Just then the specialist walked in. Giani-ji welcomed him with a broad smile. ‘I have news for you, my friend!’ he said. ‘I am going for a holiday after this to Hong Kong. I want you to come along with me. Don’t worry about the ticket and your stay. I will pay for it. Would you like to come?’ The specialist looked stupefied. ‘Sure, I would like to come. But it is impossible. The Government will not allow me. No foreign travel is allowed for Soviet citizens unless the Government sends them. And that is rare.’ Giani-ji looked questioningly at Dad and waited for his reaction. Dad said nothing.
I had listened silently to this argument. There was no way of convincing Dad that there could be a flaw in the Soviet system. When he looked at me and asked me what I thought about the system, I said nothing. I felt it best to keep quiet in the presence of the specialist, lest I land up in Lubyanka or Siberia!
But my five years in the USSR had made me think twice. To a large extent, I agreed with Giani-ji. There was a joke going around in Moscow those days about three old men all chained to a wall in a dungeon in Siberia. They did not speak to one another for weeks and months till one day one of them slowly lifted his hoary head and asked the other, ‘Why are you here, comrade?’ ‘I am here because I spoke against Ivanov!’ groaned the other and fell into a stupor again. There was silence for a few days till the other man lifted up his hoary head and asked the man who had questioned him, ‘And why are you here, comrade?’ ‘I am here because I spoke for Ivanov!’ the man replied and slumped down. After a few days, these two men realized there was a third man chained along with them to the wall and turned to him and asked, ‘And you, comrade, why are you here?’ The man lifted his head slowly and said, ‘I am Ivanov.’
It is true that in five years I spend in Russia I had become completely Russianized. Hardly anyone took me for a foreigner. I looked Russian, I spoke fluent Russian, and I dressed, ate and guzzled vodka like a Russian. I had fallen in love with Russia’s culture, art and literature, strength and the simplicity and warmth of its people, the beauty of its forests, its folk songs and dances. I had made good friends. I had fallen in love with a Russian girl and was planning to marry her. The oppressive political atmosphere didn’t bother me too much. I had become as inured to it as the Russians.
But, strangely enough, I loved Russia most for the freedom it gave me! It’s tough to be the son of a celebrity. One doesn’t know whether people become friends because of who you are or because of whose son you are. Often, especially in schools in India, I was singled out, teased and called names. I hated it. In Russia, no one cared who I was and I felt free to do what I liked and go wherever I felt like without anyone pointing to me and saying, ‘There goes Balraj Sahni’s son!’ In Russia I breathed freely; I loved the climate, the people and the natural beauty of the country. My time in Russia was the best in my life.
But as to the truth about how things were in the USSR, I said nothing to Dad. Even the walls had ears! I thought I would tell him some other time, maybe when I was back in Bombay after my studies were over in Moscow. The only problem was that I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to leave Russia and go back to India for good.
However simple Giani-ji looked or pretended to be, there were times when his knowledge and depth of vision was clearly evident. And nowhere did it become more evident than when the delegation was taken for a trip to Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy’s home in Yasnaya Polyana.
On a cold day when the first snowflakes had begun to fall in Moscow, the Russians decided to take the delegation to Yasnaya Polyana, a sprawling estate about a hundred miles from Moscow, where Tolstoy spent a major part of his life and wrote most of his novels and short stories.
