That friend of mine had made many compromises for life’s little joys, whether it was a steady supply of ice cream for his child or a steady supply of alcohol, food and shelter for himself. He worked in TV then and still continues to. He is as successful today as he was then. I was a nobody then but I did not make compromises, even when the sacrifices were very great.
I am grateful that I am blessed with prosperity today. But I still walk out of home with very little cash in my pocket, perhaps not even enough to cover the fare of a taxi from Versova to town. It keeps me grounded, reminding me of my past and the fragility of everything, especially what the world calls success. Even today, the sight of a Parle-G wrapper gives me the shivers. Although I prefer the taste of this particular biscuit to that of most others, just seeing its packet makes me travel through time all the way back to my traumatic past when I had nothing to eat but tea and Parle-G.
The media has written extensively about the concluding scene in Gangs of Wasseypur II, in which Faisal Khan fires hundreds of bullets into the chest of the villain Ramadhir Singh (played by Tigmanshu Dhulia). It was not just the gangster Faisal shooting his arch-enemy. It was a double-layered scene for me. Because it was also about me, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, pouring hundreds of metaphorical bullets into the arduous, cruel struggle that had almost killed him. In that scene I knew that finally I had murdered my endless trials of all those years. And I had won. The satisfaction on Faisal Khan’s face is real because it was also the satisfaction of Nawaz.
Today, I am deeply humbled and extremely grateful for my prosperity. From fainting from lack of food to being able to buy Tai Amma’s house—or that Malad apartment we had rented during those dark days—at a whim or being able to afford the best treatment in the country for my ailing sister, it has been one hell of a ride. There was a time when I acted in street play advertisements for food and shelter. Now too I do advertisements, but of a different kind and for different reasons. The work is easier and the pay incomparably higher. There was a time, like when I did Shool, I never got my payment—a modest sum of Rs 2000 or so—in spite of making multiple rounds to the office asking for my money. I had to make do with a meal instead, which somebody in the production department offered me out of pity. Some years ago, a man chased down my vehicle near Costa Coffee screaming my name, asking me to stop. Obviously, I heard nothing since the windows were rolled up. Only when I happened to look into the side mirror did I notice this person and asked the driver to stop. It turned out to be the director of Shool, Eeshwar Nivas! He wanted me to work in his next film!
I’ll never forget the days when I watched movies from slits in the gate of our local rickety movie theatre, paying 50 paise for what then was the greatest luxury in the world. Somebody told Abbu, ‘Nawab Saheb, your son watches movies from the gate, paying 50 paise.’ Abbu felt ashamed. He came to me and in his quiet manner told me, ‘Don’t do beizzati (dishonour). Remember the family you come from.’ I hung my head in shame and muttered softly, ‘But, Abbu, I love watching movies.’ (I, Shamas, Faizi, all us, we never looked into our father’s eyes—it was out of respect, a part of our culture. We will look here, there, anywhere but avoided making eye contact.) He said, ‘All right, I’ll make you watch one movie a month but don’t do beizzati like this.’ From then onwards, he would give me money to watch one film a month.
On one of those outings, I went to watch my monthly treat with a friend. While talking to him, I happened to turn around. ‘Fuck!’ I whispered to myself. Abbu was there watching as well. He was seated right behind me but luckily the darkness of the movie hall had hidden me from his view. I told my friend that my father was there. He needed no further explanation. I left the movie midway and walked right out. I don’t know if people today would understand this, especially when my father himself had sponsored my quota of cinema. But in our world back then, it was what today might be the equivalent of being caught watching a porn film. Or to give a less drastic example, perhaps an adult seen drinking or smoking by his parents when they are aware that he possesses these vices but don’t do it in front of them out of respect.
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When Miss Lovely and Gangs of Wasseypur went to the Cannes festival, I had to go too, and adhere to the dress code of wearing a suit. So I approached some of the top designers in Mumbai, asking them to design me one because my films were being screened at Cannes. Each of their reaction was the same. They stepped back and carefully surveyed me from head to toe. None of them could believe that this guy who looked like a good-for-nothing could be going to Cannes. They said I must stop lying right away and asked me to get lost. I insisted but they refused. So I went to a local tailor near my house to get a tuxedo stitched within two days and left for France. Next year again, my films were selected for the festival. But this time around, all of Mumbai’s top designers, including the ones
