Dr Baburam Bhattarai, Prime Minister of Nepal, visited JNU
campus on 22nd October, 2011, in the midst of his other engagements
during his first official visit as PM to India. An eminent alumnus of
our university, where he completed his doctorate in the Centre for the
Study of Regional Development, School of Social Sciences, in 1986, Dr.
Bhattarai has always graciously and affectionately recalled the
influence of his alma mater on his political career.
Professor Atiya Habeeb Kidwai was his Research Superivisor at
JNU and the relationship between guide and student has been as special
as JNU has had the reputation of fostering from its inception. Prof
Atiya Habeeb Kidwai spoke at the reception organised to honour Dr.
Baburam Bhattarai at JNU.
The JNU Alumni site is proud to carry Professor Atiya Habeeb Kidwai’s speech. The full text of her speech is given below.
Prof Atiya Habeeb Kidwai’s speech
Wecome – Dr. Baburam Bhattarai, Hon’ble Prime Minister of Nepal
It is a rare occasion indeed when a teacher gets the opportunity to
introduce one of his or her students as a Prime Minister. The occasion
becomes the rarest of the rare when that Prime Minister is one who has
led a Revolution, freed a country from oppression and has earned the
respect and affection of millions of his countrymen.
I stand here, tall and proud today, Mr. Prime Minister, as I recall
some incidents that define my association with you as your Doctoral
Supervisor. In doing so I may at times disrespect protocol, for which I
hope, Mr. Adhikari and members of the Nepalese delegation, you will
forgive me. Sitting here with us today is not only your Prime Minister
but our own Baburam- batch of 1979-80 and a CSRDian. For me, a
member of my family, much admired by my late husband and ‘babu uncle’ to
my children. It is in terms of these relationships that I will speak,
not about, but
to your
Prime Minister today. It is only in this very personal way, that I
find myself able to share a journey that began 32 years ago with this
exceptional human being.
He has made me play many roles in his life. That of an elder sister, a
guardian, a friend and occasionally of a teacher. While he has played
only
one role in my life, which he himself once defined as that
of a problem child, one who can only give worries. He continues to play
that role.
Mr. Vice Chancellor, I am going to exceed the time alloted to me. Do
allow me. I want the JNU students to know the man they have come to
applaud and I want them to learn from his life how a teacher-student
relationship is developed and maintained. It is this relationship that
has been the hallmark of this university and I sometimes find that
hallmark fading. I want the people of Nepal to know about the integrity
and simplicity of the man who is leading them. I cannot do this in the
seven minutes given to me. The tea can wait.
I now address you Mr. Prime Minister.
I take you back to 1979 when you became a part of our Centre. I am
sure you remember its vibrancy and the atmosphere of informality. The
faculty was young and was led by a grand man, Professor Monis Raza, part
philosopher, part poet, in totality an intellectual “bindas”. He
would, time and again, tell us that there are two types of students.
Those who have the spark of intelligence in their eyes and those who
only have innocence and both these types are important to the system.
While allotting supervisors Professor Monis Raza would invariably keep
the “innocent” students to himself. Those with a spark were allotted to
the younger faculty - not yet seasoned in the art of research
supervision. And so Mr. Prime Minister you were given to me. You not
only had the spark but a twinkle in your eyes. The other reason why you
came to me was more academic. You were a professionally qualified
Architect and Urban Planner. I too had a planning degree and, before I
joined JNU in 1971, I had taught architects and planners at IIT
Kharagpur. Professor Raza considered me as the best running mate for
you.
I remember his words to me, “ See what you can do with this boy”.
Mr. Prime Minister,
I share my first impression of you. Boyish looks, small frame,
pleasant face and a very impish smile. Your answers were in the
shortest of sentences and the smile never left your face. Your
reticence gave me the liberty to become, perhaps, the first dictator in
your life. I took it for granted that with your technical academic
background your knowledge of the social sciences must be very limited
and so I had to enlarge your vision. I also immediately decided your
area of research. Since you were from Nepal you had to naturally work
on that country as my Bangledeshi students were working on theirs.
And I clearly pointed out the main problem you faced - you knew very
little about Nepal as you had left your country after school. I, also,
had all the solutions ready for you. You had to start with the basic
Marxist or neo Marxist texts in Development theory because nothing else
had explained the world better to me. Your next assignment was also
decided – you had to travel in your country to understand the ground
reality.
