SOHA ALI KHAN
the perils of being moderately famous
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
Introduction
Big Shoes, Small Feet
Bangla Bolte Paro?
All Roads Lead to Saifeena
A Coming of Age
Wakeful City
A Working Actor
We’ll Always Have Paris
It’s Complicated
Worth the Weight
Footnote
Big Shoes, Small Feet
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE PERILS OF BEING MODERATELY FAMOUS
Soha Ali Khan is an Indian film actor who has appeared in movies such as Rang De Basanti, Tum Mile, Khoya Khoya Chand and Sahib Biwi Aur Gangster Returns. She studied modern history at Balliol College, Oxford, and earned a masters’ degree in international relations from the London School of Economics and Political Science. She is the youngest daughter of actor Sharmila Tagore and Mansoor Ali Khan Pataudi, the ninth nawab of Pataudi. Both her father and paternal grandfather, Iftikhar Ali Khan Pataudi, were former captains of the Indian cricket team. Her older brother is Saif Ali Khan and she’s married to actor Kunal Khemu.
To my daughter, Inaaya
Introduction
If you have bought/borrowed/shoplifted this book in the hopes of finding out the secret behind Kareena’s glowing complexion or what Bhai really meant when he talked about the difference between nepotism and eugenics then, unfortunately, this is not the book for you.
Although in the ensuing pages there may be a passing reference to some of the idiosyncrasies of the more famous members of my family, the bulk of it, I’m afraid, is about . . . well, me.
Just me.
Is my life really worth writing about or, more to the point, worth your paying to read about? Well, the good news is you were right not to wait for the movie.
The truth of the matter is I have some time on my hands. By the time this book comes out I’ll be thirty-nine—unless books are like some of my movies and have gestation periods longer than those of alpine salamanders (48 months). See, you have learnt something already, albeit of questionable practical relevance unless you happen to stumble into a convention on herpetology.
But I digress. As a female actor who has been in the industry for over twelve years and who, as I said earlier, is on the wrong side of her thirties, satisfying roles in films are about as rare as a pothole-free Mumbai highway during the monsoon. You see, as a woman in commercial films, you can either be the love interest of the hero or the mother of the hero and for that you need to be playing someone under thirty or over fifty respectively.
So what does a female actor in her forties do? Open a production company. Set up a jewellery designing business. Become an interior decorator. Start a family. Launch a fashion line. Write a book.
My friends will tell you I dress well and have a keen sense of style, but my best friends will tell you that I find dressing up a daunting experience. I can choose an outfit, but I will readily admit that matching shoes, bag, jewellery, lipstick, nail polish and a complementary hairstyle is beyond me. I can finish a cryptic crossword in less time than I would take to get myself ready for a red-carpet event. The same goes for interior decoration or jewellery designing, thereby eliminating most of my options for self-employment in the coming decade. As for the first option—open a production company—Kunal and I have already done that; it’s called Renegade Films and we hope to produce some exciting content under its banner but that takes time. And so, as I said before, I have some time on my hands.
Start a family—hmmm, now this is a tricky one. Which comes first—the chicken or the egg? The nesting or the baby? Because I don’t feel it right now—that maternal yearning. I went to my gynaecologist the other day to ask how late was too late to have a baby.
‘I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I do yoga and play badminton, and everyone says I look much younger than I am,’ I warbled on, singing my own praises.
Her response was short and brutal. ‘Your ovaries can’t see your face.’ Something to think about.
Write a book. If I had a dollar for every person who has said that to me, I would have . . . ummm . . . six dollars. ‘You are so intelligent’, ‘You went to Oxford’, ‘You read so many books’. Surely it takes more than that? To write a book, don’t you need a story to tell? A story worth telling?
So let’s start at the beginning and see where we end up.
1
Big Shoes, Small Feet
‘Are you famous?’
It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that question (and it probably won’t be the last), but I have always struggled with the right answer.
