Nasreen Munni Kabir: What do you remember of your parents?
Waheeda Rehman: They were a wonderful couple. My father was a district commissioner. His name was Mohammed Abdur Rehman and my mother was Mumtaz Begum. She used to wear printed georgette sarees – they were the fashion in those days. Their faces are distinct in my mind, but I cannot recall their voices. I used to call my parents ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’.
My parents believed the most important thing in life was being a good person. My father often said: ‘No one has seen hell or heaven. Whatever we have is here – in this life. You must get on with people and be compassionate.’
NMK: You showed me a photograph of your parents. I can see a close resemblance between you and your mother.
WR: My sisters Shahida and Sayeeda look a lot like her too. My eldest sister Zahida looks more like my father, who had Tamilian features. I have the same nose as my father.
My maternal grandfather was a tall, fair-skinned man who worked in the police department. Everyone in my mother’s family was light-skinned. They were originally from north India – and their ancestors probably came from Afghanistan or Iran. Usually Muslims in the south aren't as fair.
NMK: Did you have a large extended family?
WR: We grew up with many maternal uncles and aunts because my mother had five sisters and four brothers. I don’t remember seeing anyone from my father’s side. I knew my paternal grandfather was a well-to-do landowner. When my father was born, his mother passed away.
My father used to tell us how keen he was on studying. As a young boy, he would shut himself in his room and put out all the lights. When everyone assumed he was sleeping, he would sneak out of his room through a window and sit under a street lamp and read.
People asked him why he wanted to study – after all he was the son of a rich zamindar and, instead of studying, he should look after the estate like his father had done before him. They told him he could live like a king, but my father was firm: ‘I don’t want to live like a king. I want to study.’ That caused a lot of friction, and when my grandfather remarried he left the family home and settled in Madras.
Father passed the IAS [Indian Administrative Service] exam and finally became a district commissioner sometime in the 1930s. It was through his friends that his marriage was arranged in the late 1920s. My parents had not seen each other before they got married. After all we’re talking about a time that’s almost a century ago now. That’s how it was in those days.
NMK: Was your mother educated?
WR: Not formally, but she was very intelligent. She was an aware kind of person, and mostly self-taught. I remember she used to read the Illustrated Weekly, a popular English-language magazine, and the Urdu edition of the Reader’s Digest. Since my father was a progressive and modern man, she learned how to play tennis and cards, which was quite unusual for women of her generation.
Most of my childhood was spent in Andhra Pradesh, which was a part of the Madras Presidency then. They were happy times. My father and his friends went deer hunting and the rest of the family went on picnics. We children were given the task of gathering twigs and stones to make a fire for cooking. We were always having parties at home. Because there were only girls in our home, my parents did not want to employ a live-in male cook, and as a result my mother did all the cooking. She was always busy.
NMK: It sounds like you had an idyllic childhood. Did you study in an English-medium school?
WR: Yes. My mother spoke Urdu well and she wanted us to learn how to read and write Urdu. It wasn’t easy finding an Urdu teacher in the south, so she taught us herself. But we sisters would dream up some excuse or the other to avoid studying. I did not learn Urdu as well as I should have. I can read but I read slowly.
My father was posted all over south India, so we managed to pick up some of the local languages. I am not very fluent in Tamil and Telugu, but I can get by. You don’t easily forget what you learn in your childhood.
NMK: What is your earliest memory?
WR: I have many. But one that stands out?
I must have been about four or five years old. My father was posted to Palghat, which is now called Palakkad. It’s in Kerala. During the Onam festival we went to the Palghat Fort to watch the procession of decorated elephants. We stood on the parapet and my father lifted me high in his arms so I could see the elephants through the opening in the fort wall. The image of those beautifully adorned elephants is still clear in my mind.
Like a fool I told my father that I wanted to own an elephant. He said: ‘Darling, it’s not possible. An elephant is a big animal; you can’t keep an elephant as a pet.’ ‘What about a baby elephant?’ He patiently explained that the baby elephant would grow up into a big elephant.
I remember another occasion – in Nagapattinam in Tamil Nadu, a mahout would ride his elephant through our neighbourhood and stop at each house. When they came to our place, we would give the elephant a coconut. It was very smart and would crush the coconut and scoop up the white coconut flesh with its trunk. Animals and birds have fascinated me from a young age.
NMK: Was going to the movies part of your growing-up years?
WR: We saw many films. My parents were fond of music and also enjoyed going to concerts and dance recitals.
Hindi films played in the south a few months after their release, and I believe the first film I saw was Zeenat with Noorjehan and Yakub. I must have been about eight years old. How we cried when one of the heroes died! My mother tried consoling us: ‘This is all make-believe. He didn't really die.’ But we continued wailing in the cinema hall. She tried desperately to quieten us down because everyone was staring at us. She was very embarrassed.
I saw Barsaat and Dastan when I was about ten. And there was this film with Dev and Madhubala. I don’t remember the title. It had a lovely song in it: ‘Mehfil mein jal uthi shama parwaane ke liye’.
NMK: It’s a song from Nirala, a 1950 movie.
WR: Nirala? That’s right.
NMK: And Hollywood movies? Which ones did you see?
WR: Gone with the Wind. There were other films, but I can’t remember them now. My parents always made sure the films we saw were suitable for us girls. But more than going to the cinema, our main entertainment was going on picnics.
Excerpted with the permission of Penguin Books India, from the book Conversations with Waheeda Rehman by Nasreen Munni Kabir.
