The Non-Conformist

by Parikshat Sahni

  What little time I had spent with Dad till then had been spent there. It held good memories, despite the fact that it served as a hub for the IPTA members, who swarmed all over the place like bees and whose buzz often drowned our voices as we tried to get our parents’ attention. Anyway, it was, as I said, warm and cosy; everybody was in close proximity to each another and the atmosphere was congenial and inviting. Bhisham-ji describes it as a house that had ‘plenty of human warmth. The kettle was kept boiling for all and sundry, and many people would use the house as a kind of dressing room for a bath in the sea.’ And it was in line with Dad’s belief in ‘simple living and high thinking’, a true manifestation of his philosophy of Marxism, his love of the working class and his desire not to lose touch with the common man.

  It was during his visit to Moscow in 1965 that Dad mentioned to me that he was building a new house for the family on a plot of land on Turner Royal Lane, which is now named after him—Balraj Sahni Marg—near the Sun ’n Sand Hotel in Juhu. That was exciting news!

  He said, ‘There are two rooms for you—a studio to paint in, a small, dark room for you to use for processing your negatives and a large bedroom. I know how fond you are of painting and photography. And there is a large balcony attached to this wing—you can use this for your morning exercise. I think you’ll be happy to see it. It is time we all lived together in our own home. And you have been away from home for so long!’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

  Yes, this was true. I had been away for too long. I was in my mid-twenties at the time and didn’t remember ever having had a settled home life. I looked forward to one now. I raised my eyebrows as Dad continued to describe my ‘wing’, awed at the vision that danced before my eyes.

  A year passed before I could see this vision in reality. When I came home for my winter vacations a year later, the first thing Dad did was to take me to look at the new house. He was almost child-like in his excitement, waiting impatiently to show off his ‘creation’. I was no less enthusiastic and tried to suppress my own eagerness as our car came to a stop near a construction site.

  The basic structure had been completed; just the cementing and plastering remained to be done. Not expecting anything so colossal, the edifice came as a surprise to me. I could barely believe my eyes. It was grand and imposing to the point of being palatial, a merging of Dad’s inspiration with the architect’s magical skill of breathing life into his visions overwhelmed me.

  Dad proudly showed off the house, which he had named Ikraam, as a gesture of thanks to Seth Nadiadwala, a film producer and a builder, and a close friend of Dad’s, who had sold the plot of land to Dad at a throwaway price. Ikraam is an Arabic word meaning ‘kindness’ and ‘generosity’. He pointed out each feature as we explored the enormous garden, two garages and two servants’ quarters, which were removed from the main house. We then went inside; the main floor consisted of a huge drawing room and an equally grand formal dining room, a layout ideal for entertaining. The gourmet kitchen was a chef’s dream, with an adjacent pantry that would definitely be well equipped! There were two large bedrooms on the ground level, with adjoining bathrooms.

  A sweeping staircase led to the first floor, where there were five large rooms, two of them for me. Dad then escorted me to the terrace on the roof, where there was a small room which, he explained, would be Mummy’s music room.

  After the tour, we sat on the terrace, enjoying a glass of beer. The sea glistened through the coconut trees as its gentle waves lapped against the vast stretch of beach. Dad was beaming and had a beatific smile on his face, thrilled at having successfully built a dream house on a dream plot of land. He asked me what I thought about it, his voice resonant with delight.

  ‘It is lovely, Dad!’ I answered, not wanting to put a damper on his enthusiasm, but I was uneasy within. I felt a sudden chill, though it was a warm day, and the presence of dark shadows lurking near me. Dismissing these unfamiliar sensations, I looked around to find more tangible reasons why this structure did not appeal to me; to find out what it was about this ‘home’ that put me off.

  I noticed that it was flanked one side by a row of what looked like shanties and slums, which contrasted starkly with the opulence of the mansion, and on the other by grand buildings. This juxtaposition would have been amusing in someone else’s property. But near our own home, the disparity cried out to be noticed the shanties somehow shaming the glitz and glamour of the ritzy hotels and homes that seemed to belong to another world. This structure was a far cry from Dad’s Marxist philosophy of ‘simple living and high thinking’. It was too ostentatious and grand, and in stark contrast to what Dad stood for.

