Yash Johar used to call me ‘Maalik’. A few days later, he called me and said: ‘Maalik, you’ll be the death of us. This fellow is pacing up and down the room, smoking like crazy. We live in a small flat and we’re going to fall sick with all his smoke. Is it yes or no? I think you had better say yes. Shashi is a good man. I know him. You have worked with him.’
‘Yes, I have, though I can’t say I know him well.’
‘He’s good-looking and a man of good character.’
I thought about it for a few more days and then finally agreed to marry Shashi.
You may not know this, but I was engaged a year before that. My sisters were pressurizing me to marry and like a fool I agreed. I was engaged to someone from Najibabad in UP. I don’t want to name him because it’s not fair.
Things did not work out and I decided not to marry. When Shashi proposed to me, some friends advised me not to say yes in a hurry. But I have always taken risks in life and knew that Shashi was a decent man. I was comfortable in his company.
NMK: What kind of wedding ceremony did you have?
WR: A registrar marriage. We had to wait six weeks for a date from the registry office. Although we wanted to keep our wedding a private affair, the news somehow leaked out in the press. Sadhana called Yash Johar whom she considered a rakhi brother and said: ‘What is this? Waheeda is getting married? I heard the news from a friend in New York.’ Yashji pretended to be surprised: ‘No! Really? To whom?’ [laughs]
Shashi went into a panic and we decided to have a high-powered meeting at Yash Johar’s house to discuss what we should do. There was Yash, Hiroo, my sisters, Shashi and I. Yash thought we should go to America and get married in Nevada. He had heard that one could marry there in twenty-four hours. I said no—how could I marry without my family? We even talked about having a kind of ceremony in which couples exchange garlands—the kind you see in the movies. But Shashi said: ‘I’ll only start laughing. I’ll think we’re shooting!’
Finally Yash said: ‘Shashi, you don’t follow any religion. At least Waheeda prays. Why not call a maulvi and have a nikah?’ Shashi agreed and we had a Muslim wedding on 26 July 1974 in our Sahil home.
NMK: Did your husband’s family have any problem with his marrying a Muslim?
WR: His brother and uncles were not at all religious. Shashi was forty years old and had just announced that he was marrying Waheeda. ‘Which Waheeda?’ They were very happy to hear it was Waheeda Rehman.
Shashi Rekhy and Waheeda Rehman were married in Bombay on 26 July 1974. They first met on the sets of Shagoon in 1964.
Our wedding was a very small and quiet affair. We were about sixty people—there was Shashi’s family, my family and our close friends, including Nanda, Hiroo Johar and Salim and Salma Khan. There was no press at all. I was most upset that Yash Johar was away in London on urgent work and couldn’t attend our wedding.
After Shashi and I were married, we moved permanently to this house. Shashi got on very well with our neighbour Salim Saab and so we were constantly at his place. We would sit on the balcony and talk for hours. We met in good times and in bad times.
NMK: Did you live in Canada for any period of time?
WR: No, but we went to Toronto and San Diego for our honeymoon. I was in a hurry to have children and within six months, I was expecting. Shashi’s mother was very pleased and, because her other son had not married, she asked us to stay in India. She wanted to be near her future grandchildren. My son Sohail was born in 1975 and daughter Kashvi in 1976.
NMK: Kashvi is an unusual name.
WR: It was Shashi’s idea. He said if we had a daughter, we should call her Kashvi because he liked the name of Marlon Brando’s former wife—Anna Kashfi.
I asked Ishaq Saab, who has recently been helping me brush up on my Urdu, the meaning of my children’s names and he said: ‘Sohail means a bright star in Arabic and Kashvi means a shining star in Sanskrit.’
NMK: Their names mean the same thing? What about Waheeda?
WR: It comes from the Arabic word ‘wahid’, which means ‘one’. Or you could say the only one.
NMK: The unique.
Can you tell me if there was any tension between you and your husband because you were a famous star? Was it awkward for him, for example, that you were recognized everywhere?
