The first time I saw Bhairon Singh Shekhawat was when he was chief minister of Rajasthan. I saw him from the Press Gallery of the old Vidhan Sabha, a stone’s throw from Jaipur’s famous Hawa Mahal. He spoke for more than an hour without pause or interruption. A few days later I met him at Jodhpur House in Delhi.

I drew a caricature of him when he was sworn in as the vice-president of India. “Can you come to Hyderabad House for a cup of tea with the V-P,” I was asked in a call from the V-P’s office. The V-P came on the line: “Sudhirji, aapne aaj mera jo cartoon banaya hai woh zaroor lekar aana. Bahut badhiya hai.”
Every time he liked a cartoon he would call me up and I’d visit him at the beautiful V-P’s house. A cup of tea, several rare anecdotes, inside stories from the horse’s mouth and unadulterated laughter. So much in exchange for an original drawing. I presented many of my cartoons to a man with a great sense of humour and a deep appreciation for political cartooning.
I would always goad him to start writing his autobiography. In his inimitable style, he would laugh it away. I thought the incredible story of a poor Rajasthan police sub-inspector from a small village called Khachariawas, in Sikar, who rose to become vice-president of India, would make great copy. But he didn’t agree.
I went back to my drawing board and got busy with the job of keeping my readers smiling. On August 19, 2005, I drew a cartoon in The Asian Age on something the V-P had just said. Shekhawatji wanted the original. A year later, I was sipping tea with him. This time he said, “One fine evening recently, I spent a long time looking at the cartoon you gave me almost a year ago.” He continued, “ I saw several meanings in it. I totally identified with the cartoon — particularly the poor man in the picture. This cartoon has inspired me to write my autobiography.”
But before he could travel back into the past to pen down a piece of history, the future began beckoning him. He had already planned the next chapter for his book — From the VP House to Rashtrapati Bhavan. When I told him the arithmetic was not in his favour, he said, “Dekhte rahiye kal chamatkar hone wala hai!” Till a day before the voting he was confident of the support of many of his friends — and he had several across the political spectrum.
But he was to realise shortly that there are no friends in politics — when the ballot boxes were opened, Shekhawatji found none in them.
When I met him in his new house at 31, Aurangzeb Road, after he had spent a long time in hospital, he was not even a shadow of his former self; he had lost weight and shrunk beyond imagination. But the enthusiasm and love of life made up for all the loss.
He took me to a room in the bungalow and showed me bundles of files and heaps of books and papers. “There lies my entire life, in these papers,” he said.
“Now you must seriously start penning down the story of your life,” I reminded him. “Don’t worry, I will hang your cartoon in the room to inspire and remind me,” he said with loud laughter.
He spent his last days mostly in Jaipur. I wonder if the cartoon was hanging in his room to remind and inspire him. But the story of his life will inspire millions.