When I look back, I feel that in imposing these dictates on you, perhaps I was right.
Mr Prime Minister, With little choice given, you followed my
instructions. You read extensively. Your capacity to read sometimes
astonished me. You also travelled in the interiors of Nepal and saw the
extent of poverty . On your return I noticed a change in you. You had
become more reflective, slightly less reticent and now, on your own,
would start a conversation with me. You would also now come to my house
like most of my students did, and endeared yourself to my family. This
was at 36 Dakshinapuram, JNU.
Mr Vice Chancellor in those days you were my neighbour living in 34
Dakshinapuram. I marvel at this coincidence. The same young boy who so
many times walked past your house, unnoticed, is being celebrated today
at his Alma Mater, by you, as its Vice Chancellor.
Mr Prime Minister,
I recall the days in 1981 when you were writing your Ph.D. synopsis. I
had a bad reputation with my students of never being satisfied with
their work. Here I had a student who was not satisfied with his. So
many drafts were hand written, corrected and hand written again. You
faced the faculty only when your synopsis reflected the understanding
of a theoretically grounded and sensitive social scientist -- one who
was better than the best.
My memory is slightly nebulous about the period that followed. But I
do remember very distinctly, Mr. Prime Minister, that you had started
playing the disappearing game with me. In JNU this has always been a
very popular pastime which PhD students. I was used to it but in your
case it bothered me. I had wanted you to complete your thesis in four
years and return to Nepal as its most qualified planner. Also different
from the others because your thesis would have given you a grounded
understanding of your country and a sharpened sensitivity towards
poverty and inequality. I was aware that this was a very insipid
version of a meaningful life - but with my limited capacities, this
is the best I thought I could do for you.
I, however, soon realized that things were gradually moving away
from my chosen path for you. You confessed to me one day that you were
dividing your time between your academic work and your social
responsibilities towards the Nepalese workers in India. I was disturbed
but, in a way, also happy. In Delhi I had seen their plight. They needed
a voice. I did not dissuade you.
Sometime during this period an incident convinced me that you have an
inner strength which will help you overcome the worst of situations.
You had a road accident near JNU. There were head injuries which
impaired your memory for recent events. I recall that I would show you
books you had read and ask you if you remembered them and you would
quietly nod a “No”. Throughout this turmoil, however, you always looked
at peace with yourself and your smile never left you. It was just
tinged with a strange sadness sometimes. You re-read what was essential
and re-worked your thesis. We waited for things to get normal and
fortunately they did.
And then, to my delight, you married Hisila whom I had met way back
in 1969 as a chirpy little school girl in IIT Kanpur, that is, much
before you would have met her. At least that is my belief, Mr. Prime
Minister.
Between 1982 and 1984 you did become my “problem child”. I had taken
study leave and was to be out of the country for almost an year. I had
made work schedules for all my PhD students. Instructions to you were
“stop reading and start writing”. On my return you were not on campus.
Hisila met me instead with a letter from you. It stunned me. In that
letter you had given voice to your dilemmas. I quote “If it were not for
the social cost invested in me I would not give much to the degree, as I
have firmly resolved to devote all my time to practical revolutionary
activities”. You also wrote that you greatly valued my trust in your
integrity and giving up your research would break that trust. That was
your dilemma. The letter is dated August 12, 1982.
I decided that day that I would let you follow your heart because
that heart had dreams few of us would dare to dream. And that heart was
kind and simple.
Mr. Prime Minister,
But I knew that if I let you go without a thesis your conscience
would not allow you to rest.You were carrying the weight of obligation
to ICSSR for its fellowship. Public money was being spent on you and
you felt accountable. I requested Hisila to step in. She could take over
the drudgery of the manual work that went in the production of a CSRD
thesis those days. I started building pressure on you to complete your
work. When you could not keep deadlines a very apologetic letter would
arrive and I was assured that you were trying your best. Your letters
indicate that those were tortured years for you. Finally you came with
the thesis draft. The main text covered about 500 pages and the
Appendices, maps, etc., another 300.
