The Non-Conformist

by Parikshat Sahni

  He continued, ‘We walked a mile or so to the Dal Gate. It was past ten and there were no taxis in sight. He asked me to head back home, and since the weather was perfect and the lake looked serene and alluring, he would walk back to the hotel alone along the boulevard that circles the lake. The hotel was two or three miles away. I insisted on accompanying him at least half way to it. He protested, but I started walking with him anyway. When we were about half way to the hotel, he suggested that I should go back, but I insisted seeing him right up to the Lake Palace. It was a long walk! I bid him good night at the hotel steps, but then, to my amazement, he started to walk back with me, saying, “I refuse to let you go back alone!” In spite of my pleas and reminders that he needed to rest for his early morning shoot, he was adamant and accompanied me back all the way to the Dal Gate, where we finally parted. I am sure this cycle of walking back and forth would have continued all night if I had not forced him to go back to his hotel. He looked as fresh as a daisy, but I was tired. Balraj-ji must have walked six or seven miles that day. Such was the man’s love!’

  Pran Saheb had tears in his eyes as he narrated the story to me. But then his sombre mood soon changed as another thought crossed his mind. A smile appeared on his face.

  ‘Balraj-ji had a naughty streak in him,’ Pran Saheb said, and he told me about how, one night, when the Bandh (the road overlooking the river) was deserted and they were passing a houseboat called Suffering Moses, Dad asked Pran Saheb to keep a lookout in case anyone was in sight. When Pran Saheb was sure that the road was deserted, Dad quickly climbed up one of the carved, wooden pillars of the houseboat, and with a piece of chalk, changed the ‘M’ to ‘N’ on the signboard so that it now read Suffering Noses!

  Pran Saheb then narrated a story about the day his daughter Neerja was getting married in Srinagar. He had sent an invitation to Dad, but Dad had said he would not be able to make it since he had committed to shooting in Calcutta, which was a long way from Kashmir.

  On the day of the marriage, celebrations were in full swing when Dad appeared out of nowhere, loaded with presents. When Pran Saheb expressed his surprise, Dad hugged him and said, ‘I postponed my shooting. How could I not attend Neerja’s marriage? Your daughter is like my daughter, yaar (buddy)!’

  ‘His presence added life to the party, with singing and dancing going on late into the night,’ said Pran Saheb wistfully.

  Business pal

  One of Dad’s best friends during his days in the film industry was Rajinder Bhatia-ji. Ostensibly, he was his secretary and business manager who looked after his contracts and financial dealings, but in time he became not just a confidante but also a close friend whose counsel Dad valued immensely and who became a member of our family. Dad consulted him about all his dealings, initially regarding his professional work, but as they became close friends, about his personal life as well. They met every day and huddled together discussing things for hours.

  Bhatia-ji was a hard-headed and versatile businessman without whom Dad may not have succeeded or had a smooth ride in the film industry. Dad was not worldly-wise. Like most artistes, he was an idealist and a thinker. He did not bother much with nor was he very good at business matters. He and Bhatia-ji made the ideal combination. Bhatia-ji took care of his monetary worries and let Dad concentrate on his writing and acting. In time, they became inseparable.

  Dad didn’t treat Bhatia-ji as a secretary or an employee, but like a younger brother. Once, when B. R. Chopra-ji wanted to sign Dad for a film, he asked Dad to send Bhatia-ji over to his office to ‘work out the details’. Dad, to Chopra Saheb’s astonishment, told him to go and meet Bhatia-ji at his residence instead. Bhatia-ji lived on the fourth floor of a building on Linking Road and I believe Chopra Saheb had no choice but to climb four floors to sign Dad for his film! This was probably the first and the last time this happened in Chopra Saheb’s life! Dad was respectful of his friend’s time and did not want him to feel obliged to obey commands and demands made of him.

