An Ordinary Life

destiny were to prove my prediction wrong and give us a son instead, then we would have been unprepared to greet him with a name right at birth. At that nursing home in Seven Bungalows, close to where we lived back then, Aaliya bravely battled excruciating labour pains all night. As is common these days, the doctor suggested to cut the hours of her agony short and settle for a caesarean section instead. She was in great distress so naturally she and I agreed with the doctor. But Ammi, who had experienced and seen several births, would have none of it. She was adamant that it be a natural birth since there were no complications. She stayed up all night at the hospital insisting that no matter what, Aaliya must not go the surgery route. Birth might be instant and relatively convenient with surgery but the healing for the mother takes a longer time with potential side effects on her health. A natural vaginal birth, on the other hand, means greater pain but mostly a quick recovery to normal health and activities. Ammi held Aaliya’s hand and did her best to encourage her to hold on for just a little bit longer. Time crawled like a heavy tortoise. Then, as it always does with tortoises or people, patience won, Ammi won, all of us won. Early morning at 8.35 on 10 December in 2010, a baby wailed its way into the world in a little nursing home at Seven Bungalows. She was a girl.

We called her Shora.

It was not just me but all of us, especially Ammi and Abbu, were elated that a girl had been born in the family. Barring my sisters, Shamiya and Saya, there are very few girls in our family, so deep down everybody was praying that a girl be born. We fell in love with her instantly. But she did not let us revel in her beauty. She set us to work almost immediately. Shamas and I undertook countless trips to the medical store next door. I realized for the very first time just how many things a newborn needs. These hours passed at the speed of a running cheetah, and evening came upon us. My heart felt heavy. The very day my firstborn arrived in this world, the shooting of Gangs of Wasseypur began. Words cannot express that melange of emotions I felt on that day: the sorrow of leaving my infant coupled with the excitement of my first big break.

Ammi stayed on for almost a year to help Aaliya with all the nitty-gritty—feeding the baby, potty training and all that which comes with raising a baby. Shamas was there too, to help raise her in my absence. In fact, during those months that I was away on shoots, my baby girl bonded so deeply with Shamas that she thought of him as her father. Those were very interesting times in our household. On the one hand, we had Ammi with her expertise of many years and many children, and her old, tried-and-tested ways. On the other hand was my wife, inexperienced, but armed with the power of research and money and lured by shiny baby products for her first child. Ammi would stitch cloth nappies by hand. Aaliya would move them aside, refusing to use them, opting for the best-quality diapers sold in shops. Ammi was used to recycling products, making the best use of things. So she used her sewing skills to cut, stitch and hack ancient equivalents of baby mackintosh sheets, receiving blankets, swaddling blankets, burp cloths, and so on. Aaliya rejected those and, like most modern mums in cities, bought the latest of beautiful baby products available. Ammi used organic natural oils for the baby’s massage. Aaliya insisted on the latest baby creams in the market. Although this clash of cultures, of mindsets, of the old and the new, of the modern and the traditional, might be the story of most households, to me it was not mundane but a most amazing spectacle.

A year later, Ammi left for Budhana. When Shora, and later, her brother Yani, would fall ill in the middle of the night—with typical ailments that affect little ones such as earache, teething issues, fever, coughing spells, cold, flu, tummy bugs, and so on—Aaliya was a helpless mother with nowhere to go. During those hours the chemists, the clinics and even her favourite doctor would not be at hand. At that hour, the only private helpline open was not a doctor’s but another mother’s. Ammi would prescribe all of her natural medicines which were simple and mostly already in the house, like clove oil and cumin. Many might dismiss these as quackery but these harmless natural nuskhe (prescriptions) worked every single time. The children would feel better almost instantly. However, when morning came, Aaliya would tell Ammi that now she could go to the doctor. So she would head off to Kokilaben Hospital, which has some of the grandeur of a five-star hotel, and given the fact that today we have the money to afford it, it feels nice to visit.

Shora has always been very close to Shamas. So glued was she to him during her early years that when Shamas was away in Dehradun for two days for some urgent work, Aaliya sent him a video. In it, Shora was banging her head on the door, waiting for Shamas, howling for him. Because when he was there, as he was most of the time, he would walk in through the door and she’d tell him she wanted to meet Mau, which was the name she had given to the stray cat down the road, and off they’d go.

When Gangs of Wasseypur released, Shora was about two. I was back in Mumbai, happily playing with my baby who had now become a naughty, hyper-energetic toddler. We were out on a drive in the car one day, she sitting on my lap, when she suddenly pointed to a spot