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"Well, let’s see what you have got in there," he said pointing towards my article on hill architecture in a magazine, as we sat down for a conversation in the verandah with a vast garden stretching in front. And, thereafter, the ice broke; he turned into a warm, inquisitive person wanting to know more about the vernacular architecture of Himachal Pradesh. Being on a comfortable, professional turf, I turned eloquent, found my voice and even made some expert comments about an unforgettable passage in his then recently released book: The Enigma of Arrival, which though very long, was crafted with precision, clarity and absolute economy of words. However, the brief conversation ended, as his very beautiful European lady companion, Margaret Gooding — who finds great mention in Patrick French’s much-talked about authorised biography of Naipaul as his long-standing mistress in The World is What it is — joined us, and he excused himself for having to leave for an appointment with the Governor.
I mustered enough courage to say that I preferred his non-fiction to his recent novels; and my all-time favourite was Finding the Centre. Amazingly, he listened to all this with good grace and patience. In fact, he came across as a very gentle, mellow person, contrary to the ‘intolerant and cantankerous’ media persona! I urged him to keep writing and not get bogged down by a mere niggling back. Sharing my own personal travails and triumph over the malady, I said, "Please put your back pain on the back-burner and write on`85" He had a good laugh and added, "Yes, the mind must always serve a purpose, else life would be pointless for a writer." I think I heard a silent desire flickering in the maestro’s heart to pick up the pen once again. — RW
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ON his visit to India in
April, 1989, while researching for his book, India: a Million
Mutinies Now, he made a brief visit to Chandigarh to cover the
Punjab region. And it all started with a small news item in a local
newspaper mentioning his arrival. Being an avid Naipaul fan, I had a
great urge to meet my literary ‘idol’. But the news report also
tersely stated that he was strictly on a private visit —as has been
said this time also, "just to look," and was refusing to
meet anyone. Even the local university’s invitation has been
brusquely turned down! Anyway, I managed to meet him and vividly
remember the brief meeting at Hotel Mountview, then just a small field
rest house-turned-Oberoi group hotel —with a verandah for its lobby
space.
Later in the evening, he was persuaded by Rahul Singh, the
Resident Editor of a newspaper in Chandigarh, to attend a reception in
the Press Club, where he faced many a provocative question with rare
aplomb and calm. My last telephonic conversation with Naipaul was in
2008, when he had come for the treatment of back trouble in Delhi and
was staying at the Maurya Sheraton hotel. He spoke with a very clear
and resonant accent; even his telephonic talk is precise and crisp,
with immaculately structured ‘perfect’ sentences. Typical of his
sharp, curious intellect; one of his first queries was regarding my
name. "Is it Wattas or Vatsa?" I had to give a long-winded
explanation about it being originally Vatsa; perhaps anglicised by my
ancestors during the colonial days.