An Ordinary Life

by Nawazuddin Siddiqui

  NAWAZUDDIN SIDDIQUI

  an ordinary life

  A Memoir

  with Rituparna Chatterjee

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  PART I: BUDHANA

  1. Teetar Pehelwan

  2. Patta Prodigy

  3. Abbu

  4. Ammi

  5. My Colourful Childhood

  6. Schooldays

  7. Of Love Letters and Kites

  8. Nani ka Ghar

  9. The Chemist Incident

  10. The Haunting Dream

  PART II: YOUTH

  11. Accidental Meanderings into Chemistry, Theatre and BNA

  12. Adventures at the National School of Drama

  PART III: MUMBAI

  13. The Dark Night

  14. Relationships

  15. Shamas, My Guardian Angel

  16. Aaliya

  17. Shora, My Miracle

  PART IV: ACTING

  18. Anurag Kashyap

  19. ‘The Drama King of India’

  20. Success

  Illustrations

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PART I

  BUDHANA

  1

  Teetar Pehelwan

  What if the sun caught fire?

  Would the physical world turn into smoke? Would all the oceans of the galaxy empty themselves to put out this celestial fire? Or would it matter at all, considering that it is a ball of fire in the first place, anyway?

  In my village in western Uttar Pradesh, the summer months were often a daze of burning, soul-sucking days. On some of those days, you were almost certain that the sun had caught fire. Its heat was barely any different from a flame’s scalding slap. And the 19th of May 1974 especially was one such epic horror. On that unnaturally smouldering day, our kaccha mud house was only a few degrees shy of becoming a tandoor oven. Abbu nervously hurled buckets after buckets of water on the boiling walls of the bedroom where Ammi battled excruciating labour pains; he was doing the best he could to make her a teeny bit more comfortable. Steam rolled off the searing walls, on to their roasting bodies where it distilled itself into beads of perspiration.

  They were anxious, apparently nervous like you would expect any new parents to be. Like trees shaking in a violent storm, in spite of roots that ran deep and strong. They were especially jittery because they had been here before: it was a nerve-rattling déjà vu. Terror wrung their hearts, like a dhobi mercilessly wringing his laundry, squeezing the life out of them. Because they had lived that fine line, which was of the thickness of a strand of hair, between love and loss, between Heaven and Hell, between life and death.

  Because, you see, I, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, the oldest of the nine Siddiqui children, was not their firstborn.

  Shamsuddin was. I would hear of him for the first time when I was about two or three years old. My older brother, whom I have known closely, as one knows fictional characters one grows up reading in stories, had been the light of their lives. They had named him the ‘sparkling one’. But soon, after only a few months, he, a frail little baby could not cope with this world and left it, abandoning them, leaving them in darkness.

  Ammi’s fight luckily lasted for only a couple of hours and finally at about two in the afternoon, I wailed my way into this world, about two months before expected. Like my ghost brother, I too was born punctually premature and with red eyes—which remain bloodshot to this day—but unlike him I survived to tell my story. No wonder my parents named me Nawaz in gratitude. It means blessing, uparwale ki rehmat, by the grace of God.

  I always remained a feeble-looking child. They kept nurturing and nurturing; I remained physically weak. This worry, amplified routinely by Shamsuddin Bhaijaan’s loss, gnawed at my parents’ minds and fired their fears constantly. No matter how many glasses of salubrious buffalo milk I downed, I remained frail, physically puny. Those days there was none of our modern-day squeamishness about milk being unhealthy, bad for the heart, etc. This is all present-day nonsense, which baffles me. Our reaction to milk was the opposite of today’s times: we revered milk. It was organic, pure, natural and wholesome fuel. Buffalo milk was given to build up body and was a favourite amongst bodybuilders, weightlifters and the like. We milked our own buffaloes and often while milking, we lapped up some delicious sprays of milk, directly from their udders. Later in our homes, we would down freshly squeezed buffalo milk in tall, thick glasses made of steel or brass.

