Early Days
Till today, whenever Ammi is playing with a kid, it is always her who becomes the ‘child’ in their little game and the kid she is playing with becomes the parent, elder sister or some voice of authority. My mother enjoys this. I have often wondered, is it because of a missed childhood? Or a craving for a mother whom she lost when she was only seven-and-a-half years old?
It was her mother who sent the sisters to boarding school at Queen Mary’s College, Lahore. Ammi entered Queen Mary’s on 19 October 1919 when she was seven years old and her mother was still alive. When the three sisters came home for their Christmas holidays, their mother died in January 1920 after giving birth to her youngest daughter who was just forty days old. Initially it was the eldest sister, Hajrah and my mother Zohra who were in the boarding school and then gradually all the five sisters were sent to the same place. At school they were known as Sahibzadi Hajrah Begum and Sahibzadi Zohra Begum. Their mother, whose name was Natiqua Begum, was known as Nabban bi.
My mother was and is very stubborn – as a child while trying to cut supari (betel nut), she picked up a silbuta (grinding stone), much against her mother’s wishes. In the process she cut the tip of the third finger of her left hand. Blood oozed out and a little bit of flesh hung on but her mother was quick in realising what had happened and immediately cleaned the wound and put the bit of flesh back. The mark is still there and you can see it clearly in her fingerprint. She remembers her mother’s words: “Nakhoon se kabhi mat khujao, nakhoon ke neechey zeher hota hai” Never scratch with your nails, beneath them there is nothing but poison. Even now when Ammi cuts her nails she remembers her mother! Nani (maternal grandmother) was a very beautiful woman with flowing long black hair, and in my mother’s memory she always wore a “dheela [loose] pyjama, kurta and dupatta”. She thinks she always wore white, or perhaps her “dheela pyjama” was always white and since she barely came up to her thighs she just remembers the ‘white’.
Nani was terrified of lizards (a trait that has been handed down to all of us) and Nana, who was a very good ‘shot’, would shoot down these creatures with mud pellets from his gun. At present my mother brings them down with empty plastic bottles! Nani was full of fun, laughter and song...In the afternoons when she used to rest the farshi pankha would be swaying and cooling the room (these were large fans hung from the ceiling with a strong rope attached to them which finished outside the room in the hands of a male attendant whose sole duty was to tug slowly and constantly at the rope so that the fan would sway and create a gentle breeze). Ammi and her brother and sister would blow on their mother’s ‘tummy’ turn by turn and make her laugh. They would say, “Ab hamari bari hai, ab hamari bari hai” Now it’s my turn, now it’s my turn! She still remembers the stretch marks on her mother’s stomach and the colour of her skin as being very fair. But, alas, she died after giving birth to her seventh child. Ammi’s father, Mohammad Mumtazullah Khan, brought up his seven children single-handedly. He married for the second time after ten long years when his sisters insisted, but his second wife also passed away in childbirth.
Ammi’s father was a great inspiration in her life. He was a just man who always saw both sides of a situation and because of this trait the British, under whom he was employed, always sent him to quell Hindu-Muslim riots. This quality was amply demonstrated when my father (a Hindu) went to him to ask for my mother’s hand in marriage. Nana was very upset, to which my father said that he was ready to become a Muslim. But Nana would have none of it. Instead, he said, “How do you think I would feel if my daughter became a Hindu!” Although initially he was against my parents getting married, he later became great friends with my father. This used to happen when Ammi was touring with Prithvi Theatres and both father-in-law and son-in-law would come down to meet her. During these sessions my father would cook fish for Nana and the two of them would finish it over a couple of drinks.
Mohammad Mumtazullah Khan, Zohra’s father, who single-handedly brought up the children after his wife’s death
My grandfather was very strict with the upbringing of his children, to the extent that he even scolded my mother for putting surma (collyrium) in her eyes when she was a schoolgirl. Yet, although disappointed, he abided by her initial decision of not wanting to marry. One day he called her aside and gave her what he had saved up for her trousseau – a suitcase made of crocodile leather and a leopard skin coat. He had shot both the animals! My mother and some of her other brothers and sisters would sometimes go hunting with him. As Deputy Collector, he would have to go on Government tours and at times the kids were taken with him. They had a wonderful time living in canvas tents. Dried grass was put on the ground and then covered with mattresses for them to sleep on. When their father was busy they would run into the farms and eat sugarcane and boot (raw chickpea) and also watch with great interest how gud (jaggery) was made from sugarcane.
Nana was six feet tall, dark and had a very good physique. His skin explained a ‘smallpox’ attack in his childhood. My mother never thought that he was a good looking man, but, whenever he went to fetch his daughters from Dalhousie for the holidays, some of the teachers would swoon at his looks! He definitely had an impressive presence. Till the age of sixty he kept up with all his fitness exercises. Very punctual, he would always go to the railway station two hours before time. Ammi is the same; if she is to travel, attend a function or get-together, it is a nightmare for those with her! She will have her clothes taken out the previous day, her shoes/sandals, her handbag and handkerchief and so on. Another quality that she has imbibed from him is of being very methodical and particular about the whys and wherefores of her possessions. If you ask her for a safety pin or a needle she will guide you to the innermost ‘secret places’ in her cupboard or dressing table drawer and lo and behold there it will be!
