An Ordinary Life

by Nawazuddin Siddiqui

  Vijay would give electrifying performances with incredible nonchalance. He had this completely effortless cool factor about him, like he didn’t give a damn about anything, which made people go mad over him, and earned him quite a fan following. His casual effortlessness, his rock-star indifference, was his quintessence. Viewers would queue up in the auditorium, quivering with excitement to watch him on stage. He would stand on the side of the auditorium wearing the costume of the character he was playing and walk right from there to the stage to play his part.

  One fine day, a young girl who happened to be a diehard fan of his, accosted him on the street after his performance and expressed her great admiration for him.

  ‘I am a huuuuge fan of yours,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ He lit a cigarette, took a deep, satisfying drag and said with his trademark apathy, ‘How big a fan?’

  ‘A very, very, very big fan,’ she said earnestly. ‘I can do anything for you, Vijay.’

  ‘Really?’ he remarked, almost condescendingly.

  ‘Really!’ she insisted.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked, apparently uninterested. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ She fumbled nervously. ‘But anything you say. I could even marry you!’ she said excitedly.

  ‘Cool. Let’s get married then,’ Vijay remarked coolly as if he was discussing the weather.

  ‘Wait. What?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that what you just said?’

  ‘Umm . . . yes, I did. But like here? Like right now? I mean . . .’ She was nonplussed at this shocking proposition.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he said quietly.

  Then he called out to a person nearby, who was another actor, and told him something. Immediately, this guy read a few mantras and these two strangers were married right then and there on the footpath! Obviously, they separated a few days later but then that’s not the story.

  * * *

  After passing out of NSD like so many had before me, I too refused to get out of the hostel. The authorities issued multiple warnings to leave, all of which fell on deaf ears. It was ridiculously hard to leave. We had spent golden years there, built bonds for life. We did not know what the world outside held for us. We had no jobs. We had nowhere to go. Sure, we could have joined the repertory, and many did. But I could not, because of all that I had heard about it. Its reputation for creativity was not as great as the school’s was and moreover there was a lot of politics going on there.

  Then an opportunity showed up by word of mouth. It was as if an invisible, generous genie had heard our unspoken pleas for work. A little troupe was performing street plays as advertisements for oil, soap and all kinds of other consumer products. Each actor would get Rs 100 per day. I left NSD and joined immediately. We did about four or five shows each day. The producer had a van. There were nearly half a dozen of us. All of us would huddle together inside the van, placing our dhol, tabla and other props inside it. Then he would drive us to the venue where we would perform. Before beginning, we had to create some kind of drama—like we would pretend to fight—or pull off a stunt to collect a crowd and turn them into an audience for the real play, the advertisement, which we would begin as soon as enough people had come together. Gauging the pulse of the audience, its delicate mood swings, was absolutely critical. What if two or three people got together and beat us up? It had happened.

  Almost three years went by this way. Then the invisible genie bestowed its generosity again, this time through the veteran actor Piyush Mishra. A person he knew was directing plays with students at the Delhi Public School in Faridabad. He needed an assistant director. ‘Would you want to assist him?’ Piyush asked me. I said yes instantly. It was a fun gig. I forget the exact amount but I think I got Rs 8000 at the end of it. This was a pretty big amount for me, especially at the time—it was the late ’90s.

  I thought this was the best opportunity to go to Bombay to try my luck. Going to what had by then become Mumbai seemed to be the most obvious progression. It seemed that a whole bunch of our seniors had made the shift from theatre to film simply by moving to Mumbai. Apparently, there was more work in cinema. The money gave me confidence. Because, if nothing else, it would arm me with the ability to last in the city of dreams for at least a month.

