The Non-Conformist

by Parikshat Sahni

  By the time we left Tangmarg, my fever had shot up drastically and I was groggy and delirious. Dad was panic-stricken. All along the way, till we reached Srinagar, he held me close to his chest in a tight embrace, apologizing and mumbling, ‘Oh my God! It’s all my fault. Forgive me, son, please forgive me.’ Even in my delirium, I remember being pleasantly surprised; he had never hugged me like this before. For that matter, no-one else had either, except perhaps Granny during the Partition days, when I was very small and would be petrified at hearing the shouts and screams of dying men at night. Even my own mother, a nebulous figure in my memory, never hugged me as closely as Dad did that day. I clung to him, cherishing the moment, vaguely aware that this was a rare occurrence, which was not likely to be repeated. Smiling to myself, I fell into a feverish sleep, Dad’s comforting touch soothing away my anxiety.

  When we reached home, Dad called the doctor right away. The doctor diagnosed malaria. I was laid up for a fortnight, if not more. At first I would shiver and feel cold, then quite suddenly my temperature would shoot up, followed by profuse sweating, which continued till I fell into a stupor and slept. And then the cycle would repeat itself.

  Dad didn’t leave my bedside even for a minute, except to go to the bathroom. He nursed me night and day, holding my hand and reassuring me that all would be well. If he took a nap, it was on the carpet on the floor not far from my bed and that too for short periods. Whenever my temperature shot up, Dad would apply a cold compress on my forehead all night long till the temperature came down. During that fortnight, he stayed up nights, fed me, and helped me change my clothes and to the bathroom. Malaria seemed to have sucked the life out of me and made me very weak. He nursed me like a mother. I think back and a flood of gratitude and love overwhelms me!

  The slap

  Dad’s love manifested itself in many ways, some of which I didn’t even notice at the time. I have mentioned earlier how he had slapped me on one occasion in Srinagar in an effort to quell my tantrums. I must add here that while some memories are vivid in my mind, there were some incidents that were related to me as I grew older.

  Many years after the slapping incident, one of Dad’s writer friends, Sukhbir, asked me if I had read a book called Meri Gair Jazbati Diary (My Unsentimental Diary). I am not fluent in Gurmukhi and had not read the book. Curious about why he was asking me this question, I looked for the book. But I couldn’t find it anywhere. Obsessed with the need to find out what mysterious tale was to be revealed to me, I persevered, and at last, came across the book. Excited, I made an attempt to read it, although this was a slow process. There was an article in it called ‘The Slap’, which Dad had written on the sets when he was supposed to slap his nine-year-old son, being played by a young boy called Suraj, in the film Do Bigha Zamin. Dad had written about how he was averse to doing this. But the director insisted and for some reason there were many retakes.

  These days, a real slap is seldom delivered in our films; it is usually faked. The sound of the slap is later added in the post production work and looks authentic. But in Dad’s days, there was no faking and he had to actually keep slapping the boy until the actress playing his wife stopped him. Dad apologized to both Suraj and his father, who was accompanying the boy and was shocked when the lad’s father laughed it off, saying that Suraj was slapped in almost every film he did. Nevertheless, Dad wasn’t happy about the first take. At the same time, he was a realist and didn’t like ‘faking’ his part, so it took three retakes for the shot to be okayed. Dad remarks in the book that the expression on Suraj’s face after he had carried out the director’s orders brought tears to his eyes. Partly because of what he had done and partly, as he wrote, ‘It opened an old wound and reminded me of the slap I had given to my own son when he was barely five or six years old. He had the same bewildered expression of hurt and shock on his face, as if to say, “What have I done to deserve this?”’

  The memory of that day resurfaced from some deep reserve of my sub conscience. I had never given any thought to that day after it had happened, but Dad had obviously never forgotten the incident.

  Deedar

  While Dad censured his own actions sometimes, I seldom heard him criticizing anyone else. If he didn’t approve of someone, he normally just kept his distance from him, never getting into an angry altercation with the person. But there were some exceptions.

