Sita, a man of wit who stood by what he said

I can’t recall when I first met Sitaram Yechury. It was probably shortly after I returned to India in 1990. But what I’ll never forget is my first big interview with him. It was in 1996 and about Deve Gowda, the new prime minister. By then, I knew him well.
In the interview Sita, as I had started to call him at his suggestion, was critical of the fact Deve Gowda had taken several members of his family on an official visit to Italy. Since his party, the Communist Party of India-Marxist (CPM), was supporting the United Front government Gowda led, this was unexpected, outspoken and newsworthy. And it wasn’t just a casual comment. It was well-developed criticism.
The evening, before the interview’s broadcast, Sita called. “I’m not ringing to ask you to drop what I said,” he laughed. It was an infectious good-natured chuckle. “I’m ringing to make sure you don’t because I’ve already told my colleagues about it and tackled their response. Now, if you cut it out, we’ll both look stupid!”
Sita, in fact, was one of the few politicians who always stand by what they have said. In the 1990s and early noughties, when it wasn’t uncommon to be asked by interviewees to drop their indiscretions — because they didn’t have the guts to face the consequences of their actual views — this was most unusual. Actually, admirable.
What took me a little longer to discover was that Sita was also an attentive listener with a formidable memory. Once in the courtyard outside Kamani Auditorium, where Eyewitness, a video magazine I used to edit, often held debates, I found him smoking. “Want one?” he asked. I assumed the look on my face revealed I did. After he lit the cigarette he offered me, I asked how he knew I smoked.
“You told me about it, yaar,” he replied, astonished I had forgotten. “You said you only smoke in January and only other people’s cigarettes!” He was absolutely right, except it was one of the silly things I often say expecting no one will remember. Sita had.
In fact, the range and accuracy of his memory was a powerful weapon in interviews. Often have I got a date mixed up or a fact wrong whilst questioning him and he’d quickly, but always inoffensively, correct me. And then he’d add a point or two I’d forgotten which would nail the matter conclusively. Game, set and match Sitaram Yechury!
However, the one thing he was not is dour and humourless. Sita’s wit was like effervescent champagne, sparkling and bubbling. In 2005, shortly after Brinda Karat joined her husband on the CPM’s politburo, Sita was a guest on a CNBC late night discussion I was anchoring. One of the guests commented on the fact she was the first woman to be appointed to this body. “Yes”, Sita gently commented, his face covered with a naughty grin, “we’ve become a two-carat party!”
He was also a riveting raconteur. And when he told his stories, his eyes would light up, his face would break into a smile, and you could tell he was enjoying himself. Even when we spoke on the phone, which we sometimes did late at night because he liked an interview or a column he’d just seen, I could sense the grin on his face or the chuckle in his voice whenever he spoke anecdotally.
But Sita was rarely, if ever, on time. Even if he set out for an interview at the agreed hour, he’d meet so many people on the way to the car that he’d get delayed. “The problem is a simple one,” my colleagues, who we sent to escort him, would explain. “They all want to talk to him and he never refuses.”
Actually, I don’t recall him saying no. As journalists do, I’ve made seemingly impossible requests which other politicians would have unhesitatingly refused. Sita would always find a way of agreeing — sometimes with a little cajoling from his beloved wife, Seema. That’s how I will always remember him.
Karan Thapar is the author of Devil’s Advocate: The Untold Story.The views expressed are personal