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Waheeda Rehman: They were a wonderful couple. My father was a district commissioner. His name was Mohammed Abdur Rehman and my mother was Mumtaz Begum. She used to wear printed georgette sarees – they were the fashion in those days. Their faces are distinct in my mind, but I cannot recall their voices. I used to call my parents ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’.
My parents believed the most important thing in life was being a good person. My father often said: ‘No one has seen hell or heaven. Whatever we have is here – in this life. You must get on with people and be compassionate.’
NMK: You showed me a photograph of your parents. I can see a close resemblance between you and your mother.
WR: My sisters Shahida and Sayeeda look a lot like her too. My eldest sister Zahida looks more like my father, who had Tamilian features. I have the same nose as my father.
My maternal grandfather was a tall, fair-skinned man who worked in the police department. Everyone in my mother’s family was light-skinned. They were originally from north India – and their ancestors probably came from Afghanistan or Iran. Usually Muslims in the south aren't as fair.
NMK: Did you have a large extended family?
WR: We grew up with many maternal uncles and aunts because my mother had five sisters and four brothers. I don’t remember seeing anyone from my father’s side. I knew my paternal grandfather was a well-to-do landowner. When my father was born, his mother passed away.
My father used to tell us how keen he was on studying. As a young boy, he would shut himself in his room and put out all the lights. When everyone assumed he was sleeping, he would sneak out of his room through a window and sit under a street lamp and read.
People asked him why he wanted to study – after all he was the son of a rich zamindar and, instead of studying, he should look after the estate like his father had done before him. They told him he could live like a king, but my father was firm: ‘I don’t want to live like a king. I want to study.’ That caused a lot of friction, and when my grandfather remarried he left the family home and settled in Madras.
Father passed the IAS [Indian Administrative Service] exam and finally became a district commissioner sometime in the 1930s. It was through his friends that his marriage was arranged in the late 1920s. My parents had not seen each other before they got married. After all we’re talking about a time that’s almost a century ago now. That’s how it was in those days.
NMK: Was your mother educated?
WR: Not formally, but she was very intelligent. She was an aware kind of person, and mostly self-taught. I remember she used to read the Illustrated Weekly, a popular English-language magazine, and the Urdu edition of the Reader’s Digest. Since my father was a progressive and modern man, she learned how to play tennis and cards, which was quite unusual for women of her generation.
Most of my childhood was spent in Andhra Pradesh, which was a part of the Madras Presidency then. They were happy times. My father and his friends went deer hunting and the rest of the family went on picnics. We children were given the task of gathering twigs and stones to make a fire for cooking. We were always having parties at home. Because there were only girls in our home, my parents did not want to employ a live-in male cook, and as a result my mother did all the cooking. She was always busy.
NMK: It sounds like you had an idyllic childhood. Did you study in an English-medium school?
WR: Yes. My mother spoke Urdu well and she wanted us to learn how to read and write Urdu. It wasn’t easy finding an Urdu teacher in the south, so she taught us herself. But we sisters would dream up some excuse or the other to avoid studying. I did not learn Urdu as well as I should have. I can read but I read slowly.
My father was posted all over south India, so we managed to pick up some of the local languages. I am not very fluent in Tamil and Telugu, but I can get by. You don’t easily forget what you learn in your childhood.
NMK: What is your earliest memory?
WR: I have many. But one that stands out?
I must have been about four or five years old. My father was posted to Palghat, which is now called Palakkad. It’s in Kerala. During the Onam festival we went to the Palghat Fort to watch the procession of decorated elephants. We stood on the parapet and my father lifted me high in his arms so I could see the elephants through the opening in the fort wall. The image of those beautifully adorned elephants is still clear in my mind.
Like a fool I told my father that I wanted to own an elephant. He said: ‘Darling, it’s not possible. An elephant is a big animal; you can’t keep an elephant as a pet.’ ‘What about a baby elephant?’ He patiently explained that the baby elephant would grow up into a big elephant.
I remember another occasion – in Nagapattinam in Tamil Nadu, a mahout would ride his elephant through our neighbourhood and stop at each house. When they came to our place, we would give the elephant a coconut. It was very smart and would crush the coconut and scoop up the white coconut flesh with its trunk. Animals and birds have fascinated me from a young age.
NMK: Was going to the movies part of your growing-up years?
WR: We saw many films. My parents were fond of music and also enjoyed going to concerts and dance recitals.
Hindi films played in the south a few months after their release, and I believe the first film I saw was Zeenat with Noorjehan and Yakub. I must have been about eight years old. How we cried when one of the heroes died! My mother tried consoling us: ‘This is all make-believe. He didn't really die.’ But we continued wailing in the cinema hall. She tried desperately to quieten us down because everyone was staring at us. She was very embarrassed.
I saw Barsaat and Dastan when I was about ten. And there was this film with Dev and Madhubala. I don’t remember the title. It had a lovely song in it: ‘Mehfil mein jal uthi shama parwaane ke liye’.
NMK: It’s a song from Nirala, a 1950 movie.
WR: Nirala? That’s right.
NMK: And Hollywood movies? Which ones did you see?
WR: Gone with the Wind. There were other films, but I can’t remember them now. My parents always made sure the films we saw were suitable for us girls. But more than going to the cinema, our main entertainment was going on picnics.
Excerpted with the permission of Penguin Books India, from the book Conversations with Waheeda Rehman by Nasreen Munni Kabir.