  And Bhatia-ji reciprocated accordingly. He didn’t take on anyone else’s work and was loyal to Dad to the last. Within a few years of joining Dad, he became a producer and then a director. But his beginnings were humble. He had started his film career as an usher in a cinema hall in Lahore! Pavitra Paapi, the film I was supposed to direct, was ultimately directed by him, which, I think, was a wise decision.

  Fishermen

  There are many other people with whom Dad shared deep relationships. People from all walks of life made a roadway into his heart and he never forgot them. One such person was Motiram Shile, a fisherman who lived in the Versova fishing village. He owned a trawler and belonged to the group called the Kolis, the original inhabitants of Mumbai, who were fishermen. If I am not mistaken, they spoke in a dialect of their own and not the regular Marathi spoken in the state.

  The Kolis’ village at the bend of a creek by the sea was picturesque. Their trawlers and barges were exotically painted and flew colourful flags. In Dad’s days, the men and the women dressed in their own inimitable way. The women wore their saris with one end bound tightly between the crevice in their posterior, accentuating their rounded bottoms, and the men wore a simple loin cloth, which hung triangularly down to their knees, with an almost invisible thread that ran through their buttocks, leaving the posterior bare. I suppose this was convenient for them, for they laboured all day and needed minimal clothing so that their movements were not hampered.

  Once or twice a week, Motiram went out in his trawler, with some men who worked for him, into the deep sea and roamed the coast for fish for two or three days, casting huge nets into it. All the fishermen were suntanned and had wiry and tough bodies. Pulling in heavy nets was not an easy job! They usually came back with a huge catch, which they sold in the market. And although they lived in a crowded and shabby village, they were not poor and their women were loaded with gold jewellery. But since foreign trawlers, which are better equipped, began patrolling the coasts all over the world, the fishermen’s lot has changed for the worse. Additionally, with factors such as increasing pollution, there are not as many fish in the sea as there used to be.

  Motiram and Dad were very close to one another. The fisherman smelled strongly of fish all the time, but no one in the house bothered about that. He came and sat with Dad, and the two of them chatted and cracked jokes and laughed for hours. He always brought a huge amount of fresh pomfret fish and sometimes even fish cooked in their Koli style (with very pungent ‘masalas’), which we ate with relish.

  When he had no shooting, Dad often went to the high seas for days on end with Motiram in his trawler and came back tanned and ruddy, with a sack full of fish he had helped to catch with his friend. He did not go just as an observer, but as a labourer and threw in the nets and pulled them out just like the fishermen. And at night, like them, he slept on the deck under the stars and shared their country liquor and ‘masala’ fish.

  Dad introduced me to Motiram on my return from the USSR and we became good friends as well. I had the good fortune of going out to sea with him in his trawler for two or three days at a time. It was always an exhilarating experience. And whenever Charles Parr came to Mumbai, Dad took him to the Versova village and I believe, once or twice the Englishman went fishing with Motiram.

  When Dad passed away, Motiram made his way through the huge crowed that jammed the entire street in front of Ikraam and came into the house. I don’t think anyone cried as much as the fisherman did that day. ‘Hamara best friend chala gaya!’ he said through his sobs. ‘Hamara best friend chala gaya!’ (Our best friend is gone!)

  All those who knew him and were close to him felt the same way. He was called ‘Yaaron ka yaar’, the ultimate friend! And those of his friends who are still alive still feel that way.

  8

  The Parent

  My unconventional Dad

  Dad was a revolutionary in every aspect of his life and that extended to his role as a parent. He didn’t bear the remotest resembla
nce to the traditional image of the paterfamilias. He had a way with children, and not only his own, but children who got to know him fell under his spell. Many of Dad’s qualities that captivated his friends and acquaintances extended to his children as well. His exuberant spirit and his lust for life was infectious and we couldn’t help but fall under the spell of his charm and his sheer joy of being alive.

  It is true, as I have mentioned before, that Dad and I had difficulties in our relationship off and on. For one, for a long time, I held him responsible for a lot of the confusion and depression that dogged my early years. But I realize now that it was immature of me to blame him; my state of mind was not of his making but a result of the confusing circumstances and gargantuan problems he was faced with in his personal and professional life after he returned from England when I was still a child.

