On the eve of the 2002 Gujarat elections, I had stuck my neck out to predict, somewhat audaciously, that if Modi wins, it would alter the character of national politics and that the next general election could be a Sonia versus Modi contest. There were some curious murmurs and questions from the usual suspects of the Congress that Saturday morning. But, surprise of surprises, the only protest came from Pramod Mahajan.

He called early that morning and, for once, was not his usual sugar-coated self. “What’s this, boss, what kind of nonsense are you writing?” he said. Why should it have upset Pramod if I was predicting his party’s victory in Gujarat? That foxed me at that moment and, in any case, six thirty in the morning is not exactly when I am at my brightest. Pramod apologised for calling early and we agreed to meet for lunch that afternoon.

Frankly, I had banked that lunch away for my memoirs, not so much for what we discussed, but because of some interesting sidelights. Like Mahajan asking a startled steward at the Oberoi’s very proper Belvedere for a whole, large onion — “don’t peel it,” he specified. I thought, for a moment, that Mahajan, always a great showman, wanted to use the onion to make a political point about the BJP. He, instead, plonked it on the table, crushed it under his ample palm and plucked out the flesh for himself and me to munch with our lunch. Even in a seven-star environment, the BJP’s most flamboyant star wanted to be his rustic self.

... contd.