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The man who was appreciated, applauded and had a lakhs of fans,
friends and followers had his own group of people whom he admired,
was all praise for and went out of his way to prove it at any time.
He had his weaknesses too when he praised friends (mostly writers
and film makers) and their works for no reason at all, a man called
Suresh Kohli from Delhi who wrote all kinds of trash and yet was
seen by Abbas as one young writer who had a great future ahead of
him. And a filmmaker like Johny Bakshi in whom he saw a flame who
would show the way to make films in the future. There were men I
could see at my young age and with my experience who were clearly
taking advantage of the "good old man" and his goodness.
They made him write rave, reviews about their routine and "muckish"
work like one senior controversial critic called Kohlis novel,
Compromises. Abbas, on the other hand, for some strange reasons,
praised it to the skies at the risk of his own standing. He called
the same muck a "master piece". Abbas had an entire coterie
and their only job was to nod their heads or say yes to whatever
he said.
This was not
something that was part of his nature when I had joined him but
it came to him like a curse late in life. Abbas also went out of
his way to help an actor like Raman Khanna who saw dreams of becoming
another Rajesh Khanna "or atleast one third of Rajesh Khanna
who was the ruling superstar then". The man couldnt act
he had nothing that would make him an actor any where near Rajesh
Khanna but Abbas made a film with him called Faasla with a new actress
Shabana Azmi who showed sparks with her very first film. Abbas wrote
some reviews for books, films and documentaries which were not worth
a look and I never understood why he praised them till the very
end. I once made bold to ask him why he had praised a book which
was nothing but muck which was what most critics said about it.
He very clearly told me that he did it against his conscience to
help the author sell some copies of his book. I feel bad when
a struggling writer or a struggling filmmaker comes up to me and
makes a plea to write a preface or an introduction to his work.
I feel extremely bad to go against my conscience but I believe in
humanity, in helping human beings more than all lofty values and
principles. It only gives me more pain to add to their pain when
I even try to reject or say no to some of their requests. I love
all kinds of artists, writers and film makers. I feel helpless when
they even fall at my feet to help them in some way. I sometimes
feel a little encouragement from me may help them may progress in
future. But unfortunately I have never heard of them again and that's
when I feel I should call my self Abba-ass. Some one has to encourage
them inspire them as much as they can. that's what I do at the risk
of my reputation. What is my reputation if it doesnt help
another person who is struggling to make a reputation for himself.
Frankly I dont care for name, fame and reputation when it
comes to helping others, specially the young.
There was the time when his house was flooded with books written
by all kinds of people, on all kinds of subjects in all kinds of
languages, even Tulu. He didnt know what to do with them.
It was not human to go through even a part of them. So he asked
me to read whatever I could whenever I found the time and make suggestions
on what he should do with those books. Most of them were books which
were not even worth having a second look but he still asked me to
go through some pages atleast and not neglect or reject them. Sometimes
he wondered why these aspiring writers spent their own hard earned
money in writing these books which he firmly believe had no future.
I admired him for his energy to writ to some of these writers trying
to tell them what was right or wrong. He could have spent the same
time writing something that would bring him some money of which
he was always short. But he was Abbas not me. Wasnt it that
one letter that he wrote to me in response to a postcard I had written
to him that changed my life? Sometimes when I saw him dealing with
these strugglers and wondered how he chose my letter among the hundreds
to answer and sign personally, a signature which has left a permanent
scar, and not merely an impact on me, I shudder.
Ali Peter John
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