Yeh Un Dinoñ Ki Baat Hai: Urdu Memoirs of Cinema Legends

By Yasir Abbasi

Peppered with heartfelt accounts and charming anecdotes, Urdu film magazines were in great favour with the public from the 1930s through the 1990s – a considerable period of seven decades. Unfortunately, as Urdu got progressively marginalised in later years, these magazines were not archived, for the most part; leading to their inevitable disappearance from popular imagination.

Tracking down these lost publications, Yasir Abbasi followed leads – some futile, some fruitful – to obscure towns and people's homes in a last-ditch effort to save valuable records of Indian cinema. As challenging as it was to locate faded issues and original texts, he managed to uncover and translate many fabulous memoirs covering a wide gamut of our favourite old artistes at their candid best.

A gloom-laced piece on Meena Kumari by Nargis, a rollicking description by Raja Mehdi Ali Khan of an eventful evening with Manto (not to mention a mysterious woman and a house on fire), Jaidev writing about his chequered career, Balraj Sahni introspecting about the relevance of Hindi and Urdu in films – it's a rich mix of engrossing narratives brought back from oblivion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9789387471054

Book preview

-Acknowledgements

Introduction

When I was growing up, the arrival of an outstation guest delighted me no end. Before my relatives rupture a vein out of sheer joy or I catch the attention of Rajshri Productions, let me hasten to add that I wasn’t interested in the visitors at all. All it meant to me was that I’d get to go to the railway station and coax my father or uncle to buy me a film magazine.

In the 1980s, Chitrahaar and the weekend movies on Doordarshan were clearly insufficient consumption for cinema-obsessed youngsters. The onslaught of satellite channels was still a few years away and limited visibility obviously augmented the mystique about films and its stars. It’s no wonder that film magazines prospered.

At the same time, 1980s was not exactly the golden age of Hindi cinema, and some simple pleasures certainly didn’t come easy for a pre-teen addicted to all things film. Predictably, going overboard with the magazines was not allowed at home.

My mother, also a film enthusiast, would regularly read Shama – a very popular Urdu monthly. A blend of movies and literature, the magazine was a staple in Urdu-reading households. The same composite format would later prove to be detrimental for the publication – more on that in a bit.

I was fortunate that my parents taught me Urdu. So, once the ‘permissible time limit’ for Filmfare, Stardust, et al. was reached, I would unflinchingly turn to Shama, and hallelujah, there would never be any objections! Of course, I’d read only the film section – a fairly exhaustive one and thus my indoctrination into Hindi films started early. Soon enough, the criteria for striking friendship at school included whether the other person could distinguish between Zeenat Aman and Parveen Babi or not (thankfully, no one countered that by asking me to tell Murad from Sapru).

Gradually, the rut of life kicked in, and though I continued to read about films – later mainly books – somewhere I left Urdu behind. Till around a few years back, when a re-reading of the translated essays of Sa’adat Hasan Manto on his film contemporaries led me to explore the original pieces. To say that it was fascinating to go through the actual features would be an understatement. It had me intrigued about Urdu writing on cinema – virtually non-existent now in terms of visibility. Amidst the surge of film books in the last decade or so, I couldn’t recall seeing or hearing about Urdu ones. Having witnessed in my childhood the following that magazines such as Shama, Ruby and Gulfaam enjoyed, this discovery seemed odd.

A bit of research revealed that it has nearly been a couple of decades since most of the magazines folded up. Delving further unveiled information about books too. Then began a hunt, and it was way more difficult than I had imagined. Usual suspects like shops selling old books or the Sunday market at Daryaganj in Delhi yielded practically nothing. What one came across for the most part were the conventionally acclaimed works – chiefly fiction and poetry. Urdu writing on films was more or less absent. It became increasingly apparent that this was plainly a case of demand and supply – what sells is what was available. Next stop was the library. Now this one was unexpected – though one can find literature on most subjects handy, cinema finds negligible space in Urdu libraries. Save for a few who have preserved a small fragment, it is incredible that a plethora of Urdu film magazines that were reasonably famous over a period of no less than seven decades have all but vanished from the public domain.

When old film magazines and books in other languages can still be found, why not the Urdu ones? Was it the lack of a business model, some prejudice at work or simply inadequate readership? From what I could deduce, a bit of all this and some more.

