Dear me
Roshmila Bhattacharya
I am Shah Rukh. Shah Rukh Khan. And I am confused. I take a walk down memory lane and realise that memories have faded. It is difficult to remember what I was like at my son Aryan's age. All I can remember is that I was a happy child and my parents doted on me. The only difference was that my father was not a film star. Mir Taj Mohammed was a lawyer, an entrepreneur and the country's youngest freedom fighter. He was my friend, my hero. I wanted to be like him when I grew up. I think I am getting there... slowly.
My father was a soft-spoken man with an eccentric sense of humour. I remember when I was very young, we lived in a high-rise building and the people living on the top floors used to throw garbage out of their windows. This really drove an old lady who lived downstairs mad. One day she spotted Dad and shouted at him, "Cheezen upar se neeche aati hai! (Things are falling from above)" Dad flashed his great smile. "Yeh unhone pehle he bataya tha (he said that first)" he remarked casually and walked away. I don't think she understood what he meant or grasped his wry humour.
A few years later, a neighbour caught me teasing her daughter and complained to Dad. Do you know what my father said? He said, 'If your daughter is as pretty as you, I can't blame him.' That is something I will probably say in ten years when someone comes to complain to me about Aryan. I think I inherited father's sense of fun. What I did not inherit is his good looks.
Even as a child, I always looked dirty and dishevelled. I had tangled hair and scraped knees. I am still far from good-looking. In fact, when I see guys like Hrithik Roshan, Akshaye Khanna, Akshay Kumar, Aamir Khan, Salman Khan or even Mr Bachchan, I wonder how I ever became a film star.
Dad was the one who looked like a movie star. Over six feet tall, with brown hair and wonderful grey eyes. A rakish combination of Clint Eastwood, Gregory Peck and Dev Anand. He had Dev saab's nose and lips. He always wore white. White shirt and trousers. He wore glasses, carried neatly polished brown shoes and carried a briefcase. He was a heartthrob. In fact, Dad's colleagues in Peshawar insisted that he attend all political rallies because it was a way of getting the women out of their houses to listen to them. You know, if my father had wanted to, he could have been in films. He was offered Man Singh's role in Mughal-e-Azam. But he wasn't interested.
It was easy to idolize my father. He was a real hero. He had climbed K2 with some friends when he was a boy. Whenever I asked him for permission to do something, he would laugh at me and say, "I didn't ask my parents for permission to climb a mountain. Do what you want. Be a responsible boy!"
My father was involved in the freedom struggle and went to jail twice. Ate watery dal from rusty bowls. Saw friends turn into bitter enemies because of those inedible meals. Watched great leaders beg forgiveness from the British imperialists to escape the hellhole. Something he never did, never dreamed of doing. Dad was just too honest, too upright.
And he could be brutally sincere. Once, at a political meeting, he heard a leading politician advocate the use of khadi (hand-spun clothes). Dad stood up and said loudly, "Sorry, I won't be able to wear khadi. I can't afford it." That was a statement that could have destroyed his political career forever. But Dad never worried about the future. He was proud that he had brought independence to India and asked for nothing in return.
If my father had wanted, he could have got himself a prestigious job in the government. But all he accepted from the government was a small corner shop which fetched Rs 400 a month. He was very proud of that shop. And I am very proud of the medal he gave me on one birthday. A medal he claimed as his own for his bravery in saving some children from fire in Delhi. His gifts were always unusual and exciting. One birthday he gave me an old typewriter, an original Olivetti. I still have it. He always gave me pens and books. It is because of him that I am such an avid reader today. He was himself an avid reader and linguist. He was fluent in Kashmiri, Pushtu, Punjabi, English, Italian, Hindi, Urdu and Persian.
Dad was easy to love but difficult to live with. He was so forgetful. I would often find him sitting on the toilet seat eating his boiled eggs, mistaking it for a chair. On a few occasions my mother had to call him back after he had left for work because he had forgotten to put on his trousers. He had struggled all his life. He came from a wealthy family but the business went bust. He built it up again from nothing and then, just when things were looking good, he was hit by another financial crisis. Such crises never bothered my father. He was used to living without the little comforts of life. He preferred to travel by bus. His idea of a day off was to explore Delhi in a bus, wandering the streets and taking an afternoon nap in a park. I can still see him lying there on the grass, smiling at the birds.