Always tastefully dressed, her father’s suits and sherwanis were beautifully tailored and his shoes were custom-made. He was fond of singing and also played the sitar. His favourite was Ghalib’s ‘Yeh na thi hamari kismat...’ It was not my destiny..., which he would hum every now and then. Once my mother composed a song and sang it to him and he immediately said, “This is very good. It’s Raag Malkauns.” The song was:
Din sawan ke, aur jhoola na dala ri
Kaisi kahoon ay ri sakhi, piya pardes ri
Jhoola na dala ri
Surma na lago mori ankhiyan, missi na lago morey honth
Nangi lago mori baiyan, churiyan na pehni ri
Din sawan ke, jhoola na dala ri
O friend, the monsoons are here and the swings are not hung!
My beloved is away!
My eyes are without collyrium
My lips aren’t sweet
My arms are bare without their bangles
The monsoons are here and the swings are not hung
O friend, my beloved is away!
Birthdays
Ammi is a great one for ‘thank you’s’ and ‘please’s’! She gets very upset if you don’t thank her and sometimes I don’t -- just to annoy her. Also, her ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’ are equally important. It was her birthday on 27 April 2005 and I took her out to dinner. We could not do much as we had just returned from Kerala; I didn’t even have time to buy her a birthday present. However, at dinner I saw that she wasn’t looking quite happy and I thought that it was just the tiredness of the journey. But, to my surprise, it wasn’t that -- the reason for her unhappiness was that there was no birthday cake! So I quickly went and ordered one and told her that it had all been worked out and organised beforehand, which was a lie.
Actually I thought that she must or should have ‘grown out’ of birthday cakes and all that; but to my surprise she was very pleased and said, “Now I feel it’s my birthday.” Such a kid! Amita Malik came and met her at the table and so did Krishen Khanna and his wife Renu and some other friends. She kept telling all of them that it was her birthday and that she had completed ninety-three years!
With Dolly Thakore, announcing the ‘Ladli of the Century’ award
Once, when she was eighty-nine, I gave her a surprise birthday party. She had absolutely no idea of what was in store. I had invited all her friends and asked each one of them to cook something and bring it along. The day started very normally with me wishing her and then, later in the morning, I said to her, “Aren’t you going to get ready and put on some better clothes?” She didn’t seem to think it was necessary but I forced her and so she changed. She was looking rather unhappy and neglected! At 1 pm her friend Alfred Wuerfel turned up to wish her, she was quite taken aback. Then Usha Bhagat came, followed by Amita Malik, Pavan and his wife Seema and their kids Rohan, Taamra and Anoushka. Soon it was Joy Michael and then Rati Bartholomew and several others who could make it – each one with a lovely dish. Some of my friends also dotted the invitation list and generally we were all having a grand time. Then her birthday cake, which had a huge eighty-nine written on it, was brought into the room by Pavan. You should have seen the delighted expression on her face, she was just like a five-year- old. I wish I had taken a photograph!
Now, every sixth month, she makes some excuse to replenish her wardrobe with new clothes and off she goes shopping with me if I have the time or with a friend or disciple of mine. I enjoy going with her because then I can make her buy me a salwar kameez or a beautiful sari. Even now I manage to get some money out of her around Dussehra saying, “Where is my pooja sari and what about my birthday present?” In her youth I have never seen her wear salwar kameez except in plays when her role demanded it. She was always in a sari and a salwar kameez was like a night suit for her. These days she hardly wears a sari, it is salwar kameez all the time; she says that now it is more convenient and practical for her.
From the film Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, 1999
When she is busy she hates going as ‘chief guest’ to any function but when she is a little free she doesn’t mind at all. In 2005, she had been attending almost every other function where she has been invited as chief guest or she was being honoured. Ammi thinks she is a kunjoos but actually she is ‘pennywise and pound foolish’; for example, once she went to receive her sister from the airport and for assistance she took Suresh, our house help, with her. She made him wait in the taxi instead of taking him inside to help with the luggage and the trolley because she did not want to spend another fifty rupees on his ticket. Also, I can get money out of her at the drop of a hat – it is another matter that I never do it, except for my pooja sari, Deepavali sari and my birthday present!
I have tried my best to persuade her to open up a ‘Birthday Greeting’ agency. Sounds crazy doesn’t it? Ammi is a great ‘birthday card sender/greeter’. If she gets to know your date of birth you will religiously receive a birthday greeting card from her, year after year. What’s worse is that she insists that I should also sign the card. Earlier I would just refuse to sign and she would go on and on and finally I would succumb! Now I just sign as a reflex action, at times I do not even know to whom she is sending the card. Oh yes, every letter, every day, is very important and has to be posted immediately. Despite my explaining to her that the letterbox has been cleared for the day and will only be cleared by 10 am the next day, so the important letter can be posted the next morning, she insists that it be put in the letterbox immediately – as if by some miracle her letter will be taken by a fairy called ‘the postman’.