WR: No, to the contrary. If I happened to call someone for information and introduce myself as Mrs Rekhy, he would say: ‘Don’t waste time. Just tell them you’re Waheeda Rehman. Your work will be done at once.’ When I did that, I always got an enthusiastic response: ‘Waheeda Rehman? You should have said so.’ Shashi was very generous to think in that way.
NMK: Why did you move to Bangalore?
WR: The Bombay weather was a problem for Shashi. He found the humidity uncomfortable. His cousin who lived in Bangalore encouraged us to move there. One year we decided to go to Bangalore to celebrate our wedding anniversary, and Shashi fell in love with the climate. That’s when we decided to settle down and live on a farm there. We ran a dairy and a vegetable farm, grew sunflowers and made sunflower oil.
In 1983, when we were about to leave Bombay, Yash Johar told me: ‘Don’t take all your belongings; you’ll be back in six months. Maalik, you’ve worked for a long time in films. How can you live with your young children on a farm, in a jungle? You’re crazy.’
At that time Shashi’s brother had fallen very ill with cancer, and so he was rushed to New York where he spent months at Sloan–Kettering.
So the children and I moved to Bangalore when Shashi was away in New York. The farmhouse was not quite completed and we had to live in two rooms. The kitchen was ready, but there was no power. I remember the children had to do their homework by gaslight. But I was determined to move and once I decide something, I have to do it.
I wanted my children to grow up in a natural environment, for them to know the beauty of flowers, fruits, trees and animals. It was lovely and peaceful living on a farm. I enjoyed looking after it. I learned how to make paneer at home—how wonderful it was to pick your own vegetables and eat off the land.
We ended up living on the farm for sixteen years and only returned to Bombay in 2009.
NMK: What about your Bombay house?
WR: I rented it out and locked up a room for us to stay in whenever we came to visit. The room didn’t have a kitchen, but Salim Saab was very kind to us and insisted on sending food every day. They sent us tons to eat!
Our garage had been converted into a gym that Salman uses. If I happened to arrive from Bangalore late at night and Salman saw me the next day, he would immediately ask: ‘Aunty, have you had tea?’ He would shout across to his flat in Galaxy Aparments: ‘Aarey nashta aur chai bhejo Aunty ke leeye.’ [Send tea and breakfast for Aunty.] He is very sweet.
NMK: I believe you made cereal in Bangalore.
WR: Yes, it was called Good Earth Breakfast Cereal. Somehow the idea of promoting it as my product embarrassed me. When I went to America to attend a charity gala and visit my niece, we saw Paul Newman’s meat sauce bottles in a mall. My niece said: ‘See? Paul Newman has his name and photograph on the bottle. He gives the money he earns to charity. If you can be a brand ambassador for other brands, why not promote your own cereal?’ That’s when we added my photograph on the box. A shopkeeper later told me everyone asked for Waheeda’s cereal.
I must tell you about a funny incident. During the shooting of Chandni, Chintu [Rishi Kapoor] said: ‘Arey, Waheedaji, you have started a serial? Where do you do the shooting?’
‘Shooting? What shooting?’ Then I realized what he meant. ‘Chintu, I am making the eating kind of cereal, not a TV serial.’
NMK: When you moved to Bangalore, was it difficult adapting to your new life away from the glamour of films?
WR: I didn’t miss acting very much. After we left Bombay, if I had agreed to act in a film, it was for financial reasons. I had some old income tax dues to pay, and so occasionally I accepted a mother’s role.
With
nieces and nephews at home at Poonam Apartments, Nepean Sea Road, Bombay. Circa 1965.
I always wanted to have children. I spent a lot of time with my nieces and nephews, so taking care of Sohail and Kashvi was nothing new to me.
NMK: Were you a strict parent?
WR: I was a little strict when my children were young. My mother was quite strict with us girls. I felt Shashi was too lenient. He said yes to everything that Sohail and Kashvi wanted. I don’t believe in being rigid. That’s too suffocating. You can break some rules, but discipline is still a good thing.
Now the children have grown up. We talk and fight too. They aren’t scared of me any more. They know I am fine with whatever they choose to do, but I don’t want an outsider telling me what they’re up to. I always tell them: ‘I may shout and scream at you, and even if I get angry, it will be for a short time. If you do something wrong, I am bound to get upset. But it doesn’t mean you should not confide in me. I am your mother and am always there for you.’
