Time Out — A day in Tiger’s life

Got back last night. Tough, all that flying around. First, that dull Interpol conference at Paris. Then that delay in Frankfurt (couldn’t get out and see anything). Those peanuts that the nice air-hostess gave me were very tasty but did not help me feel better, as you can imagine. What to do, one must fly for the cause of the nation.

I still remember that first trip to Hong Kong as CBI chief, chasing Amir Bhai. It was thrilling, though we didn’t get him. Then there was that three-day dash to Dubai. It was fun though I didn’t get to meet Dubai’s police chief.

My favourite, of course, was Berne, for the Bofors papers. Now that was real classy. Me, in my new coat, standing there holding up that box containing History in the Raw. I, Tiger, was part of that history. The media really loved it. I gave them all the names before somebody stopped me.

Could have wangled one quickie to Malaysia for the Quattrocchi affair. Two juniors went instead. They made a hash of it. He ran circles around them. Now, if I had gone, I would have brought him back to Mother India in manacles. Pity, though. Kuala Lumpur is good fun, I believe. Well, next time.

Smooth landing. Delhi was hot like a furnace (must remember to get some cotton safaris tailored). Cleared customs and got out in a jiffy.

Media was waiting for me as usual. So used to them now that when they don’t turn up I feel cheated. Got them trained. It’s simple. Just feed them with as many scoops as they can swallow. If you run out of ammunition, you can always recycle old ones. With 2,000-odd cases to play around there’s plenty for everybody. Believe me, I have more insights on leaks than a plumber. (Must write a book on it. Suggested title:“How to win friends in the media and influence people”).

Counted the microphones and notebooks lying in wait for me 20 in all. Not bad for 3 am. Haven’t made up my mind whether I like the TV kids or the pen-and-paper variety more. The first lot are pretty vapid pretty, but vapid. Besides, they want you to say everything in two seconds flat. Then you never know which angle they shoot you from. I read somewhere that Zeenat Aman likes her left profile. Personally, I prefer my right.

TV has its charm. I like to imagine some old mama in Ludhiana switching on the 9 o’clock news and exclaiming, “Look, our Tiger is in the news again.” But I think I prefer the notepad variety. I like the way they hang on to every word I utter. Then they do these long exclusives on me for the front page. Good market value. (Must remember to tell the publisher to pay me more for my books, now that I’m famous.)

To get on with the story, the media people ran towards me like rabbits the moment they spotted me. I was practising my opening line when this chit of a girl reporter asks me how I feel about the transfer ( so those ****s have done it, have they? What a cheap trick!) For a moment she had me speechless. Then I remembered my Norman Vincent Peale, took a deep breath, and recovered my poise. As cool as Dilip Kumar in Shakti, I asked: “Where to?” as if it was all a joke.

Never reveal your true state of mind. Must write a quickie on how to take public humiliation. Possible title: “50 Ways to Handle Failure”. They could sell it as a package deal with my earlier work: “How to Get to the Top in 50 Days”.