  I meekly pointed out that I didn’t feel quite all right about the house; that it might have been better if the house itself had been smaller and the garden bigger, but Dad dismissed my qualms, invalidating my concerns. ‘After Partition, we have always lived in rented houses. It is high time we had our own house and lived in it under one roof. There are separate rooms for all of us and rooms for the grandparents on the ground floor. And there is a guest room as well,’ he said. ‘What else do you want?’

  I knew Dad had put his heart and soul into realizing his dream and I didn’t want to rain on his parade. I was suddenly reminded of something Winston Churchill said once, ‘We shape our dwellings, and afterwards our dwellings shape us.’

  That was true. I had had enough of living in boarding schools and colleges and with relatives. I hankered for a settled home life and looked forward to creating happy memories with my family, confident that the dark gloom that appeared to hang around the house was just my imagination.

  A few days later, I returned to Moscow to wind up my studies. I couldn’t, however, get Ikraam out of my head. Although I looked forward to living in it with Dad and Mom and my two sisters, Shabnam and Sanober, something about it continued to make me uneasy. And then, one night, I had a nightmare about the house that I can never forget. It was horrible and frightening—so vivid that I still shiver as I recollect it.

  I dreamt that it was the monsoon season in Bombay and rain cascading down in torrents, its sound a constant whir as it increased in intensity. Our grand house, unable to stand the downpour, was demolished as the roof gave way and the walls came tumbling down. I saw Dad lying bleeding on the floor, and in the background, I heard the petrifying shriek of a banshee.

  I woke up with a start and bolted upright in my bed, my breathing belaboured and heavy. I was shivering and sweating profusely. For a few minutes, I couldn’t shake off the lucidity of the horrendous nightmare. Unable to sleep after that, I got up, and for some unknown reason, wrote it down in my diary. I don’t believe that dreams portend future events, but couldn’t refrain from trying to find out what this dream signified.

  When I came home after finishing my tenure in Moscow, the family had already moved into Ikraam. The completed house stood erect and proud, a symbol of Dad’s success, his dream fulfilled. The architect, a slim, middle-aged Jewish gentleman with impeccable taste, had planned and built the house with much love and care, accommodating every little detail Dad wanted incorporated.

  His master bedroom, with a huge double bed, was beautifully designed. An elegant book-rack was filled with a collection of books, a small, separate dressing room was lined with wall to wall cupboards and a spacious bathroom had a shower and bathtub. Double doors opened out to a balcony overlooking the sea, where he could enjoy the view while having his morning tea.

  The magnificent drawing room had already been furnished with comfortable-looking sofas and a wall-to-wall divan, which looked appealing and inviting. A cabinet for holding a record player and two cabinets for holding LPs took pride of place against a wall, flanked on either side by two huge speakers. The dining room was striking and majestic in appearance. A long, made-to-order walnut table, ornate in its design, and matching chairs with motifs of dragons and flowers artistically carved on them graced the room. The table could seat ten or twelve people. Next to the
dining room was a pantry and next to it a well-equipped kitchen.

  My domain, a spacious bedroom with a studio for painting adjoining it, was tastefully furnished. One side of the studio was all glass, facing the north to capture the soft diffused north light, ideal for painting. A dark room for photography completed my living area. It was beautiful. I was touched that Dad knew what my hobbies and interests were. I still remember, with gratitude, how much love must have gone into designing this separate wing for me.

  On the day of my arrival from Moscow, after I had settled down, Dad suggested that we have a drink together in the evening. I had been consuming vodka in huge quantities during my years in Moscow. For the Russians, the recipe for every mood was vodka. It was imbibed when one was in a good mood and when one was in a bad mood, when someone died or when a child was born. It was considered good for one’s mental, physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. Russians usually downed a full glass of vodka in one gulp and then followed it by a chaser of either beer or an aerated drink. There was no such thing as ‘nursing’ one’s drink or sipping it like the British did. Before every drink, there was a toast, often long drawn, poetic and from the heart! And to leave a bottle unfinished was considered bad luck.

