And Then One Day: A Memoir

by Shah, Naseeruddin

  Besides, in Aligarh undergraduate classes were not co-ed so I really did not want to go there. I once again tried persuading Baba to let me dump the sciences and do literature instead, but he was already warning me that as a doctor I would have to check my short fuse. So, consoling myself that I could probably make a great impact white-coated and stethoscoped, striding busily down a corridor issuing curt instructions to my assistants, I applied for the sciences only to be rejected for my poor percentage. I had been assured AMU rejected no one! At his wits’ end, Baba took me back to Meerut with him and with a minimum of fuss, and the help of a first cousin, an influential lawyer there, I got into ‘NAS’ college, known as ‘Nanak Chand’ for some no doubt very good reason which I didn’t have the time to uncover; my stay there did not last long. NAS had no hostel so Baba had me lodge with his paternal uncle Masoom Ali Shah who owned a sprawling bungalow in the cantonment. A retired Deputy Collector like my father, he was universally known as Dipti saab. When he died my father assumed the mantle of Dipti saab in Sardhana.

  I was given an unused room near the porch for which, if I remember right, rent was charged. I was expected to clean it up and make it liveable. Ah bliss! My own place, a stone’s throw from Palace Cinema. I had my freedom now, which I then went on to thoroughly misuse. Dada Dipti’s bungalow and its grounds were huge enough to accommodate an army. There were three other families lodging in various sections of the mansion, and I spent some time with those of my age group, but none had the passion for cinema that I did, nor did any of them play cricket. The NAS college cricket team asked me to try out in the nets, but never having played at college level I blithely went in to bat without wearing a box, got hit where it mattered most and didn’t make the greatest impression. I was to give cricket a very wide berth for many years after that, and not only because of this batting debacle.

  NAS did nothing for me except for nearly getting my brains beaten out by half a dozen guys after a brawl with the resident ‘dada’ and that, cycling there every morning, I manfully eyed all the girls heading to Raghunath Girls’ College nearby, and I spent all my pocket money, and a not insubstantial portion of the fees I was supposed to be depositing in the college, on movies at Palace Cinema. Palace, now standing abandoned, probably being fought over by various claimants, had, I discovered, been a swimming pool in the British days, which explained why the inside always felt clammy. Later converted into a cinema with the gradient of its floor remaining as it was, it served perfectly for various ‘classes’ of ticket-pricing, the shallowest part of the ‘pool’ being the balcony. Only American and British movies showed there, and every three days there was a change of bill. I gorged on each one. The movie virus had fully entered my bloodstream, was proliferating and raging through my system.

  I don’t know when the idea of going to Bombay first occurred to me but one day I remembered JR had a girlfriend in Bombay, SM, whose father was a character actor. My naivety said that anyone connected to films should be able to get me a job of some kind there, any job at all, I didn’t mean to be picky right away. I started corresponding with her when I had the time to spare from drawing posters of imaginary films starring myself, and by and by confessed my dreams to her and asked if she thought I should come to Bombay. She was not dismissive of the idea, assured me her father ‘would do his best’ for me, and even offered to host me during my stay. Reeling at her generosity, I used up another biggish chunk of my college fees to book a berth for a month hence on the Dehradun Express which went direct from there to Bombay, picking up passengers in Meerut. My watch and bicycle I decided to sell along with my books and most of my warm clothes, which I wouldn’t need—it was never cold in Bombay. The grand total, about five hundred rupees, would be more than enough to see me through the few days in Bombay before I would probably be rolling in it, dining fancy and signing autographs. I was heading to Bombay to stay in a REAL living actor’s home and he was going to ‘do his best’ for me, I was going to be famous. What could possibly go wrong? I hadn’t yet heard of Mr Murphy and his law.