  Our family was in bad shape after the Partition. This must have been in 1949 or 1950. Dad had been jailed for taking part in a Communist rally. When he got out of jail after a few months, he was thin and emaciated. He had no work. I was offered a thousand rupees or so to play a role in a film called Hulchul as the young version of Dilip Saheb. Dad had reluctantly given permission to the producer to cast me in the film. And although the film didn’t run too well, after acting in it I started getting more roles. Dad once again was reluctantly forced to grant permission for me to act in a film called Deedar. There was no alternative. The family was ‘broke.’

  Dad took me aside and apologized profusely for making me act in films at this early age. He wrote in his autobiography:

  I laid bare before him the true state of affairs and said he should consider himself the master of the house that month, since it would be his earnings that would go into the running the household. Parikshat listened to me in silence. I do not know, however, whether it was the proper thing to do from the psychological point of view.

  I didn’t understand why he was apologizing. I had quite enjoyed working in Hulchul and the next film, Deedar, was fun too. In those days, night shootings were common; it was quiet and therefore the perfect time for shooting. Sometimes I was picked up at seven in the evening and brought back home in the early hours of the morning. I remember Dad feeling awfully guilty about this and apologizing again and again every time I returned. The fact is that I was having a wonderful time shooting at night.

  One night, we were shooting a storm scene in a jungle. Huge fans had been placed in one corner of the set to simulate a storm. Once they were on, dust and other objects started flying around. This portion was, for me, the most exciting and enjoyable of all. Most of the senior members of the crew were given masks to protect themselves. The fan made a deafening roar, but I enjoyed walking through it, feeling like a hero. I felt a sense of bravado even when a tree branch fell on me, blinding me for life (in the film). I loved this world of make believe! I went home in the morning, excited about my experiences in the night and narrated them to Dad.

  Much to my surprise and horror, he was furious. I had not expected this volatile reaction. This is the only time in my life that I saw Dad stomping around in the house shouting, ‘How dare they do this to my son! Parikshat could have been seriously injured. This is not fair. This is not hygienic. It is dangerous and must stop!’

  The next day he came to the shooting with me and all hell broke loose. Dad had an altercation with the director, Nitin Bose, one of the most renowned directors in India in those days He yelled at him as though he was a junior technician. ‘This is barbaric and unfair! You were all wearing goggles and masks for the storm scene, while my son, just eleven years old, had to weather the dust and objects flying around without protection.’

  The unit was shocked to see an ordinary artiste talking to the director so angrily and accusing him of being a ‘barbarian’ among other things. I didn’t understand what the hullabaloo was about. I didn’t say a word, but was petrified to see Dad so angry. The director was a mild-mannered man. He had a guilty and disarming smile as he listened to Dad’s harangue with his head bent. Finally, he apologized profusely and said he would take just one more shot and be done with the scene right in Dad’s presence; he would see to it that something like this never happened again. And Nitin-da kept his word.

  Though Dad was somewhat pacified, his fury did not abate. He was almost in tears as he hugged me close and apologized to me again and again. But for me, my brief child-artiste career was over! After this debacle, Dad decided to send me away to a
boarding school so that I could concentrate on my studies and be away from the atmosphere of the film world. It was a wise decision. He felt strongly that education must be the top priority in the life of every child.

  It took me time to get used to boarding school, but eventually I settled down and began enjoying myself. One of my favorite subjects was art.

  Budding artist

  ‘Attaboy Parikshat, you are great, you are the best!’ was Dad’s refrain through my youth and adult years. He made it a point never to raise his voice even when I made a mistake or did something wrong. When he didn’t like something I had done, he just kept quiet, and never chastised me or shouted at me.

  I was an avid painter during my school days and was convinced that I was a budding Van Gogh, Cezanne and Gauguin all rolled into one. I had a portable easel in which I carried my oil colour tubes, brushes and canvas for painting. I was sure my paintings would ultimately find their way to the National Gallery of Modern Art in Delhi, if not the Louvre.

