‘Nahin, nahin, don’t board it!’ the person said and hung up.
Everything moved in slow motion. Railway stations can be such profound places. Entire lives can change there. I watched the heavy train leave the station and chug along to Jaipur with my dreams, leaving me behind at the station. Just a moment ago, I was in pure euphoria, and a moment later, in shock, sorrow, unable to comprehend what the fuck had just happened.
Soon I discovered that I had been the victim of internal politics and that somebody had sabotaged me. Someone apparently told Anurag that Nawaz was asking for Rs 1.5 lakh when clearly I had not. Gulaal had an incredibly tight budget. We had agreed on Rs 1 lakh. This same person later told me that given the tight budget, my fees had been reduced to Rs 80,000 by Anurag. I didn’t believe him and told him that if Anurag had told me so directly, then I would have agreed. (Imagine having this conversation when you’re about to board your train for the shoot!)
I hid in a dark cave of deep, deep depression and stayed there for a fortnight. Until Anurag found out what had happened. Immediately, he called and apologized profusely, several times. This kind of humanness, courtesy, especially in the context of this industry where nobody cares unless you’re a star, is one of those special things about Anurag.
Some time later, he called me again and insisted that I come to Chandigarh. I was jaded. You know, how the saying goes: once bitten, twice shy. I really didn’t want to go but he insisted and cajoled until I finally agreed.
It was only once I reached Chandigarh that I discovered that I was to be cast in an item song. Imagine! For ‘Emosanal Attyachar’, I donned an Elvis Presley costume, but the highlight was the uniquely heavy make-up. My face was whitened with way too much make-up, while the rest of my body remained its natural black hue. This make-up was integral to the character, being an ode to folk artists in the small towns of India who tend to do exactly this: overdo the ‘fairness’ of the face, while from the neck down, you can see their darker complexion. In Budhana, many performers tend to do this during functions, especially weddings. So it was very realistic.
Before Dev D, even after it, we often talked about life and intimate matters; I remember asking his advice on whether I should get married or not. I was confused back then given the unpredictability of an actor’s life, his struggle and all the depression lurking around. Today, of course, we are both extremely busy and too pressed for time to hang out like in the old, carefree days. Our conversations are exclusively about work. But even today, I feel nobody quite understands me as deeply, as beautifully, as Anurag.
19‘The Drama King of India’
I am deeply humbled that people consider me an outstanding actor. They say there is a khaas baat, something special, about Nawaz’s acting. As if performing an autopsy, they try to dissect my performances, trying to understand the method and put labels. But you see, the X factor that they are looking for comes not from me, but from my Tai Amma, from the dafliwala, from Sammi ki Ammi, from Abbu, from Ammi, from my people, from my land. On many days I consider myself to be the luckiest man alive that I had the privilege of encountering so many characters during my formative years. It is like a magician and his bag of tricks, a warrior and his weapons or a chef and his knives. So, I have these brilliant characters who have shaped me. They are archetypes I keep returning to and pour them out on the silver screen. If you look closely, you can see their echoes in every role I play.
In Budhana we believe everything is a game of rawangi, of rhythm. We used to say, whoever is besura, out of sur, out of tune, is acceptable, he can be forgiven. But whoever is betaala, without a sense of taal, of rhythm, is unacceptable. Why? Because all of kainaat, all of creation, is made out of a certain sense of rhythm. Without that rhythm, it is irritating to the ears. You might utter the most beautiful words but if there is no flow, no rhythm in them, then people might not pay attention; in fact, they might even get offended or annoyed. However, if a person says the most mundane words about the most banal subjects, but with this rhythm, with rawangi, people will be touched. Tai Amma had that leh, that rhythm, in every word she said, in every gesture she made.
This rhythm is the secret of the universe. It is the secret of good art, good cinema that you can lose yourself in. This is also probably why irrespective of the language, I never need subtitles to watch a film. If I lose myself in reading the subtitles, how will I lose myself in the magic of the film? Even if it is a difficult film, I will stubbornly refuse to read the subtitles. Then I will simply read the film’s synopsis which means I already know the subject and the character’s conflict.
Today, most of us have lost the rhythm that exists naturally in all of us. In the cities there is no space for vulnerability. Consequently, we have lost one of our most precious treasures: innocence. People have hidden themselves behind walls of cardboard, sometimes even harder walls made of wood, from all sides. So they cannot see who they really are. I am no