  They were at Bombay Central station to receive me, bless their souls: she, her brother and a cousin Yusuf with whom I later spent most of my time. I think I also expected a limousine to pull up and drive me to their, I imagined, palatial abode, I assumed all film actors lived luxurious lives. There was no limousine but there was tea and ‘keema pao’ in an Irani restaurant, my first taste of Bombay’s gastronomical wonders, then into what I was informed was a ‘local’ train going to Bandra where I knew she stayed. In the taxi ride from Bandra station I rubbernecked till Mehboob Studios was completely out of sight; my dreams seemed to be materializing with a rapidity even I hadn’t anticipated. We drove up gorgeous Mount Mary, I saw the Arabian Sea for the first time, and alighted in the porch of a not unimpressive bungalow, smaller than Masoom Villa but a bungalow! ‘You’ll be staying here,’ I was informed. I was still searching for the words to voice my admiration for her house and my gratitude for letting me stay when a middle-aged lady, her aunt, emerged and was introduced as the owner. I couldn’t believe my luck. If this was just the aunt’s house, my imagination failed me as to what her own house must be like. Aunt ushered me in, not without many misgivings, as I learnt later, which would prove to be completely justified. Innocently imagining I was on a short visit, this good soul had been prevailed upon to host me for the ‘week or two’ that I was supposed to stay, never once suspecting that I had no intention of leaving. SM didn’t bat an eyelid when I said as much to her, just suggested I take a stroll by the sea, which I did; and after having some difficulty deciding which bungalow on Mount Mary I should buy some day, I returned to find myself the subject of a stormy family conference.

  News of my intentions, or lack of them, had been shared, and there were concerned looks all around. Her father, the actor gentleman, eyeballed me with authoritative curiosity and delivered his considered opinion that at sixteen I was not young enough to be a child actor and not old enough to play grown-up parts. I furiously quoted the film Dosti, a recent hit which had starred two boys my age; he mumbled something about ‘lack of face’ which I didn’t quite catch. He promised to cast me as something in the film he was directing but that wouldn’t be for some time; meanwhile I should go home and he would talk to my father when the time came. As far as he was concerned that ended the matter; but in a tone of arrogant entitlement, which still appalls me when I remember it, I made it clear I was staying. He lapsed into silence, sighing heavily. SM stayed inscrutable through this exchange and didn’t let on one bit. To her everlasting credit I have to say that through this time, almost a month, she never once mentioned even obliquely the acute embarrassment I had caused her by imposing on her entire family, and burdening them with feeding and feeling responsible for me. She never once suggested it was time for me to hit the road, and of course it never occurred to me. In about a month, Aunt’s patience was exhausted but I was still not asked to leave. A story about the house being demolished had to be invented and I was asked to please look for an alternative.

  On Linking Road was an unemployed actors’ hangout, Pamposh Restaurant, home to thousands of nascent dreams and as many dashed hopes. Successful stars were glimpsed whizzing past in their limousines while the not-so-successful ones preened on the sidewalk or ‘measured out their lives’ in cups of cutting chai. I was now actually hanging around with this crowd. My money had long run out but SM, even while turning increasingly preoccupied, kept supplying me with basic needs. The kindness of strangers sometimes got me the odd cup of tea in Pamposh. Meals were at her house, which was on Linking Road as well. When I went there for the first time I learnt why I hadn’t been invited to stay. It was one room the six of them lived in with, those days, Cousin visiting as well. I would be given food on a little tray and would eat in the tiny porch outside their apartment, amidst now not-so-gentle reminders from her family that I should either move my ass to get work or go home. A ceremonious exit from the Mount Mary bungalow being imminent, Cousin
had helped me find a place to sleep in, a large hall in Madanpura, the heart of the city, a fleapit by any standards. This hall in the daytime served as a cottage industry, manufacturing zari embroidery. For ten rupees a month each, about thirty of us there had been given pigeonholes to keep our things, and fixed spots to sleep in at night. By nine every morning we had to clear out whether or not we had anywhere else to go. I, of course, had: Bandra and Pamposh. Through the month and more that I lived in this Madanpura zari factory, I travelled ticketless on the local train at least twice every day and never once was I apprehended. Cousin had shown me a back route out of Bandra station and I discovered one at Bombay Central station on my own. There can be no further evidence of the fact that my guardian angel was on extra alert all this time.

