When I was in the sixth or seventh class, I used to get a tiny sum as pocket money to buy things that I required. A pen cost two rupees but I’d say it cost five and I’d get that much money. Ammi would ask, ‘Nawaz, how does a pen cost five rupees?’ And I’d dissect a pen and explain passionately how the dhakkan—the cap—of the pen cost two rupees, the nib a rupee and the body of the pen itself cost two rupees. Then I’d ask her, ‘What’s the total, Ammi?’
‘Five rupees, Nawaz,’ she would say, convinced.
It was the same with erasers and other kinds of stationery. I saved up a lot of money that way. Now guess where I’d spend this little fortune I had amassed?
On C-grade movies, of course. What else!
The cinema hall was a little strange. Its gate had slits inside it for ventilation. My buddies and I would pay the ticket seller 50 paise per head to let us watch the film through this slit. I had to close one eye completely and squint hard with the other because the space was that tiny. The normal cost of a ticket was about four or five rupees. But the ticket seller would let us watch this way until the film’s interval for 50 paise each. Then, at interval, we would scoot off instantly to avoid being discovered. The next day, we would return to watch the remaining half of the film, post-interval, after paying another 50 paise each. I watched a whole bunch of films this way in parts for a rupee. I still remember some of them. Like Geet which had this famous song called ‘Aaja Tujhko Pukare’. There were movies with stars like Jitendra and Rajendra Kumar. Then there were C-grade movies with colourful titles like Khoon ka Badla Khoon, Bindiya Maange Bandook and movies like Ranga Khush of C-grade stars like Joginder.
* * *
When we became older, most of us now teenagers, we used to dip an immersion rod into the large drum of water in the bathroom. Since power cuts were normal in the morning, we did this at night when there was electricity. All night, the water would heat up. Like Ammi was the authority figure in my life, I was the authority figure among the children. If I was around, they knew they had to straighten their backs and walk with a fine posture; they would also ensure that they had their shoes on, etc. Basically, I was inculcating a military-like discipline in them, just like what Ammi had instilled in me. So on those freezing winter mornings, I ensured that all the brothers bathed. One day thirteen-year-old Faizi went into the bathroom, wet his hair and emerged, pretending to have taken a bath. Like a mother I knew when my children were lying. I confronted him right away.
‘Faizi, come here. Did you not bathe?’
‘No, no, Bhaijaan,’ he defended. ‘Look at my hair. It is wet. I did bathe.’
‘Really? Take off your shirt. Let’s see.’
As soon as he removed his shirt, it was obvious that he had not bathed. His skin did not have the warm, supple moisture that freshly showered skin does. It was dry. I lost my temper. I lifted him, took him back to the bathroom and dropped him straight into the drum of what by then had become chilled water. ‘Take a bath!’ I ordered and walked off.
I remain very close to Ammi till this day. In our area, at that time sixth grade was considered college. So when I was in the fifth grade, a deposit had to be paid to secure that spot well in advance. But, of course, we had no money for this deposit. Without a second thought, Ammi immediately went to the jeweller and pawned her ornaments to pay the fees. My education was her biggest priority. Abbu never interfered; he was too busy with his own struggles. He was just aware that his children were getting their education. So this became a sort of a ritual. Every time I needed money for my education, she would deposit her jewellery as a collateral and take a loan. Then after some months, when some money had been saved up, she would go get her jewellery back. Being the oldest, I experienced her qurbaniyan first-hand. The rest of the kids were quite small, so I am not sure if they remember this sacrifice. It also set a precedent for my siblings to focus on their education no matter what.
Throughout those years, my siblings openly wondered why I was Ammi’s favourite. After all, I used to simply state what we needed to do, while they were the ones who ran around and did all the hard work, such as renovating the house, taking care of the ill, and so on. When I was away in college, Ammi used to dictate letters—since she was fluent in Arabic and we wrote in Hindi or English—to them and they used to marvel at how much she loved me, how much she encouraged me. ‘In twelve years, even the luck of garbage changes. Yours is bound to. It has no choice.’
In the summer of 2016 shortly before a shoot in Delhi, I quickly took a two-day trip to Budhana. So did several of my brothers. Ammi sent with me a gigantic container of ladoos she had painstakingly made herself. She did not give them to any of the others, not even to Shamas who was headed for Mumbai.
Finally, they got fed up of the mystery, called her up and demanded an explanation. Ammi said, ‘Nawaz always listened to me. He did what he wanted to do. But he also always did what I asked him to do, without questioning me. Zubaan nahin chalayee kabhi usne. Kabhi uff tak nahin ki.’ (He never questioned me.) None of us had seen it