  PART III

  MUMBAI

  13

  The Dark Night

  And so just like that, I decided to pack my bags and leave for Mumbai, certain that I would be given a red-carpet welcome because I was from NSD. I went to my batchmate’s house in Goregaon East, near the Western Express Highway, paid him rent for a few months as well as a deposit and began to stay with him. Almost immediately, reality slapped its icy water on my starry-eyed face and cut my dreamy wings. I came crashing to the ground and realized what a jackass I had been. Forget the red carpet, work seemed as scarce as drizzle in drought-prone lands. All struggling actors spend hours running from audition to audition in the brutal heat, sweating buckets while standing in endless queues and facing a thousand rejections. If you are not seasoned in the ways of Mumbai and spot some of them, you might mistake their desperation as that of someone’s who is hunting for a blood group that matches with what their ailing one needs. That is how bad it is! No work means no income. And there begins a vicious cycle which wraps around this breed like a python’s ever-tightening grip, threatening to crush them from the inside and the outside simultaneously. Without money trickling in, affording rent, affording food, affording cigarettes, affording girlfriends, affording even transport to get to those auditions, becomes a series of battles. Cheap luxuries like bananas and dry roasted channa kept me going. Very soon, I had to give up on them as well. Then came the days when my friend and roommate, Vijay Raaz, and I went on a strict diet: we had Parle-G (glucose) biscuits and tea for breakfast; we had Parle-G biscuits and tea for lunch; we had Parle-G biscuits and tea for dinner. You see, I had no money left to even refill my gas cylinder to power up the kitchen stove and cook the humblest meal possible. Soon, even the Parle-G diet ended. I had no money left to eat or even to afford the cheap fares of buses or local trains. So I used to walk for fifteen kilometres on some days, twenty on some others. I’d walk from Goregaon East, where I was living with half a dozen other actors, in the peak afternoon heat all the way to a friend’s house at Yari Road in Andheri. Being roasted was nothing in the face of greed, greed for the scrumptious meal the friend would cook and greed for the divine cigarette he would offer afterwards. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. For those few golden minutes, my chain of struggles would evaporate into the smoke created by the Wills Navy Cut, and my bloodshot eyes would be dreamy again.

  Finally, I began to get some roles. A lot of them—like Sarfarosh and Munna Bhai M.B.B.S.—involved getting beaten up. My reel life became a reflection of my real life. I was getting beaten from all corners. I was being rejected from all corners. Women rejected me, casting directors rejected me. Bare necessities like food rejected me. Between 2005 and 2007, I was secretly homeless. I would sleep at one friend’s house, have breakfast at another friend’s, lunch at yet another friend’s house. Like my life, my belongings too were scattered across these friends’ houses. I did not want to become a burden on only one person. So if somebody was cooking, which they palpably were at mealtimes, then I would show up. Out of courtesy, they would ask me if I would like to join them, expecting me to refuse out of courtesy as well. But I would immediately say yes, thank you. My towel was at Abhay’s house, I’d show up for lunch at Rajpal’s (Rajpal Yadav) house and I would eat dinner at my buddy Ghannu’s (Ghanshyam Garg) house. They lived all over Goregaon, so I would walk all over Goregaon, first from Goregaon East to Goregaon West and then back to Goregaon East.

  My hair began to fall out in clumps due to the stress. I had literally become a skeleton as there was little separating my bones and my carbon paper-like skin.

  I was so weak that I fainted out of hunger on the streets more than a few times. I f
elt that I would die soon. It was not just a hunch; I knew it was about time. So I stayed out of the house all the time. I watched every little mundane detail with great interest so that I would have no regrets left that I had not seen stuff. Streetlights, buildings, buses and all kinds of banalities were beautiful to my dying eyes.

  This phobia haunted me for three years, the darkest years. My struggle was like a long, dark night that had no end, no hint of light in sight. The little work I had in TV stopped. The little bit of udhari (loan) that friends would give stopped. I stopped calling home. There was no news to share. But every one and a half years or so, without informing a soul, I would quietly go home. I would meet Ammi, bask in her unconditional love and devour her stellar cooking. Then, after two to four days of eating to my heart’s content, I would leave. My departure would be just as quiet as my arrival. You see, I did not want anybody to know I had come as they would mock me. It was the last thing I needed at the time.

  It was another of those afternoons in Mumbai that I spent roaming under the scorching sun. This time I was waiting below the building where my senior Manoj Mishra resided. He was working in television, so he would probably have some money. I was hoping he could give me an udhari of Rs 100 or so. When he came down and I asked him, he said, ‘Nawaz, I have only 100 rupees. I can give you 50.’