Let’s take a quick – and admittedly simplistic – view of Urdu and its connect with Indian cinema. Urdu and Hindi – similar languages with a common root (the Khari Boli dialect) and identical syntax have for long been projected as divergent for reasons often political. Though the seeds of conflict were already sown by the turn of the 20th century, the most damaging blow came in 1947 with the partition of the country. With Pakistan adopting Urdu as its official language and India declaring Hindi as its own, an inexplicable stamp of religion was imposed on both the languages. Sahir put it brilliantly as usual:

Jin shehroñ mein goonji thi Ghalib ki navaa barsoñ,

Un shehroñ meiñ ab Urdu benaam-o-nishaañ thehri,

Aazadi-e-kaamil ka aelaan hua jis din,

Maatoob zabaañ thehri, ghaddaar zabaañ thehri*

[In the cities where Ghalib’s voice echoed for years,

Urdu now lies unknown and neglected,

The day absolute independence was declared,

As a curse and a traitor it stood inflicted]

The diminishing institutional patronage that ensued took a toll on the language in India. As it steadily ebbed away from mainstream education, Urdu started getting alienated in the very own land of its birth.

However, amidst all the upheaval, there was one place where Urdu not only survived but also flourished – the film industry. In a trend that started with India’s very first talkie Alam Ara in 1931, the content of any regular film produced out of Bombay – both dialogues as well as songs – has been majorly steered by Urdu. The films being classified as ‘Hindi’ is a true testimony to the similarities in the two languages. As writer-director Gulzar points out, an accurate term for the language used in our films should be ‘Hindustani’.** Film critic Chidananda Dasgupta echoes the view and adds that it is Hindustani with a bias towards Urdu.*** The argument is not without merit – Urdu is clearly indispensable for cinematic set-pieces like the courtroom sequence.

The influence of Parsi theatre on early films resulted in the writing department being cornered by Urdu wordsmiths. With the likes of Agha Hashr Kashmiri during the initial phase and Vajahat Mirza, Kamal Amrohi, and Rajinder Singh Bedi later, Urdu screenwriters enriched Hindustani cinema, thereby setting a template for the written word. Correspondingly, a fair bit of credit for songs becoming an intrinsic part of films should go to the likes of Aarzoo Lakhnavi, Tanveer Naqvi and many other remarkable poets of that era. The kalaam of icons such as Ameer Khusro, Meer Taqi Meer and Mirza Ghalib has always been liberally used in the songs – in fact, Ghalib was introduced almost immediately (Anang Sena/1931) once the talkies arrived. Thus, Urdu has consistently been the mainstay of our film music – not just for the soft romantic numbers but even a ‘club song’ like O haseena zulfoñ wali (Teesri Manzil/1966). And it has always found sweeping acceptance among the listeners; a song like Yeh ishq ishq hai (Barsaat Ki Raat/1960) which is sprinkled with unorthodox Urdu words, including esoteric references to martyred Persian mystics (Sarmad Kashani and Mansoor al-Hallaj) and an Egyptian mountain (Koh-e-Toor), continues to be popular.

The dialogues too have unreservedly invoked celebrated sher-o-sha’iri, even if it is blatantly incongruous with the characterisations. So, whether it’s the hero quoting Josh in Kaalia (1981) or the villain reciting Ghalib in Kick (2014), there’s a certain degree of effortlessness with which it’s done. Often to favourable results too – the famous Prem Chopra dialogue "Maiñ woh bala hooñ jo sheeshe se patthar ko todta hooñ" (Souten/1983) is just about an exact lift off a Zauq couplet.

Though it is not the case anymore, even the presence of the Urdu script wasn’t an oddity in the movies. A nurse at a hospital could casually read Sahir’s Parchhaiyaan in Pyaasa (1957); the protagonist in Anand (1971) carried memories in an Urdu book of poems; Manzil, the poet hero’s collection of verses, was simultaneously published in Devanagari and Nastaleeq in Ek Nazar (1972).

