top scorers in the civil entrance tests, he scored poorly in the Viva Voce (140 out of 400) something he suspects was due to one of his answers. “A high-ranking IPS officer was present in my interview panel. He saw my NCC record and asked me why had I placed IPS so low on my list of priorities. I said, just because I had excelled in the NCC, it did not necessarily mean that I should be condemned to a life of a policeman,” he says, laughing. Even if his answer was not smart, his scores were—enough for him to get through the Bihar Cadre of the IAS. Punjab Mail was right on track.

“I COULD BE A MINISTER, BUT YOU CANNOT BE AN IAS OFFICER”

First the district training course in Arrah, then as a sub-divisional officer at Giridih and then finally becoming the Deputy Commissioner of the Santhal Paraganas, Sinha rose through the ranks quickly. His stint was marked by difficulties—one of them being the 1967 Bihar Famine. Though the situation was tragic, it brought him a step closer to his childhood hero–Jayaprakash Narayan. “I had grown up hearing stories of the man being tied to a slab of ice, being tortured and yet never giving in. I had grown to idiolise him. During the Bihar Famine, JP was leading the Bihar Relief Committee. In order to help him out, I organised an entertainment programme. We managed to gather a sum of `1 lakh, which I presented to the committee. He acknowledged our effort by agreeing to meet me. Two days before the scheduled meeting, the then CM of Bihar (who shall be unnamed) and his CPI friend visited my office. In those days, government ministers manifested their superiority by behaving badly with bureaucrats. I had heard so many horror tales that I was pretty nervous about the meeting. It turned out to be as bad as I expected. We had a tiff,” he remembers. At the end of the argument, Sinha uttered his “famous last words”—“I could be a minister if I wanted to be, but you cannot be an IAS officer even if you wanted”. “I was nearly suspended. However, the worst bit was that I never got to meet JP,” he recalls. That meeting with JP was to be further postponed, as Sinha would do rounds of top official posts in both Indian and foreign shores before landing up in India in 1974. His stint at the Ministry of Commerce took him all over the world. I was tempted to ask, for a man who battled with the English language for so long, how was it to actually land on shores were it was spoken? “I felt that it was long overdue, my visit to those places,” he says with a laugh. There is a flash of his confidence again. We would have labelled it arrogance, had his journey been easy. However, it was well-earned one. Confidence is key to his being—it is not a matter of how one perceives himself, but how others perceives a confident being. Say, even a nation. “I was in Germany when the Pokhran Tests happened. Overnight, I noticed the world’s perception of us had changed. When India lend a helping hand to the emerging nation-state of Bangladesh, India’s stocks rose further globally. A nation, I believe deeply, has to be strong and confident in order to emerge.”