The big limousine, sans heat, in which we were packed like sardines, had hardly taken off for Tolstoy’s home when the specialist began to eulogize Russian culture. ‘Have you heard of Tolstoy?’ he asked Giani-ji who was looking out of the window and asked somewhat nonchalantly, ‘Taalstai who?’ Dad wasn’t surprised Giani-ji hadn’t heard of him. He was a politician after all! The specialist proceeded to enlighten Giani-ji about Tolstoy’s writings and what a profound effect they had on world literature. He went on to talk about Chekhov and Dostoyevsky and other Russian literary giants. ‘The world has never seen as great a short story writer as Chekhov, a psychological writer as great as Dostoyevsky or a story teller like Tolstoy,’ he said. Although Giani-ji and the rest of the Indian delegates listened to his discourse quietly, they were getting a bit tired of his incessant jabbering, I think. Their focus was on warding off the cold, not on the genius of Russian writers. The temperature was below zero in the car. Giani-ji was not wearing warm clothes and he had on mojdis, Mughal-type thin pointed footwear, with thin socks. He must have been in a horrendous condition. The heater in the car didn’t work and Giani-ji had taken off his socks and was rubbing his toes vigorously. Turning to Dad, he said in Punjabi, ‘Balraj-ji, this fellow is rambling away to glory and I am freezing. I thought you said they have sent a man into space and are preparing to land a man on the moon! Can’t they make good cars?’ Turning to the specialist, he inquired, ‘I thought everything Russian was superlative, but you don’t even have heating in your car. As far as I know, this doesn’t happen in England, America or even in India.’ The specialist was on the defensive as he explained, ‘Nothing like that! This is a great car. Just that the heating system has broken down. It can happen anywhere to any car.’
We reached Yasnaya Polyana after crossing the Moscow region and entering into the Tula region. The estate is maintained exactly as it was, frozen in time, when Tolstoy had left it. Nothing had been touched, including his books, his table, the family samovar on the table, his pen, everything. Russians revere their artists, painters, writers and musicians.
Since this was a special delegation, there were no other visitors in Yasnaya Polyana that day. I was mesmerised by the number of books lining the walls and even the staircases (and was surprised to see that the margins in the books were marked in Tolstoy’s hand in the various European languages they were written in—French, English and German.) Dad, being a literary person, knew a lot about Tolstoy and Russian literature. And luckily the house was centrally heated, so Giani-ji and the rest were relishing the warmth that was gradually seeping through their frozen bones.
I looked around, listened for a while to the specialist and then wandered off outside. There was at least half a foot of snow on the ground; the snow sparkled on the firs and the bare branches of the birch trees as the soft sunshine filtered through a thin layer of clouds. Imbibing the silence, serenity and wondrous beauty of the scene, I came to a clearing with a stunning view of the winter landscape. I sat down on a low mound to enjoy the view, breathed in the brisk and cold air and felt strangely elated. This was a dream come true. I loved Russian winters. I had seen many beautiful winter landscapes before but I had never seen one like this. There was something other-worldly about it. Involuntarily my eyes closed.
My reverie was broken by a loud shout. Someone was telling me angrily to get up. It was the Russian specialist. He looked very angry and walked briskly towards me, followed by the members of the delegation. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he bellowed in Russian. I did not get up. ‘I am just enjoying the view. What is the problem and why are you shouting? I asked him in Russian.
Dad looked confused. The Russian came up. ‘Get up immediately!’ he ordered. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where you are sitting?’ he said. I was perplexed. ‘I am sitting on this blasted mound and enjoying the landscape. Is there a rule against that?’ ‘Yes, there is! You are sitting on Tolstoy,’ he replied. I jumped up with a start. ‘What?’ He said, ‘You are sitting on Tolstoy’s grave!’ I thought this was utter nonsense. After all, there was no tombstone, no plaque, in fact nothing to show that this was a grave.
That’s when Giani-ji spoke up. ‘Yes, this is Tolstoy’s grave. It was his last wish to be buried without a cross or a tombstone on his grave. He had been excommunicated by the Church and he
wished to be buried precisely at this spot.’
There was sudden silence. The delegates looked surprised that Giani-ji had heard about Tolstoy after all, even more so when he folded his hands, and touched his forehead to the grave in a gesture of respect. Dad turned to Giani-ji and said, ‘Giani-ji, Tolstoy was not a Sufi saint or a Guru that you should fold your hands at his grave!’ ‘In a way Tolstoy was our Guru’, Giani-ji said. ‘Our entire philosophy of non-violence was taught to Gandhi-ji by Tolstoy. Gandhi-ji was influenced by John Ruskin to a large extent. But Tolstoy was his Guru, who advised him on everything. Gandhi-ji had named his farm in South Africa Tolstoy Farm and he was in touch with Tolstoy till the latter passed away in 1910 away from his home at a railway station called Astapov or something.’ ‘Astapovo,’ the specialist corrected him. ‘Gandhi-ji was an ardent admirer of Tolstoy,’ Giani-ji continued, ‘and was deeply influenced by him.’