I was petrified. However, after a quick scan of the thesis I could
see that this was the most comprehensive work on Nepal done yet. But
something had to be done about its length. The easiest way out, I felt,
would be to summarise the very elaborate thematic discussion of Marxian
theory in each chapter. I would sit with you, Mr. Prime Minister, and
politely suggest to abbreviate a page here or delete a paragraph
there. But equally politely you would nod your head in a “No”. I would
see pain in your eyes. Each and every line you had written was precious
to you because it had increased your understanding of the soul of
Nepal. I decided the thesis will go as it was and I will face the
examiners. Today when I mercilessly put red lines across the pages of my
students’ work I sometimes stop to ask myself, “Why could I not do
this to Baburam?” I also know the answer. The degree was granted to you
on June the 16th 1987. I wonder if you have collected it.
After the thesis was done I had thought that my association with you,
Mr Prime Minister, would be over as you were now in a different
country and had a different calling. But you and Hisila kept the
relationship alive on a very personal level. During the years when you
had to be underground for long periods I would see more of Hisila and
we would worry together about Manushi, your little daughter. You would
occasionally come to see us and that would give us great pleasure. On
some visits you looked very tired, unkempt and withdrawn. To make such
situations light I would scold you about your dirty feet and chappals,
give you a towel, and point you to the bathroom. You would laugh and
obey. Rarely would you stay back for a meal with us though I could see
you had not eaten properly for days. One question never asked was “where
have you come from and where were you going”.
Things must have gradually become more difficult for you, Mr. Prime
Minister because your visits stopped and our only link became the
small, simple cards you sent me every New Year with just Baburam written
in a corner. The card would arrive anytime in January and I would share
it with my family. That card was a message that all was well. One year
the card did not come until early March. I panicked and tried to find
out what had happened. That was not easy. To my relief the card did
finally come at the end of March. You had given me three months of
worry.
Mr. Prime Minister,
I wish to share with you what my husband would say to me when I was
concerned about you. “Baburam will survive all turmoil. His inner
strength comes from the fact that he has no personal ambitions. Only
ambitions for a cause”. He understood, because that was also his inner
strength.
In September 2004 I was surprised to get a phone call from you Mr.
Prime Minister. You said you wanted to come home and meet us. The
newspapers had been reporting that the police was after you, perhaps
there was also an Interpol alert. I pleaded with you not to take the
risk. “Tomorrow at 5 pm” is all I got to hear before the phone was
disconnected . At 5 pm the next day the doorbell rang and you were
there. You had a long relaxed conversation with my husband that day. It
was like old times. I just watched. Two finest of men, one terminally
ill because, while trying to establish an institution of some repute,
and then trying to save it, he never had the time to rest and recoup
from a rare affliction. The other, hounded by the police for trying to
free his countrymen.
I saluted your fearlessness that day Mr. Prime minister. When you
wanted to leave, I asked you how would you go. “By a bus” you said in
your simple manner. I looked at my husband and could see that he did not
want me to interfere. From a distance I watched you walk to the
Godavari bus stop. I waited till a bus came and left. Both of us
restlessly waited for the next day’s newspaper.
I am grateful to you Mr. Prime Minister for giving those two hours of
happiness to my husband. That was his last meeting with you.
A few months later the political situation changed. Some organization
was honouring you and insisted that I came. I sat in a corner at the
back and wondered at the ways of the world. Same man, same city, no
police in pursuit. A young girl came and sat next to me and asked me
my name. I looked at her face, and, instinctively asked - Manushi? Yes,
she said. Circumstances allowed us to hug each other for the first
time. She must have been eighteen years old then.
After the function you extricated yourself from all the adulation and
approached me - just to ask “ “How is sir?” “No more,” I said. You were
whisked away by your security men. You turned back several times. Your
expression will always remain vivid in my memory. You face was pale and
you angry about your status because that did not allow you to spend a
few moments with someone you wanted to console. Once again I said to
myself. That’s my Baburam!
Mr. Prime Minister, I must stop now.
Guide Manushi to create a world where I do not have to wait for
eighteen years to hug her. Also tell her that all the letters and cards
you sent to me and the flow charts you made for your thesis are well
preserved and will be my gift to her children.
But before I leave, I want you to recall that you owe me my Guru
Dakshina. I want it from you today. A promise that you will send me that
little card every year and it will come in January.
Thank you.
Atiya Habeeb Kidwai