  I find it hard, to this day, to explain or even understand the peculiar apathy that overtook me then, and stayed with me for a long time after; apathy towards my future, towards my empty stomach, towards any chance of employment, towards my traumatized parents. My only attempts at initiative were as a result of SM and her family’s goading. I was taken by one of her old man’s hangers-on (in Bombay even smalltime actors have hangers-on) to a beautifully situated restaurant called Bartorelli’s with the sea on one side and the racecourse on the other, where he knew the manager. The plan was to try to get me a steward’s job. I wondered if stewards got tips, and secretly wished for a waiter’s job instead. Of course the manager was no longer the manager and so that plan came to naught and they were not in need of waiters at the moment. And getting a waiter’s job wasn’t by any means going to be the cinch I had imagined; you had to work your way up from washing dishes, were supposed not only to know the menu backwards but also the details of every item in it. But in Bartorelli’s I saw a film star in close- up for the first time and when hanger-on said hello to him, I was impressed because he received an acknowledgement. I was of course very far from learning that you don’t have to know film stars to say hello to them, and most of them invariably and automatically respond.

  The other token attempt at moving my ass was brought on by Cousin who one day came at me waving a ragged newspaper ad stating ‘Bellboys wanted at the Taj Mahal Hotel’, the requirements were eighteen to twenty-five years of age, a high-school degree, good personality and knowledge of English. Salary Rs 200 per month. I thought I could fudge the age and, not having looked in a mirror at the pathetic apparition I had become, felt more than adequately equipped with the other two qualifications. A passport-size photo was to accompany the application. Cousin, bless him, produced the two rupees needed for this expensive operation and I painstakingly wrote out the application in longhand, attached the two photos, caught the train to Churchgate and walked to the Taj to get the employment I knew was mine. It was a sure thing, I mused, all one needed was the ability to carry luggage. I could do that, besides I was a high-school graduate, I spoke English and of course my personality was stunning. By the time I got to the magnificent front entrance, my knees began to give way and the gigantic doorman was distinctly unwelcoming. It was an eternity until I buttonholed someone milder looking, and was informed it was around through the back entrance to the personnel office that I was supposed to go. I submitted the application to a somewhat perplexed guy sitting at a desk and left, quite certain I wouldn’t look at all silly in a pillbox cap and uniform, at least there was Jerry Lewis to think of. And then—a full stomach, fat tips from millionaires and, inevitably, being spotted by a really perceptive film-maker one day. I never learnt how good I’d be at this job either, because by the time they responded to my application, and something tells me they didn’t, my sojourn in the city was coming to an end and so the Taj missed employing the best bellboy that money could buy.

  When eventually I was compelled to go home, Ammi would often ask me whether I had missed her, whether I had ever thought of her. I would evade giving a straight answer, and dwelt only on my adventures, which by then had become ‘the travails I endured’. The truth was that I hadn’t missed home for a second, not once had I felt homeless or put upon, even the bus stop or park I sometimes slept in were comforting; not once was I awed by this city, never had I felt scared of it, or alone and anxious in it, it had turned out exactly as I’d expected. I had taken to it instantly. Not once did I wonder what would become of me, not once did I find myself thinking of my parents. That was a closed chapter I thought, I was done with them forever.

  Hanging around one evening I was brought by Cousin into the presence of a flashily dressed gent whose attire and bearing announced ‘Film industry’ in no uncertain terms. He barely looked at me, and like the top-dog of Intelligence sending crack spies on a do-or-die mission, he singled out some dozen or so of us from those around and in an undertone instructed us to be at Nataraj Studio at seven thirty next morning. We were promised Rs 7. 50 each for a day’s work. The rate was actually Rs 15 daily but since we were not Union, the tout was swallowing half. In any case I was over the moon at the thought of seven rupees, and he said there might be more. It took me some thirty-five years of travelling through the film industry’s intestines, so to say, to figure out what was actually happening then. Production on a film was nearing an end, there was patchwork to be completed, budget was probably strapped, extras were needed instantly and cheaply. The Extras’ Union in Bombay is and always has been pretty strong-arm. It has the power to prevent or stall a shoot if non-Union members are being used, if dues are not paid, if its members are ill-treated, etc. This was obviously being done in an emergency and on the sly with non-Union members being used at much cheaper non-Union rates. But to me this was my big chance. I was going to act in a movie! With many adolescent dreams jostling for space in my head, and accompanied by Cousin, I got to Nataraj Studio, the place of rendezvous well before time. Nataraj, now defunct, then housed the office of every big movie mogul in town. I walked around looking at the nameplates—names and emblems I had seen only on the screen, my heart jiving joyously all the while. It was well known that every runaway to Bombay ended up going home defeated sooner or later, but I thought that not many must have succeeded in getting even as far as I had.