It wouldn’t be far-fetched to say that the spread of Urdu through a powerful medium like cinema kept the language alive among the masses. This impacted not just the writing in films but about them as well. As the movies escalated in popularity in India, it wasn’t long before they made their presence felt in Urdu journalism. A detailed chronology of the publications has been provided at the end of this book, and so I’ll just mention a couple of points here. Lahore was a leading centre of filmmaking in the preliminary period, and much of early writing about the motion pictures emanated from there. Chitra was one of the foremost magazines to make a mark, and others swamped the market soon. A few years down the line, Yusuf Dehlvi launched Shama from Delhi, and the magazine blazed its way to become a household name. The Urdu film magazine in general had developed an interesting format – it was an amalgam of literary and film writing (so, it wasn’t really ‘looked down upon’ like other film magazines were – that’s precisely why I never had to be discreet while reading it in my childhood). With much feted names like Krishan Chander, Ismat Chughtai and Khwaja Ahmad Abbas as regular contributors, the ‘credibility’ factor wasn’t surprising. Likewise, members of the film industry were also forthcoming in penning guest columns. This structural synthesis backfired in a bizarre manner afterwards. As it turned out, these journals were largely ignored when it came to institutional archiving. Literary organisations/libraries considered them as ‘film’ magazines, while the film archivists deemed these publications as ‘literary’ ones – ilm and film were seemingly incompatible. To cut a long story short, what should have been treated as noteworthy heritage was left to perish.

The little material that I found at the beginning of my search made me realise what a terrible loss it has been. A very interesting and regular feature of these periodicals was that they carried pieces written by film people themselves. More often than not, these were warm personal memoirs peppered with riveting anecdotes. Writing autobiographies was a rarity in the film world earlier, and these essays are as close as one could get to it. Of course, authenticity is the point that springs up at once. I met several senior journalists who’ve been associated with these magazines, and there was a broad consensus that these were genuine accounts. A few might not have been written per se but were narrated and published faithfully as first-person narratives (for instance, music director Naushad recounted a serialised story of his life and work in Shama that was later collated and reproduced as his autobiography). Veteran journalist Farooq Argali told me, Urdu was a common medium of communication in the film industry earlier and most people were well-versed in it. The magazines were also quite popular among the film folk. Talking about finesse, he added, "Sometimes even interviews came out exactly as the star had spoken. I once did a long interview with Dilip Kumar on his social, religious and political views. It was recorded on tape and his answers were published verbatim in Gulfaam. Well, almost. We had to omit certain intricate words because they were beyond our comprehension!"

As things unravelled further and I managed to ferret out some more old issues, I was convinced that something needed to be done. It is important to note here that it’s not the language that has seen a downfall – Urdu is too deeply entrenched in the Hindustani speaking parts of the country where it continues to grow, adapt, and thrive. It is the rasm-ul-khat – the script – that finds little takers today. So, while transliterations and translations of people like Faiz and Manto are sought after, the same text in its original form doesn’t find as many takers. Denied the due it deserved, coupled with its increasing inaccessibility, Urdu film writing is out of reach for a majority that is unfamiliar with the script. As the language has a significantly reduced readership now, translation seemed a possible way to preserve these writings. Now, this book was nowhere on the anvil then, and I’ve never been a writer. Before this, an e-mail is probably the longest thing that I’ve written in my life (and my skill with languages is what Sunil Gavaskar would politely call ‘ordinary’), so doing something on my own was unthinkable. I shared the details with my writer friends exhorting them to take this up but there was a hitch – what this needed was a person who knew both Urdu and English and had an interest in Indian cinema. This combination wasn’t falling in place and about a year passed. Finally, petrified as I was, I decided to give it a shot myself. Adding a sense of urgency to it was the fact that if delayed any further, whatever is left now would also be soon gone.

Tracing the original texts turned out to be an uphill as well as adventurous task. The publishers of pretty much all the magazines are long gone and in most cases, even their families do not possess the issues anymore. There was just one way to go about it – to track down private collectors. I ran into a spell of disappointments at the outset, but the fact that there were no deadlines also meant no pressure, and therefore I could afford to be patient. Over the course of the next one year, whenever I got to know about a collector in any part of the country, I would just pack my bag and reach the place (these are mostly old-timers far removed from technology, and so e-mails, scans or even WhatsApp images were of no aid). It was a gamble that worked out well in the end. Even at places where I couldn’t find anything worthwhile, I learnt about something new, came to know of new leads, or at least got to eat some fabulous food.