  So when Dad placed a bottle of Scotch and a plate of chips before me, I promptly filled my glass to the brim as he looked on incredulously. He made a small peg for himself. I thought he was on a diet or something. That looked like an infinitesimal amount to me. When he added soda to the drink I thought he was indisposed. He was still staring at my full glass of whisky as he raised his glass and meekly said ‘Cheers!’ But before he could take a sip I stopped him. He looked at me questioningly. I was happy to be back and delighted at the prospect of living with my family. Dad and I were together after a long time; it called for a toast. Standing up and raising my own glass with a flourish becoming an Elizabethan actor, I pronounced a long, philosophical tribute, ‘Time runs with the speed of a fast train, leaving dust behind! As Omar Khayyam has said:

  And come with old Khayyam and leave the rest!

  One thing is certain,

  That time flies!

  One thing is certain and the rest is lies.

  The flower that once has blown forever dies!

  ‘And,’ I continued, ‘time and tide wait for no man!’ and spouted other similar adages. It was an emotional moment and I wanted to make the most of it.

  Dad’s raised glass remained frozen in mid-air as he stared at me, mesmerized, wondering how long the toast would last. I continued with my salutation for another five minutes, but then, noticing that Dad’s hand was getting tired from holding his glass up for so long, I wound up the toast as fast as I could. Then clinking my glass with his so hard that he winced, perhaps worried that the glass might break, I gulped down the glass of scotch in one go, without much ado. Dad stared at me spellbound, his eyes wide open when I kissed the bottom of the glass and set it down on the table. He gaped at me with disbelief, then took a sip from his glass and asked me, nervously, ‘Is . . . is that how you dr . . . drink in Moscow?’ ‘Yes Dad, that’s how everybody drinks in Russia. But there is nothing to eat!’ I said, looking disdainfully at the chips.

  A couple of tandoori chicken had been ordered for dinner that night. He ordered his servant, Narain, to bring one of them. I bolted it down in one gulp and filled my glass again as I waited for him to finish his ‘peg’. His hand was trembling a little when he took his next sip. Then he sat back and looked at me for a long time, as if trying to understand who I was. Oblivious of his intense gaze, I began chatting about the book Pavitra Paapi, which he wanted me to convert to a screenplay and then direct. I told him the screenplay was almost ready and began discussing plans about how to shoot it. As I outlined my ideas, all he did was just stare at me, nodding his head once in a while. Suddenly tears appeared in his eyes. I stopped my monologue, surprised. Had I said or done anything inappropriate? I apologized, not sure what I was apologizing for. Dad shook his head as he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his tears. Then he looked at me sadly and said, ‘You are a full-grown man now, son! I didn’t see you grow. I remember you as a child. And now you are an adult!’

  He gazed awestruck at me as though this transformation from a child to adulthood had taken place right in front of his eyes. I said nothing, sensitive to the play of emotions on his face. Then composing himself with a sigh, he said, ‘Anyway, let us make another toast and then you can have your next drink and gobble up another tandoori chicken. I see they have toughened you up in Russia!’

  I attempted a feeble laugh as he proposed the next toast, wishing me good luck for my first directorial venture. Looking back to that time, my heart goes out to Dad. Although I never got a chance to experience it, because I never lived with him for very long, I now realize that he loved me very much. He was never angry with me, never chided me for anything or ever raise his voice in blame or displeasure. The house was just one example of the manifestation of his love for me!

  For some reason, Ikraam never felt like home to me. I found it difficult to adjust to an Indian environment after my lifestyle in Moscow. I got an uneasy feeling that I was not really wanted there, irrespective of what Dad felt. There were others who resented my being there. I went about behaving as I had in Russia, trying to live a life with no regard for the norms of propriety in India. When Dad failed to chide me for my values and nonconformist ways, I felt a sense of guilt, as somewhere deep down, I was aware that my actions were far from acceptable, either as an Indian or as a son. Other people’s attitudes made me acutely aware of this!