  However, the legendary nutritional value of buffalo milk seemed to bypass me altogether, choosing to float past me like a feather instead of coating my bones with some healthy and much-needed fat. So when I was about seven to eight years old, Abbu decided enough was enough and put me into pehelwani, wrestling. It might not seem a conventional choice in today’s urban India but back then, enrolling your child in kushti lessons was a rather common choice for parents.

  And that’s how I was introduced to my mentor, Mullah Pehelwan. Famous for his strength, and renowned in the area for his prowess in the sport, this ace wrestler ran an akhara in Budhana. He was the epitome of health—in fact, he died just recently, at the tender age of 105. Many muscular wrestlers, who looked like doppelgängers of Hercules and Bhim, used to wrestle in his akhara. And like most little boys, I was awestruck by their strength. They were our local superheroes. I used to love watching wrestling tournaments. Luckily, for me, many matches were held in Budhana itself.

  I began frequenting the akhara. Mullah Pehelwan looked me up and down. ‘You will do 100 uthak-baithak in the morning. And then another 100 in the evening.’

  Uthak-baithak, translated loosely as squats, is a favourite warm-up routine of wrestlers. I dare anybody to do hundreds of them daily, let alone a child. Of course, that was just the beginning. Like a doctor’s handwritten prescription that often fills the entire page, Mullah Pehelwan’s prescription of exercises filled my days: there were the endless dand push-ups, sit-ups, weightlifting exercises with dumb-bells, core-building workouts, stretches so intensely deep that they stretched every fibre of one’s being . . . When you visit an akhara, you will see that pehelwans easily take an hour or longer to warm their bodies up. The kushti match itself rarely lasts as long as the exercises to build bodies and warm the blood.

  Few fragrances can match the saundhi smell of the akhara! Most holy places have a beautiful, unforgettable aroma, like, say, that of incense. The akhara is sacred to pehelwans and so it is no different. The pit is made up of a combination of special mud and clay, hand-picked lovingly and carefully to be as soft as a mattress—so that you never get hurt when you fall on it. They revere this little patch of land like devotees. And like devotees worshipping at the altar, the pehelwans too, lovingly performed their own rituals of worship. A mixture of fragrances would fill the air as they sprinkled water on this sacred patch of earth.

  I got some langots stitched as the thrill of wrestling gripped me. As did my friend Vakil. Barely a couple of years older than me, about nine or ten years old, Vakil and I used to watch and practise pehelwani together. Moves in wrestling are called daav. We used to try daav with each other. For instance, kabhi dhobi pachad ka daav laga diya. This is a classic move where you toss your opponent over their back in the vein of a dhobi dealing with his washing. There were also countless other moves like kasauta, baharli and machli gota.

  ‘Nawaz is a great wrestler,’ Mullah Pehelwan used to tell Abbu but before Abbu could bask in pride, he would quickly add, ‘but he is rather weak.’

  This oxymoron was completely true. In spite of the disciplined diet and exercise regimen, I remained weak. But the incredible thing was that I used to beat my opponent using my mi
nd rather than my muscle. Therefore, I often performed a certain daav before anybody could anticipate it. Given my cunning, quick wit and my frail structure, I soon came to be known as Teetar Pehelwan. Teetar is a tiny bird which doesn’t have much stamina. I was no different. I couldn’t wrestle for too long. Typical wrestling matches lasted for at least half an hour but not the ones I fought. Mera ek hi baar mein chit-pat ho jata tha. Either the opponent would defeat me or I would defeat him, all within a minute. Naturally, nobody could put me in a tournament. I was too risky. So I came to be known as Risky Pehelwan as well.

  My performance was so bloody unpredictable that nobody, not just lay people and spectators but also experts, and even the mighty Mullah Pehelwan himself, could predict if this Teetar Pehelwan would win or lose. They could not even hazard a guess. Sometimes, I would perform a wonder and leave everybody silent in awe. People never expected that a frail, skinny little chap like me could defeat a hefty, muscular wrestler.

