RMIM Archive Article "253".
From the RMIM Article Archive maintained by Satish Subramanian
#
# RMIM Archives..
# Subject: Javed Akhtar - poet's diary
#
# Source: G Magazine (http://www.chitralekha.com)
# Author: Javed Akhtar
#
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INTERVIEW -Behind The Scenes
Javed Akhtar
Pages From A Poet's Diary
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4th October 1964. I embark at Bombay Central Station. Now it is
in this court that the judgement of my life will be made. Within
6 days of coming to Bombay, I have to leave my father's house. My
pocket jingles with 27 paise. I am happy, that in life if I find
even 28 paise in my pocket, it will be my gain and the world's
loss!
Its been almost two years in Bombay but I have neither a roof
above me nor the certainty of the next meal. Ofcourse I have
written the dialogues of a small film for which I got Rs.100 a
month. Sometimes I work as an assistant, or then the odd job here
& there is offered to me. At times, even that does not happen. I
have gone to a producer's office at Dadar to take the payment for
a comedy scene written by me for his film. The scene will be
credited to the famous writer who is writing the film. The office
is closed. I have to go back to Bandra which is quite a distance
away. With the money in my pocket, I can either afford a bus ride
or something to eat. If I choose the latter, then I will have to
walk my way home. I fill my pocket with channa and start walking
towards my destination. As I pass the gates of `Kohinoor Mills' I
ponder, that many changes may occur but these gates shall remain
just there. One day I will drive past these very gates in my own
car. I have got the work of writing dialogues for a film. After
writing a few scenes, I go to the director's house. He is eating
breakfast which includes pine-apple. He reads the scenes, then
throws papers on my face. Dismissing my services from his film,
he asserts, that I will never ever make it is a writer. As I walk
on a lonely street with the scorching sun above me, I wipe the
stray tear that falls from the corner of my eye and resolve. One
day I will prove to this same director that I... Suddenly, I
don't know why, a thought comes to my mind, Does this director
eat pine-apple for breakfast every day?
It must be around 2 o'clock in the night. It seems as if in the
guise of the Bombay rain, the seas are falling from the skies. I
am sitting on the steps of a portico in Khar Station, under the
dim rays of a bulb. Nearly, three men are sleeping on the ground
totally oblivious of the stormy rain. In a far corner, a wet dog
is moving around restlessly. It seems as if the rain is never
going to stop. For quite a distance, huge drops of rain pour over
empty dark roads. The lights of quiet and formidable looking
buildings, have been shut for sometime. People are sleeping in
their respective houses. Somewhere in this very city, is my
father's house. Bombay is such a large city and I am so small...
almost insignificiant. However coura-geous a man may be, some-
times he feels scared... very scared.
Since one year now I am staying at Kamaal Studio(now known as
Natraj Studio). I sleep anywhere in the compound. Sometimes in a
verandah, sometimes under a tree, sometimes on a bench, or then
in a coridoor. Many homeless and unemployed people like me, stay
here in this manner. Amongst them is Jagdish with whom I become
good friends. Every day he devises new strategies of obtaining
food. He knows who can offer us a drink. Where and why? Jagdish
has turned his struggle into some sort of an art.
I have got to know a vendor who sells second-hand books at
Andheri station. So there is no dearth of books. All night long,
wherever I find a little light shining on the compound, I sit and
read. Friends joke that if I read so much in dim lights, I will
loose my eye-sight... These days I am getting to sleep in one of
the rooms in the studio. In this room, there are huge cup-boards
on all four sides in which dozens of costumes of Pakeezah are
stored. Meena Kumari has separated from Kamaal Saaheb, therefore
shooting of the film has been stalled for some time. One day I
open a drawer of one of the cupboards. It is filled with old
fashioned shoes and chappals to be used in the film.
Amidst them, are three `Filmfare' awards won by Meena Kumari.