  ‘Okay. Theek hai. Pachas hee de de yaar! (All right, give me 50!)’ He had work but had not been paid. Just like I had not been paid for Shool in spite of multiple trips to the production offices, begging them for what was my due right. (Finally, they had offered me a meal instead of my meagre payment, which my starving belly had gratefully accepted.)

  Manoj went to one of the shops around the corner to get change for his 100-rupee note. When he returned with two 50-rupee notes and handed one of them to me, he asked, ‘When can you return the money, Nawaz? I have no more. This is all I have.’

  I assured him, ‘As soon as I get money, I will return it to you.’

  But Manoj knew that I was not getting any work. He was concerned.

  ‘Listen, Nawaz, go to your home town if you are not getting any work. It is okay. What can you do?’ he advised kindly.

  Just then I struck the wall of his building and fainted, falling to the hot ground. He sprinkled cool water on my face. I regained consciousness.

  ‘What happened, Nawaz?’

  ‘Yaar! I don’t know. I have not eaten for three or four days,’ I told him.

  And I burst into sobs. He began crying too. We were not crying out of starvation. Our tears were tears of despair. When would this hellish experience end? When would this torture end? Were we so manhoos (ill-fated) that we had no right to a silver lining?

  As I told you, I never got paid for that tiny part in Shool. When people ask me, ‘Nawaz, which role do you relate to the most? Which is the favourite role you have ever played?’, they mostly expect me to cite the Intelligence Bureau officer A. Khan in Kahaani or the gangster Faisal Khan of Gangs of Wasseypur; but it was actually the failed guy in Dibakar Banerjee’s short film Star (from the film anthology Bombay Talkies). Because that character’s struggle is the closest to mine: he tries and tries and faces failure after failure. And he too has a daughter he loves dearly.

  Coming back to the tale, the bottle of water Manoj had sprinkled drops from on to my face, was still in his hand. He gave it to me to drink and bid me goodbye. I walked to Goregaon East, sipping from it. From there I boarded a train, sans ticket, to Bandra station. On Bandra (West), right at the bus depot, are little shops selling delicious nonvegetarian fare. The pulao at one of these is my favourite. Each plate comprises a bed of aromatic Basmati rice topped with two beef botis. I still remember the price: Rs 12 per plate. I wolfed down three platefuls, back to back, without leaving a single grain of rice on any of them. As the energy charged my bloodstream again, some of my life force returned. ‘Behenchod, mil gaya khana!’ (Damn, got some food!) I was thrilled and ready to take on the world.

  I went back to the train station and boarded a train, again travelling without a ticket, all the way to Mira Road. My junior from NSD lived there and had called me over many times. I stayed there for some days. Then I took off to Model Town, near Kokilaben Hospital, to another friend’s house for some days. The same routine.

  One of my friends used to make the most amazing tahri. It was not like my Qureshi neighbour’s in Budhana, the best in the world. But it was the best in Mumbai and pretty scrumptious. He had a special recipe of cooking the yellow-rice pulao with ginger, garlic and numerous other spices. But the sad part was that he would cook only for one plate, since he was cooking for himself. My hungry belly would ensure that I reached his house at the perfect time—when he was cooking—and again, out of courtesy, he would ask if I wanted some. I always did. He used to remove most of the dish on to his plate and ensure that a very, very scant amount remained in the pot, which he would serve me. It was a tiny amount, but God, I loved it! I had compromised and taught myself to eat as little as possible, relishing it to the fullest. (Somehow, this habit has not left me even today, when I live in abundance.)

  Whenever any of us struggling actors got a little money, we would splurge all of it on food and alcohol. The sweet embrace of alcohol lived up to its cliché and helped us forget all our troubles for a while. I would get mutton to cook and feel like a fucking king. Food and alcohol is the most ayashi (debauchery) I ever indulged in.

  * * *

  There was a casting director called Jogibhai. We used to call him all the time. During one of those especially desperate phases, I called him a dozen times.

  ‘Jogibhai, please give me some work. I am desperate. Any work will do. Small, big, anything at all. Please, Jogibhai!’ I pleaded. He relented on the final call and informed me of some arrangements he had made.

  ‘All right, Nawaz. Go to Film City. There is an ad shoot happening there. Go and meet the chief AD (assistant director). I have spoken to him about you.’