  Once there was a tournament for seniors who were mostly a bunch of youngsters aged between eighteen and twenty years. People came from all the surrounding villages to watch it. Among the champions the spectators were rooting for was this one particular muscle powerhouse called Qamaruddin who was from my akhara. To us fledglings, he was our local champ. In fact, he lived quite close to my house. Unlike the bodybuilders you see sweating in today’s gyms, guys like Qamaruddin had real stamina and unparalleled strength. Qamaruddin was a strange chap. Renowned for his Herculean strength, he could single-handedly beat up a dozen guys to a pulp. And yet, he never won a single match. That day, this puny little me ended up defeating him. Imagine! Just like that, in a daav he never anticipated. The spectators were obviously upset. Not because their beloved champion had lost or anything like that. But because you need to build up a tempo in a match; however, here in true Risky Pehelwan style, the whole bout was over in a few minutes, before they could even sink themselves into the fight!

  This Qamaruddin, he was a classic character of Budhana. Every time I hear the popular idiom ‘akal badi ki bhains’ (all brawn and no brain), I can’t help but think of him. In fact, he lived with many buffaloes. Bhainso ke saath reh, reh kar woh khud bhi bhains ban gaya tha. We become the company we keep and probably the company of cattle rubbed off on him, or at least on his brain. Like an Indian bull, a saand, you never knew what would light his fuse and he would do something lunatic with his super strength. Once he got so angry that he killed two people, his own mausi (maternal aunt) and mausa (her husband). Mostly, we have fond childhood memories of growing up around such close blood relatives and tend to love them. Qamaruddin probably did too, but he was so upset when his mausi said something mean to his mother that he murdered her and her husband. He butchered them into pieces with his own bare hands and then went to prison for fourteen years. That was the end of his wrestling career. By the time he came out of prison, he had grown too old to wrestle. And when he could, he didn’t win due to his hot-headedness and lack of brains.

  Such Jat buddhi plagues every nook and corner of my region. Honour killings are common, sadly as common as the common cold. Even in this day and age, if, say, a Jat boy romances a Gujjar girl, it isn’t surprising at all for both sets of parents to actually get together for honour killings, plotting the murders of both the children. I love Budhana, it is an integral part of me, like my arteries, but I can never understand this insane, shadowy side of my land.

  2

  Patta Prodigy

  ‘Abey, Risky Pehelwan! Tu patta khel!’

  Out of the blue, somebody randomly suggested that I play this ancient Indian martial art. Back then, patta was omnipresent across India and as timeless as time itself. Like their sci-fi celebrity cousins, the lightsabres, our patta swords, too are dull, without sharp edges but they are incredibly powerful. Players engage in a sort of sword fight with these big, slender and blunt baton-like sticks covered in leather.

  I was eating, sleeping and breathing pehelwani, completely immersed in dand push-ups and uthak-baithaks. So, swapping it for a new sport was nothing short of life-altering. Strangely, I am not quite sure who had a hand in this life-changing decision. But I guess it does not really matter. Like the threads become indistinguishable in a beautiful piece of cloth, so did individual voices sometimes melt within the fabric of village life. In the village, it’s often one for all and all for one; the sense of oneness of the community can be very strong.

  Perhaps patta was easier than pehelwani. Or perhaps the rigour of pehelwani had prepped me up better than the gallons of buffalo milk I had guzzled. Either way, I became a brilliant patta player, a bit of a prodigy given how young I was. I began defeating several experienced players. Patta matches used to be quite something. For our local villagers back then, it was as glamorous a spectacle as a cricket world cup is today. People used to cancel whatever it was that they had to do, and climb up to their terraces and rooftops, sometimes hopping over to the neighbour’s rooftop, craning their necks, pushing through crowds, all to get a glimpse of the patta matches during the Muharram procession. This juloos went through the village’s serpentine gullies, every single one of them, even the ones that were as narrow as poles.