With (L to R) Kashvi, Sohail and her husband, Shashi Rekhy, on Kashvi’s first birthday. Bombay, 1977.
Sohail and Kashvi live with me here at Sahil. They aren’t married. You know nowadays young people talk of chemistry. I see many people divorcing around me, and so I don’t force them to get married. I think they should just be happy and healthy.
NMK: Given the emphasis today on everyone looking young, especially celebrities, I am sure people have asked why you decided not to colour your hair.
WR: My mother did not have a single grey hair. My father turned grey young, and my sisters and I took after him. And because we were making films in colour in the 1970s, I had to start dyeing my hair.
In 1997, my husband had his first stroke. A week later my mother-in-law fell and broke her hip and needed hospitalization. There was chaos in the house—the kind of chaos they show in the movies. I remember once telling a producer: ‘Why must you show tragedy after tragedy befalling the same family?’ He smiled and said one day I would see that life could sometimes turn out like that. I realized he was right.
My husband was unwell, my cook had left, it was pouring cats and dogs, the car wasn’t working as the brakes had failed, we had no electricity and, on top of all that, for two days the phone was out of order—disaster means disaster! I had to cook, look after my husband and run back and forth to the hospital, as my mother-in-law was frantically worried about Shashi.
There was no time to colour my hair and by the time things had settled down, my hair had turned grey. That’s when I decided to stop colouring it. When I came to Bombay for the first time after that and my friends saw me, they looked shocked—Nanda, Salim Saab, everyone. I said my children were grown, and Shashi had silvery hair, so why not me?
Mrs Krishna Raj Kapoor saw me in a shop one day and was taken aback. She said: ‘Waheeda, what have you done? I am so much older than you. Go straight to the saloon and get your hair dyed!’ [we laugh]
Another funny thing happened. Sunil Dutt was in the ICU because he had suffered a stroke and was paralysed. He had been extremely helpful in getting my brother-in-law admitted to Sloan–Kettering in New York. Sunil Dutt knew everyone there because that’s where Nargisji was treated for cancer.
When I entered his room in the hospital, and Sunilji saw me all grey, he was startled and said: ‘Waheedaji, what’s wrong? Shall I call the nurse? Why have you turned grey all of a sudden?’
‘It didn’t happen all of a sudden. I just stopped dyeing my hair. That’s all. You’re a grandfather now and we aren’t young any more.’ He laughed.
Nargis and Sunil Dutt were a wonderful couple. We were very close. We travelled together for charity shows and spent weeks together.
Once Nargisji and I went to London to attend a film festival. We were staying at the Hilton Hotel and would party till three in the morning. She would then call me early the next day and tell me to get ready quickly so we could go to Selfridges and Harrods for shopping. The person who looked after us in London, S.N. Gourisaria, kept complaining: ‘It’s 8.30 in the morning and you want to go shopping? I have to go to the office. You crazy people.’
With Nargis and Sunil Dutt at the Delhi premiere of Reshma Aur Shera. Delhi, 1971.
NMK: S.N. Gourisaria? He’s over eighty-five now and is living between London and Calcutta. He used to organize the first Indian film festivals in London in the late 1950s. He was well known to everyone in the film industry, including Raj Kapoor, Guru Dutt and Lata Mangeshkar.
Losing friends like Nargisji and Sunil Dutt must have been terrible. You also had to bear the loss of your husband. Was he ailing for a long time?
WR: Shashi was very careless about his health. He didn’t believe in doing any physical exercise. He never walked nor was he careful about his diet. He would eat ghee and malai and meat—you know, very rich food.
As I told you, he had his first stroke in Bangalore in 1997. We rushed him to the hospital, which was far away from the farm. The doctors would not come to the house.
Sometime later when I came to Bombay for a visit, I discovered Lilavati Hospital was only five minutes away from our Bandra house. But Shashi did not want to move back. I told him it was very important we live near a hospital and doctors. Specialists in Bombay make home visits and that was reassuring.
