Naseeruddin Shah - And Then One Day: A Memoir

I was born in Barabanki, a small town near Lucknow, in July of the year 1949 or maybe it was August of the year 1950. No one including Ammi (Farrukh Sultan, my mother) was later ever quite sure which. Her saying tum ramzaan mein paida hue thhe wasnt much help in figuring it out either. Smallpox then was a scourge, typhoid a killer, malaria and cholera rampant. Children often never made it out of their infancy, or more frequently lost a year or two on falling ill or on failing their final exams; so a childs date of birth was invariably amended, and registered at school time as being a year or two later than it actually was. To provide for either eventuality or perhaps simple absent-mindedness made Baba (Aley Mohammed Shah, my father) register my year of birth as 1950. Why July 20th was altered to August 16th, however, is a mystery and Ive had quite a bit of fun with the wise ones who took it upon themselves to figure out my astrological chart. Consequently, I am whichever age it suits me to be on any particular day. While it doesnt make me feel a whole lot younger, it just seems like something to do.

Baba had had a peripatetic life before finally settling down to serve the British government in the Provincial Civil Service when Freedoms dawn, Independence and Partition hit the country. Not wanting to take any chances, he stayed on in India. Two of his brothers left, as did several of my mothers siblings; he had seven, she had ten. My oldest brother Zaheer was two, the one after him, Zameer, newly born; and I hadnt yet arrived so we didnt have much say in the matter, but doubtless we would all have backed the decision: none of us has been much of a gambler. Apart from the fact that Baba possessed no property in India and thus could not in any conscience claim any across the border, leaving a secure job and starting a new life when somewhat past his prime must have been less appealing to him than staying on in this newly independent Hindu country. He was never one to rock any boats and he figured wed do all right here. As it happened, he was not wrong in his assessment of our future chances in India.

As an infant I seem to remember travelling continuously by car down tree-lined, practically empty highways. Provincial Civil Service officers saw a fair amount of road on their inspection tours to places not yet connected by rail, and lodged in dak or inspection bungalows built for that purpose. These once splendid mansions, alike in their sprawling colonial isolation, all featured mirrored hat-stands and battered cane furniture on gloomy, pillared verandahs overlooking unkempt gardens and lawns. And I still know the smell of those places: the musty drawing rooms (I always puzzled over why they are called drawing roomsuntil a chance visit to Blair Castle in Pitlochry explained it; they were the rooms ladies would withdraw to while the men drank their brandy and threw bread rolls at each other) with the then ubiquitous mounted- head tiger/leopard skins strung over dead fireplaces, ancient copies of Readers Digest on undusted mantels. Insipid food in cavernous dining rooms with Ammi not cooking or serving, and looking pretty unsure about it all. The odour of damp and peeling plaster everywhere, and fetid air in the thickly curtained bedrooms. There were also frequent transfers from town to town in UP necessitating long train journeys, always including endless hours of sitting on our luggage at strangely deserted railway stations awaiting our connection.

The earliest thing I can recall doing is sitting in someones (not either of my parents) lap and watching a performance which I couldnt identify then and still cant, but which was probably a nautanki by an itinerant theatre troupe, or a Ram Leela, the kind of show performed in the open or in makeshift tents. What has stayed burned into my mind is the thickly painted face of a person up there I got mesmerized by dancing on top of a very high platform, his face alight, his eyes darting like agitated snakes. A singular rush of excitement coursed through me whenever, body contorting and eyeballs slithering, he looked towards me, which seemed to be most of the time. I remember absolutely nothing else from this day, I must have been about two, and I sometimes do wonder if this is a memory I have invented. Even so, its become absolutely real and given me a great deal, but something tells me it must have happened. It could even have been a circus and he a clown, but at that moment he seemed to be touching the sky. It was only of course my own minuscule size at the time which made me perceive him as such, but this vision has stayed stuck in the forefront of my consciousness, because that day this man, whoever he was, handed me the most valuable thing Ive ever received: the gift of wondercomplete terror combined with the deepest fascination and envy. I wanted to be up there with him forever, I knew that for sure. Mr Yann Martel in his hallucinatory hagiography of the boy Pi puts it the way I wish I could: first wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. Perhaps thats why in my mind I connect actors and clowns very closely, and sometimes the distinction blurs with great clarity.

I also remember standing on the balcony of one of these inspection bungalows and peeing on someone reading a newspaper below, feeling pretty sure hed never know where it was coming from. As it happened, he not only figured out where it came from, he also turned out to be Babas superior. I sometimes wonder if this was one of the incidents that made my father reassess my worth. For some reason I also remember a guy puking all over Babas gun case on a bus ride down from Nainital to Haldwani. The stain remained on that canvas cover for years, until Baba sold the gun, stained case and all. There is also a memory of riding pillion on a bicycle on a deserted stretch of road and being asked to move aside by two uniformed cops on motorcycles, Zameer getting a fishbone stuck in his throat, and Baba smashing a couple of plates at the dinner table because they werent clean. Funny, the kind of things that stick in ones mind, like dust on honey as someone said. And then there are things unforgettable like getting butted to the ground by a baby goat I was trying to be affectionate to, or running to the handpump to replenish the almost empty bottle of lemonade with water, tripping and carrying the scar of that on my left palm still, or Zaheer driving Ammis sewing machine needle through my finger after assuring me it would get stitched.

I was always told I was my fathers favourite, words that would come back to haunt me later. Ammi gave birth to five sons, the three of us survived. Baba often confessed that he dearly wanted a daughter. He was never to have one. So when it was my turn to arrive, he must have fervently prayed and hoped, only to be disappointed yet again. He probably overcompensated by indulging me greatly for the first few years of my life. When I awoke he would carry me on his back to the bathroom and tend to me. Evidently I was spoiled rotten at that stage; Zaheer once received a dressing down because I had told on him. In fact looking at some photos of myself at that age I suspect I must have been something of a pest. Babas large elegant hands and tapering fingers had a warmth I can still feel and I loved his short prickly Hitler-ish moustache scraping my face, but as it happened he and I touched each other less and less in the years that followed.