I lost Dad when I was just 15. I wish he could have been with me longer because he was a great father. Not too bossy and not too halka phulkas. His height and build made him a striking personality. Yet at the same time he was so gentle and a soft-spoken man. I have seen many fathers since then but none as kind as him. What dad would stay up all night when his son was preparing for a history exam? Even after I dozed off, my father stayed by my side. When I opened my eyes the next morning, I found him sitting next to me, reading my history book. That is a memory that has not faded with time.
Dad was too laid back to worry about grades. He never made my sister or me feel guilty about average grades. All he said was, “Maybe you should stay up all night and study, don’t worry, you will do better next time.” I always did that. To make him happy.
My only complaint against Dad was that he never wrote me an excuse when I skipped school. I wanted him to write to the homeroom teacher to say I couldn't go to school because I had an upset stomach or a fever, but he would never do that. The only time he wrote me an excuse, he wrote that I didn't come to school because "I didn't feel like it." The teacher was baffled.
My sister Shehnaz is very similar to my father. She definitely has his nose. And she is quiet, reserved, naive and highly educated. She has a college degree and a law degree. But she has never worked in her life. Now, of course, she doesn't need to. But Shehnaz has always been a princess. Completely untouched by the world, a pure soul. Not someone who would fit into today's world. Because she is so detached from everything, she suffers so much...
My sister was not always like this. When we were growing up, she was clearly the badi bahen (big sister). Five years older than me, she had her own room, her own wardrobe, her own toilet and her own circle of friends. Oh yes, she had one soap for her hands and another for her face. I was not supposed to touch her soaps, but whenever I got the chance, I would sneak into her bathroom and use her precious soaps. She would invariably catch me and there would be rows. Sometimes it would be fights about the soaps, sometimes about our dog Honey and sometimes about her friends. When her friends came over, she hated having her younger brother there. I was usually beaten up and thrown out of her room. But every now and then they tolerated me, putting me in one of her pretty dresses. Shehnaz was in college when my father died. His death broke her. His death was so sudden, so unexpected. Dad had not been ill. He was just tormented by a small cut on his tongue. A wound that just wouldn't heal. He ignored it for a while and one day when he noticed he had a fever, he called the family doctor and revealed the wound that was bothering him. The doctor asked him to do a biopsy. And we learned he had cancer.
My father's death struggle lasted three months. He couldn't eat, he couldn't talk. We operated on the tumor. He came home from the hospital and seemed fine for four days. Then on the fourth night he got sick. We rushed him to the hospital, but it was too late. On September 19, 1981, I lost my best friend.
After father's death, Shehnaz turned to my mother, who was a rock. She must have been miserable too, but I never saw her cry. A lot of money had been spent on my father's treatment and our restaurant was at its lowest point. She moved us into a smaller flat and set about getting the business up and running. For two years she toiled day and night. The only time I saw her relax was in the evening when she sat down to watch a film with us. And after two years she had turned the business around. This was no surprise. She was such an energetic woman, always ready to take initiative. I saw her barging into people's offices. She even approached Indira Gandhi, who was then the Prime Minister, and demanded her rights as the widow of a freedom fighter. She got an oil agency, which she ran successfully.
My mother was not only a clever entrepreneur but also a dedicated social worker. An arbitrator who was in charge of rehabilitating juvenile offenders. She fought so many battles in court for these boys and even gave them jobs in our restaurant. They repaid her by stealing money and silverware and running away. But that didn't stop her from taking on the next boy. I got a new boyfriend every week. One of them even taught me how to pick combination locks.
My mother was so alive that it was hard for us to even imagine her lying in bed. But the two years of torment must have taken their toll. Because one day she got sick and had to be hospitalized. One by one her organs started to fail. Her beautiful eyes were now glassy with pain. For a month I stood by her bedside... helpless, angry, miserable. And then one day she seemed calm, without any pain. I knew the end was near, but I didn't want to let her go. I cursed, raged and threatened to become an alcoholic. I hoped to call her back from the state of supreme bliss she had attained. But on April 15, 1991, she left me. I want to believe that she is a star now. Watching over Shehnaz and me.
