As I found out much later in life, when I was able to comprehend some of the ‘isms’ of life, Dad, during his stay in England, had become a diehard Marxist. In addition to being a non-conformist, he had become a fiery revolutionary. So, my life was also subjected to a ‘revolutionary’ change.
I was given a separate room to sleep. I hadn’t had one in Rawalpindi, where I usually slept with Grandma. She had an enormous belly and I felt secure, snuggled up and tucked in the folds of her soft, flaccid paunch. She would tell me stories from the Mahabharata and sing lullabies to me, patting me gently as I drifted off to sleep. There was none of this in my new home.
Sleeping alone for the first time was unnerving, especially after seeing the English movie. And there was no Grandma to console me and lull me back to sleep with lullabies. I had nightmares, woke up and howled for Grandma every night, disturbing the neighbourhood. It scared little Shabnam out of her wits. No sooner did she hear my horrendous shrieks than she would start howling at an unbelievable volume. The cold British air seemed to have given her very powerful lungs! There was total bedlam all round. Some of the neighbours would come charging out to their balconies in panic, fearing that rioters had finally reached Srinagar and begun to massacre people. It must have been really embarrassing for my parents.
His nerves on edge, Dad would come running to my room and try to pacify me. He would try to soothe away my fears with soft, endearing words, hugging me, and reassuring me that all was well. He told me that I was a ‘big boy’ now and should learn to sleep in my own bed. But I wanted to have my own way. I was not used to the new set of rules laid down by these ‘parents’. I listened to Dad and calmed down, but no sooner had he left the room than I would start howling again. I’m sure this turned my parents and our neighbours into nervous wrecks.
This went on night after night till one day, Dad stumbled into my room on shaky legs. He had reached the end of his tether. He slapped me across my face and begged me to keep quiet. A slap, though a gentle one, was something new for me. I had never been slapped before. I was stunned into silence, more shocked than hurt at this unexpected action. Perhaps that was the only way left for Dad to bring me to my senses. I got through the night, and with the resilience of childhood, forgot all about it by the next morning. But as I grew up and got to know Dad better, I realized that he was an uncannily sensitive and emotional man. He did not forget the slap. As I found out much later in life, it haunted him for decades and he felt terribly guilty about it. He loved children and handled them with sensitivity. Not once after that incident did he ever raise his voice, let alone a hand, to me.
It was at about this time that Dad met in Srinagar, as he wrote in his autobiography, his old college friend Chetan Anand-ji, who suggested that Dad should move to Bombay and work in a film he was making. I think it was called Neecha Nagar. Dad was a congenital adventurer and agreed readily. He had no idea what a difficult terrain he was stepping into.
Bombay—Stella Villa
The years after that are vague in my memory. We moved to Bombay, I remember, and lived in a house on Pali Hill, which was owned by an Englishman. It was a double-storeyed, wooden house, situated on the slope of a thickly forested hill. Memories of these days are vague and confused, but I do remember that a group of people lived there. Some faces stand out. Goldie Anand-ji was in school at the time and Dev Anand Saheb worked in the postal department. When I reminded him about this later in life, he remarked, ‘Yes, I remember those days. Everyone was broke except for me, and I kept them alive with an unending supply of omelettes. Bahut omelette khilaye in logon ko un dino mein! (I fed many omelettes to people those days). I think that was the time I acquired such a fondness for omelettes and Dev Saheb. He was an endearing personality even in those days, forever smiling and very affectionate.
Newly uprooted and at a loose end, those were hard days for everyone living in the house on Pali Hill. Dev Saheb’s older sister, whom the elders called Behen-ji and the children called Maati, was someone I remember fondly. She had several children between the ages of six and ten years, with whom we played. One of them was a little girl, her youngest daughter, who was fair, beautiful and reserved, and whom everyone called Munni. Then there were Chetan-ji’s two sons, Kunki and Gunnu, both younger than me, who were footloose and fancy-free. We didn’t go to school and played on the hillside all day. Dammo-ji and Behen-ji were good friends and helped one another look after us. Chetan-ji’s wife, Uma-ji, was another loveable lady who lined us up every morning and painted our throats to keep us free of infection. I remember vaguely that I got boils on my head and my hair had to be shaved off. Everyone called me Comrade Timoshenko after that. I, of course, had no idea who this man was!
