This phobia haunted me for three years, the darkest years. My struggle was like a long, dark night that had no end, no hint of light in sight. The little work I had in TV stopped. The little bit of udhari (loan) that friends would give stopped. I stopped calling home. There was no news to share. But every one and a half years or so, without informing a soul, I would quietly go home. I would meet Ammi, bask in her unconditional love and devour her stellar cooking. Then, after two to four days of eating to my heart’s content, I would leave. My departure would be just as quiet as my arrival. You see, I did not want anybody to know I had come as they would mock me. It was the last thing I needed at the time.
It was another of those afternoons in Mumbai that I spent roaming under the scorching sun. This time I was waiting below the building where my senior Manoj Mishra resided. He was working in television, so he would probably have some money. I was hoping he could give me an udhari of Rs 100 or so. When he came down and I asked him, he said, ‘Nawaz, I have only 100 rupees. I can give you 50.’
‘Okay. Theek hai. Pachas hee de de yaar! (All right, give me 50!)’ He had work but had not been paid. Just like I had not been paid for Shool in spite of multiple trips to the production offices, begging them for what was my due right. (Finally, they had offered me a meal instead of my meagre payment, which my starving belly had gratefully accepted.)
Manoj went to one of the shops around the corner to get change for his 100-rupee note. When he returned with two 50-rupee notes and handed one of them to me, he asked, ‘When can you return the money, Nawaz? I have no more. This is all I have.’
I assured him, ‘As soon as I get money, I will return it to you.’
But Manoj knew that I was not getting any work. He was concerned.
‘Listen, Nawaz, go to your home town if you are not getting any work. It is okay. What can you do?’ he advised kindly.
Just then I struck the wall of his building and fainted, falling to the hot ground. He sprinkled cool water on my face. I regained consciousness.
‘What happened, Nawaz?’
‘Yaar! I don’t know. I have not eaten for three or four days,’ I told him.
And I burst into sobs. He began crying too. We were not crying out of starvation. Our tears were tears of despair. When would this hellish experience end? When would this torture end? Were we so manhoos (ill-fated) that we had no right to a silver lining?
As I told you, I never got paid for that tiny part in Shool. When people ask me, ‘Nawaz, which role do you relate to the most? Which is the favourite role you have ever played?’, they mostly expect me to cite the Intelligence Bureau officer A. Khan in Kahaani or the gangster Faisal Khan of Gangs of Wasseypur; but it was actually the failed guy in Dibakar Banerjee’s short film Star (from the film anthology Bombay Talkies). Because that character’s struggle is the closest to mine: he tries and tries and faces failure after failure. And he too has a daughter he loves dearly.
Coming back to the tale, the bottle of water Manoj had sprinkled drops from on to my face, was still in his hand. He gave it to me to drink and bid me goodbye. I walked to Goregaon East, sipping from it. From there I boarded a train, sans ticket, to Bandra station. On Bandra (West), right at the bus depot, are little shops selling delicious nonvegetarian fare. The pulao at one of these is my favourite. Each plate comprises a bed of aromatic Basmati rice topped with two beef botis. I still remember the price: Rs 12 per plate. I wolfed down three platefuls, back to back, without leaving a single grain of rice on any of them. As the energy charged my bloodstream again, some of my life force returned. ‘Behenchod, mil gaya khana!’ (Damn, got some food!) I was thrilled and ready to take on the world.
I went back to the train station and boarded a train, again travelling without a ticket, all the way to Mira Road. My junior from NSD lived there and had called me over many times. I stayed there for some days. Then I took off to Model Town, near Kokilaben Hospital, to another friend’s house for some days. The same routine.
One of my friends used to make the most amazing tahri. It was not like my Qureshi neighbour’s in Budhana, the best in the world. But it was the best in Mumbai and pretty scrumptious. He had a special recipe of cooking the yellow-rice pulao with ginger, garlic and numerous other spices. But the sad part was that he would cook only for one plate, since he was cooking for himself. My hungry belly would ensure that I reached his house at the perfect time—when he was cooking—and again, out of courtesy, he would ask if I wanted some. I always did. He used to remove most of the dish on to his plate and ensure that a very, very scant amount remained in the pot, which he would serve me. It was a tiny amount, but God, I loved it! I had compromised and taught myself to eat as little as possible, relishing it to the fullest. (Somehow, this habit has not left me even
