Dr Manmohan Singh was former Prime Minister, Finance Minister, RBI Governor, Chief Economic Advisor, and so many other things—but to every Indian, he was an architect of economic reforms under then-PM PV Narasimha Rao, a believer in India, and a reluctant Prime Minister. Plenty will be written on his passing, as is usually the case with all politicians, but in his case, most of the admiration and respect will be real. For he was truly a gentleman first, an economist next, and then a politician.
He left a deep, indelible impression on many people, not least of all me. His passing marks a major milestone in the history of contemporary India. He will always be remembered for how he, as Narasimha Rao’s Finance Minister, kicked off the opening up of the Indian economy. That singular event marked the beginning of the end of five decades of misguided socialism and the beginning of India’s experiment with freer markets and private investment and enterprise.
A constant presence in my life
I am sure Dr Manmohan Singh has left behind countless individuals whose lives were changed because of him. My life too is, in many ways, inextricably linked to him, and I enjoyed my fanboy relationship with him that endured for three decades.
His reforms and the opening up of the telecom sector transformed my life from being a geeky chip designer in Silicon Valley to launching me on my entrepreneurial career. And all through those 15 years, from the early 1990s to 2006, he remained a constant presence in my life—encouraging and supportive in so many different ways, including simply and patiently listening to all my complaints against the “system”.
My first encounter with him was in 1991, when I was 26 years old. It was a brief meeting, but decisive in my decision to stay on in India and walk away from a career at Intel—to embark on what would prove to be a decade of whirlwind activity that became today’s cellular sector.
I knew very few political leaders, but through that entire decade, Dr MMS remained the person who I could go to and speak with. Even then, he was in such marked and sharp contrast to most others in the political class—humble, listening, intelligent, and committed to a vision of India that others in this political ecosystem could barely see or understand.
When the cellular industry matured and came of age post-Atalji’s National Telecom Policy in 1999, we were faced with the spectre of the backdoor entry of some large Indian corporates. That was an epic battle fought in the media and courts, and as Leader of the Opposition, he was steadfast in his support for me and the nascent industry that had been built with great effort.
In those dark days, he stood with me and the industry. Every time I met him, he encouraged me to stand up to the big corporates. Even when many in the Congress decided to back off the issue, he was steadfast and remained one of the few I could go to and bitterly complain about how the system was being abused by some.
In 2005, when I sold off my telecom venture, he was already PM. He was one of the first people I called on and wrote to about my exit, and he wrote warmly back to me and wished me well. That letter is something I have treasured and held place of pride when I launched my investment company soon after.
I thought then that our paths had run their course; however, in 2006, when I was given the opportunity to serve in Parliament and grabbed it—almost as an experiment—I would again interact with him, albeit in a different role.
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Some things never changed
As an opposition MP and cut my teeth politically with One Rank, One Pension (OROP) and the 2G spectrum allocation. From 2009, still a rookie MP—an independent one at that who was not taken seriously by anyone—I wrote a number of letters to him after issues that I raised in Parliament were going nowhere. From 2G to OROP to the National War Memorial to NPAs and many other issues, which I raised loudly and visibly in Parliament and through letters to him, never changed his demeanour or his relationship with me. He met me often throughout the time I was angrily exposing the scams of Raja and the coverups by Sibal and Montek. Never did he show any anger or angst against me. Never did he discourage me from my path in all the meetings at that time.
After he was no longer Prime Minister post the 2014 elections, I would visit him often, and he would, in his soft-spoken way, urge me to suggest to the new government that it undertake more reforms. No longer a Prime Minister, but still thinking deeply of India’s economic future.
Meeting him and greeting him in Parliament, where we finally were colleague MPs, was a regular ritual whenever he visited, albeit infrequently. But he acknowledged me always with that classic MMS half-smile as I greeted him.
I am a fortunate man—more fortunate than most, I believe, because I have had the opportunity to walk alongside and meet some great people. I consider that god’s gift, for which I am eternally grateful. Dr MMS was certainly one of those great people with whom my path crossed and travelled.
Much will be said and written about him in the coming days, and then most people will move on. But for many like me, he will be remembered forever. He will be missed. For many, many achievements but most of all because of the man he was. Always humble, always respectful, always kind, and always a gentleman.
Thank you, sir, for all the time you spent with me. I am a better man for it. Goodbye and travel well, sir.
The author is a former Union minister and tech entrepreneur. Views are personal
How does one take seriously claims of respect for MMS from a gentleman who serves in a government that showed great disrespect for him? Even in politics civility should be valued and followed.