It was at this time, I was told by Dad later, that Dammo-ji and Behen-ji got Munni and me ‘engaged’ formally by solemnly promising one another that they would get the two of us married when we grew, up. I don’t remember when this decision was made but the promise was kept and although Dammo-ji was no more, Munni (Aruna) and I were married in 1970, not long after I returned from Moscow.
However, during the Pali Hill days, despite Dad’s attempts to discipline me and improve my behaviour, I remained an enfant terrible. I didn’t see much of Dad in those days, but I remember that my mother, Dammo-ji as everyone called her, was exasperated by my antics and I remember her saying to Behen-ji, ‘What do I do with this idiot? He is uncontrollable. He is a jackass and will always remain one!’
I remember very little about my mother. For some unknown reason, I felt alienated from her from the moment I set eyes on her and could never connect with her. I found her manner gruff and domineering, and never got around to liking (much less loving) her.
Looking back, I think this alienation was because I missed Grandma so much. I felt uprooted from my secure environment and found it very difficult to be away from her—like a fish out of the water—in my alien surroundings
Hardly had we settled down in Pali Hill than we moved to Juhu. A bullock cart was hired and our meagre belongings were dumped on it. Shabnam and I were then seated in the bullock cart as it made its way to Juhu at a snail’s pace. Dad and Dammo-ji walked alongside.
The road leading from Pali Hill to Juhu was a narrow dirt lane in those days. Juhu was a godforsaken place where no civilized person was advised to live. It was a wild jungle of coconut trees, dotted with thatched ‘shacks’ here and there. No cars plied to and from Juhu. And there was scant activity in the area; the only business that flourished in this shady part of Bombay were illicit distilleries and there was the all-pervading odour of homemade ‘hooch’ everywhere.
Dad had rented a shack in ‘Theosophical Colony’. It was right on the beach and was mostly covered with dried coconut leaves that tried to keep the wind and the rain out. The grandiose name of ‘Stella Villa’ hardly suited the dwelling, whose leaky roof could barely keep the rain out in the monsoons. There was plenty of activity in Stella Villa though. Dad had joined the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA); the members would meet in our shack to discuss different projects and avid discussions on politics were common. What our home lacked in space, it made up for in warmth, welcoming the numerous guests, often members of the IPTA. There was constant hustle and bustle, with people coming and going at all times of the day and night. There was an atmosphere of freedom and togetherness while we lived there, even though it was often disconcerting to never have the house to ourselves. I have disjointed snippets of memory about those days.
As Bhisham-ji writes, ‘The house was used as a public place by film and IPTA enthusiasts who would walk in and out of it at odd hours. There was no family life as such for Balraj and his children were often neglected.’
What endeared the place to Dad were the beach and the sea. He loved nature and was an outdoor man. Living there, I believe, laid the grounds for our love and passion for the sea. As Dad writes in his autobiography, ‘Right from the day we moved into our bungalow, we became enamoured of the sea and the atmosph
ere surrounding it . . . we couldn’t now live anywhere else but amid those palm groves of Juhu.’
He was in love with the many moods of the sea and wrote further, ‘The human soul always craves for the infinite and looking at the waves and the vast expanse of the sea, one becomes conscious of it.’
In fact, some of my own happiest memories of my childhood are of the time I spent on the beach with Dad and my sister. Dad had a way with children. He behaved like a child when he was with us and we never felt any age difference between us. He made sand castles with us, gave them intricate shapes, and told us enthralling stories about princes and princesses who lived in the castles, pointing to the windows of their rooms. We spent hours on the beach and were loath to go home when called for lunch.
