... In the evenings, I go for long walks in the campus. The place is green, lush, beautiful. I walk miles just dreaming. Sometimes talking to myself... thinking all kinds of things. The nuns watch my vivacity and are at a loss how to control it. They decide that it can be channelised constructively if I’m given lots of responsibilities. I become the head-girl, the prefect. The troop leader of guides and captain of the basketball team. I’m participating in all the extra-curricular activities.
... At the end of the year, when the annual reports are announced, I’m in for a shock. It is the trend at school, that the first three ranks at every class are announced in the assembly hall. Unlike every year, I don’t stand first... nor second... nor third... but eighth! I’m ashamed of myself. It seems the end of the world. In the night, I pray to God that I must die. I don’t want to live because I can never face my mother again. Suddenly the ‘special person’ feeling fades. I jump out of the quilt covering me. With tears flowing down my cheeks I write a postcard to my mother in which I tell her I’m not coming home for holidays. She writes back and says that I mustn’t worry and do better next time. She adds, that despite my report I’m still special and must come home. Delighted and pacified, I pack my bags.
... This is the first time I meet my stepfather-to-be. He’s very tall. I have to lift my eyes to look at him. He does not resemble any of the other men I’ve known. His hair is curly. His eyes are a different colour... they are hazel. My mother tells me it’s because he is a foreigner. A German. What I’m told, and I remember distinctly is that he also is a Scorpio — it means we have something in common. And we do. Both of us are forever hogging, hounding my mother for attention, and my mother, like a true Libran, is trying to keep both of us at bay. I’m insanely possessive about my mother. I resent sharing her with anybody. Though normally disciplined, I create a lot of scenes... I’m aggressive, throw tantrums and wail loudly. When it becomes too much, my mother asks the nanny to take me for a walk.
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... 6.30 a.m.: We are at the mass. The headmistresses announces that I must see her in her office before I go for breakfast. My heart misses a beat. My immediate fear is. ‘Now what have I done?’ My friends in the queue nudge me and give me questioning looks. Their raised eyebrows add to my anxiety. I replay the daily routine in my head. Were my shorts too tight at basketball?... Did I not cover myself last night...? Did I leave the toilet without flushing...? Did I not clean my drawer? I’m still thinking whether it is the untidy uniform, hair or shoes, when I reach the headmistress office. The headmistress surprisingly, is very tender with me. She holds my hand and speaks very gently. ‘Your father is not well. And you are going home. But you mustn’t worry or cry. Jesus will be with you. If you are frightened you must pray.’ I come out of her room blank... sans emotion. Actually, it’s a relief to know that I had not done anything wrong. On my journey home, I’m not frightened, but I pray.
... At Poona my mother comes to receive me. She hugs me and says, ‘All will be well’. We come home. I’m asked to have a bath, but not allowed to get into my dress. I’m given my mother’s saree, which is tied over my uniform blouse. Uncomfortable and confused, I’m brought to another huge, palatial house. Outside, there are cars parked in a line. Inside, there are people, rows of them. All in white clothes... they are crying, some of them wailing loudly, some of them merely staring. My father is dead. I don’t get to see him. They have finished all the formalities without waiting for me... There’s nothing left for me to do except stand and watch them cry and feel uncomfortable in the saree.
... I’m 12 years old. My parents were divorced when I was one. I’ve seldom seen my father. Today, I don’t get to carry his photographs with me. When I ask for them, I’m told they are misplaced. I feel they’ve hidden them away somewhere. After a few days, I return to school. The memory of the room filled with people in white clothes stays with me. That whole night, I dream of my father... He stands in the school compound... waiting for me... I run towards him... arms outstretched... he lifts me up... then throws me in the air. I dream the same dreams every night till I realise it’s a recurring dream. I don’t pity myself and I’d hate it if anyone said I grew up in insecurity. I didn’t. I was overwhelmed with love. That’s why today, I’m able to love overwhelmingly.