As the idea of this book took shape, the scope of the pursuit was extended to relevant issues of non-film publications as well as books. Once a bunch of essays were in place, I finally sat down to translate and figured that it’s a tricky process alright – one has to be as close to the original text as possible without being pedantic. Also, the idiom of Urdu is markedly different from that of English. Unobtrusive use of conjunctions like lekin and aur can extend a sentence to an entire paragraph. The biggest challenge was to retain the spirit and the flow, and I’m sure that holds true for any translation, languages notwithstanding.

Although the decisions about the content were primarily instinctive, there was some method at work too. There has been a conscious effort to select pieces with distinct tones and varied people. Film magazines have always been unequivocally star-centric in their essence, and so, as expected, the major chunk of the content focuses on actors. Though I missed them, the absence of technicians did not really take me by surprise. The numbers in the compilation are tilted towards males, and there’s a reason for it – till not very long ago, women were essentially involved only with acting, while men dominated every department (not that things have changed drastically now). So, while my choice was restricted to actresses among women, for the men there was a much wider spectrum that included writers, directors and lyricists, in addition to the actors.

The chronicles have been divided into three sections. The first has pen portraits, autobiographical pieces constitute the second, and the third includes general essays. I personally found most of the original articles very absorbing – some even precious. Reading about the life and career of Jaidev in his own words is not something one would come across often. Similarly, Nargis writing about Meena Kumari is a valuable text in its own right. Lucid and engaging, all the writers candidly share memorable incidents and experiences that have defined their lives. Some prevalent myths are also set straight along the way. Veena clarifies that she wasn’t playing the character of Bahaar when K. Asif first began Mughal-e-Azam. Talking about the last days of Jahanara Kajjan, Mirza Musharraf mentions that she passed away in Calcutta (and not Bombay as is commonly reported; an obituary in Filmindia confirms this).

To ensure veracity, I chose to forgo pieces that were published posthumously. The only departure to the rule is the essay by Shakeel Badayuni. It’s extracted from his autobiography – a handwritten draft of which exists with his daughter – that he wrote shortly before his death and was issued later. It brings to light his early career and thought process – little known details that at least I didn’t know of and found it to be worthy of an exception. Not to mention startling trivia like the information that he appeared in a qawwali sequence in Mehndi (1947) along with Majrooh, Behzaad, Jigar, Josh and Mahir-ul-Qadri (wait, what?!).

The transliteration style put to use is similar to the informal one employed by Ali Husain Mir and Raza Mir in their wonderful book Anthems of Resistance: A Celebration of Progressive Urdu Poetry (IndiaInk, 2013). Wherever ‘n’ appears with a tilde (as ‘ñ’), it implies a nasal sound. The hard ‘t’ and ‘d’ have been underlined, so daañt (tooth) is different from daañt (scolding). In the same vein, the guttural ‘kh’ and ‘gh’ have also been underlined to set them apart from aspirated ones – khuda (God) mispronounced as khuda (dug up) often gives rise to inane jokes hinging on the flawed pun.

Much of Urdu film literature has been lost, but there’s still plenty waiting to be dug out, and I can’t stress enough how exquisite it is. While I’ve made all attempts within my limited abilities to make this endeavour a worthwhile one, there’s every possibility of having erred on occasions, and I hope to be forgiven for those. It has been immensely rewarding putting this book together, and it makes me especially happy to now let it make its way to interested readers.

*From Jashn­-e-Ghalib – a nazm he wrote on the occasion of Ghalib’s death centenary in 1969.

** Interview with Nusrat Zaheer, Urdu Duniya (February 2013)

*** The Painted Face: Studies in India’s Popular Cinema (Roli Books, 1991)

MEENA KUMARI

~ NARGIS

Meena – Maut Mubarak Ho!

[Meena – Congratulations On Your Death!]

– Happy Birthday

– Wishes for your wedding

– Happy Diwali

– Eid Mubarak

Ihave often offered as well as received these wishes on numerous occasions.

But…

Congratulations on your death

I have neither heard nor said this earlier.

Meena, today your baaji [elder sister] congratulates you on your death and asks you to never step into this world again. This place is not meant for people like you.