One thing I really admired about Ammi was that, until recently, her New Year cards to her friends all over the world were personally sketched and drawn by her. Her colours would be red, dark blue or dark green combined with some pen and ink. She would begin this beautiful exercise somewhere mid-October and carry on till November. All her friends and relatives would receive her handmade cards in time for Christmas and the New Year and also reply. During this period her room acquires a very happy look with the cards displayed on her table and bookshelves. In fact, not just her room but the whole house gets a very festive look. Actually, the festive look starts from Deepavali and carries on till well after New Year.
Flashbacks
Ammi once observed that it is unusual that, in spite of Rampur being an insignificant estate, it has made a name for itself because of the Nawab’s intelligent and innovative brain. Nawab Hamid Ali Khan grafted mangoes and created a species known as ‘samar bahisht’, which means fruit of heaven. Baba (Ustad Alauddin Khan) had told her that the Nawab’s knowledge of music and dance had elevated the name of Rampur in the artistic world. He popularised the Char Baith, which is the poetry sung by Pathans. Ustad also said that the standard of the domnis (girls who danced and sang, they are not prostitutes but can be kept as mistresses) was elevated to a professional and classical status in the world of music and dance. The Nawab had several known musicians and dancers in his court, including his court dancer Kalka Bindadeen. We children were also told that the Nawab had crossbred a ‘pointer’ species with a street mongrel and started a new pedigree known as the Rampur Hounds. These hounds proved to be excellent retrievers in hunting. Ammi recalls how my father would call out, “Here come the Rampur Hounds” when her relatives would visit her!
The other day she was talking about Rampur and remembered how Baba – who had run away from his home in Bengal as a boy – began his career. When the Nawab of Rampur’s carriage was approaching, eleven-year-old Alauddin Khan threw himself in front of it. The Nawab asked him what he wanted, the little boy begged to be allowed to study music under Ustad Wazir Khan, who was the lead musician of the orchestra at the Rampur court. Having an orchestra was a rare innovation in India at that time, that is, in the early twentieth century. She also remembers, on one of her trips to Rampur, at a function, peeping through the purdah chik and seeing the venerable white-bearded, old musician, Ustad Wazir Khan, conducting the orchestra with a pencil-thin ivory stick. She was awestruck and went back to Queen Mary’s College and told all her school friends about it, since in those days there were no such things as orchestras. Ammi recollects Baba telling her that when Ustad Wazir Khan accepted him as his disciple he was taught nothing for two years and only allowed to fill his hookah and press his feet. This was the old guru-shishya parampara (master-student tradition). Baba studied the sarod under him and later became the foremost sarod player of India.
When television had just been introduced in India, Ammi did two plays for Doordarshan – Diya Bujh Gaya directed by Shivendra Sinha (I think it was the first play for television) and Saat Paise, directed by Habib Tanvir. Along with this she did a lot of stage plays such as The Caucasian Chalk Circle, directed by Inderlal Das, founder and owner of the Little Theatre Group (LTG); Shatranj ke Mohrey, directed by Habib Tanvir; The Waltz of the Toreador, The Heiress and The Lark, directed by Tom Noonan of the USIS. This was in the early 1960s.
With Amitabh Bachchan in Cheeni Kum, directed by R Balki, 2007
Another memory I have is of the time when Ammi came to Delhi. She wrote for Shankar’s Weekly as the drama critic. One evening she was going to review a performance and was keen that I should go with her. I do not know what happened to me, but I just got it into my head that I did not want to go. I was in my teens then -- sixteen or seventeen. She kept insisting and I kept refusing! Finally, much against my wishes, I had to accompany her, grumbling all the way and muttering, “I don’t want to go with you!” Ammi then turned around and angrily told me to go back home. It was dark and we were walking from North Avenue to the Secretariat bus stop behind Rashtrapati Bhavan. I turned around to go home and I had barely walked a few steps, sobbing, when a man held my arm and asked me why I was crying! That did it, I was so terrified that I shouted “Ammi” and ran to her, and was I thankful that she was still there. She just held my hand and walked with me.
I also remember when Pavan was about to be born, my mother and I went to Nainital. He was born on 20 May 1952 at Ramsey Hospital. We were staying at the Metropole Hotel. In those days it was a lovely hotel and very grand, too. After my father’s death Ammi kept taking me to Nainital for the summer holidays. It was also a good time to visit Pavan who was then in Sherwood School. Nana would rent rooms or a cottage so that the whole family could spend some days there. Nainital was very peaceful and quiet then; no cars were allowed after the bus stop and we would go up on horses or dandis. The Boat Club fascinated us kids. Since some of us were under eighteen, we were not allowed entry into the Club. On some evenings when we would walk by we could hear sweet music and all the young men and women dancing and romancing to Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong’s music.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Zohra Segal: Fatty’ by Kiran Segal. Published by Niyogi Books India.