... As I grow older, I do look at my missing out on a father as a void... something, I missed out. And I hate missing out on anything. Several years later, when I’m older I bump into someone who has known my father closely. He tells me about him. About his work and emphasises what a talented man he was. I stare at him in stony silence. I don’t know what to say. My father died before I could discover him.
He was tall and he recited the Upanishads to me.
Adolescence proves painful and would have dwarfed her personality, but strangely, around this time, she builds a fabulous relationship with her stepfather, a major influence on her and her first window to the cultural world.
... Today, when people say I have a ‘body’ fixation and when the press labels me the greatest sex symbol, I remember those traumatic days when I was dismayed and shocked at the physical changes in me. I do not come out of my room without wrapping myself in warm clothes. As long as I’m in school, it’s okay. Panchgani is at least, cold. But I continue to wear cardigans even after I come home for holidays. In summer, when Bombay is burning hot, I insist on wearing one sweater and over it a pullover. My mother tries talking to me. But I don’t listen, don’t encourage advice. Understandably, she leaves me alone. It becomes embarrassing when I’m socialising and the hostess in all earnest touches my forehead and asks, ‘Are you cold, my child? Do you have fever?’ Immediately, I start to sniff, rub my nose frantically with the tissue and pretend to die of pneumonia. I long to escape in a corner where nobody would watch me and nobody would ask why I was wearing a sweater.
... I’m in my teens, calmer, more mellow. Effortlessly and without pretensions, my stepfather and I begin to share an absolutely flourishing relationship. So much so that for the first time my mother is pushed in the background. He’s an engineer, knows all about tools and machines. He fumbles with punctures and produces miracles. He’s the first outside adult influence in my adolescent years and I ape him. If he is reading, I too bury my head in a book. The cupboards and the shelves are filled with books. He introduces me to books... all kinds of them... teaches me how to absorb what I read. He’s writing a book on the philosophy of the East and West. I’m surprised how much he knows about our culture.
... He introduces me to religion, recites the Upanishads and the Vedas. And, on the other hand, he introduces me to the texts written on the religion of the West. He teaches me how to play chess... narrates adventure stories — about the war and the wounded soldiers. I listen to him for hours, my chin cupped in my hands... he’s a rapid talker. Today, when I look at his grey hair and warm face, I find him very, very handsome. I didn’t realise it then but, he must have been an exceptionally good-looking man in his youth. And as I say this, it suddenly occurs to me that beginning with my stepfather, I have known some of the most devastatingly good-looking men in my life.
... As the best student of the school. I’m granted a scholarship to study for one year in America. My mother has made arrangements for me to stay with her friend. An American family with two kids age 15 and 17. Now I’m an additional member. At home, I’m in a perfectly Indian atmosphere, but at the University, it’s one helluva experience! It’s a phase when the country is going through the hippy revolution. The campus is full of freedom-loving, liberation-screaming students. All of them do what they like, say what they feel and then just walk away. Bright coloured clothes, long hair, strange ribbons and hands on the head, stranger footwear. Some of them walk barefoot with daggers hanging at their waist. The average age of the student is 17. The instructions are not above 21 themselves. Cool, unassuming guys walk with guitars strapped across their chests.
... In the class, there is Linsey Best. She is the first hippy I get friendly with and Linsey is mind-blowing! In that one year I spent away from home, Linsey prove a strong influence on me. I watch her with awe and admiration. She’s only a year older than me, but she’s different. She makes tweedys under her eyes, has curly brown hair, wears bizarre dresses (much later I ape her for Hare Rama Hare Krishna). In contrast, I wear long hair up to my waist and dress up in sarees. All the foreign students dress up to identify their nationalities. Linsey and I are always together... One day we are participating in a debate. I’ve prepared my speech and am perfectly confident but when I come on stage, something happens... In the hall there are rows of boys chewing gum or staring lazily. Suddenly I’m frightened. Coming from a girl’s school. I’m not comfortable talking freely before many boys. I am struck dumb. I start blushing, and when I start my speech I’m stammering. After the debate there is an uproar. Not accustomed to shy, naive behaviour, the boys are elated. They look at me as refreshing entertainment. Backstage, I’m flooded with undeserving compliments. Someone is asking my phone number. Someone else is asking my address. I’m terrified. But this is the beginning.