I gave Madhubala her last bath;* the hands that placed the shroud on her were mine. I was holding his hand when filmmaker S.U. Sunny breathed his last. I have seen many people – from the film world and otherwise – pass away before my eyes, but no instance can match the profound effect that Meena Kumari’s death had on me. I was intensely moved despite the fact that I wasn’t present with her during her last moments – neither did I give her the customary final bath, nor did I put the shroud on her body – and I couldn’t see her depart on her final journey. I was in Jammu on the day that Meena Kumari died. Somehow, I was restless since I woke up that day and bad thoughts kept crossing my mind. It seemed as if something terrible was about to happen, and indeed it did – a tragedy so huge that I will never be able to forget.

After arriving in Bombay, I went to the graveyard where she was buried. I cried more at her grave than I did at the death of my mother. I could gain composure only when my ears could almost hear Meena ask me to stop crying.

Meena always called me ‘baaji’. It’s so strange that despite being in the same profession and staying not too far away from each other, we didn’t meet for several years. Those were the days when both of us were on a professional high. My performance in Mother India and Meena’s in Sharada garnered a lot of acclaim. For our work in the respective films, while I won the Filmfare award, Meena won the Bombay Film Journalists Association award. We hadn’t met till then.

I was climbing down the stairs of Krishna Cinema in Bombay after attending the premiere of a film when I ran into Kamal saheb and Meena. I knew Kamal saheb since my childhood when he used to visit our home to meet my mother.* I greeted them and Kamal saheb reciprocated the wish but Meena, who had a wide-eyed look all this while, remained silent. The next day I mentioned this incident to my brother Anwar Hussain and told him that I felt hurt at Meena’s cold response. Anwar bhai said that perhaps she was not allowed to mingle with people.

One day I received a call from my husband who was away in Madras shooting for Main Chup Rahungi. Since it was going to be a long schedule, he asked me to come over with the kids. I reached Madras with Sanjay, who was two and a half years old then, and Namrata, who was barely two months old. We stayed at Hotel Oceanic and Meena’s room was close to ours. Accompanying Meena was her sister Madhu and also Baqar Ali.* We met for the second time here. She greeted me as soon as she saw me and said, I have great regard for you and I hope you won’t mind if I call you ‘baaji’. An instant friendship developed between us.

Once, Dutt saheb wanted to go out for Chinese food and an invitation was extended to Meena too but she said that she was tired after the day’s work and had already eaten early. She also offered to take care of the kids while we were away.

When we returned at 11 o’clock, the kids’ nanny informed us that both the children were still with her. Entering her room quietly, I saw both of them asleep on either side of Meena, who had gently placed a hand each on Sanjay and Namrata. The nanny told us that Meena had duly tended to all the duties – from taking Sanjay to the toilet to changing Namrata’s nappies and from preparing their feeding bottles to singing them loris, she did it all on her own.

I could see the glow and contentment on her face. I felt that it was indeed a misfortune that though she was a woman and also a wife, she wasn’t a mother yet, and how complete her life would be once she’d become a mother.

I couldn’t meet her the next day. She went to her room after finishing work and didn’t join us for tea. We didn’t meet for several days after that but one night I saw her walking in the garden of the hotel. She was panting and when I asked her the reason, she said, Baaji, I eat tobacco and sometimes that results in palpitations.

Meena, this is not due to tobacco, I told her. You look very tired. Why don’t you rest for a while?

Baaji, resting is not in my destiny. I will rest just one time. Her eyes turned to the ground as she said that.

I asked her, Meena, don’t you want to be a mother? Don’t you feel like having kids?

She replied, There’s no woman who doesn’t want to be a mother. Her eyes welled up – the tears perhaps conveyed the story of her life.

That night there was some noise in Meena’s room – sounds suggestive of violence. Next day we came to know that she wasn’t feeling well and would not report for work. Once Sunil had left, I went to her room. Her eyes were swollen and I could sense that she had cried a lot. Since ours was a new acquaintance, I couldn’t ask her much.

I caught hold of Kamal saheb’s secretary Baqar and spoke to him in direct terms, Why do you people want to kill Meena? She has worked enough for your sake. I know how an actress feels and how mentally exhausting things can get. For how long is she going to feed you?

Baqar saheb replied, "Baby,* why don’t you understand? When the right time comes, we will rest her."