Dusting and cleaning them, I keep the trophies aside. This is the
first time I have touched a film award. Every night, I shut the
door of the room from inside and taking the trophy in my hand I
stand in front of the mirror and fantasize about the day when I
will win a trophy, face a hall filled with applauding people. How
will I smile then? How will I shake hands? Before I can come to
some conclusion, a notice is put up on the studio board. It says
that people working in the studio are not permitted to stay
within the premises. Jagdish comes up with yet another of his
brain waves, that until other arrangements are made, we could
stay in the Mahakali Caves(Mahak-ali is a part of Andheri, and
today boasts of wealthy inhabitants and Kamalistan studio. In
those days, there was just one street, amidst a jungle and small
hills in which there were old caves made by renounced godmen liv-
ing on alms and which infact are still there. Sadhus who were
addicted to drugs could be found hanging out there.) The mosqui-
toes in the Mahakali Caves are so huge that is not necessary that
they bite you. They just have to touch you and you wake up. One
night and I realize that it is impossible to sleep here without
drugs. Somehow, I manage to pass three days. A friend from Bandra
invites me to spend a few days with him. I am all set to go to
Bandra. Jagdish informs me that within a day or two, he too will
go away somewhere. (That was my last meeting with Jagdish. In the
coming years, life took me to great heights but even after 11
years, Jagdish remained just there... In those caves, reeling
under the effect of drugs and alcohol, which finally caused his
death. The sadhus staying there and the slum dwellers in the sur-
rounding areas collected alms and performed his last rites - End
of the story. His friends including me got to know of his death
much later. I often wonder as to what was so special about me,
and so wrong in Jagdish. It could very well have been Jagdish who
was called by his friend to Bandra and me who had stayed behind
in those caves. Sometimes everything seems to be one big co-
incidence. What is it that we all are so egoistic about?
The friend with whom I have come to share the room in Bandra, is
a professional gambler. He and two of his other colleagues know
how to place their cards while gambling. They impart that
knowledge to me too. For a few days, one manages to survive with
them on the strength of the cards, but then those people leave
Bombay and once again I am back to square one - Now who will pay
the room rent, next month? A successful and famous writer calls
me with the offer that if I write dialogues for him (for which he
gets the credit) then he would pay me Rs.600 per month. I
analyse... At the moment these 600 Rupees have the value of 600
crores for me, so I must take up the offer. Then I wonder that if
I take up the job now I will never have the courage to leave it.
I will do the same thing all my life. Then I think of the rent of
the next month that has to be paid, and then experience the `I'll
see -what -happens' feeling. After three days of putting great
thought into the matter, I refuse the offer. Days, weeks, months,
years pass. It is almost 5 years since I came to Bombay. Meals
are unpredictable like the moon which is prey to circumstances
created by the clouds. The moon can be seen at times and at other
times is hidden away. These 5 years were heavy on me, but not
enough to make my head bow down. I am not pessimistic. I am cer-
tain, absolutely certain, that something will happen, something
will definitely happen. I am not born to die a withered death
-And finally in November 1969 get what film industry people call,
the right `break'.
Success works as magically as Alladin's lamp. Suddenly the world
seems beautiful & people benovalent. Within one -one and a half
years, I have got a lot and there is so much more in the offing.
With a touch, mud is turning into gold and I envision my first
house, my first car. Wishes are on their way to being fulfilled,
but a certain loneliness in life is still rampant. On the sets of
Seeta aur Geeta I meet Honey Irani. She is open-hearted and blunt
and at the same time a very cheerful girl. Within 4 months of
meeting each other, we get married. I invited many of my father's
friends for my wedding, but not my father. (There are certain
wounds which even the magic of Alladin's lamp cannot heal -This
can be done by the passage of time alone) Within two years, we
are blessed with one daughter, Zoya and our son, Farhaan.
The next six years are swarmed by twelve successive super-hit
films, awards, photographs, money, parties, global travel, bright
days and twinkling nights - Life is a technicoloured dream. But
like every dream is prone to, this dream also ends. For the first
time a film is a flop. (Films following that were unsuccessful as
well as successful but that unadulterated happiness that success
brings and the smiles which that happiness brings, are lost for-
ever).
