NAWAZUDDIN SIDDIQUI
an ordinary lifeA Memoirwith Rituparna Chatterjee
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
PART I: BUDHANA
1. Teetar Pehelwan
2. Patta Prodigy
3. Abbu
4. Ammi
5. My Colourful Childhood
6. Schooldays
7. Of Love Letters and Kites
8. Nani ka Ghar
9. The Chemist Incident
10. The Haunting Dream
PART II: YOUTH
11. Accidental Meanderings into Chemistry, Theatre and BNA
12. Adventures at the National School of Drama
PART III: MUMBAI
13. The Dark Night
14. Relationships
15. Shamas, My Guardian Angel
16. Aaliya
17. Shora, My Miracle
PART IV: ACTING
18. Anurag Kashyap
19. ‘The Drama King of India’
20. Success
Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PART IBUDHANA
1Teetar Pehelwan
What if the sun caught fire?
Would the physical world turn into smoke? Would all the oceans of the galaxy empty themselves to put out this celestial fire? Or would it matter at all, considering that it is a ball of fire in the first place, anyway?
In my village in western Uttar Pradesh, the summer months were often a daze of burning, soul-sucking days. On some of those days, you were almost certain that the sun had caught fire. Its heat was barely any different from a flame’s scalding slap. And the 19th of May 1974 especially was one such epic horror. On that unnaturally smouldering day, our kaccha mud house was only a few degrees shy of becoming a tandoor oven. Abbu nervously hurled buckets after buckets of water on the boiling walls of the bedroom where Ammi battled excruciating labour pains; he was doing the best he could to make her a teeny bit more comfortable. Steam rolled off the searing walls, on to their roasting bodies where it distilled itself into beads of perspiration.
They were anxious, apparently nervous like you would expect any new parents to be. Like trees shaking in a violent storm, in spite of roots that ran deep and strong. They were especially jittery because they had been here before: it was a nerve-rattling déjà vu. Terror wrung their hearts, like a dhobi mercilessly wringing his laundry, squeezing the life out of them. Because they had lived that fine line, which was of the thickness of a strand of hair, between love and loss, between Heaven and Hell, between life and death.
Because, you see, I, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, the oldest of the nine Siddiqui children, was not their firstborn.
Shamsuddin was. I would hear of him for the first time when I was about two or three years old. My older brother, whom I have known closely, as one knows fictional characters one grows up reading in stories, had been the light of their lives. They had named him the ‘sparkling one’. But soon, after only a few months, he, a frail little baby could not cope with this world and left it, abandoning them, leaving them in darkness.
Ammi’s fight luckily lasted for only a couple of hours and finally at about two in the afternoon, I wailed my way into this world, about two months before expected. Like my ghost brother, I too was born punctually premature and with red eyes—which remain bloodshot to this day—but unlike him I survived to tell my story. No wonder my parents named me Nawaz in gratitude. It means blessing, uparwale ki rehmat, by the grace of God.
I always remained a feeble-looking child. They kept nurturing and nurturing; I remained physically weak. This worry, amplified routinely by Shamsuddin Bhaijaan’s loss, gnawed at my parents’ minds and fired their fears constantly. No matter how many glasses of salubrious buffalo milk I downed, I remained frail, physically puny. Those days there was none of our modern-day squeamishness about milk being unhealthy, bad for the heart, etc. This is all present-day nonsense, which baffles me. Our reaction to milk was the opposite of today’s times: we revered milk. It was organic, pure, natural and wholesome fuel. Buffalo milk was given to build up body and was a favourite amongst bodybuilders, weightlifters and the like. We milked our own buffaloes and often while milking, we lapped up some delicious sprays of milk, directly from their udders. Later in our homes, we would down freshly squeezed buffalo milk in tall, thick glasses made of steel or brass.
However, the legendary nutritional value of buffalo milk seemed to bypass me altogether, choosing to float past me like a feather instead of coating my bones with some healthy and much-needed fat. So when I was about seven to eight years old, Abbu decided enough was enough and put me into pehelwani, wrestling. It might not seem a conventional choice in today’s urban India but back then, enrolling your child in kushti lessons was a rather common choice for parents.
And that’s how I was introduced to my mentor, Mullah Pehelwan. Famous for his strength, and renowned in the area for his prowess in the sport, this ace wrestler ran an akhara in Budhana. He was the epitome of health—in fact, he died just recently, at the tender age of 105. Many muscular wrestlers, who looked like doppelgängers of Hercules and Bhim, used to wrestle in his akhara. And like most little boys, I was awestruck by their strength. They were our local superheroes. I used to love watching wrestling tournaments. Luckily, for me, many matches were held in Budhana itself.
I began frequenting the akhara. Mullah Pehelwan looked me up and down. ‘You will do 100 uthak-baithak in the morning. And then another 100 in the evening.’
Uthak-baithak, translated loosely as squats, is a favourite warm-up routine of wrestlers. I dare anybody to do hundreds of them daily, let alone a child. Of course, that was just the beginning. Like a doctor’s handwritten prescription that often fills the entire page, Mullah Pehelwan’s prescription of exercises filled my days: there were the endless dand push-ups, sit-ups, weightlifting exercises with dumb-bells, core-building workouts, stretches so intensely deep that they stretched every fibre of one’s being . . . When you visit an akhara, you will see that pehelwans easily take an hour or longer