After that I saw Meena hiding herself to cry. Just a look at her eyes and one could sense that the tears would roll out any moment, but she never let that happen. I said to her, I can understand your pain. You have to be brave and crying like this is of no use. You’re like a younger sister to me and henceforth I’ll call you ‘Manju’.**

We couldn’t meet for a long time once we were back in Bombay, though one kept hearing stories about her. One day I heard that she had walked out of Kamal saheb’s home and had started living in Mehmood’s house.*** Meena had a showdown with Baqar on the sets of Pinjre Ke Panchhi and matters got so turbulent that she did not step into Kamal saheb’s house again. I never broached this subject with her.

We became close around the time she shifted from Mehmood’s house to Janki Kutir. The stories about her alcoholism had begun to surface and despite wanting to ask her to stop drinking, I could never summon the courage to do so.

Soon enough, excessive consumption of alcohol had weakened her liver and she was down with jaundice. When I visited her at Saint Elizabeth Nursing Home, I was careful that I didn’t mention anything that could embarrass or hurt her. Referring to the yellow tinge on her skin, I said, This shade of yellow is so pretty. Manju, you look as beautiful as the spring. Then, mustering some courage I added, Manju, you are free, but of what use is such freedom when you are bent upon killing yourself?

She replied, Baaji, my patience has a limit. How dare Kamal saheb’s secretary raise his hand on me? When I got the incident communicated to Kamal saheb, I thought he’d come running and immediately fire Baqar, but he said, ‘Come home and I will decide things here.’ What was there for him to decide? Now it’s me who has decided to not go back to him.

So why are you doing this to yourself? You should celebrate life, I gently offered the suggestion.

Then, a new person entered Meena’s life – Dharmendra. She was so happy – it was almost as if she had got hold of the entire wealth of the world. I was glad to see her so joyous. I would visit her whenever she needed to be cheery – whenever she needed to laugh. If Meena has ever loved anyone passionately, the person is Dharmendra. If Meena has ever turned crazy in love for someone, it is for Dharmendra.

This was the most beautiful phase of her life and it made her feel thoroughly blessed. However, the good times were short-lived as a misunderstanding resulted in the two of them drifting apart. Dharmendra walked out of her life and left her heart-broken. She couldn’t cope up with the loss and hit the bottle. Drowning herself in alcohol, she stepped on a path of self-destruction. She lost interest in life – she lost interest in her own existence.

She would say, Baaji, solitude is my destiny. I do not pity myself and neither should you.

Slowly, Meena started to inch towards death. She didn’t listen to me or anyone else and did as she pleased. I couldn’t bear to see her like this and advised her to forget the past and begin her life afresh. I proposed that she should spend her time with Shammi* and me and we could go to the movies, roam around and have fun. Together, we could travel within the country as well as outside and would enjoy life to the fullest. When she didn’t give in, I suggested that she should read the Quran, visit places of solace and let religion guide her. I was of the opinion that if she made new friends, she would be able to discard the veil of despondency that surrounded her, but alas, she did not let that happen.

Some others came into her life after Dharmendra, but all turned out to be selfish and ended up aggravating her hurt. Even before the old wounds could heal, fresh ones were inflicted upon her.

We travelled together to the Moscow Film Festival. She would’ve been alive today had she agreed to get herself treated there. We had to force her to meet some doctors. The Indian ambassador Kewal Singh invited her to stay at his house and assured that his wife and daughter would take good care of her. She chose to ignore the pleas of the Russian doctors and was anxious to return to India. She said to me, I’ll come here later baaji, this time just take me back to India.

From Moscow we went to London, where she restricted herself to her room in the hotel.

Then she returned to Bombay and fell ill shortly thereafter. One day I received a telephone call from O.P. Ralhan who told me that Meena was extremely unwell. He added, I’m reaching her home with three doctors. Please come over – she listens to you.

The doctors told her in no uncertain terms that they were willing to commence her treatment only on the condition that she would never touch even a drop of alcohol again. She would have to diligently take her medicines and strictly abide by the diet regulations as prescribed by the doctors. Meena made the promise but never fulfilled it. Trips to the hospital became a frequent occurrence in her life. As soon as she began feeling a trifle better, she would return to shooting for films.

The dubbing for Dushman was happening at the mini-theatre located in our house. She called for me and once I was there, she sent everyone else away. Then, she put her head on my shoulders and cried, and cried, and cried. Between her sobs she said to me, Baaji, I am such an unfortunate soul that no one loves me. Not even you, because you don’t meet me for months on end.

I offered words of comfort and hugged and kissed her like one reassures a child. Like it has always happened every time that I’ve hugged her, my shoulder was wet with her tears.