As I’ve said, my memories of my mother are often hazy. I have a faint recollection that she had succeeded as an actress of sorts and was seldom home. We spent most of our time on the beach with Dad. I think this was in 1945 and India was not yet independent. Those were revolutionary days; Dad and Dammo-ji were active members of the Communist Party and were deeply involved in its work, but it was the IPTA that occupied Dad the most. I remember a time when there was much excitement in the air. A film, called Dharti Ke Lal, directed by K.A. Abbas, was being made by the IPTA. It was a noble attempt to delineate the Bengal famine and raise the consciousness of India’s masses against the callousness of the British. Independence was just around the corner and opposition to British rule was at its height. The ‘progressive’ forces wanted to be full partners in the struggle for freedom. Dammo-ji was playing one of the main roles in the film. So was Dad. Even I was given a bit role in it—this was my first introduction to film-making.
While the film was being shot, the entire unit and hundreds of peasants, who had consented to work gratis, were engaged. I remember that for an outdoor scene, everyone marched a whole day through the parched countryside to reach the location. Dad carried me on his shoulders, in turn with his tall and, swarthy comrade, Baba Sheikh, a great singer of revolutionary songs and a popular member of the Communist fraternity. Dad was weak and skinny at that time. But he always provided us comfort and showed us great love.
However, I think my parents saw my discomfiture in my new surroundings and decided it was best to send me back to Rawalpindi. I was overjoyed to be back ‘home’. It took me no time to get back into the familiar groove; I was in a familiar world, where I felt I belonged. This was in 1946 and Partition was just around the corner.
A wave of nationalism had engulfed the country and anti-British sentiments ran high. The struggle for Independence, followed by the arbitrary division of India, sparked off riots and bloodshed in the Punjab and other parts of India. My return to Rawalpindi was marked by riots, starting in April 1947. Some of these took place in our own mohalla (neighbourhood), right in front of our house.
I was given a lesson in anatomy at a very early age. I saw people’s guts falling out, their throats being cut, the cries and moans of the wounded and the dying, and biers being carried on the road. One day a woman was raped by a group of men in broad daylight. I didn’t understand what it was all about; it looked strange and inexplicable to me. There was something pathetic and eerie about that sight; it seemed to me that the woman was being maltreated, yet she seemed strangely resigned to her fate and put up no resistance whatsoever. To my young eyes, what the men were doing to her seemed unnatural, inhuman and savage. It was only later that I understood that ‘something deep in the human psyche has always seemed to yearn for ever more enhanced levels of savagery.’ (Robert Dunbar) What I saw in Rawalpindi was a manifestation of that.
The elders tried their best to shield me from what was going on in the outside world, but they weren’t always successful. The screams of rioting and dying men resounded intermittently in our mohalla day and night.
On 29 April 1947, Grandpa received a telegram and became silent. Grandma asked him what the matter was. I remember him saying, with his voice quivering, ‘Dammo is no more!’
Grandma became hysterical. I was quickly bundled off to a relative’s house nearby. I did not understand what the hullabaloo was all about. Two of my close relatives, uncle Naresh-ji and aunt Santosh-ji took me to Srinagar and then to Gulmarg, where we spent many months. I vaguely recall them commiserating with me for having lost my mother, though I didn’t give it a second thought. I had hardly known my mother, so losing her didn’t affect me. For me, the holiday in Gulmarg was a lark and I had a rollicking time.
I remember clearly the night of 15 August 1947, when everyone stayed awake to hear Nehru speak to the new nation and announce the dawn of Independence at midnight. I neither understood the speech nor was I aware that it meant that our old home in Rawalpindi was henceforth lost to us forever. And so, my peregrinations continued. For many years after that, the family was forced to lead a nomadic life.
After Gulmarg I moved with Bhisham-ji and Sheila-ji to Dharamsala, where Sheila-ji’s father had been appointed the Inspector General of Police. Dharamsala was a beautiful place. IG Saheb (whom we called Pita-ji) had been allotted a spacious bungalow of the British days, surrounded by ten or twelve acres of land, which had tennis courts, a huge garden and a separate plot for growing vegetables. Facing this beautiful bungalow were the snow-capped peaks of the Dhauladhar range and surrounding it were forests of tall pine trees. The place was idyllic and Bhisham-ji and Sheila-ji and their three or four-year-old daughter Kalpana (and Pita-ji) were a perennial source of love and warmth. Pita-ji was one of the most loveable and loving people I have had the good fortune of living with.
