And Then One Day

I recall, years back, I must have been around sixteen, as I walked through narrow by-lanes of a wholesale market in a small city then, of Madhya Pradesh. . . glad, I would get all my music cassettes (those were the days of cassettes) at almost half the price.

The acquaintance walking along with me, on reaching the shop; which presumably was of his very good friend, asked, “Which ones?”

I excitedly said, “Pyaasa…”

He looked at me, as if I had asked for a loan.

I continued . . . “Kaagaz Ke Phool, Mr. and Mrs. 55”, so did the astonishment on his face. 

Probably, he wasn't expecting a teenager to ask for those, far forgotten cult classics. I don't know why, but, master pieces always, more than often, get classified as cult classics, long after they had been made.

To his amusement and also to the the vendor's , I collected quite a number of cassettes, the sum total in comparison to today's time, amounting to nothing at all.

It was my inclination towards seclusion or sadness or art, I can’t make sense of it, even today, but I was always drawn towards these kinds of movies and I had begun to feel that those kinds of movies weren't made anymore. Till; I stumbled upon this vast ocean, of what was by then called; the art movies or parallel cinema. Manthan, Aakrosh, Jaane Bhi Do Yarron, Bhavni Bhavai, Sparsh, Katha… just to name a few.

I was simply amazed, that there could be such simple movies made in the simplest of locations, there could be an actor looking as simple as me and be so good at his art, for that matter even get work in films. I feel, exposure to those movies, must have been the primary reason I ever thought of making films.

This man was so ordinary looking, in terms of the actors around him, it made me believe I had a fair chance, if not acting but at least may be directing such amazing actor. But it’s not about me, it’s about this magician who I wanted to know so much . . . I wanted to touch him and know if he was real, as real as his portrayals in the new wave cinema. . . .I waited for years till one day, when I was browsing through the net reading about Finding Fanny, just doing ground work for my article on HomiAdajania, I stumbled upon this title of the book . . .

And Then One Day . . . the title, kind of resonated and maybe some connect, I knew it was. . . .Naseeruddin Shah’s memoir!

The last time I picked a book up, apart from my own, was Chetan Bhagat's- Five Point Someone and much before that Making Friends by Andrew Matthews and much before, The Dale Carnegie, Wayne Dyer self- help types. That sums up that I am not an avid reader and theses books have sometimes taken me a month or at times an entire year to complete or sometimes even abandon reading some of them, mid-way.

So it was almost a revelation that I pre-ordered the book, which arrived on Sunday 14^th September through flipkart, and back from Finding Fanny afternoon show, almost mesmerized by Nasseruddin Shah’s performance, I started reading this tome.

To my own disbelief, I completed by Tuesday night, and after having read it, turning the last leaf over, I was lost… for a while, in the magic of the words and this man's honesty.

The only comment I ever got for my self-published book, from any one, apart from family, that too quite a genuine one, was from a Facebook friend from the homeschooling community. The person had told me of liking certain parts but it had failed to be stripped open in some.

I was happy, that at least someone had taken the pains to read a book, which not more people than its number of pages had read, and even taken the extra effort to write a feedback. But I didn't quite understand the view then.

After having read Naseeruddin Shah’s Memoir, I realized, what it means to split wide open. In His memoir he just does that. . .if you are in love with him for his persona on screen or stage, at times, his confessions may drive you to discomfort, but, if like me, you wanted to ever know the real Naseeruddin; you are going to have almost nearing a feeling of having touched him. I did!

With all due credit to Ramachandra Guha, the language is articulate and at times you don't want to bother about the exact meaning of those eloquent words and just move on.

It could be sacred scripture for young aspirants with starry dreams, smitten by the gloss of filmdom and for the more lost like me, could be an eye opener in discovering the difference between, being truly talented and merely thinking that one is talented.

On viewing, the unusual, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, one would wonder, why was he cast in a two scene role… but when he reciprocates to Abhay Deols; Meri family ka construction business hain, with , Ohho Koi baat nahin Galti harek se ho jaati hai, with ease… You know exactly, why he is in there.

This, his dry kind of humour, lingers over his use of words in his book as well.

He his outrageously open in using some, names, sometimes even biggies, with an attitude of frankness and his repeated use of, I daresay, tells you he cares a damn about what they shall comprehend of it.

He gently holds your attention with his witty and mostly endearing narration taking you through, a journey of his childhood, so rare in itself for a film personality to share, with complete righteousness. You can actually feel the strain between him and his father, you can trace his frustrations of wanting to get into the depth of his art but failing to find only superficial sources, you can connect as he rips open his most vulnerable human side, be it his marriage at an age not generally conducive, or his confession of having deserted his first child. He bares open in front of you, the Naseeruddin he is and not what you revere on screen or stage; even at the cost of losing little respect from some shallow admirers.

But I daresay, he does it not for the sake of making it a USP of the book (He isn't even promoting it, as much as promotional rampage goes in times of twitter and facebook) he does it for, I presume, the sheer joy of sharing with, some- many -few, who would relate. I am sure Sir; there are plenty as you and me. The book shall choose them, if they don’t, like he writes in the final chapter, I claim no credit for choosing that kind of cinema – it chose me.

If only, Ramachandra Guha may have convinced him to write a little more than this . . . but I am sure he may have tried and failed like telling him to refrain from using cuss and not being successful.

Having tried my odd bit, of catching a train to Pune and trying to get into FTII, having walked till the doorstep of Roshan Taneja’s acting institute at Juhu and being handed a pamphlet by the man at the door, having got the opportunity to be tapped on the back by Vishal Bharadwaj giving his number during his Satya days, having worked as an extra on sets of Police Officer, Khel and some more debacles, having always being bit by what they call the film bug …I believe, having read this book, that it’s not only Talent that gets you work but the talent of knowing to sell your wares does.

The true teacher being somewhere within you, there isn't anything that anyone can teach you that you so much can learn on your own . . . and more.

I have simple regret that the memoir touches upon his life only till thirty- two and not beyond . . . maybe intentionally, for not letting more worms out…but I daresay; this man would not have bothered to consider this as reason enough. Maybe a part two…. Maybe…just that much…  

© Nozzer Pardiwala