Reverend Valson Thampu does not "do" lunch. Or as he puts it plainly, on the phone, "I don't eat from anywhere else." However, he softens the blow by adding, "You can come and meet me in the college." He even agrees to give me lunch, with what sounds like a disclaimer: "Our lunch is a very different experience from your lunch."



When I arrive, a week later, in the large, white high-ceilinged Principal's room at St Stephen's College, my host says frowningly, "Business Standard? You have already published something, and it's quite incorrect." I deny, truthfully, that I am the author of the paper's biting editorial the previous day on the latest Thampu-centric row at St Stephen's, resisting a childish impulse, brought on by his somewhat sombre manner and clerical collar, to place my hand on my heart. Fortunately, Thampu bids me sit down and returns to his stack of papers.

I am well-prepared for this meeting. Indeed, it is difficult not to be, given the amount said about Thampu, especially after a lanky Stephanian called Devansh Mehta took him on last month in a battle that ended up in court. Not for the first time during his seven years as principal, Thampu was accused of attempting to enforce, as one newspaper editorial put it, "a culture of obedience and conformity" by suspending Mehta, and withdrawing a prize awarded to him. The 21-year-old's transgression: uploading an e-magazine, St Stephen's Weekly, whose rather harmless contents, including an interview given by the principal to the new publication, Thampu had not yet vetted; and going to the media after Thampu had the e-zine summarily taken off the web. Mehta became, overnight, a poster child for free speech, even before Thampu's punishments were stayed by the Delhi High Court in an interim order.

Apart from the media narrative, there are also the rival Thampu chronicles, to be found on his recently launched Facebook page. "I thought it was a spoof, but it's not," said a laconic Stephanian who directed me to it. I knew what he meant when I saw the cover photograph with the legend "Know The Truth", and read his posts, written in the crusading manner of an evangelical preacher. They suggest, over a few thousand words, that he is the blameless victim of a conspiracy by assorted students, alumni, teachers and the media.

To decode Thampu's world, be prepared, also, to have your ear grow warm from listening to successful men with otherwise busy schedules recount how he has "ruined the liberal, pluralistic ethos" of their former college. I even had on my person, as I entered Thampu's room, a helpful chart from one such alumnus listing the legal warfare involving Thampu and assorted staff, students and ex-students.

I must record that his description of himself over lunch as "one of the most sought-after speakers in the Christian world" is not entirely implausible. Indeed, his elaborate sentences, parables and literary allusions have a hypnotic effect: I begin to think of myself as the Wedding Guest to his Ancient Mariner.

I shake off my trance when I learn lunch will be a communal affair in a mess, with no time to talk later, and quickly ask Thampu whether he regrets any of his actions during the Devansh Mehta affair. He recoils a little, then says firmly, "If I were to handle it hundred times, I would handle it exactly the same way." Thereafter, I am up against a Latin phrase, crisply invoked by Thampu: "The matter is sub judice." However, when I suggest that in the age of an independent student-run Harvard Crimson, it is backward to not allow an independent St Stephen's Weekly, he is exasperated enough to tell me that this is simply not on because (a) all St Stephen's clubs and societies have staff advisers, (b) staff-student collaboration is integral to the culture (c) you can't have "substandard texts", which is not to say students can't write well, but teachers are better qualified, more experienced, and so on. When I suggest students must learn from their own mistakes, he says, fine, but not on a college publication.

Stimulated by his unapologetic paternalism, I steer the conversation towards an observation in his online book, Faith and Family, that "Parental deficit also contributes, in part, to homosexuality and lesbianism." Thampu points out at once that this was written 10 years ago. "I don't look back on what I write," he says emphatically. "I am like a runner, a sprinter, who is constantly running ahead. I don't have a minute to look back." So, what are his views on homosexuality? "I have no views." No views at all? "I don't think it is my duty to comment on these things. I have other things to do." Then, after a pause: "Nobody should be put under any disadvantage or embarrassment on account of anything that he or she is not personally responsible for." Fresh questions are, of course, trembling on my lips, but Thampu isn't having any. Rather in an experienced, qualified, teacherly way, he is busy offering tips: "Leave something to the readers. See, I tell you, part of the beauty of writing is preserving a certain bit of mystique..."



And now, lunch. As Thampu leads me down a wide corridor with mellow red brick walls, he asks in a tone of baffled sorrow why the media regularly attacks St Stephen's. I try, but fail, to find a tactful way of saying, "Father, this is not about the college, it is about you." As we make our way, inside the mess, to a long table on an elevated platform, with students seated a level below, Thampu, who seems to have decided I am an iconoclast, says: "I suppose you think this high table belongs to a feudal order." However, he affably invites me to sit next to him, rather than opposite him, through a lunch of, rice, potato curry and yogurt.

Our Q&A in his room clearly playing on his mind, Thampu declares, "If forty societies went their own way, this college would be finished." He adds: "I stand by the interview I gave the students, the ideas, the concepts, but I would have cleaned up the language." He goes on to explain how Reader's Digest polishes the language of its writers to a point where, Thampu explains approvingly, they may not even recognise what they wrote. I realise that this is not mere chit-chat when Thampu says, "In the interests of journalistic ethics, you should send me your article before it goes into print." Fearing a Devansh Mehta-shaped hole looming before me, I smile maniacally, thank him for lunch, and look for my bag. Thampu, looking sceptical and somewhat resigned, explains he has work in another direction, and says, "We will now go our opposite ways." Absolutely, Father.