In the years that followed I realized that it was not just Anamika Haksar. This was a common pattern, perhaps a law of nature that one brilliant mind marries a relatively dull mind. At least a mind that seemed ordinary to us outsiders. Who knows? The ways of the mind are mysterious, the ways of the heart even more so.
12Adventures at the National School of Drama
After graduating from BNA, the rather obvious next step was to head to the National School of Drama. I expressed my wish to Abbu, asking him to accompany me. He agreed joyfully: ‘Hamare ek panditji hain. Woh karva denge. (I know a panditji. He will get your work done.) He loves me a lot. He can easily get your admission done.’ I said all right, let’s go get his recommendation. Without losing much time, we boarded the first of the buses that took us to Delhi. In our little hamlet we were big shots, especially Abbu. Whenever we left our village, people would approach us in respectful endearment, inquiring about our journey.
One asked, ‘Arrey, Nawab Saheb, where are you going?’
‘Delhi,’ my father said. ‘For some work. For some big work.’
‘Arrey wah! Very good. By when will you return, Nawab Saheb?’ another person asked.
‘Within a day, as soon as the work is done, we will be back,’ Abbu said.
‘You are taking your son along?’ another person asked, looking at me.
‘Yes, yes!’ Abbu answered.
‘Okay! Okay! Khuda Hafiz!’ one of them said.
Pretty much every time I left with Abbu, this conversation would take place. It might seem repetitive, but this is the priceless love and concern of the villagers. Those simple folk with hearts of gold revered Abbu. Naturally, they assumed that he was a big man in the big city too. They had no idea that in Delhi we had the same status as an insect.
As the bus neared the outskirts of Delhi, we fell silent, hypnotized by the city lights on the horizon. If you ignored the stars, then night in Budhana was pitch dark, barring the odd lamp or two. But here, the night was a dazzle of colourful orbs flickering like stars on the ground, which gave the sky a reddish hue. They looked promising, as if glowing with a million dreams, our dreams. Arrival in the city though, was one hell of a reality check. It was like crashing into the ground head first, with a loud, painful thud. The sweetness of the village which we were used to evaporated, replaced instantly by spontaneous outbursts of rude and often abusive behaviour—from, say, an autorickshaw driver to any random stranger. We were used to so much izzat that this was a shock to us. We were overwhelmed and more than a little afraid. It showed in our body language too: our bold, big strides in Budhana with chests pushed out in confidence were gone, replaced by a meek demeanour, tiny, timid steps and tightly crouched shoulders trying to cope with the big bad city. If anybody, usually a rickshaw driver, hurled a casual gaali in Abbu’s way, he ignored it as if it never took place. He was not protecting himself, but his son. He wanted to ensure that his son had not heard it and this was the only way to deal with it on the spot.
When we reached this famous panditji’s place, who was a very big man and who loved Abbu a lot, I was astonished. There was a queue of 150–200 people, all waiting patiently in the peak afternoon sun for their turn to meet the big man, to seek favours or urgent help. Quietly, we joined this humble snaking sea of desperate faces as insignificant and as helpless as flies. After two or perhaps three hours, panditji’s personal assistant called us, ‘Next!’
I followed Abbu into the cool, dark interiors and stood behind him.
‘Who are you? Where are you from? For what work have you come here?’ Panditji asked, without looking up from his table.
‘Nawabuddin Siddiqui, panditji, from Budhana. This is my son Nawazuddin. We need your help, sir. My son wants to study at the National School of Drama and if you could please put in a word, sir . . .’
‘This work cannot be done. Hato yahan se. (Get out of here.),’ announced the big man cutting the smaller man’s plea short and dismissing him. ‘Next!’
It is not about the episode itself. No parent wants to be belittled in front of his child. It was like the heartbreaking father–son relationship portrayed so unforgettably in Vittorio De Sica’s masterpiece Ladri di Biciclette (Bicycle Thieves). Abbu then told me, ‘Woh abhi sahi mood mein nahin hain. Jaise hi hoga, woh mujhe pehchan jayega. Dekhna. Gale laga lega. (He is not in the right mood now. When he is, he will recognize me. You will see. He will get up and hug me.) Dekhna.’ But, of course, that never happened. It was just one of Abbu’s myriad fantasies. As time went by, Abbu’s greatest sorrow was not over his personal failures but over how every single one of his fantasies was being crushed in front of his son. The cracks in them got bigger and more visible until finally collapsing like a tower of cards. Still he went on sharing his tragic tales with great genuineness. What a liar he was! That is why I loved him so much. As he kept lying, I decided that one day I would magically alchemize my father’s lies into reality, I’d make his fallen dreams come true.
We returned to Budhana, he to his life and me back to Baroda determined to get into NSD on pure