  Fathers don’t normally talk to their children about their problems when they are young. Children can feel unduly burdened with problems they don’t quite understand, and this can lead to dire consequences when they grow older. As a result, there are misunderstandings, especially if they have been separated from the father for a length of time, as was the case with me.

  Dad was stoic about the rough deal he got at the beginning of his film career; I was blissfully unaware of his struggles and hardships. Once a person becomes a star, he is loved and idolized. But no one knows about the pain and the heartaches he is subjected to in the initial stages of his career.

  It is only after I joined films myself that Dad gave me a hint of the blood, sweat and tears he shed and the emotional trauma he faced before getting a foothold in the film industry. So, I cannot blame him for the misunderstandings that developed between us or the emotional chasm that separated us.

  Having been brought up by grandparents and other relatives, and having lived for long periods in boarding schools, I was influenced against Dad by my elders and school teachers. As if choosing the lowly profession of an actor was not bad enough, he added insult to injury by marrying his first cousin, an act which they all held in disdain. But all these allegations to my mind seemed immature and unfounded, and disappeared as I grew up.

  Dad was far from being the traditional paterfamilias we see all around us. He was a soft-hearted and soft-spoken man who rarely raised his voice. I don’t remember him ever losing his temper or being angry with any of us children. Nor did I ever hear a reprimand or word of criticism from him, in spite of the fact that I behaved atrociously at times.

  As a father, he wished to be, above all, a friend to us all. From our earliest childhood, Dad insisted that we call him by his name and not ‘Father’, ‘Papa’, ‘Dad’ or ‘Pita-ji’ or any such term. So, it was Balraj-ji to begin with, but he was not happy with that either and asked us to cut out the ji and call him just Balraj instead, something which none of us kids could do for long. So Balraj-ji soon turned into ‘Dad’ and ‘Daddy.’

  Very early in life he told me, ‘Remember, I am your friend first and father later. So, don’t ever keep any secrets from me. Let us be frank and truthful with one another. I promise never to hide anything from you.’

  True to his word, on one of our excursions to Gulmarg during my college days, he offered me my first cigarette and my first glass of beer, with a gentle admonition to never do anything behind his back. And when I developed a crush on a girl in college, he was the first one to whom I confided about this.

  That was the sort of relationship we had. He did not want to be a distant and strict figure of authority, and often shared with me the most sensitive and intimate secrets of his life without any embarrassment or hesitation.

  ‘At your age, I got whenever I set my eyes on a pretty girl. How about you? Does the sight of pretty girls excite you?’ He winked at me suggestively as he said this and I blushed to the roots of my hair.

  I was familiar with the condition he was referring to, but did not know what to say to him. In spite of our informal relationship with one another, all I could do was mumble something incoherent under my breath. But Dad thought nothing of talking about sex to me at an age when I was hardly aware of what it meant or of sharing stories related to his own sexual urges.

  Girl at the dhaba

  One day when Dad, Mummy and I were driving to the Ajanta Caves, we stopped for a cup of tea in a small village dhaba. A buxom, dark, rustic, incredibly beautiful young girl in a tightly bound sari, which emphasized her well-developed figure, was passing by. She had a devil-may-care attitude and was laughing and swinging her hips coquettishly as she brushed past me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She stared back at me defiantly, smiling mockingly. Dad was watching the proceedings from the corner of his eye. He leaned over to me and said softly, ‘What a pretty girl! She seems to have taken a fancy to you. Why don’t you approach her and see if she is interested?’

  He spoke very softly, but Mummy overheard what he had said. She gave him a piece of her mind. ‘Are you mad? Do you want there to be riots here! This is a village, not Bombay. What are you teaching your son? To grow up to be a lecher? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Tosh, I was just joking . . .’