I was in Selfridges, the well-known Oxford Street department store that has become a social landmark in London. It was July, 2015, and the much-anticipated summer sale had just kicked off which meant the store was teeming with people. I had managed to get my hands on Charlotte Tilbury’s ‘Pillow Talk’ lip liner, indisputably the luxury launch of the decade, which promised the perfect shade of nude so that your lips appeared bare of make-up altogether.
As I was waiting in line to pay the sixteen pounds you couldn’t convince me for the world I was throwing away, an Indian girl at the cosmetic counter recognized my face and called out to her friends. Soon a decent-sized group had formed around me, asking for selfies. Some of the non-Indian people also stopped to look.
‘Are you famous?’ asked the saleswoman as I got to the front of the queue to pay for my shopping.
I glanced at the name tag on the saleswoman’s shirt.
‘Well, Becky, not if you have to ask,’ I quipped, but inside I was feeling an odd mix of embarrassment and self-importance.
‘Who is she?’ I heard her ask one of the gaggle of giggling girls as I turned to leave.
‘Don’t you know?’ the girl gasped.
I smiled at her response, feeling quite pleased with myself. I had only recently become active on social media and my Instagram account was gaining in popularity with followers from the UAE and England as well as other parts of the world.
‘She’s Saif Ali Khan’s sister!’
I closed my eyes momentarily as irritation gave way to submission. Of course! And it was true. I was. I am.
It’s probably safe to say I have been recognized as Sharmila Tagore’s daughter or Saif Ali Khan’s sister more times than I have been recognized as Soha Ali Khan. You would think it would get irksome but I have learnt, over time, to embrace that part of my identity.
Are you famous?—It’s a good question, one that I have often been asked and one that I frequently ask myself. I would say I am ‘moderately famous’. People in India, and some outside of India, know who I am. What does that mean?
What it doesn’t mean is that they always know my name. They will stop in the street and point me out to their companions (this happens often). Some have seen my films and do know me, and some are fans of my brother, Saif (Bhai), my sister-in-law, Kareena, my mother, Sharmila Tagore (Amman), or my father, Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi (Abba), and recognize me as the youngest member of a somewhat notable family. I am not competing with my family members nor am I jostling for my place in the sun. I am content to bask in reflected glory whilst seeking out my unique destiny.
It’s hard work being a Fairy Princess
This book is my tribute to my family, without whom I would not be here. Without whom I would not be who I am. It seems only fitting then to begin with them, to delve into a history that is as splendid and illustrious as it is anachronistic and eccentric. In writing abo
ut them I wonder if my life is relatable to most. The bulk of my experiences have been somewhat different, if not unique. I am, after all, a princess. Now try not to imagine me saying that while stomping my feet in a silver sequinned dress with a tiara on my head.
Had the privy purses and princely titles not been abolished in 1971, my official title would have been Nawabzadi Soha Ali Khan of Pataudi and Bhopal.
Pataudi, Bhopal
Pataudi Palace, circa 2006
It may come as a surprise to some of you that Pataudi is not a name but a place. It is a small town in the state of Haryana with a grand total of approximately 23,000 people. It has been ruled by nawabs since 1804 when it was founded by the East India Company as a reward to Faiz Talab Khan for his help against the Maratha Empire in the Second Anglo-Maratha War.
The eighth nawab was my paternal grandfather, Iftikhar Ali Khan Pataudi, more famous for playing cricket for both India and England and for later captaining the Indian cricket team. He went to the same college I would attend almost seventy years later—Balliol College, Oxford University, where he won a Blue for cricket and for hockey. A Blue is an award given to athletes at Oxford or Cambridge University and some other colleges for competition at the highest level. If you are awarded a Blue it means that you have displayed consistent skill in a particular sport at an international or world-class level. The only Blue I came close to during my time at Oxford was the hue my skin took on from December to February!
Sarkar Abba, as he was known to us, had full legal jurisdiction over the people—as long as he did not contradict British policy—until he signed the Instrument of Accession in 1947 when the British Raj ended and Pataudi became a part of the Republic of India.