After my mother died, my sister retreated into her own world. Today, I am her only link with the family, with life. She has become so dependent on me. Today, I have gone from being the angry younger brother to being the responsible elder brother. She is the younger sibling I once was, someone to protect and nurture.
Did I ever think I would be a film star one day? No, never. That was my mother's dream. She used to say that I looked like Dilip Kumar. Then again, every mother thinks like that. It was only when Sairaji recently pointed out the resemblance and insisted that if she and Saab had had a son, he would have looked very much like me, that I realised my mother had been right. Though I had acted in several plays, I never thought then that I had a chance of making it as a film hero.
Nor did Mehmood's son Maikey. He had just bought a video camera. When my mother tried to persuade him to record me with it, he told her bluntly, "He will never make it into films. He is not good-looking. Has no face. He is not even photogenic."
I remember my mother once even approached Aamir's father Tahir Husain to give me a chance in films. But he did not show much interest in a boy with sticky hair. When Ramanand Sagar came to the capital, my mother dragged me to the Odion Theatre and presented me to the veteran filmmaker, proudly saying, "My son wants to act in films." I did not want to do anything like that, but by that time my mother had decided my goal. Sagar saab simply pushed me aside and said brusquely, "Baad mein (Later)." I was very hurt but never reminded him of the incident.
My mother used to take such misbehaviour in stride. She was convinced that I could and would become a film star. When I studied science in school, she wanted me to become a chief engineer like her father. But when I got to college, I decided to study economics instead of engineering. She immediately started talking about MBA. I decided to do my Masters in Mass Communications instead. She was happy for me. She knew that even though I didn't yet know where I was headed, I would be successful in whatever I decided to do.
While I was studying Mass Communications, I started dabbling in film production on the side. I also had an active interest in sports, especially cricket. My mother wanted to see me in the Indian team now. Another Pataudi, Abbas Ali Baig or even a Karsan Ghavri. But instead of throwing bouncers, I decided to go on stage. I started doing theatre. That's when my mother started talking about Dilip Kumar and films.
Soon after, I got a chance in a TV serial with a bunch of new faces. It is every boy's dream to be an army officer. I became one without actually having to join the army. I was a brave fauji. I fearlessly fired real guns and parachuted out of an aircraft. I fought, cut and injured myself. And had a lot of fun.
My mother was very proud of Fauji. I was not. When I see Aamir or Akshay Kumar, Salman or Hrithik Roshan, I know why they wanted to be stars... why they should be stars. But when I see Fauji, I wonder what people saw in me to turn me into a star overnight. My hair was sticking out, my eyebrows were all wrong. There is only one shot in the show where I thought I looked presentable and that is the one where my girl falls on top of me. But amazingly, after Fauji, I became quite popular. Whenever I walked on the streets, people would wave at me and call me Abhi. It left me utterly amazed.
After Fauji, I concentrated on my studies for a year. Then I got Dil Dariya. It was fun doing the show because I worked with many of my friends from theatre like Divya Seth. At that time, I was also studying mass communication. My mother religiously watched every episode of Dil Dariya and loved it.
She was no longer alive to watch Circus. She was no longer alive to see me get awards. But I am sure she still watches every film I make. I guess it is because of her that I have been so lucky. She must be God working miracles for me.
After my mother died, I found an anchor in Gauri. I met her when I was in twelfth standard. She was in ninth. I saw her at a party. We courted for nine years. It was a tense courtship. Her parents did not accept me. I was alone in the world and had a profession where every Friday poor people become millionaires and vice versa.
Once, after one of our rare arguments, Gauri threatened not to see me for a year and went to Mumbai with her friends. I followed her and found her on Gorai Beach, just when I had run out of money. I had been chasing Gauri for nine years. Finally, her parents relented and we had a grand wedding. The singing and dancing lasted for 10 days. In the end, like my father, I had the girl of my dreams.
