By Karan Thapar

Perks and privilege

Fortune may change but not necessarily our response to it. I discovered this when I rang Mr. Vajpayee on sunday, the morning after Dr. Manmohan Singh succeeded him. I dialled 2301 8939, the best-known number for Race Course Road.

"May I speak to Mr. Vajpayee?"

"Kaun?", was the perplexed reply.

"Itne jaldi bhool gaye!"

Perhaps at the PMR they're not used to Atalji being addressed by his surname but I thought the embarrassed laugh that followed conveyed the actual truth. After six years it will take a while for Mr. Vajpayee's associates to stop thinking of him as Prime Minister. Certainly on sunday Dr. Manmohan Singh's staff had not made the switch the other way round. I rang his home as well.

"Can I speak to the Prime Minister?"

"Do you mean Dr. Manmohan Singh?" But this time before I could butt-in the operator quickly added : "Ha, ha, of course."

We, in India, adjust to political change slowly. Our system gives winners and losers a lot of time. Not elsewhere. In America the change has a certain well-crafted ceremony and ritual. The President-designate and his wife breakfast with the incumbent at the White House and then drive together to the Hill for the inauguration. Afterwards the ex-president departs straight for his new home. Meanwhile the White House awaits its new occupant.

In Britain the transition is even more rapid. In fact you could argue it's almost brutal. The election, always held on a thursday, is over by 10.00 p.m. and the results are out by 2.00 or 3.00 in the morning. If the prime minister has lost he has about ten hours to pack and leave 10 Downing Street. At noon the next

morning he drives to Buckingham Palace to hand back the seals of office. In his absence, the packers start removing his belongings.

An hour later, the leader of the opposition is received at the Palace to kneel and kiss the Queen's hand on being appointed her next prime minister. Then he drives straight to No.10, his new home.

Actually, it's even starker. The defeated PM arrives at the Palace in the prime minister's car. Having handed back the seals of office he leaves in an ordinary official vehicle. It's the other way round for the leader of the opposition. He reaches the Palace in an ordinary official vehicle but leaves in the PM's Jaguar.

The change is immediate and I respect this swift hand-over. It protects the sanctity of the official residence and of prime ministerial privilege. It also emphasises that in the eyes of the state a former PM is not a special person. Only the incumbent is.

If I'm not mistaken, the only equivalent transition we've witnessed in India was in 1998. Inder Gujral said goodbye to Race Course Road when he left for Rashtrapati Bhawan to attend his successor's swearing-in. From there he drove straight to Maharani Bagh, his own home. Thereafter if he returned to the PM's residence it was as Atalji's guest, not as a resident.

Now, I know that ex-prime ministers are human beings with families and need somewhere to move to before they leave the official residence. And I accept that security concerns are such that they simply can't go anywhere. But that said and done they can still move out on the day of the swearing-in. There are government guest houses, hotels and even Hyderabad House that can be arranged for them.

My point is simple. The prime minister's home should always be the prime minister's home. Its sanctity must be preserved. And, quite frankly, losing his home is the least part of the defeated PM's trauma. He doesn't need to be cushioned against it.

However, I also have a broader point to make. It's about our attitude to privilege. We believe that men of stature deserve special treatment. But if they do it's only in terms of the respect individuals should accord them. They must not expect the state to treat them differently. Nor should the state do so.

To be prime minister is an honour. But the honours that go with the job should cease instantly on demitting office. In 1997, when John Major lost to Tony Blair, he spent the next day at the Oval watching cricket. He went as an ordinary citizen. And he was treated like one.

But then in Britain they think it's a privilege to be a citizen. In India, I suspect, it's only a privilege to be prime minister.