... As months roll by, I begin to feel comfortable in the atmosphere. A year passes like a month. When I return home, I’m a different person — half a Californian hippy, half Linsey Best, with only shades of Zeenat Aman. when I land at the airport, I’m wearing a loose kaftanish dress, one size too big for me. It’s Linsey’s, large, heavy, black boots. Bright yellow go-go-sunglasses. There are big beads hanging all over me, some bells jingling on my wrist, six rings on my fingers, and I have painted tweedy under my eyes, like Linsey. I speak in a strong American accent which is so strong that it can be cut with a bread-knife. In one hand, I hold a dagger (I still don’t know why). In the other, I have six pipes of tobacco (a Swedish friend gave them to me on the flight). I’m waiting bag and baggage for my mother who walks past without recognising me. I wave out ‘He Mom’. She looks white in the face.
The sacrifice I will always remember.
Culture shock in America, communication gap in college, Zeenat promises herself to be remarkably astute and confident. And new seas await to be sailed in...
... I join Sophia College but leave the place in two months. I’ve nothing in common with the girls. There is a feeling of disorientation. They stand in the corridor and discuss the boys in their neighbourhood... childish giggles and whispers. I’ve grown up too quickly. I take up modelling. People around me are much older, and strangely, I feel more comfortable. Their lifestyle does not clash with my views formed in America or the Anglicised atmosphere at home. I enjoy my work. I enjoy earning money. This is the first time I am financially independent and I blow up every paisa.
... I’m offered Hulchal and Hungama. For Hulchal, I work for five days. For Hungama, several days. But on all the days I feel very low and miserable. It’s not that the unit is unkind or uncivil. They treat me with respect, but still there’s a certain apprehension which does not go... I try sorting it out with myself. But I can’t. Maybe it’s the post-decision depression... Maybe I feel deserve better. I’m not sure what I want. But every morning, when I leave for shooting my heart sinks... during work, before every shot, I die a thousand deaths, and in the night when I return from work, I weep... Hare Rama Hare Krishna is not released as yet, but everyone is talking about the film.
... My mother and I are busy packing at home. We have decided to settle down in Germany for good. Half the luggage has been sent by sea. The other half waits in packages. Devsaab hears of our decision and is horrified. ‘Don’t be rash... wait till the release of the film. If it clicks, you will become a star’. It’s only a few months before the release. We decide to wait. The film clocks. And as predicted, I become a star!
... There’s a long queue of producers, and never-ending phone calls. My mother and I are confused what to do. Without anticipating anything, we have delayed our trip and now we don’t know how to handle it. In the meanwhile, my father doesn’t know what’s happening. He makes lightning phone calls, inquiring the cause of our delay. “Why haven’t you left?” He asks. It’s chaos. Ultimately, I make my decision. I want films as my career. My mother is not happy to leave me all alone in the film circle. she decides to stay back with me. She feels my need for her during that phase is greater. On her part, it’s a sacrifice. And I knowledge it to this day.
And finally...
The anxieties of a new career are over. Every relationship has given pain, at the same time enriched her. Provided strength, which existed as a mere skeleton in the past days, weeks, months, years, five years, ten years.
... These days I find myself thinking about death every often... I’m beginning to ponder very profoundly about mortality. A few months ago, a friend in Los Angeles writes to me about her parents’ death. They died in a plane crash. I’m grieved with the tragedy and her pain. A week later, I receive a telegram, which says my friend has been murdered — a burglar entered her apartment, robbed money, and while leaving, stabbed her with a knife. I’m shell-shocked... everything seems to cruel. The melancholy of human life sizes me. I wonder what life is all about... and if it’s worth living...?
