Five minutes. That’s all the time I’d get with Yoko Ono. The legendary singer, song-writer, performance artist, peace activist and widow of John Lennon was going to be in New Delhi in early 2012, for four days, inaugurating two shows in India.
Five minutes. The last time she visited India was along with Lennon in the 70s. One of the shows, ‘Our Beautiful Daughters,’ was conceived exclusively for India while the other, ‘The Seed,’ is a retrospective. Both were to open simultaneously at two Vadehra galleries.
I had asked for about an hour. That was cut by half. Then a further fifteen minutes were whittled away. What kind of interview was possible in fifteen minutes?
Roshini Vadehra, daughter of founder Arun Vadehra and director of the institution, met me the weekend before the invitations-only press conference. From the very start, she said, the plan made between herself and Parul Vadehra, sister-in-law and co-director, “was to limit access, to keep it dignified.” So there was no question of getting to spend an extended time with Ono. Her team of five handlers would act as buffers throughout and even for micro-brief individual interviews, the only opportunities would come immediately after the press-meet.
I’d have to try something unique, I thought. Something that would reflect the singularity of this diminutive Japanese woman, this maverick bohemienne with the chequered past who captured the heart of rock ’n’ roll’s god-king only to lose him to the toxicity of fame. This target of Beatle-fan hatred as the group unravelled, supposedly on account of her. This gentle-faced, pyjama-clad peace-activist with the unnerving penchant for peeling off her inhibitions in public. This lightning rod for grief at the time of Lennon’s appointment with the bullet of a demented fan.
E-mail was possible, said Roshini. I set about composing questions. But there was no chance that I’d be in direct, personal contact with Ono. Plus, she may not have time to answer: this was Saturday; she was embarking for India on Sunday. Even if she did, Roshini warned me, the answers were likely to be poetic and brief.
From the time I was sixteen, the image of Yoko Ono’s pale face framed by a rippling tide of black hair had been stitched into my consciousness. The tilted almond eyes, the Buddha-smile, the minimal make-up and the stillness: from the very outset, she had a solemnity that distinguished her from all the adoring wives, groupies and assorted sycophants that surrounded other rock stars. While the four famously clownish, long-haired and pink-faced young men cavorted for the camera, she was the alien in their midst, even as she became an inseparable part of their public image. In her beguiling otherness, her oriental poise and her remote, mature-woman’s angularity, she loomed over the four musicians. A shadow, an omen, a warning.
I sent three questions by e-mail: about an exhibition of photographs in London; about her peace activities (I wanted to know which one had been the most successful); about the sensory associations she had, if any for India; for Japan and for the USA.
I got three answers:
After a half-hour delay, there she was, Yoko Ono. A petite figure dressed in black and grey, she strode in with the jerky energy of someone for whom there’s never enough time. Up onto the stage she went, flanked by the Vadehras, settling quickly into place, all her movements bird-like and economical. She wore her straw hat at a jaunty angle, with the hallmark black shades riding low on her nose. She greeted the assembly and gazed around the room, examining us as if we were the focus of the event rather than herself.
I entered the room. Murray and Roshini were present. Ono was on the right, on a low settee the colour of tutti-frutti ice-cream, looking up with that same expression of quickened attention as at the conference. We shook hands, I sat down on the arm-chair at right angles to her as I introduced myself. She smiled at my long surname; we agreed that the first name was enough.
(This story appears in the 02 March, 2012 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)
Fascinating. Do you think she meant she loved you? At that moment?
on Feb 29, 2012Extremely moving! the fragrance of one small clove. bridging the silence two women floating on the magical carpet of time.
on Feb 28, 2012