  ‘Thank you, Jogibhai! Thank you, Jogibhai!’ I exclaimed, more in relief than gratitude.

  ‘They need two guys. So get someone else too.’ He hung up.

  There is no dearth of struggling actors. I got someone quickly. Both of us walked from Four Bungalows in Andheri to Film City in Goregaon on foot for the 7 a.m. shoot. The ad was for some brand of air-conditioned buses. So there were many people sitting inside a bus and a stewardess was coming towards them. That was the set, with the camera right behind the stewardess. The two of us were in the crowd, playing roles of junior artistes. All the actors looked engaged in activities, like passengers usually are. Some were playing cards. Somebody was reading a newspaper. Somebody was knitting a sweater. I had declared that I would sleep. It sounds simple, but it was actually a strategic move on my part. Kaam ka kaam and nobody would even notice that I was in this role since my face would be hidden. I was a bit ashamed to play this role since I was an actor and not a junior artiste or what they call an extra in the West.

  At the end of the shoot, the chief AD gave us a total of Rs 4000, Rs 2000 to the actor who accompanied me and Rs 2000 to me. We could not believe it. We stared at the paper money and smiled. Before the creases of our smiles could broaden, a man interrupted us, asking all kinds of questions. He was the coordinator of junior artistes.

  ‘Who are you guys?’ he asked in a stern voice.

  ‘We are artistes,’ we replied cautiously.

  ‘What artistes?’ he demanded.

  ‘We are junior artistes,’ we replied sheepishly.

  ‘Okay. Show me your cards,’ he said, stretching out his hand to take and inspect the cards which we did not have.

  ‘We have no cards. We are actors.’

  ‘If you are actors, then why are you here doing the work of junior artistes?’ he demanded.

  ‘We had no work, sir. So we did this. Please understand, sir,’ we pleaded.

  After a moment’s silence, he asked us, ‘Did you get paid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  �
��How much?’

  ‘Two thousand per person.’

  ‘All right. So you have two choices,’ he explained. ‘Either you give me 1000 rupees each or I send both of you to jail.’

  We reluctantly handed over half of our payment to him and walked out of Film City that evening in silence. Right outside was a bar. I believe it was called Sudarshan Bar, but I am not sure. We still had 1000 rupees each. So we drank rum, Old Monk. And we ate Chinese food. Actually, we ordered everything we could: chicken chilli, shahi paneer, rotis, fried rice . . . who knew when we could afford to eat again! So we feasted like kings while we could. The bill came to Rs 800 per head. Each of us had just Rs 200 remaining. But we felt as wealthy as emperors. Our bellies were bloated, our hearts were satiated. What more did we need then!

  * * *

  In spite of the dire circumstances, our bunch of struggling actors managed celebrations too; in fact, parties were an absolute must. They gave us a stage to vent and feel in a way that life just was not allowing us to. One of the wild ones was for Ghannu’s birthday, on 28 September, at his house in MHADA, Vanrai, near Goregaon’s Aarey Colony. To everyone’s added delight, Ghannu had just procured a television set. The highlights of the party included this TV itself and even more so, a steady stream of alcohol, not to speak of a famous fourteen-layered mutton dish. The place was quite a sight. It was a teeny apartment with one room and a kitchen, and already it was flooded with over twenty people who had promptly arrived by noon and downed several drinks. More continued to pour in as the afternoon progressed. Everybody was a guest and yet nobody was a guest, that is, nobody was being treated as one, nor was anybody behaving like one. All of them behaved as if it was their own house. It was steaming, as Mumbai usually is, so they entered the house and took off their shirts and in some cases, most of their clothing as boys often do in Indian summers once they enter their own homes. They had spent much of the afternoon purchasing the long list of ingredients for all of the fourteen layers of this rather hyped dish. And now that the shopping was done, several of them were drowned in diligent prep work for this legendary dish, preparing its fourteen layers. Somebody was chopping onions, somebody was crushing whole spices, somebody was chopping chillies, and so on. They were like a little army of tipsy soldiers in chaddis who had magically perfected the art of working, partying and getting drunk at alarming speeds, all at the same time!