  Arriving at the verdant shooting spot, I was astounded by the size of the movie camera, and by how many people were attending to it. We were lined up, the blinding reflectors adjusted and as the camera panned slowly past I caught sight of myself in the lens; that felt really good, I was inside the camera! There was a sharp reminder not to grin and NOT to look into the lens. I assumed my most sombre expression, it was a funeral scene after all, mustn’t look happy. I did, however, manage to sneak a look into the lens every time the camera passed me, and I caught sight of myself every time. This shot did not make it to the final cut, and I would later tell anyone who cared to listen the oft-repeated strugglers’ story of how the star had my scenes cut because I was so good. The film, Aman, did later get shown and it still survives, and I am present in a couple of shots, one actually with the leading man Rajendra Kumar (playing dead), a major star of that period. (One Lord Bertrand Russell also made his acting debut in this film though I didn’t have any scenes with him. ) Mr Kumar arrived for the shoot in a black Mercedes sedan well after we had been there more than an hour. The man in the flashy clothes seemed to be a particular favourite of his. Hugs were exchanged all around, much laughter rang out, many cigarettes were lit. Mr Kumar, after thoroughly checking his somewhat yellowish make-up, climbed on to the truck bed where a flower-covered bier awaited, the camera above him on the truck. The truck moved, the camera rolled and all of us paid mourners followed looking suitably stricken. I, quicker than the others and more desperate to appear on screen than any of them, managed to insinuate myself into the very first row and that was how I first appeared in a movie.

  We were then given lunch and told we were not required the next day but there might be something else soon. Cousin and I celebrated that evening by paying a visit to Falkland Road and had a woman each, which to my delight cost exactly as much as it had that first time
in the tent. I wondered how come, surely everything cost more in Bombay? I began to feel maybe in Kishangarh we’d been ripped off.

  After treating myself to two hard-boiled eggs at Bombay Central, I did my usual walk down Belassis Street, past Alexandra Cinema, left into Madanpura and home, counting the taxis lined in a serpentine row all the way, passing the time by checking if the doors were locked and locking them if they weren’t. My good deed for the day performed, I lay on my mattress on the zari factory floor and slept contentedly that night. But with more than three of the seven rupees already gone and next month’s rent to be paid, I began to keep an eye peeled at Pamposh for the saviour who had promised ‘something in a day or two’.

  Finally taking the family’s now rather broad hints, I no longer ate at their house. I was fending for myself and not doing a great job of it. But flashily dressed gent reappeared and announced that we would be needed for another film; three days at the same rate. I felt loaded with money already. Twenty-two rupees fifty paise meant two whole months’ rent and a couple of cigarette packs on the side! That I’d also need to eat didn’t occur to me. The shooting was in Mohan Studios, yet another studio that has passed into the hands of time, and I was one of roughly two hundred attendees at a birthday party into which the leading man, the legendary Raj Kapoor ever the simpleton, stumbles with supposedly hilarious results. We were handed glasses of a Coca-Cola coloured liquid and instructed not to sip. Despite my best efforts, I didn’t upstage anyone this time, and couldn’t even spot myself when I saw the final film, Sapnon ka Saudagar, later. I considered paying up two months’ rent in advance but dismissed the idea and the money was well spent on a couple of visits to Falkland Road and the cinema.