When you were tiny, I remember you trying to pull out a leaf from a plant. I had gently twisted your little finger and you had said, ‘It hurts’. ‘It must have hurt the plant too’, I remember telling you. I never forced you to study or do anything. For me, you learnt and imbibed everything yourself. Whenever you got a chocolate, you first shared it with the maid and then ate it yourself.
You went to Sardar Patel Vidyalaya (SPV) instead of Delhi Public School (DPS) or Modern School. Your school had a very progressive curriculum that put a lot of emphasis on the importance of studying art and culture. Many of our friends’ children studied there as well.
You did well in your studies and always had varied interests. You even studied Tamil and went to a village adopted by your school to do shramdaan. That is probably from where your notion of social work developed further.
I am sure you remember we had a Morris Minor, the round baby car which we had to push to get it started so it could take you to school. But since the battery would be weak, it would often die and I had no money to replace it. You would get angry as it had to always be pushed to start, in the process of which you would inadvertently get late for school. It was shell white in colour and as we drove past the neighbourhood, the children would always shout, ‘Here goes the mendhak (frog)!’ I have the Morris Minor all done up and bedecked now.
Do you remember for one of your birthdays, Leela (Leela Naidu, acclaimed Indian actress and wife of Dom Moraes), who had also designed your dress, bedecked you like a fairy to dance in her garden in Nizamuddin? Do you remember Dom was your godfather whom you would affectionately call Uncle Dome?
You learnt Odissi from Madhavi (Mudgal) for many years. It’s a pity that you gave it up. I remember you joined the street plays of Safdar Hashmi’s Jan Natya Manch. You took them very seriously. I went to see a few of those plays. They were very touching. I knew Safdar because I taught in the art department at Jamia Millia Islamia. He was a wonderful and gentle person, killed by political hooligans because his plays were strong, outspoken, and forthright. You were supposed to act in that same play when the goons attacked. But you were away at Rishi Valley, teaching. We were all shocked and stunned.
I never do paintings about events. But I did a large canvas in oil on Safdar, which was auctioned in Delhi at the Lalit Kala Akademi, and the money was jointly shared between SAHMAT (Safdar Hashmi Memorial Trust), Alkazi Foundation for the Arts, Habib Tanvir, and many others that had been set up in the memory of Safdar. It was the voice of the creative community.
You have always been actively involved in social work. I remember you travelling to the tribal pockets of Orissa and Gujarat to work for the women and children there. You also learned pottery at Sardar Gurcharan Singh’s famous Blue Pottery in Delhi. Later, you made a documentary on him called Imprint in Clay.
I never had anything special to give my children, kept no bank balance, no nothing. The only thing I did have to give them was my affection. But somewhere I’m sure you both share the ethics and concerns that I nurture. After your Master’s degree, you took a year off and went to teach at the Rishi Valley School and travel across the country. You have worked on various films on social concerns, even with first-time directors, in different languages. But your first directorial debut Firaaq got me worried because of the socio-political undertones in the film which was based on the aftermath of the Gujarat riots. Though I respected your conviction and courage, at the same time I was scared for you because of the prevailing political situation.
On your first trip to London, you had lived with a very dear friend of ours—Maurine Ravenhall—and one day she had asked you to cook. Although you had never cooked at home, you had the taste of good food in your palate and you must have cooked a meal from this memory of yours. They raved about it.
This also reminds me of your first trip to New York when you had called me. I had told you, ‘Beta, keep your head on your shoulders’ and you had replied, ‘Baba have you ever compromised? Neither will I.’
While I am writing this note, so much water has flown under the bridge. You have all gone your own ways. Now you are a mother and you are going through what I went through with you. Nursing your child.
I had never asked for favours all my life and I am glad my children have grown up with similar values.
I hope you are holding the hand of your little one in bed, as I did yours.
With lots of love,
Baba
Kishore Biyani
t is a difficult task to describe or slot Future Group Chairperson, Kishore Biyani. Over the years he has been described variously as a maverick, a rebel, a dreamer, a risk taker, and the Rajah of Retail. To me,