  Professionally, too, I was getting offers for roles based more on my being Dad’s son than on my own merit. I resented this, and as Bhisham-ji put it so aptly, I felt terribly alienated because I could neither strike an equation with the film industry nor with my father. I have talked about films such as Shayar-e-Kashmir Mahjoor, Pavitra Paapi and Anokhi Raat earlier. But all these represented Dad’s attempts to channelize my energies into a more creative direction.

  To begin with, Ikraam was indeed paradise. It was a joy to be there with my family after so many years of nomadic living. The house was cheerful and always full of guests. Under the awning of Dad’s room, which jutted out from the rest of the structure, there was a table for playing table tennis, where the children played every evening. The garden was a lush green and well-kept—the flowers were always in bloom, lovingly tendered by our gardener.

  Most evenings, Dad’s friends would gather in our house and often dine with us. The ten or twelve chairs around the dining table were almost always occupied. There was much bonhomie and conversation. The house echoed with laughter and merriment, dispelling any queasiness I may have initially felt about the vibes of the house.

  Three cars stood in the driveway, an Indian Ambassador, a British Standard Vanguard and another imported car that one of Dad’s producers had gifted him. Relatives from Delhi and other parts of India flocked to the house, always assured of a warm welcome. P.C. Joshi was a regular visitor and frequently stayed with us. His presence inevitably resulted in serious dialectical discussions with Dad. I would often hear them, closeted together in Dad’s room, as their voices grew louder and louder in support of their own views, often on Communism. I remember one particular occasion when the two were discussing Khrushchev’s infamous speech at the 22nd Congress of the CPSU and Howard Fast’s The Naked God (which I have talked about earlier).

  I had read this book on returning from the USSR and found it very timely. Having seen the Soviet state and its functioning first-hand for more than half a decade, I related totally to whatever Fast said in the book, and agreed with his appraisal of the situation. PC-ji, however, was not put off by the speech or Fast’s definition of Communism. He had found some dialectical loopholes in Khrushchev’s argument. His defence was that Stalin had roundly insulted Khrushchev when he asked him to dance the Gopak, a Russian folk dance, in public and had made a laughing stock of him. So PC-ji’s view was that Khru
shchev was just being vindictive in abasing Stalin. Dad disagreed with him, but PC-ji, being his guru, had the last word.

  However, all in all, the atmosphere in the house was happy, peaking when Shabnam got married with much fanfare. She had agreed to marry the nephew of Dad’s old college friend, Prem Kirpal. The entire film industry was invited, making it a star-studded event. Buntings, fragrant flowers, lights and other ornaments were tastefully used to decorate the house. Granny was overjoyed, beaming at all and sundry. Half of Sun ’n Sand Hotel had been booked for the baaraat. Dad looked supremely happy as he greeted and mingled with other celebrities; there were milling crowds everywhere. I don’t think Ikraam ever saw a happier occasion.

  I was working in Anokhi Raat, my first film, in those days. In an effort to grant me some degree of independence, Dad asked me to shift to a flat lying empty, which Grandpa had bought as an investment. After I moved there, my bohemian lifestyle did not cease. I was almost thirty years old by then, but had no clear direction in life.

  One day, Dad came over. We listened to Ghalib on the stereophonic system I had set up as we shared a drink together. Dad listened to it with his eyes shut and became wistful. He repeated the words of the ghazal, ‘Mushkilen itni padi mujh par ke aasaan ho gayeen’. Then he started crying. I looked at him, failing to understand why he was crying or what was the import of Ghalib’s words. I was an egoist, a crude, self-opinionated person in those days, bereft of the finer emotions and sentiments of humans. I took his tears as a sign of his weakness. I understand now that within deep in his heart, in spite of his perpetual smile, he carried a lot of pain and hurt. ‘I carry quite a graveyard in my heart,’ he had written in one of his articles I remember.

  After a year or two, Dad suggested that I get married; I had been gallivanting around enough, he said, and it was time for me to ‘settle down’.