I often thought about Dad, but in his absence, I developed a close bond with Bhisham-ji. His kindness, his solicitude, his love and his warmth were shared equally by Kalpana and me. It was one big happy family. We spent our days running around the huge estate, befriending local children, and enjoyed being treated like celebrity by the local residents because we were related to the IG Saheb. The British had gone, but had left behind their paraphernalia intact—local khansamas (cooks) who prepared delicious meals as well as an army of servants who looked after the needs of the indigenous successors of the British Sahebs with equal care and alacrity! I was in my seventh heaven.
And then, at last, Dad arrived and I was overjoyed to see him. He was alone. Dammo-ji, of course, had passed away. He was as loving and affectionate as ever. And once again he tried assiduously to take his rightful place as a paterfamilias. I couldn’t help comparing him with Bhisham-ji who was gentle, soft-spoken and a man of few words. In contrast Dad was loud and vibrant and a great hit with everyone. He told interesting stories and was full of fun and laughter.
It was during his short stay in Dharamsala that Dad took me for a long walk through the countryside, during which I was introduced for the first time to Karl Marx and the fine points of Communist economy. We chewed on sugarcane stalks as we walked. That was the first instalment of the indoctrination I received about the ultimate triumph of the Communist system. I didn’t understand much of the Marxist philosophy he was propounding to me.
‘Did you notice the big block of ice the sugarcane juice fellow had on his cart?’ Dad asked me, chewing on the sugarcane stalk with gusto.‘Yes!’ ‘And do you see the snow and ice on those mountain tops over there?’ ‘Yes!’ I replied, not knowing what these questions were leading to. ‘How much do you think the ice on the mountain cost?’ My prompt answer, ‘Why should it cost anything? I think it would be free of cost, wouldn’t it!’ ‘Now, that block of ice on the cart of the man who sold us these stalks, did it cost something?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so! The fellow must have bought it somewhere!’ ‘So why is it free on the mountain top and why does it have a cost here in Dharamsala?’
To me this was high philosophy. I was stumped. Yes indeed! Why did it cost something here when it was freely available on the mountain top? Why not just go to the mountain and get it from there rather than pay for it, I thought. I couldn’t figure that one out till Dad revealed the great Marxist
truth to me. ‘Because bringing it here involves labour. Labour is what Marxist philosophy is all about. Now if we had gone to a sugarcane field and cut ourselves a stalk of sugarcane, would it have cost us anything?’ I was intrigued and excited. ‘Yes! That is a good idea! We should have done that. Next time, we will just pluck it from a sugarcane field.’
Dad smiled knowingly. ‘No, you can’t do that. That field is owned by someone. It would be unlawful to pull out one of the sugarcane stalks. If the owner found out, you would be punished. And that brings me to the second basic tenet of Marxism. Private property—this field is owned by a man. Now, according to Marx, that is the cause of all evil in society. Private ownership of property! All property should be owned by the government, by the entire nation and the working class. The capitalist class, the petty bourgeoisie, the counter-revolutionaries and the revisionists should be eliminated, decimated, destroyed, wiped out, crushed and blown to smithereens.’
By now Dad was very excited and his fervour was infectious. I thought, if all these things (the meaning of which I did not understand) had to be dealt with so urgently and severely, then it was high time we did it! ‘Yes! Let us do that!’ I said enthusiastically, without understanding a word of what it was all about. Dad seemed pleased at my enthusiasm. He laughed. ‘Did you understand the basis of the philosophy of Marxism?’ ‘Yes!’ I said with conviction. ‘Good! Now let us buy some more sugarcane stalks,’ he said. It was fun just to be with him. I wanted Dad to stay longer in Dharamsala, but he had to rush off again.
And so our jaunts continued. Bhisham-ji and Sheila-ji next moved to Ambala and I went there with them. We were now ‘refugees’ looking for a place where we could settle. The Partition had made nomads of us all.
The Non-Conformist Page 3