"The Great I Am"

On the very day that Russia's Vyacheslav Molotov flung out his fresh proposal for Big Four talks on Germany, a slender, gaunt man with aimless hair and blazing eyes rose in the United Nations General Assembly. The real solution to the German problem, he declared, lies in "direct talks ... for unification of Germany . . . A German peace is necessary for world peace, and a German peace means the unification of Germany in whatever way it is brought about." The Soviet-run government of East Germany, he said, is as free and sovereign as that of West Germany.

The speech dovetailed perfectly, in timing and content, with Moscow's campaign to disrupt the London agreements. But the speaker was not a delegate of the Soviet Union or one of its Communist satellites. He was V. K. Krishna Menon of India, trusted adviser to Premier Nehru and traveling apostle of Nehru's anti-Western "neutrality."

Brilliant & Bitter. Vengalil Krishnan Krishna Menon, 57, is an Indian who has lived more than half his life as an Englishman; a Western-trained intellectual who distrusts and hates the West; a passionate foe of old-style imperialism whose histrionic talents and glib tongue more often than not give aid to the new imperialism of Communism. He ostentatiously preaches humility and tolerance, but some of his colleagues call him "The Great I Am," and secretaries dissolve in tears when he flies into a thunderous rage and calls them insulting names. A brilliant, bitter, unsatisfied man, he wears expensive Savile Row suits and carries a cane, but his living habits are austere--no tobacco, no alcohol, no meat--and he sometimes seems to get along only on massive doses of phenobarbital, arrogance and black tea. "When Menon enters a room,'' an associate once said, "tension enters too."

Menon, son of a lawyer, was born on India's Malabar Coast in 1897. At 27, he went to London and studied political science (under Socialist Harold Laski) and law. Intending to stay six months, he stayed for 30 years, became active in the British Labor Party, once was even elected a London councilman. But years later, when Britain went to war against Nazi Germany, Menon joined the Communists in damning both sides (though he marched in anti-Nazi demonstrations). Once he was asked whether the Indian people would prefer British or Nazi rule. "You might as well ask a fish if it prefers to be fried in butter or margarine," he replied.

While editing books and writing articles on Indian freedom, Menon met Nehru in London and became his unofficial literary and political agent. In 1947, on taking power, a grateful Nehru named Menon to be India's first high commissioner in London, though the expatriate was so little known among his people that his name did not even appear in India's Who's Who.

In 1952 Nehru made Menon deputy chief of India's delegation to the United Nations, where he collided head-on with Nehru's sister,Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit (who later became General Assembly president), refused even to show her his reports to New Delhi. The feud did not jar Menon from his position next to Nehru's ear; indeed, his influence grew stronger, and today, whether Menon is in New Delhi on one of his flying visits or far away at the end of a cable line, Nehru avidly listens to, and almost always acts on, Krishna Menon's advice. The substance of that advice: the West is not to be trusted, and its works should be opposed; the Communists, particularly the Chinese Communists, can be trusted, and India can do business with them.

No Idea. Menon has never been at home in his own country. (Last year after Nehru maneuvered Menon's election to India's upper chamber, a councillor made a speech in Malayalam, the language of Menon's birthplace, then courteously suggested that Menon translate it into English. V.K. refused because he had forgotten his native language.) But his influence with Nehru is so great that Nehru was reported trying to make Menon his Foreign Minister. This was blocked, temporarily at least, by three Cabinet ministers, who threatened to quit.

Even Krishna Menon seemed a little taken aback last week at the way his German unification speech echoed the words and desires of the Russians. He hastily summoned some reporters and told them in injured tones: "I had no idea of the [Molotov] speech in Berlin when I spoke." Then, darting up into the Nehrunian clouds, Menon added: "Our suggestion was unrelated to anything that might be happening at the time."

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