On 18th August 1976, my father expires. (Nine days prior to his
death, he had presented me with his last book on which he had
autographed and written, "You shall remember me when I am no
more". He had written correctly). Until now, I recognized myself
as a rebel and am angry now, but now... who am I? I look at
myself and question "Is this all what I wanted out of life?" Not
many people know this, but all the things that until yesterday
used to generate happiness within me, have started seeming fake
and pretencious. Today my heart is set on those things, which in
worldly terms, hold no meaning. My relationship with poetry has
from the onset been deep-rooted and interesting. Since my adoles-
ence, I have realized that if I so desired, I could write poetry
but never attempted to until now. This is a form of my anger and
rebillion too. In 1979, I recite a poem I make my peace with my
legacy and with my father. During the course of this period I
meet Shabana. Kaifi Azmi's daughter, Shabana is turning towards
her roots too. Thousands of questions keep cropping up in her
mind which she had earlier never questioned. It is hardly
surprising then, that we are drawn towards each other. Slowly,
within me a lot of changes are taking place. My partnership
within the realm of the film industry sees its end. My close ones
are disturbed by the metamorphises taking place within me. In
1983, Honey and I separate. (My marriage to Honey may have
broken, but even a divorce could not hamper our friendship. And
if despite the separation of their parents, there is no trace of
bitterness within the children then the credit goes to Honey.
Today Honey is a successful film writer and a good friend of
mine. It is very few people for whom I hold as much respect in my
heart as I do for Honey).
I had taken a major step, but for years after leaving my home, my
life became like the one "who lives the whole life in a Hotel,
but dies in a hospital". I used to drink a lot even earlier, but
soon I started drinking a little too much. This is one phase of
my life which I'm certainly not proud of. In those few years, if
others have tolerated me, then it is their benova-lance. It would
have been quite possible for me to have drunk myself to
deterioration, but one fine morning somebody's words touched me
to the extent. Since that day, I have not touched a drop of
alcohol. Neither will I do so even in the future. Today, after so
many years, when I reflect upon my life, I feel that like a river
gushing down in the form of waterfalls over the mountains, clash-
ing against boulders, finding its way through rocky paths,
exploding upwards, fluttering making innu-merable hovering bees,
moving steadfastly and recognising its very own shores, the river
of my life has finally found its bearings and thus experienced
peace and depth. My children Zoya and Farhaan are now grown-up
and are on the threshold of taking their first step into the
adult world. In their shining eyes I see sweet futuristic dreams
of the coming tomorrow. My younger brother Salmaan is a success-
ful psychoana-lyst based in America. A talented poet, he has also
written many books. He has a loving wife and is the proud father
of two endearing children. He was not faced with any less hard-
ships in life, but with sheer consistent labour and dedication he
reached his goal and his journey to progress is still very much
on. I am happy. And so is Shabana, who is not only my wife but my
beloved too. Who is not only an owner of a beautiful heart, but a
precious mind too. She is a woman who belongs to the same world
that I believe in. Had this phrase, not been written years ago by
Mazaaz for someone special, it would have undoubtedly been writ-
ten by me for Shabana.
Life has been kind to me in every way. But one particular day in
my childhood is vividly etched onto my mind - 18th January 1953.
City: Lucknow - My maternal grandfather's house. My sobbing aunt
catches hold of my hand and that of my six and a half year old
brother Salmaan and takes us to large room where many women are
seated on the ground. Covered with a white cloth, her face
revealed; lies the body of my mother. Seated near her, my grand-
mother is weeping defeatedly. Two women are consoling her. My
aunt takes the two of us near the body and asks us to see our
mother for the last time. Only yesterday I have turned 8 years
old. I understand. I know what death is all about. I look at my
mother carefully so that I can sink her face into my memory. My
aunt is saying, "Promise her that you will become something in
life, that you will do something in life." I am unable to say
anything. I just keep staring at my mother and then some women
corner her face with the white cloth...
Its not that I have achieved nothing in life, but then a thought
encroaches on my mind. That I have still not done even a quarter
of what I am capable of doing. And the discomforting feeling that
ensues as a result of this, somehow never seems to go...
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From the RMIM Article Archive maintained by Satish Subramanian