... So often one goes through phases when one stops to question even one’s most intimate relationship. All the faith invested seems futile and unrewarding. Every happiness is bound with so much pain. I have gone through my lowest ebb... known the depths of it. I’ve known of a phase when just thinking of the most predictable has turned me hysterical... when I’ve woken up howling from my bed, unable to sleep... unable to control the sobs in my throat... It sounds morbid, exaggerated, but the fear experienced that moment was not false... because I continue to cry till the wee hours of morning. Still I’ve never contemplated suicide. Touchwood. I’ve stayed with my grief and slowly come back to normalcy. It’s strange, but the most mundane, ordinary thing can pull me out of the deepest depression. I buy a new dress, listen to music and I feel better. Yesterday, on my drive back home, I watched the sunset from my window, and it was so beautiful that I felt high on its sheer aesthetic appeal.
... In the past I’ve only lived for the present. But today, I feel it isn’t the right way. Because no matter how you justify your today, tomorrow has to come... One mustn’t curb today. But one mustn’t spoil one’s tomorrow. Last year, I wasn’t feeling what I’m feeling today, and I know next year will be different. If you have known somebody older, and he has spoken to you about what he feels... you remember it... and as time flies and you reach the age, you feel the same... A cycle begins. I think there is something about age. Every year, every age has a distinctive season. Every decade casts a distinctive spell on an individual. It brings a certain wisdom, certain peace and alongwith it a certain fear. That’s why I fear death... My todays are full. I don’t want to die. And don’t want those dear to me to die too. But I almost died a few days ago.
... Recently, on my return flight from Kathmandu, the journey is bumpy and disappears into the thickest of fogs. From the window nothing seems familiar. There are dark clouds, and we are lurching in them. There are air pockets. And it seems as if the commander has lost control over the machine because there’s a loud gurr which gets louder each time the plane bumps. I experience a strange feeling in my stomach... I’m petrified... Somehow, I’m sure it is the END... The book on my lap no more holds my attention. The black printed words seem like crows flying from the left margin to the right. In a desperate attempt, I begin to pray fervently... Let me not die... let me reach safely. I bend my head and turn to look at my hairdresser. A few seats ahead of me is my spot-boy, Jagdish... munching his bread roll. It’s his first plane ride and he has no idea about what’s happening... I envy his ignorance... it’s a bliss. Suddenly I feel very responsible for my staff... Seven minutes pass like seven years, in extreme tension... There’s a voice on the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve just defeated death, and now we are out of danger. Let us say prayer for thanks to God!”
... When I land at the airport, I’m shaking with fear. My desperate eyes hunt for a familiar face... There’s none... No one has come to receive me. No mummy... nobody... not even Tukaram, my chauffeur. Angry and hurt, I hop into a cab and drive home. By the time the lift reaches me to my door I’m boiling. Impatient and furious, I ring the bell nonstop... and continue to press the button until a frightened Agnes, my maid, opens the door. I storm into the house and yell for Mummy... She’s not there... She has gone to Dubai... The house is empty... I hate coming home like this... I’ve always wanted to come home to somebody. I enter my room, throw my jewellery on the floor... sit before the mirror and howl.
The dream, which haunted Zeenat for years, has stopped recurring. These days she dreams of a handsome white stallion riding towards her. From the window on the ninth floor, she gazes at the world. Her thoughts dwell in a remote land, where there’s mist, and the earth is shadowed with trees... Zeenat sits there alone, after a tired day, watches the sunset and does soul-searching.
**
‘I felt like a Pandora’s box had been opened up. The rush of memories haven’t stopped since then. Reading the old memories, I was transported to a different era, different home. I don’t live in the same house any more. I was reminded of pleasant memories of Sherman, my old home in Napean Sea Road. I remembered my routine, the pace of life and most important, my mother. She was an integral part of my existence, my career. She was there to back me up at all my turning points. Today, she is no more. I’m trying to be to my children, what my mother was to me.’
(ZEENAT AMAN)