WIDE ANGLE | Mark Tully And BBC Radio Synonymos

In the front seat, with the driver, was Mark Fineman of Los Angeles Times, when their car was stopped at an improvised toll barrier in Lord Krishna’s town Mathura.“Mark”, an Indian reporter shouted. “Tell him you’re a journalist and he’ll let you go.” The toll keeper heard the name, Mark, and his eyes lit up. He waved to his friends, who leapt to their feet: “Mark Tully! Mark Tully!” Before the impersonation travelled, an infuriated Mark Fineman pulled out a Rs 10 note, and threw it at the toll keeper: “Here’s your toll!” Fineman was probably scarred for good. In the ranks of foreign correspondents, there would always be one above them: Sir Mark Tully. He was on a higher pedestal for good, professional reasons: balance, dependability, diligence and a distinct charm which attracted all to his salon, first in Jor Bagh, facing Safdarjung’s Tomb, and later at 1, Nizamuddin East.The character of his salon changed over the years. His wife, Margaret, from whom he had two sons and two daughters, was a lively Victorian lady of the style his father would’ve approved of. The senior Tully, whom Mark always referred to as “Burra Saheb” of Gillanders Arbuthnot, headquartered in Calcutta, which is where Mark was born. Quite predictably, he attended St. Paul’s School in Darjeeling as a boy, before he went to Marlborough College, which he prouder of than the next halt, Trinity Hall in Cambridge where he studied theology. His career as priest was grounded partly by himself and more by his tutor at Trinity, Robert Runcie, who later became Archbishop of Canterbury.“Master Tully”, Runcie told him: “You appear more suited to the public house (pub) than to the pulpit.” This was said in good humour, but Mark spotted in Runcie’s remark a grain of truth. Yes, Mark did enjoy his beer. Since his favourite, flat bitter, was not available in India, he even went through a spell of trying to brew at home.All of his life, Mark was torn between early Christian training and his real life, which was seldom free of fun, frolic, mischief and a personal morality which hovered on what his faith told him was sin. In the second half of his innings in Delhi, he fell in love with Gillian Wright, a writer who translated classical novels like Raga Darbari and Adha Gaon. Mark, even though he lived with Gillian, was always afflicted by a certain guilt. He never divorced Margaret, with whom he reinvented a life of laughter and affection. I can put a date when Mark’s romance with Gillian burgeoned: April 1979. I was to accompany Atal Behari Vajpayee to Beijing. Since the visit was coinciding with Pakistan PM Zulfiqar Bhutto’s case reaching a crescendo, I decided to pick up another story in Islamabad on my way to China. To my delight, I found myself in the Flashman’s hotel in Rawalpindi, where Mark was also staying. In those days, Gillian used to write letters in Urdu but in the Roman script. In this way, “Gilli” became a bridge between the Englishman who loved India and made it his home. There is poetic justice in that he received a knighthood as well as the Padma Bhusgan and Padma Shri.My room at Flashman’s had a clear view of the procession of contacts visiting Mark. Many belonged to orthodox sects of Islam. I felt secure that though I had no contacts in Pakistan, I could pick up the story from Mark on Bhutto was to be hanged or not. At crack of dawn one morning, a cousin of mine in Karachi called me up: “Bhaiyya, I am sure you had got the story of Bhutto having been hanged since you are staying in the same hotel as Mark Tully.” I was hurt. Mark had filed what was clearly one of his many international scoops, yet I had the foolish expectation he would tip me off. When I complained, Mark was blunt: “I am a professional, Saeed, and my loyalty on that count is with the BBC.” An Indian’s loyalty is to his village. My friendship with Mark and Gillian acquired a new dimension when they accompanied me, for Muharram observances, to Mustafabad, my village past Lucknow, Rae Bareli and Unchahar railway station. Since the extended families of the Naqvis, a total of about 50, scattered all over north India, congregated in Mustafabad for Muharram, Mark and Gilli endeared themselves to the whole “Qasba”, which is, after all, a network of cousins. All of Mustafabad was flattered that the two visited the Qasba several times. Gillian even became a fixture, reciting passages from Anis’ Marsiya on the Mimbar, the pulpit.The fact that Mark Tully was expelled from India during the Emergency interfered with his balance when he returned to cast his eye on a somewhat altered India. He began to see Nehruvian secularism as inimical to India’s ethos, which was primarily religious. That this was the thin edge of wedge of Hindutva was something Mark needed to clarify. The reach and credibility of BBC Radio in the subcontinent and across the globe is owed to Mark and Mark alone. During an election survey, Mark, Waqar Ahmad, and Mark’s trusted deputy Satish Jacob travelled to a village near Mahmudabad. We approached an old man lying on a cot. We tried to engage him.“We are trying to find out which candidate would you and most of this village vote for?” The man got up, frowned. “I will tell you nothing until I have heard the BBC”, he said, pointing to the transistor kept neatly near his pillow. It would be a surprise if there is no response in Kashmir to Mark’s departure. In the Kashmiris’ perception, the BBC was the only reliable news outlet. The writer is a senior journalist and commentator based in New Delhi



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