Shashi was unwell much of the time. He was diabetic and his sugar count would get very high. He had high blood pressure and smoked very heavily too. We had a big argument. I said: ‘No, sorry, I can’t do this. We have to move.’ The children were studying abroad and I was all alone. Very reluctantly he agreed to move back here. We had no choice really.
Between 1997 and 2000, he was admitted into the ICU several times, after suffering minor strokes. The first time he had a stroke, it had affected his speech, but gradually he regained normal speech. He became increasingly withdrawn and depressed. He started saying things like: ‘My time is up, I’ll go.’ I felt very bad and tried to persuade him not to think such thoughts.
Kashvi was in America and wanted to get a job there. I was worried that Shashi would overhear us if we spoke over the phone, so I wrote her a letter asking her to come home. I told her that her father was missing her and kept saying that his time was up. My daughter came back to Bombay and exactly a month later, Shashi passed away. He died of a brain haemorrhage. He was only sixty-seven.
NMK: When was that?
WR: In November 2000. How time passes.
I don’t like dwelling on sadness. I try to face difficult times and live through them. I accept the things that happen in life. We all have to deal with loss. What choice do we have?
NMK: Since your husband passed away, have your friends become a great support to you?
WR: I didn’t have friends in my childhood because I was always unwell. Also, my father kept getting transferred from one city to another, so by the time we settled somewhere and made friends at the local school, we were on the move again. As a result, I didn’t have close friends. I had my sisters, and probably that’s the reason why I didn’t miss not having friends.
After my mother passed away in 1957, my sister Sayeeda got divorced and she and her three children came to live with me. Then unfortunately Bi-Apa, who was in Pakistan, lost her husband. He died of cancer. He was only forty. So she returned to India with her family and stayed with me for a while. The house was always full.
But friends have become increasingly important to me over the years. Nanda is a close friend. We both read a lot and sometimes we sit together and imagine adapting a novel into a film. We discuss who could play the lead roles—Ashok Kumar? Rekha? We never cast each other.
NMK: When did you first meet Nanda?
WR: Before working together in Kala Bazar, we happened to see each other in some studio. She was with her mother. She told me later that she had smiled at me but I didn’t smile back. I hadn’t actually seen her.
A few days later when the filming of Kala Bazar had started, I asked her to have lunch with me. She was a little
surprised because she thought I had ignored her the previous time we met, but she agreed to join me. After that we had lunch together every day. I told her she was welcome to use the bathroom that was attached to my make-up room any time she wanted. We soon became very good friends.
Close friend Nanda was among the sixty guests at her private wedding ceremony held at Sahil in Bandra. 1974.
Once, Nanda, her brother, my sister, some friends and I went on a holiday to Kodaikanal. From there we decided to go to Munnar in Kerala because we heard it was a very beautiful place.
Munnar was indeed lovely with flowing streams and green and lush tea estates. We were very keen to stay overnight. We found an English club that was run by a strange, rather scary-looking caretaker. He was dark-skinned and wore crisp white kurtas. We asked him if we could stay the night. He said there weren’t enough rooms for us all, but if the women slept in the main building of the club and the men in the annex, we could manage somehow.
Nanda is a total coward and so she became very suspicious. She wondered why the caretaker wanted the men to sleep in the annex and us women elsewhere. I reassured her and said there was nothing to worry about. So we went to the market and bought lungis and men’s shirts to wear for the night, as we had no fresh clothes with us for the next day.
Nanda and I shared a room. She went in to have her bath and when she came out of the bathroom, she screamed on seeing the window of our bedroom wide open. I told her that I had opened the window because we needed fresh air. She said nothing doing and banged it shut. She was absolutely convinced that the caretaker would sneak into our room in the middle of the night through the window. It took some time before I could convince her not to worry about the poor fellow because he was unlikely to do us any harm. [laughs]
Nanda and I had some crazy times together.
NMK: Have you always had the same group of friends?
WR: Yes, more or less. We’re a close-knit group of six women: Nanda, Asha Parekh, Sadhana, Helen, Shammi Rabadi and I. We meet often and do things together. Last year Asha, Helen and I went to Turkey for a holiday. Asha and I went to Kutch for a few days after that.
Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 13