  I had come for my winter vacation to Mumbai, when one day Dad, suggested we spend the day exploring Madh Island, a promontory jutting out into the sea, a couple of miles north of Juhu beach. It has an ancient and derelict Portuguese fortress and a small beach where Dad said we could take a dip in the sea.

  With my easel tucked under my arm, my paint brushes almost poised in my hand, ready to paint (a la Van Gogh), I accompanied him to the beach, quite sure the world was on the verge of being gifted a masterpiece. We crossed the creek and ferried across to the island, and then roamed around till we came to the old fort with a narrow beach. In those days, it was isolated, and not thronged by tourists or Bombayites looking to escape from the city for a day of tranquility. Dad, as usual, lay down to sunbathe while I set up my easel to paint.

  The fort was picturesque, with tall palm trees adding to its majestic presence against the backdrop of a glistening sea. But the serenity of the place was disturbed by the buzzing of flies and mosquitoes, and I just couldn’t get the painting going. I spent a lot of time brushing away the pests and adding to the colour to my canvas with the blood of the unfortunate few whom I succeeded in swatting. Oh well, I thought, it was the world’s loss! It would just have to wait for my art to emerge and proclaim itself. I comforted myself by the thought that this was one hurdle Van Gogh had probably never faced. But there was yet another hurdle. The bushes and brambles all over the place made my easel unstable. I had barely made the rough sketch and filled in the primary colours when I took a swipe at a mosquito and hit the easel instead. It fell over face down into the brambles. When I straightened it up, the oil colours were smudged and the painting looked as if a child had made scratches on a dirty background.

  I decided to salvage the wreck so I began erasing the smudges, trying to infuse some semblance of art into the painting. Two or three local boys came up and stood behind me as I painted. Dad was some distance away and still asleep when one of the boys came closer and asked me:

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I am making a painting, can’t you see?’

  ‘So, what are you painting?’ the other boy asked. His question irritated me.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ I told him curtly.

  ‘Can’t make head or tail of it! Looks like a cat has crawled all over this paper. What are you trying to paint?”

  ‘Please go away and don’t disturb me!’ I shouted.

  ‘If you don’t mind we will stand here for a while and see how you paint,’ one of the boys said provocatively, as if challenging my skills.

  I was annoyed at not being left alone, but kept quiet. They stood behind me without budging. I got down to my painting again, but their snide remarks irritated me.

  ‘It is beginning to look like a scratched army tank,’ one of them said.

  The other replied, ‘No, it looks like a scratched bulldozer.’

  My concentration was gone. This convinced me that bringing paints and an easel outdoors may have worked for Van Gogh, but not for me. I decided to tear up the ‘painting’ and throw the pieces as far away as possible before Dad woke up and began laughing at my expense as well. But I was too late. He was already up and was staring intently at the painting. He looked at my handiwork long and hard. I was silent, waiting for him to start chuckling, but instead, he smiled affably, put his hands on my shoulders and exclaimed, ‘I don’t know much about modern art, but this looks good to me. Good abstract painting! It is a new style of painting I suppose. Very good abstract painting, Parikshat! I suppose it is not finished yet . . .’

  ‘Dad, it is bad! I was about to tear it up and throw it away.’

  ‘This sort of reaction is common among all artistes,’ Dad said. ‘Sometimes I do a scene that I am not at all satisfied with, but people say it is good and the director refuses to retake it. And strangely enough, when I watch it on the screen, the scene looks good. We artistes are a subjective lot! And often try to overreach ourselves. It is better to take it easy and relax.’

  ‘I wasn’t relaxed. Those boys behind me were disturbing me!’ I tried to justify myself. Dad smiled. ‘There are dozens of people watching us when we enact a scene on the sets. We can’t afford to lose our concentration just because we are being watched! When one is engaged in creative work, the two operative words are ‘relaxation’ and ‘concentration’. I think you have made a good abstract painting in spite of the disturbance.’