I got a call from Meena on 3rd February – the day of the premiere of Pakeezah.

Baaji, the film that you got me to work on is being premiered today. You have to come.

When I reached there, she stood up and embraced me. I had to leave after the interval because my husband was down with fever that day. I promised Meena that I would tell her my opinion on the film once I saw it in its entirety. I don’t know if that will ever happen – I haven’t been able to gather courage to watch that film since. I can’t even bear to listen to the songs of Pakeezah on the radio now, how can I pull myself together to view the film?

How Meena resumed work on Pakeezah is a story in itself. Kamal saheb wished to have Dutt saheb in the film and wanted to sign some other actress for Meena’s role.* Dutt saheb mentioned to me that if Pakeezah were to be made without her, the film would lose its allure. I met Meena and told her, Manju, if this film remains incomplete then it will be a great calamity. Tired of waiting for you to come back, Kamal saheb has now started looking for another actress. If you agree, I can talk to him and facilitate your return. She just said, I’ll do as you say.

I spoke to Kamal saheb about this. He said that Meena agreeing to come aboard the project again is the ideal situation, but there would be some conditions – she would need to regulate her lifestyle, get into shape and quit alcohol. On behalf of Meena, I assured him for the same.

I suggested to her that she should stay at a nursing home for the course of the shooting of Pakeezah. Losing weight would be easier for her under the supervision of doctors and her lifestyle would also get sorted this way. While these things were still being deliberated upon, she fell ill and had to go to London for the treatment. She lost the excess weight after coming back and looked as captivating as she did in her glory days. She began working on Pakeezah again, and honouring my word, she completed the film.

All this while I was touring the western border of the country and also Bangladesh. Upon my return, I came to know that there were telephone calls from her on several occasions.

On 11th March I went to Meena’s house along with Jameela Begum, who was organising a women’s musha’ira in Delhi. She wished to have Meena as the chairperson for the event. Wearing an appealing hairdo along with the hint of a lipstick, Meena looked very pretty that day. She offered us paan, which was a big weakness for her. When Dutt saheb saw her carrying her paandaan to our Moscow trip, he got really worked up and said, I’m already fed up of my wife’s paan-eating habits, and now you’ve joined her too! We used to sneak away from him and eat our paan. One day she wondered, You are his wife, so your behaviour is understandable, but why am I scared of him?

I recounted several tales of my visit to the western border and the Bangladesh sojourn to Meena. I told her only the positive stories and as she rolled over with laughter, she said, Baaji, for God’s sake please stop! My stomach is aching now after laughing so much.

She excused herself from attending the musha’ira and promised to do so the next year. As we were leaving, she remarked, Your bags are always packed and you are forever travelling. It’s quite possible that one day when you return to Bombay, I may be gone.

I gently slapped her head and said, Manju, do you remember that you once changed the nappies of my daughter Namrata? We won’t let you go till she is married.

Baaji, there’s something important that I need to talk to you about, she said. Please come over again one of these days.

I couldn’t go to her during the next few days. Then, I left for Delhi and to Pathankot and Jammu from there. Before leaving, I passed on a message informing her about my travel and that I’d meet her after I come back on 1st April. She asked her sister Madhu to tell me that she wouldn’t be around when I return. Madhu did not convey that to me. Had she done so, I would’ve never left Meena.

I was in Jammu when I heard about her death. I could only clutch at my heart and remember about our last meeting and that she wanted to speak to me about something. Perhaps she wanted to talk to me about her will that was made on 6th March – just a few days prior to our meeting. Maybe she wanted to speak about something else – something personal that she couldn’t share in the presence of the other guests that day. I will have this regret all my life that I couldn’t meet Meena again and that I wasn’t around during her last days.

Not too long before we last met, there was a preview of her film Gomti Ke Kinare at the mini-theatre in our house. She called and asked if she could come over. I told her not to as the doctors had advised her to rest and that I would share my views about the film after watching it, which I did. I told her that she looked very beautiful in the film but her character shouldn’t have been killed at the end. I suggested the same to Saawan Kumar Tak, the director of the film, and he promptly agreed to change the ending. The story of the film goes like this – an abandoned infant is found and adopted by a tawaif. The boy grows up worshipping his mother, but when he comes to know about her profession, he loses his