I later discovered that there was indeed a lot of correspondence between Gandhi-ji and Tolstoy, which is closely guarded in the National Archives in Delhi. I got my hands on the entire correspondence through the curator of the Archives after returning to India. Some of the letters have now been published, and clearly indicate that Tolstoy firmly believed that non-violence was the only way to challenge injustice. Very few people in India seem to be aware of his contribution to our freedom movement.
Explaining Tolstoy’s connection with Gandhi-ji, Giani-ji said to Dad, ‘It was the right way to pay my homage to Tolstoy, Balraj-ji. Mattha ta tekna hi si. (I had to pay my respect.)’ He turned to the specialist and asked, ‘Now, sir, tell me, have you read War and Peace and Anna Karenina?’ ‘Every child in Russia has read these books,’ the Russian replied. ‘Have you read Punar-jeevan (Resurrection)?’ Giani-ji asked. ‘No, not yet,’ admitted the specialist.
Giani-ji turned out to be a dark horse. ‘Tolstoy was excommunicated by the Russian Orthodox Church; in fact, he excommunicated himself, proclaiming that he no longer believed in its sacraments,’ he explained.
The specialist couldn’t hide his bewilderment and neither could I. I think Dad was also surprised. Giani-ji knew more about Tolstoy than all of us put together!
But Dad was astute. He had been able to see what none of us could. He had seen that beneath Giani-ji’s apparently inane remarks and his awkward and unsophisticated behaviour was a polished and brilliant mind. If anybody could relate to Giani-ji’s blatant disregard for etiquette and genteel savoir faire, it was Dad.
Despite Giani-ji’s rustic behaviour, he was honest and amiable. In fact, even some of his blunders were endearing and made him more lovable. For instance, one day there was panic at the hotel when water was seen cascading down one of the lift shafts. People ran helter-skelter to find out the cause of this strange phenomenon. It was soon discovered that the water was flowing out from under the door of Giani-ji’s room in great torrents. Giani-ji was found having a bath in his kachcha (drawers), sitting cross-legged on the floor, using the tub as a bucket from which to pour water over his head with a tumbler. Later he told Dad, ‘You don’t expect me to fill the tub with water and sit in it! That’s no way to bathe. Our system in India is more hygienic.’
And at the Bolshoi Theatre, where the delegation had been taken to see Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake, my favourite, Giani-ji was at first completely stupefied and then horrified, and looked away when he saw the female dancers come on stage. ‘They have no salwars (Indian pants) on, Balraj-ji! Their underwear is clearly visible! Vahe Guru! Vahe Guru! (Oh God! Oh God!) Where have these people brought us!’ he muttered under his breath. And when the hero, the prince, jumped onto the stage in one spectacular leap, Giani-ji was heard asking Dad in Punjabi, ‘Eh moonda ve ya kudi?” (Is this a man or a woman?) The hero had long, blonde hair and was wearing white tights, and looking at it from Giani-ji’s point of view, he did look rather effeminate. ‘Dance hi vekhna hai Balraj-ji, tan sadde Punjab vich aa ke bhangra vekho!’ (If you want to see real dancing come to Punjab and see our bhangra!) were his final comments on the ballet.
Later, sitting alone with Dad in the lobby after dinner, I couldn’t help remarking, ‘Rather naïve, this man, Giani Zail Singh!’ Dad smiled, ‘Mark this man, Parikshat. He will go far. Very far. Beneath his ‘naïve’ exterior is a very wise man—a man with great perspicacity. Wait and see!’