Sarkar Abba, looking sharp
I once asked my father why Sarkar Abba had elected to stay in India when so many of his family members, such as his younger brother Sher Ali Khan Pataudi and his cousin Sahabzada Yaqub Ali Khan, chose to move to Pakistan after Partition. As a well-read and discerning member of the Muslim aristocracy, he would have secured a high-ranking position in the new Pakistan government. Sher Ali Khan, due to his prior military experience in the Indian Armed Forces, was appointed adjutant general of the Pakistan Army and later served as the chief of general staff; Yaqub Khan rose through the ranks of the foreign service to become ambassador to the United States and subsequently foreign minister in 1982. Instead Sarkar Abba chose to stay on in Hindu-majority India amidst tremendous upheaval, relinquishing his kingdom in return for a privy purse of a mere Rs 48,000 per annum. ‘He didn’t believe in the idea of Pakistan,’ Abba told me—a country built on a foundation of religion. Sarkar Abba and my grandmother decided to stand with the new nation state of India and the democratic and secular ideals it stood for.
My paternal grandmother, Sajida Sultan—Badi Amman, as we called her—was the second daughter of Nawab Hamidullah Khan, the last ruling nawab of Bhopal. In the absence of a male heir in direct line of succession, her elder sister, Abida Sultan, should have inherited the throne but when Abida chose to leave for Pakistan after Partition she relinquished this right to her younger sister.
There may have been male contenders for the title from less direct branches of the family tree, but Badi Amman’s grandmother, Nawab Sultan Jehan Begum, one of the greatest rulers of Bhopal, was behind the decision of the British Viceroy to declare Abida the heir apparent. This was at a time when Nawab Hamidullah himself was only thirty years old and his wife, twenty-five—they could still have had more children, perhaps a son.
But Sultan Jehan was resolute in her decision: Successive women rulers had effectively governed Bhopal for over 107 years, proving that there was no difference between a male and a female leader and therefore the eldest child, irrespective of gender, would be recognized as the heir. Provided, of course, that they were fit to rule, which she ensured under her able tutelage that all three of her granddaughters would be.
Ten-year-old Sajida Sultan’s daily routine was thus:
5 a.m. to 6 a.m.: Open-air exercise
6 a.m. to 7 a.m.: Morning meal
8 a.m. to 10 a.m.: Reading of the Quran
10 a.m. to 11 a.m.: Breakfast with Nawab Sultan Jehan Begum
11 a.m. to 12 noon: Recreation
12 noon to 1 p.m.: Handwriting lesson
2 p.m. to 3 p.m.: English lesson
3 p.m. to 4 p.m.: Persian lesson
4 p.m. to 5 p.m.: Arithmetic lesson
5 p.m. to 5.30 p.m.: Pashtu/fencing lessons alternately
5.30 p.m. to 6.30 p.m.: Riding/swimming lessons alternately
6.30 p.m. to 7 p.m.: Evening meal
8 p.m.: Bed
Badi Amman (left), age 6, with her sisters
Having read and marvelled at this schedule in The Begums of Bhopal by Shahryar M. Khan, Abida Sultan’s son and Abba’s cousin, whom we call Mian Huzoor, I cannot resist the temptation to share my own daily routine (on a non-working day) which, as you will surmise, varies somewhat from Badi Amman’s in content and concentration:
10 a.m.: Alarm goes off
10 a.m. to 10.40 a.m.: Snooze (x4)
10.45 a.m. to 11.30 a.m.: Drink coffee whilst scrolling through Instagram feed
11.30 a.m.: Make impossible choice of whether to eat breakfast or simply wait an hour for lunch
12 noon to 1 p.m.: Yoga/gym alternately
1 p.m. to 1.30 p.m.: Lunch
1.30 p.m. to 2.30 p.m.: Get updates from Twitter on national news and from Ninna on ‘local news’
3 p.m. to 5 p.m.: Browse through Netflix/Hotstar/Amazon in search of content appropriate for daytime viewing, such as light comedic entertainment along the lines of Rake or The Royals
5 p.m.: Stare into fridge hoping something delicious and healthy will miraculously materialize, failing which think about what to order from Scootsy (an online food delivery service) for an evening snack
6 p.m. to 7 p.m.: Bonding time with Masti (our nine-year-old Beagle) which involves my throwing a ball and then ultimately having to retrieve it myself
8 p.m. onwards: Browse through Netflix/Hotstar/Amazon in search of content appropriate for night-time viewing, such as dark drama or thrillers along the lines of Line of Duty or The Making of a Murderer
12 midnight to 1 a.m.: Bedtime reading (current book of choice being A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara)
If you are impressed with my indolence on a holiday, I should point out that on the days I am working it is possible to end up doing even less. As an actor it is a well-accepted fact that you are paid handsomely not to act, but to wait. Sometimes for hours on end whilst elaborate shots are being set up, another actor’s close-ups are being taken or the lead actor takes a five-hour nap in his trailer.
