‘And one man in his life plays many parts’

There’s nothing like death to remind us how larger than life some people were. The dimunitive Anil Dharker certainly was, as confirmed by the shocked messages that yesterday jammed the WhatsApps of all who knew him. They were as diverse as they were legion.
For, Anil straddled many worlds. Least of all the one for which he was professionally trained: engineering.Instead, he rose to the multiple peaks of media. Editor and columnist. He was telegenic with his articulate grasp of many matters, and no less his maestro locks.
He had more than the dilettante’s knowledge of the arts especially music, as borne out by his close association with the NCPA—and his deep-drill interview with Zubin Mehta. He briefly headed the National Film Development Corporation.
Additionally, Tata’s R Gopalkrishnan mourned the loss of his tennis partner of 30 years. Anil was a single malt aficionado; briefly even launched his signature line of long kurtas. And he was a fully paid-up member of Mumbai’s salon society.
All these coalesced in what Anil Dharker came to be known best for: Tata Litlive. He put everything he had into forging it into a tour de force—and ultimately it drained life out of him. The heart is a ruthless mistress.
Litfests also took a toll of our near 50-year-friendship. Anil was convinced that I was responsible for the Times of India pulling out of Litlive and starting its own litfest with me at the helm. I had no such clout, and even less inclination. I was a reluctant stopgap, who ultimately didn’t stop. But I do hope that my valued friend hasn’t carried this baseless grudge to his grave. It would deepen my sorrow over his loss.
For, I have known Anil over ‘mornings, evenings, afternoons’. I remember when the Dharkers flashed into the Bombay orbit in the early ’70s. Khushwant Singh, my first boss, wrote about them in the Illustrated Weekly, totally taken up by this beautiful couple fresh from London. For him, it had the edgy cachet of being an Indo-Pak marriage, though in truth Imtiaz was Glasgow-raised.
Anil suave; she, the sensitive poet and artist—they seamlessly merged into that galaxy of advertising/theatre wallas, literary enfants terribles, editors bound by liberal thought and urban consciousness. The Dharkers’ parties were coveted for the quality of their conversations—and Imtiaz’s roast lamb with rosemary potatoes. Their daughter Ayesha would craft her own artistic success as a stage actor in London, and the doting Anil always said only half in jest, that he was the least talented of the family.
But fate is no respecter of charmed lives. The Dharkers parted ways. Amy, who too had been my friend (and colleague) for almost as long, came into Anil’s life. Theirs has been a great mutual devotion. Imtiaz is happily ensconced amidst London’s cultural haute monde; she refused poet laureate-ship because she wanted to retain her creative independence.
Ours is not to question why relationships realign. We can only try not to let any twists turn the screws on friendships and loyalties. Rest assured, dear Anil.