‘I’d always disliked politics’ | An excerpt from Sonia Gandhi’s ‘Belonging: A Journey of Love’

With Rajiv gone, everything around me echoed and re-echoed my loss. While I found some solace in the tasks centred on his memory, I was confronted with my fragility whenever the need arose to make public appearances. They couldn’t be avoided: there was the work of various memorial trusts that I headed, which had to continue — international conferences and lectures.

At such functions I was required to welcome the guests with a speech. I would have to wrestle with my agitation in the preceding days and the fear that tears would overwhelm me suddenly while I was addressing the audience.

That would happen also when visitors condoled with me. I remember when His Holiness the Dalai Lama came and asked me in his usual matter-of-fact manner, “Do you feel vengeful towards those who killed Rajiv?” I replied, “No, I don’t,” and burst into sobs.

That vulnerability remained with me for a long time, but slowly, slowly, the days began to feel less empty and endless. Sleep returned. Rajiv became a presence within me rather than a piercing absence in my life, though the anguish returned in force every time we — Rahul and Priyanka as well as I — shared something important, a rite of passage in which he would have been a vital participant — like their graduations, his daughter’s wedding, later the birth of his grandchildren.

Priyanka graduated with a degree in psychology in 1993 from Jesus and Mary College. Rahul graduated with a master of philosophy (M.Phil) degree from Trinity College in 1995. Priyanka and I decided to attend his convocation, and my mother and younger sister joined us with two of my nieces.

Rahul could barely contain his happiness when we turned up; beaming from ear to ear, he embraced all six of us. To be walking again the narrow streets of Cambridge, still thriving and thrumming with students, passing by old haunts — the Varsity restaurant, my old language school, Rajiv’s lodgings on Kimberley Road and mine on Tenison Road — brought back memories of when he and I first met, of our blissful time together.

During the moving graduation ceremony in the Senate House, as Rahul received his degree, I struggled to suppress my tears. Rahul and Priyanka were similarly overcome. How they missed their father at that special moment, how proud Rajiv would have felt of his son.

Time flowed on. As I gradually emerged from seclusion and became a little more active, once in a while Rajiv’s former colleagues would visit — some for a courtesy call, or to invite me to a family function, others with pleas that I take an active interest in party affairs.

To the latter I would listen quietly but not heed their request. The 1996 election results were disappointing for the Congress Party. It had not been able to form a government on its own. It was plagued by splits and factional disputes.

In 1995 I had been asked to support one particular group, in which the main actors were Arjun Singh, N.D. Tiwari, and Mohsina Kidwai, who’d been party members for decades and had held important positions and ministries. I had refused.

They broke away and formed another party, followed the next year by senior Tamil leaders G.K. Moopanar and P. Chidambaram, and a younger Congress member, Madhavrao Scindia, who’d joined in 1980. All of them set up separate parties.

In 1997 Mamata Banerjee left, due to differences with the state leadership, and formed her own party, the Trinamool Congress. I had become a primary member in 1997 when I was invited by the Congress President Sitaram Kesri to the party’s 80th Plenary Session in Calcutta, but as the party’s situation seemed to be worsening, the pressure on me was increasing to take over its leadership.

I began to feel agitated, brooding on what was going on in the Congress Party, worrying about its fate. Articles in the media were painting a sorry picture of its future. Each time I walked past Rajiv’s picture and my mother-in-law’s, a mixture of pain and guilt would seize me; at times I’d even deliberately avoid looking at them.

The India of my belonging had come to me through my husband and my mother-in-law. The very forces they had fought against for decades to protect India’s pluralistic ethos were now bent upon a path that would do untold damage.

How could I sit comfortably at home and let their work and their sacrifices go in vain? I felt tormented. I’d wake up in the middle of the night wondering what I should do, asking myself which way I should go. Had I not fought at every step against a life in politics?

Had it not cruelly taken away from me first my mother-in-law, then the love of my life, my children’s father? Why, why was I feeling that strong urge to respond to the demand being made of me? I’d always disliked politics, even during all the years when Rajiv was in public life.

But now I was beginning to understand what had compelled him, what I had then so strongly resisted: the pull of duty towards his mother, his country. That pull was now getting hold of me. It scared me, I tried to fight it, but it kept coming back to haunt me.

I was caught in a war with myself: part of me recoiled at the world of politics, of the ambition and greed, hypocrisy and treachery that goes inescapably with the game of power everywhere. But I couldn’t repudiate the inner compulsions that had been drilled into me from my childhood — diligence in assigned tasks, respect towards elders, obedience to parents, fidelity to family norms.

They kept gnawing at me. Where my duty lay was clear to me; what that implied was the terrifying part. I’d seen that world. I had experienced it through Rajiv: in its peaks of high endeavour and achievement, as well as in all its ugliness and venality.

How could I even think of getting into it? And to lead the party in an impending electoral battle? Where was my experience, where was my ability or understanding of the task — a task that had often frustrated even the tallest leaders of the past?

I was after all the outsider. I had been reminded of that status again...