Coming back to the point, when Hamidullah Khan passed away in 1960, the Government of India recognized Badi Amman as the Nawab Begum of Bhopal.
Bhopal was India’s largest Muslim-ruled princely state after Hyderabad, with a population of one million and a nineteen-gun salute. Pataudi, in comparison, was a non-salute collective of villages.
It is said that when he learnt of Sarkar Abba’s and Badi Amman’s romance and their desire to marry, Nawab Hamidullah was not exactly jubilant about this match of ‘unequals’ and refused to sanction the union. It was only when Badi Amman was literally dying of heartache (and perhaps some tuberculosis) that her elder sister intervened and took on their unyielding father. She is said to have stormed into his office and demanded to know why an affable and aristocratic nawab, both educated and renowned, was not good enough for his daughter.
Hitched at last
Unable to provide a justifiable response, Hamidullah gave his consent, albeit unwillingly.
Some suspect his reluctance stemmed from a sportsman’s jealousy. Nawab Hamidullah Khan was a nine-goal-handicap polo player. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport, players are rated on a scale from minus 2 to 10 where minus 2 indicates a novice player and 10 is the highest handicap possible. There are less than two dozen ten-handic
ap polo players in the world today and all but one are Argentine! Hamidullah Khan was also an excellent shot and a competent wrestler but it was Sarkar Abba who stole the limelight: in polo, hockey and cricket, among other sports.
Nawab Hamidullah Khan, casual Friday
The much-in-love couple were finally married in April 1939. Since then there has been a robust tradition of marrying for love and love alone in our family—which my father upheld by marrying a Hindu actress in 1968, my brother by marrying someone outside of his religion and a good few years older than him at the very young age of twenty in 1990 and then again someone a good few years younger than him in 2012, and yours truly by marrying a young Hindu actor with a twinkle in his eye and a lopsided grin in 2015.
I never met Sarkar Abba—he died at the young age of forty-two. It was 5 January 1952, my father’s eleventh birthday. My father and his school friends were all playing musical chairs at home, waiting for Sarkar Abba and Badi Amman to return from the Jaipur Polo Ground. The cake would be cut and refreshments served after they arrived. But Sarkar Abba never came home. He died of a massive heart attack, falling from his horse halfway through the second chukka of the polo match in front of a stunned crowd. It could have been the result of years of chain-smoking—I suspect Abba was inclined to think as much because he himself gave up the habit a month before his forty-second birthday. Abba never got around to cutting the cake that day, and he never celebrated his birthday again.
In the lap of luxury
I cannot imagine what it must have been like to lose your father at such a young age but I do know what it is like to lose your father before time. To write even a few words about him seems an impossible task because I feel my words will not do justice to how I feel about him, that they will fall short of conveying what he meant to me. So let’s first agree that words do not suffice.
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