J H Patel, who was the Chief Minister of Karnataka between 1996 and 1999, would have turned 91 this month had he been alive. A good orator, a shrewd politician, and a staunch socialist, his wit and sarcasm were unparalleled.
Patel, who had endeared himself to all by his forthrightness, was often caught on the wrong foot. One such occasion was when, during a TV interview, he candidly admitted his love for wine and women. This was not the first time he had made such a confession. Much before he became CM, Patel was the minister for power (electricity) and excise (liquor). When a journalist asked about his twin portfolios, he had quipped: “One gives me a shock and the other gives me a kick.”
Everybody had laughed away his remarks then, but now, with Patel himself bringing “women” into the conversation, the opposition was baying for blood. Unperturbed, Patel hit back with an anecdote. A guru and his shishya were approached by a woman who sought their help to cross a river. Taking pity on the woman, the student carried her across the water on his shoulders. When he returned, the good deed is done, his teacher bombarded him with questions: “How did you feel when you carried the woman? Was her body hard or soft? Was she warm or cold? How did it feel when her legs…?” The barrage of questions continued until they reached their ashram. Finally, the shishya retorted, “Guruji, I carried the woman on my shoulders barely for five minutes, but she has been on your mind for the past five hours.”
And with a flourish, Patel said, “For five months, you have been harping on what I spoke about for five minutes.”
The Chief Minister got embroiled in another controversy when the opposition accused him of receiving an expensive wristwatch as a bribe from a Malaysian politician. Patel refuted the charges with another story: A woman once asked the Shankaracharya the difference between truth and untruth. The Shankaracharya brought a pot of water held it so that the moon was reflected in the water. Pointing to the moon, he said, “That is truth.” Then, pointing to the moon’s reflection in the water, he said: “That is untruth.” The opposition, Patel said, could not distinguish between truth and untruth: “If you empty the water from the pot, will the moon disappear from the sky?”
Patel’s innings as CM was constantly rocked by dissidence. When a few legislators and ministers resigned, threatening the survival of his government, Patel dismissed it in his inimitable style, “Political plague has broken out and a few rats have died. There is nothing to worry.”
Later, when he had to face acute humiliation, with his own party legislators boycotting his public meetings, he responded, “The wedding will not stop just because the musicians are angry…Politics is like a train. A lot of people get in and out during the journey, but the train ultimately reaches its destination.”
Sometimes, Patel became a victim of his own wit. Once, he made a sarcastic remark on the way elections were held in Uttar Pradesh. “In UP, there is a class called Rig-vedis—those who rig elections.” BJP legislator S Suresh Kumar, punning on Patel’s self-proclaimed love for wine, retorted: “In Karnataka, we have a class called Peg-vedis.” The chief minister had a hearty laugh.
Unlike present-day politicians, Patel could and did employ wit as a weapon to deflect criticism, extricate himself from tricky situations, and even settle scores with others without even raising his voice. If there was one politician who put humour to good use, it was undoubtedly Patel.
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