  ‘Is this a joke? The way things are going, your son will grow up to be a womanizer and a boozer. You have beer with him almost every afternoon when you are not shooting. Balraj-ji, zara hosh mein aiye! (Please come to your senses.)’

  Dad didn’t say a word but kept smiling at her like a Cheshire cat, glancing at me with a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘If you truly loved him, you would have taught him good things. Not to go around screwing women and drinking beer!’ Mummy concluded.

  I was embarrassed at this exchange, but had to disagree with Mummy about her last statement. In spite of the freedom Dad gave us, he tempered it with sound advice to ‘be careful’ and not to do anything to ‘sully your own or another’s reputation.’ The Soviet Union afforded me a lot of freedom and I could do as I wished. Since nobody was looking over my shoulder, I confess I took full advantage of this freedom and for a while went berserk where women were concerned, but I kept my head and didn’t forget Dad’s admonition. And it was the same with smoking and drinking. I did smoke for a while, but was aware of the harm it could do, so I didn’t make a habit of it, and after a while, I quit it altogether. Not so, I am afraid, with drinking. Russia was abominably cold and a tot of vodka was the only antidote; in fact, drinking vodka is almost a cultural thing in Russia.

  Memories come rushing back, little things that Dad did which we took for granted, and I am filled with gratitude and regret at the thought that I spent so little time with him and we lost him so early. Some of my fondest memories are of the love and care he showered on me when we went together to Kashmir.

  Gulmarg

  Once, during my summer holidays, when I had barely stepped into my teens, Dad took me for a holiday to Gulmarg. True to his habit, he couldn’t wait to embark on a hike up the Zabarwan. With youthful zest and overestimating my own stamina, I got ready to accompany him.

  The hike was a daunting one and I had a difficult time keeping up with him, but he encouraged me all along. Exhausted, we stopped at Khilanmarg to catch our breath, for the climb ahead was long and steep. We had a porter with us, leading a pony with a picnic basket strapped on its back. After a snack, Dad requested the man to wait till we got back.

  We took off for the summit of the mountain. Dad was extremely fit, and to me, he seemed tireless, while my relatively young feet were beginning to drag. After trudging up to the snow-covered summit, we stopped again to catch our breath and view the landscape that was spread out before us. Behind us was the green vista of the valley, and on the other side, huge, spectacular, ice-bound mountains and rocky terrain. Across and below the ridge, close to the LOC, well above the snow line, was a small lake with an enormous block of ice floating on it. We continued down the other side of the mountain till we reached this small lake. There was no one in sight. The area was barren, bleak and deserted. Dad chuckled, spoke about the ‘good old days
’ when he used to come here with his college buddies. Without much ado, he stripped down to his birthday suit and jumped blithely into the lake.

  He laughed, joked and thrashed around in the icy water like an excited college student, asking me to jump in too. The idea of getting into the freezing water did not appeal to me in the least, but Dad looked perfectly comfortable in the sub-zero temperature. I was petrified at first, but cajoled by him, jumped in. However, as the shock of the cold hit me, I started gasping after only a couple of minutes and came out, my teeth chattering and my body turning blue as my hair rose upright and my flesh formed goosebumps. I dried myself hurriedly, put on my clothes with trembling fingers and lay down to rest, hugging myself close in an attempt to get warm. Dad came out looking happy and excited, no sign of shivering or chattering teeth. He dried himself and put on his clothes at a leisurely pace, took some pictures, and then, strapping on his watch, said it was well past noon and time for us to return to Khilan and have lunch. He looked exuberant, full of joie de vivre. He had a lust for life, and loved and lived it to the hilt!

  However, I felt none of his high spirits. My teeth continued to chatter despite some hot tea from a thermos flask. I thought my shivering was just due to the cold and would soon pass, but it continued increasing till it was uncontrollable and was shaking like a leaf. I still didn’t pay much heed to my condition, but Dad was alarmed. When we reached the hotel, he packed our bags and we rushed to Tangmarg, where he hired a taxi to take us to Srinagar.