My father had also found his dream woman in Delhi, at India Gate, where he was walking with his friend General Shah Nawaz. My grandfather had just arrived in Delhi from Bangalore and had driven to this tourist spot with my mother Fatima and her two sisters. Their car had an accident and Dad rushed them to the hospital. He donated blood to my mother, who was very badly injured. She had lost her memory. My father visited her daily in the hospital. It was not long before Dad was head over heels in love with Mom. He had met many beautiful women, but never one who looked like Waheeda Rehman. When my mother returned to Bangalore, Dad followed with a marriage proposal. My mother was engaged to cricketer Abbas Ali Baig. On the other hand, she too was smitten with this dashing man who was 10-12 years older than her. Fortunately, my Nanaji agreed to this match. And Dad got his Dulhaniya. Like me.
Gauri gave me a wonderful gift. My son Aryan. He is such a wonderful child. And now we have another child. A girl. I want her to have long, straight hair. And I hope she laughs a lot.
This June I will complete 10 years in show business. How the years have flown! Thank God the Fauji magic still works. Today I have a big bungalow, a wonderful family and own a film negative. I am said to be the best thing that has happened to the industry in the last decade. Of course, every year, every time a new star is born, the press predicted the end of my reign. But my amazing success story continues. And never ceases to amaze me. I sometimes think I have overstayed my welcome. I feel as if even after ten years people are overreacting to Fauji. I know that one day they will wake up and say, 'Hey, that guy just got lucky!'
You see, I came to the city of dreams to work in films. Today I am making films. After 35 years in the industry, Yash Johar owns seven negatives. After ten years, Juhi, Aziz and I share one negative. Not bad!
Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani has brought us some bouquets and a lot of criticism. Some people have applauded us for making a film in 11 months. Many have attacked us. Some of the articles I have read are stupid, obviously written by uneducated people. You tend to overlook them. But you also expect to be congratulated for your good intentions. We are three people who have seen the industry first hand. We have benefited a lot from the industry and this was our way of giving back to cinema. I am not saying our film was a great contribution to cinema. Or a leap forward in the business. But it was an attempt that should have been better appreciated. I have acted in 28 films. I don't expect people to like every film I do. Love me or leave me. I can handle both. But Aziz and Juhi are nicer people, less vain. They did not deserve this kind of smear campaign. Not after the work they did.
The press trashed Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani even before the first screening. I had told Juhi and Aziz to expect mixed reactions. But I honestly believed that those who knew cinema, wrote about films and reviewed them, would appreciate the fact that I was finally giving them something different. They wrote that I was playing the same roles, making the same kind of films.
Drama… masala… routine films. But when I tried to give them something different, they refused to acknowledge it.
I could have so easily given them something ordinary and cut costs. We didn't have to make it so BIG, try something so different. We made Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani knowing it had no universal appeal. Knew it wouldn't do so well in the hinterlands. We expected it to be a B+ film at best. It wasn't Titanic, and we didn't expect it to make the money that Titanic did. Maybe it will be successful in five years. But I made the film for today, not tomorrow. Ninety percent of those who saw the film liked it. Some didn't want to see it because of the reviews they read. All I can say to you is, don't believe everything you read. Some of the critics who reviewed my film didn't even bother to see it. So go see my film today. Not in five years, because then it will be too late for me.
Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani may not have been a box office success. But Dreamz Unlimited is about to make another film. We plan to make at least one film a year for the next ten years. And these will not be 'safe' films. Aziz, Juhi and I are about to create a different niche for ourselves. There is no doubt about that!
As an actor, I think it is time for me to let go of Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani. To step back a little and review my work. It is time to change again. Maybe to act more my age, to take more risks. I know I have changed as a person. I have become more sensitive, I lose my patience more easily. I have become more detached at times. But it is boring to be detached. I have to be aggressive... impulsive. I have to do things that people don't expect of me. I have to make another fauji that I can look back on in ten years and say, 'God, why was it successful?'
If people say it's not good, go ahead and do it!
Love, Shah Rukh