  I thought he was pulling my leg till we got back home and he said to Mummy, ‘You must see what a wonderful painting Parikshat has made. I’d say he has natural talent. Show it to Mummy, Parikshat!’

  I squirmed and tried to downplay it, sure that Mummy would be amused at my amateurish attempts. Reluctantly, I placed the painting before her. She looked at it keenly and then said cryptically, ‘Yes, there is something in it.’ I don’t know what she meant by that; to me it sounded like veiled sarcasm. ‘We must get this framed and put up. It’s great. Well done, son!’ Dad said and patted my back as he smiled at me benevolently.

  The painting was framed and put up in the dining room, where people who came to visit us also praised it as great abstract stuff. No one guessed that what they were seeing was, in fact, scratches made by bramble bushes on the rough draft of the fortress that I was trying to paint. I had never dabbled in abstract stuff. That was the first and last ‘abstract’ painting I ever made.

  One night, I quietly brought it down and got rid of it, replacing it with another picture. No one really missed it. But Dad’s encouragement was reassuring. So abundant was his praise that I even joined the JJ School of Arts for a year before I got a scholarship to go to Moscow.

  Faux pas on the stage

  Dad’s encouragement and praise also extended to my acting. He was, of course, inimitable and unsurpassable in his métier. But I remember that in the good old days, even when I made a hash of things on the stage, he found something to commend in my performance. It was never my desire to become an actor in the first place, although I had performed in a few plays in school and college and some presented by Dad’s Juhu Art Theatre. I’m not sure if these were worthy enough to be labelled as ‘performances’, since I was usually a mere stand-by or understudy. When an actor didn’t turn up for a performance, I was the one asked to mug up his lines as quickly as I could, stick on a moustache and walk onstage. My nerves would often get the better of me, but Dad would encourage me. ‘Don’t worry about the lines,’ he would say, ‘there is a prompter in the wings.’

  It was easy for him to say that! But half the time, I didn’t know what I was doing. However, since I usually accompanied Dad to the rehearsals, I was familiar with the plays and all the characters, and usually had a rough idea of what was required of me. My roles, as a rule, were small ones, so there was not much for me to do. But even so, I often made a mess of things. Critics would have had a heyday tearing me to pieces and challenging me to dare call myself an actor, even a mediocre one.

  On one occasion, I singlehandedly turned a te
arful tragedy into a rollicking comedy. As luck would have it, the prompter had gone to the bathroom when I was onstage, thinking that I would surely remember the one-liner I had to deliver. Sadly, I botched even that as I addressed that line to the wrong character. It changed the entire meaning of the scene. After a second of stunned silence, the audience gasped collectively as they reacted in surprise and the actor I had addressed looked confused. I got nervous, stumbled while walking, then banged into the furniture and slipped on a step. Laurel and Hardy would have been proud of me as I came down like a sack of potatoes on the proscenium, with a thud that made the audience go into splits! But this was no comic act on my part. It was sheer inaptitude. The tragedy had turned into a slapstick comedy and brought the house down.

  With tears in my eyes, I finally managed to get up and walk offstage, expecting to be reprimanded for my failure. I was embarrassed and didn’t dare look Dad in the eye. I was ready to bury myself in the deepest and darkest hole, so that I wouldn’t be subjected to the jeers and taunts that were sure to be thrown at me. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I raised my eyes to see Dad looking benignly at me. He smiled and said, ‘Thanks! At least you made the otherwise silent audience react. Well done! But next time, keep your eyes open and watch your step. Don’t worry. This sort of thing happens to all of us. You are a fine actor. Don’t let this incident upset you. You got the audience to react. That is important!’

  That was Dad—always finding a silver lining in the darkest clouds. That one comment did more to encourage me than any admonishment would have done.

  He forgave me for things that no father would have forgiven his son. Often, he overlooked gross misbehaviour on my part. I look back and am astonished at and ashamed of my audacity and insolence, and even more astounded at the tolerance with which he overlooked my brazen attitude.