I didn’t agree with Dad then. But it is I who was naïve; Dad was right. Many years later, after Dad was no more, I read about Giani-ji as he went from strength to strength, first in the Punjab and then in the Central Government in Delhi. He was elected the Congress Chief Minister of Punjab in 1972 when Dad was still alive. After Dad passed away the following year, Zail Singh was elected to the 7th Lok Sabha, and appointed minister of home affairs in 1980. And in 1982 he became the president of India.
I remember the day he was sworn in. I was glued to the TV in our flat in Juhu. When I saw Giani-ji taking the oath, I remembered Dad’s words, ‘Toon mainoo yaad karenga. Ai banda bahut ucchha jayega.’ (You’ll remember me. This man will rise to great heights!) Dad would have been so happy to see the swearing-in ceremony, but he was no more. And Moscow was far, far away. The tears that streaked down my cheeks that day were of the sadness I felt at Dad’s absence, my memories of Russia and my ineffable joy at the sight of Giani-ji raising his hand and taking the oath of office as the First Citizen of India.
4
The Two Brothers
Dad came from a large family. In addition to the two brothers, there were three sisters. However, only one of the sisters survived, the oldest of the children. Her name was Vedvati and I believe she was the prettiest among the sisters. She had three daughters and a son, Ashok-ji, who was the oldest and then came Usha-ji, who was a mother figure for the children in the family; then came Prabha-ji, the artistic one. She was a consummate artist and painted some excellent water colours. Harshi-ji was the youngest of the children and the closest to me. Although she was quite a bit older than me, she has been the light of my life from childhood to this day; her sense of humour resonates with mine and we get along like a house on fire. But Dad’s sisters died before I was born and I seldom heard him mention any of them. My memories of them, therefore, are few and far between.
However, since so much of my life was spent with Bhisham-ji, I observed him closely and became familiar with his quirks and temperament. Dad and Bhisham-ji were both extraordinary human beings in their own inimitable ways and were giants in their respective fields—Dad in the film industry and Bhisham-ji in the field of writing—and both left their footprints on the sands of time. But both were very different from each other—and not only in their physical appearance! Dad was six feet tall, fair, suave and slim, with thinning hair carefully groomed like that of his hero Lord Gordon Byron. Whenever he lost weight he tended to look somewhat lanky. He was an extraordinarily handsome man with a Roman nose and sharp features, and had an endearing personality. Bhisham-ji, on the other hand, was on the short side, about five feet eight inches, stickily built, darkish in complexion, with a shock of thick, unkempt hair. He also had an aquiline nose. His eyes were like those of a hawk—piercing and penetrating. But they seemed to be turned inwards, preoccupied and contemplative like those of a philosopher.
People admired Dad and he admired himself, being something of a narcissist. As he confessed in his autobiography, during his adolescent and later years, he loved to stand before the mirror for long periods of time and admire himself, much as Narcissus did when he sat by a pond and could not tear himself away from his own image.
But who was Dad? The public builds an image of an actor based on the type of roles he or she plays, which are often stereotyped, Therefore, Pran-ji and Prem Chopra, for example, are viewed as villains, while Manoj Kumar is often considered a patriotic hero. Yet even the audience knows that these are mere roles, not a depiction of who they truly are. The personality attributed to Dad often was of a sombre, responsible and mature man who loved his people. He was not overly associated with a romantic
image and the public, as I’ve been told by some people, were uncomfortable in seeing him romance a woman on the screen. But as each layer of makeup was stripped off at the end of a shot, the man emerged. Whether it was Shambu in Do Bigha Zamin or Abdur Rahman Khan in Kabuliwallah, they gave way to Balraj Sahni who was, in some respects, an antithesis to some of the roles he played. In essence, though, one of the most significant traits he demonstrated both on the screen and in real life was dignity. This quality was deeply entrenched in his persona throughout his life and he somehow managed to infuse it his myriad roles, no matter how varied they were, with immense dignity. Added to that, he was so well respected as a person that his very presence in a film lent it far more than just a modicum of respectability.
The Non-Conformist Page 8