  And what a spectacle it was! The patta parties led the juloos, followed immediately by the Ta’zieh, which are these lovely miniature imitations of mausoleums and minars made out of coloured paper, bamboo, cardboard, etc. Boys and girls flocked all around. Every now and then, an interval was declared: the procession would halt and an impromptu patta match would take place. They were proper matches, with winners and losers and trophies. After the match, the procession would resume as before until the next interval and the next match.

  You had to be of a certain professional calibre to be able to play patta like that, with such spontaneity. The patta rehearsals would begin way before Muharram, sometimes two months before, sometimes even earlier. The rehearsals would take place at a ground meant for sports, fairs, and so on. A few tubelights and some light bulbs were installed on the ground. We would ritualistically sprinkle drops of water on the mud, to create a certain mahaul, a certain ambience, a certain mood. The rehearsals themselves were a spectacle for the locals. Enthusiastically, they brought chairs to sit on and watch while smoking from their precious hookah pipes and drinking up cups after cups of chai.

  I had begun to excel at patta. My skills had sharpened beyond my belief. Players began to lose against me. And soon enough, I began to defeat even seasoned, highly experienced patta champions.

  Once, during the Muharram procession, I got selected to play against the local champion. I cannot describe what a huge opportunity it was for me back then. Every player, even the very senior ones who had a lot of experience, craved to play against this chap. Every year, there was a patta pagri adorned the head of the winner. It was like winning an Oscar for our performance.

  It so happened that I went on to defeat the local champion that year. The crowd said, ‘Pagri rakh di jaye. Bhai, iske sar pe pagri rakh di jaye.’ (Let’s put the turban—a token of victory—on this boy’s head.) But I was too young, only about twelve years old. This could have been a humongous victory for me, one that gave me so much pride. But eventually, they put the pagri on another person’s head. This guy had defeated somebody else in the second round while I was in the first round. There were five rounds. I had two points, having won two rounds and lost three. In one of those rounds, I had defeated the famous champion. But the champion himself had won four rounds and had lost only to me. So, someone else got the patta pagri, but this was a huge deal for me, a moment of enormous pride.

  Eventually, my younger brother Faizi too became an expert at this sport. Patta could have been an alternative career for me but sadly, this ancient game, which is such an integral part of our country’s history, is now extinct.

  3

  Abbu

  Being zamindars, our family had owned acres and acres of land for several generations. My grandfather was a Numberdar, or Lambardar. Everyone cal
led him Yaqoob Numberdar. He was among the handful of wealthy Indians who had won the favour of the British—for example, Lord Mountbatten was his friend. But he was also buddies with Indian leaders like Lal Bahadur Shastri. Dada was known for his flamboyance; he would fly to London, which back in the day was a privilege limited to a few. He used to spend what was a princely sum those days—one or two thousand rupees—in only buying birdfeed.

  One of his favourite activities was to ride his dearest horse at the speed of wind on grounds that belonged to him. Indeed, he owned land as far as the eye could see. He was also known for his generosity. If anybody came to him with a lament about, say, lodging, then he would immediately say something like, ‘Go to Firangabad.’ This was a place where we owned a lot of property. The person was granted a plot just like that to live on. In fact, even today in Budhana, there are entire generations who have lived in houses he had granted in largesse. They still remember him with gratitude, and so bestow a lot of respect on our family. He also donated heavily to orphanages, temples and mosques alike—all these are still talked about all over Budhana. And like most aristocrats, he had his quirks. Like, one day a new kotwal came over for some work. My grandfather made him dance and dance for a couple of hours. Later, he gifted him 20 bhiga zameen, which is the equivalent of all of Yari Road—the bastion of film folk—in Mumbai.

  My grandfather had friends from diverse backgrounds. This was kind of a huge deal and extremely progressive for those days when almost everybody around him was an orthodox Muslim. In fact, there were quazis who were so notorious that if a person from a lower caste happened to walk in front of them adorned in new clothes or new shoes, even if it was for a wedding, they would beat him up. Naturally, such routine tyranny exasperated a liberal like my grandfather. He decided that being a powerful person, he could use his position to break this cruel tradition by marrying into lower castes.