Unlike in film Rustom, Sylvia walked into her lover's arms willingly: Bachi Karkaria on Nanavati scandal
In Hot Blood, Bachi Karkaria’s riveting new book on the case that shook India, is not just a thriller (though we all know how it ended) but also an anthropological account of the Mumbai of the 1950s. There was a rich tabloid culture, glamour in the air and Parsi privilege was a given. As the hero of Anurag Kashyap's Bombay Velvet puts it so well, "Pata hai Bombay ke bahar kya hai? India."
Indeed, there was not a whisper of India in Kawas Nanavati’s Bombay. The upright naval officer Nanavati, his beautiful English wife, the upstart Prem Ahuja, the tabloid king Russi Karanjia, this was stuff no one could cook up. Not surprisingly, the case has had a rich after-life in cinema, generating almost a movie a decade, the latest being Rustom. Here the veteran journalist talks about writing the book, the “classy killing”, and the Sylvia that her research yielded:
How is the Mumbai of today different from the Bombay of Nanavati?
You know, I didn't live in Nanavati's Bombay. I was still a schoolgirl in what was Calcutta, and lived it vicariously through the hyperventilation of Blitz, but yes, I did research the city of those times.
I had to because the context was as important as the plot and the cast to the trial's mind-boggling appeal: Bombay was the metaphor for wealth and glamour, paved with the gold spun by its booming mill industry and sprinkled with the stardust of the Hindi movie industry, yet to be crassly characterised as "Bollywood".
The city has changed fundamentally. And the most fundamental of that change is that it is no longer Bombay but Mumbai. This is not about a name but a mindset. Bombay's cosmopolitanism was its beating heart; its new minders are determined to cast it in their own provincial image. Bombay thrived on the rainbow coalition; Mumbai is being forced into monotonous monochrome. Chauvinism and bigotry squeeze the creative embrace into a fearful stranglehold.
How would the trial be covered now?
Well, we are no longer over-awed by power and influence; if anything, the Celebrity Accused gets a rougher deal. We now dance on the grave of their glamour, revel in the unvarnished photographs of Page Three divas, sans make up, hair colour and designer dazzle. Simply think Indrani Mukerjea. I'm certain that the special treatment accorded to Nanavati, the attempts to subvert justice by political godfathers and naval brass would be subjected to unrelenting media scrutiny today.
Having said that, this case had none of the sordidness of the high profile ones which have bloodied every subsequent decade – with bodies stuffed into tandoors, chopped into pieces, burnt, stuffed into suitcases or cardboard boxes and dumped in ravines or gutters. It was a classy killing, and Commander Nanavati emerged from Prem Ahuja's bedroom with not a drop of blood staining the civvies he'd donned for that fatal showdown.
You talk of how Rustom’s Sylvia didn’t have agency. Did the actual Sylvia have any? Did you ever understand her motivation?
The Sylvia of my book is completely different from the effete one created by the defence, and perpetuated in the case's after-life in film. Nanavati's lawyers made her an unwitting victim of the unscrupulous playboy, Prem Ahuja. Rustom's Cynthia is lured into bed with a laced drink; alcohol spurs Nina played by Leela Naidu in Yeh Rastey Hai Pyar Ke (1962), the first film capitalising on this alluring real-life romantic story.
I want to believe that the actual Sylvia did have agency. That she walked willingly, not unwittingly into Prem's arms. And it was with the same consciousness – not choicelessness – that she rebuilt her life with Kawas Nanavati in Canada. In fact, my Commander Nanavati and Prem Ahuja are not the all-white and all-black stamped into the public imagination.
If you were casting the movie, who would play the main character?
My line is journalism, not films, so I won't wade into that. All I can say is that my hero would have something more than swoon-inducing good looks and thundering lines about honour and patriotism. And, for my Sylvia 2.2, I'd like a Kangana Ranaut, Priyanka Chopra or Deepika Padukone.
Do the Parsis still recall Nanavati?
Oh yes. He's different from the usual sethias and political leaders, but still an important part of the glorious past to which they cling. What else can they do considering how bleak their present is?
Why did you never speak to Sylvia?
I think I lost my nerve, I feared that a chiding rebuff from her might make me feel too churlish to carry on with the project 1 baring a past that she and the late Kawas had so carefully covered over. I did send her a letter which remained unanswered. A Facebook request to one of her sons as expectedly drew a blank.
I saw no percentage in phoning her, though a Canadian-Parsi contact from my Calcutta days has shared that too along with the address. There was some chance of a person in India knowing of my journalistic credentials, but to her I was a stranger. Why would she open up to me? In her place, who would have? Not I certainly.
How long did you spend writing the book? And how long did the research take you?
The book is not just about the case, which was complex, tortuous and far-reaching enough. There's the navy, its training, traditions and access to high circles which combined with Nanavati's Parsi-ness to create his sense of entitlement. Thirdly, there's the role of the media during the trial, and how it shaped latter-day crime coverage. So you can imagine the quantum of research.
Add to that the difficulty of tracking down anyone connected to a an almost 60-year-old case. So, I'm almost reluctant to admit that the book, from first dive into archives to the first draft took just eight months. So you can imagine the pace, hours and total concentration that went into it. What helped is that I approached it as an investigative journalist used to the tyranny of a deadline, not as a creative writer indulging in the luxury of time.
It has however emerged as a thriller – and for that credit goes to the riveting real-life drama itself.