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The Biratnagar-effect on GP
MAR 26 -
Most Nepalis have vivid memories of Girija Prasad Koirala. He’d been around as long as one could remember, and in his own lifetime, he had seen five monarchs come and go. But his name didn’t always bring pleasant memories. In fact, he presided over a period in the 90’s synonymous with degeneration and deviance in Nepali politics. But between April 2006 and April 2008, his stature rose to a dizzying height that surpassed his physical height.
My own experience of observing him first-hand was in November 2007 when I was working as a producer for BBC’s Sajha Sawal. For our first programme, we had confirmed GP, then the prime minister and interim president, as a panellist. He had agreed to face the public in a televised Q&A—provided it was recorded in Biratnagar, his hometown. Keith Beech, the editor of Sajha Sawal then, put me in charge of the logistics. So I flew three days before the recording date to Biratnagar.
Koirala’s trip to his hometown had always been marked with anticipation in the Nepali press as he had a habit of making big and controversial announcements from the comfort of his home. He usually kept away from the Kathmandu press partly because he didn’t trust them, and partly because he was very reticent and seldom felt the need to clarify things. But this characterisation was only true in Kathmandu. As soon as he arrived in Biratnagar, he spoke freely with the reporters.
The relationship between GP and his hometown press corps was complicated. He treated them like family members and had meals with them whenever he was in town, and they reciprocated. It seemed as if the reporters knew what he meant and what he didn’t, and self-censored his musings. In Biratnagar, you couldn’t apply the Kathmandu press corps’ standard that states ‘unless it is off-the-record, everything is on-the-record’.
Journalists had unrestricted access to his house even while he was the prime minister. Security officials were least worried about threats to GP’s life from a journalist. But things changed when GP became the acting president. The security at his residence was beefed up, with protocols involving the head of state came into play. Journalists couldn’t wander inside GP’s house anymore, though they were still allowed to enter the premises with ease and without appointment.
I was working with a local BBC stringer, Tanka Khanal, to sort out the logistics of bringing the audience from different villages who would try to hold the prime minister accountable, a rarity in Nepal and definitely a first for someone who was famous for putting down the phone during radio interviews if he didn’t like the question. We were worried about him leaving the recording 10 minutes into the programme when we had 45 minutes of airtime to fill. The next day, Khanal got a call on his mobile, started his motorcycle and asked me to tag along.
The day was Nov. 7, 2007. Around 2 pm on a Wednesday afternoon, we arrived at Koirala Niwas. Someone suggested that we go to the airport instead. We hopped on to a jeep parked inside the compound. GP was scheduled to arrive at 2:30 pm. Four hundred metres away from the airport, our jeep stopped behind a beeline of vehicles. A crowd had descended to receive GP, whose aircraft landed 15 minutes later. He just waived off reporters who were waiting to get sound bites.
The security personnel escorted him to the VIP lounge. “He’s not in the mood,” one journalist said. “Now, let’s go to his house,” another said. We drove behind a police car. A little further, a speeding civilian car cut into the motorcade, followed by a bike. “If this had happen in India, they would have gone to jail,” pointed a visibly irritated party cadre, “Sadly, nothing happens in this country.”
In 25 minutes, we were back at Koirala Niwas; the police stopped the press from climbing upstairs to Koirala’s veranda, the usual venue for reporters. “Get out from here,” a Deputy Superintendent of Police yelled at the go-getters. The press, not used to such security hassles, was furious. “Why is he being so rude?” they told each other.
A little later, an aide came and told us to come at 8:30 am next day. The next morning, we arrived at 8 am. Koirala was meeting regional heads of security bodies. Finally, the moment arrived. We climbed to Koirala’s top floor veranda in his two storey house through a narrow staircase. We scrambled to grab a chair each. Koirala came out a few minutes later and gestured gently; the reporters started to field questions. He answered their questions one after another for the next 15 minutes. “That’s it for today,” GP then said, “Bring tea for all,” he signalled to his aide.
While the tea was being served, journalists complained to him about not being able to talk to him the previous day and the police behaviour. “I was tired yesterday,” he said, almost defending himself. “It never happened before when Nona aama (GP’s sister-in-law who died in 2007) was alive,” said one reporter. “Even if you can’t talk to us, we should be allowed to sit on these chairs every time you’re in Biratnagar,” demanded another. He nodded. Another journalist complained about the police chiefs not doing their job properly and hiding from the YCL. A local party aide cut in accusing the journalist of making a baseless accusation. “Journalists are always right,” Koirala responded with a grin. Laughter.
Then it was time for some photo-ops. The widow of a Ram Hari Pokhrel, a civil servant who was murdered in the nearby district of Siraha, was brought before Koirala along with her daughter. She wanted her job at the local municipality to be permanent. Make it permanent, Koirala told his district aide. “I haven’t received anything certifying my late husband as a martyr,” she said. You will have it, Koirala assured her.
After a while Koirala gestured; it’s the end of the session. Everyone began to leave. Then he asked everybody to gather round and dropped a cryptic bit. “The upcoming session of the parliament will be a peace session.” Half of the journalists missed it.
Two days later, Koirala stunned us by sitting in for a full hour-and-a-half taking questions from people bussed in from six different villages. We were warned that he would walk out without warning, but he stayed on longer than we had planned. He had to take a 15-minute break for oxygen after he started to look lost and distracted. For an 84-year-old, Koirala looked terrific as he responded to impassioned questions and comments in his garden. His memory and wit hadn’t betrayed him, and he responded to the questions with humility, tact and authority. At the end, he appeared bemused by his engagement in his hometown.
As he aged, Koirala displayed traits rare in Nepali politics. He began craving for a legacy. Perhaps it was the realisation his years were numbered, perhaps he had grown wiser with the years, or perhaps he had simply grown senile; there is no telling what changed him. But what is clear is that he was a man of few words, and doggedly stood his ground. And like all men of stature, he was a bundle of paradox. He was a man of profound conviction and discernible gravitas, but he did also play low to get rid of his opponents within and beyond his party. He always maintained, at least publicly, that he became prime minister by ‘fluke’, and described the prime minister’s chair as a ‘worn-out shoe’ that he was desperate to get rid of. Whatever the reality may be, both his achievements and failings will be hard to match, and his leadership, especially in the peace process, will surely be missed.
Posted on: 2010-03-27 08:09
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