Ye sang-e-dar tumhaara todenge apne sar se

(I will break your marble doorway beating my head on it),

Ye dil agar dobaara toota Salim Chishti

(If my heart breaks one more time)…

M.S. Sathyu’s Garm Hava (1973) and more so the searing qawwali Maula Salim Chisti in the film, were momentous in the late Balraj Sahni’s life. Playing Salim Mirza, an alienated Muslim in post-Partition India, the film gave a sense of déjà vu to the actor, who was a refugee’ in India, having moved out of Pakistan after Independence. The film also underlined a father’s grief when his daughter (Geeta Kak) commits suicide, deserted by the man she loves. It resonated a similar trauma in Balraj’s life as his young daughter Shabnam had died of brain haemorrhage following a disastrous marriage. "Dad was a great believer in Konstantin Stanislavski, who spoke of emotional memory, revisiting an experience in your life to make the scene appear truthful,” explains son/actor Parikshat Sahni adding, "It was painful for dad to remember the death of Shabnam to enact that scene.”

     While his performance is considered the crowning glory of the classic, a heartbroken Balraj Sahni passed away a day after he finished dubbing for Garm Hava and a year after the demise of his daughter. Several such insights are offered in the book, The Non-Conformist: Memories Of My Father Balraj Sahni, written by Parikshat Sahni. Says he, “Reliving so many memories, it was a kind of a catharsis. A redemption. For many years, I’ve held myself guilty as a son. I owed it to him that people get the real picture of the man.”

The refugee

Dad lived with his family in Rawalpindi (Pakistan) before Independence. He married my mother, Damyanti (Sahni), also an actor, in 1936. In the late ‘30s, mom and dad joined Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore’s Shantiniketan in Bengal as teachers.I was conceived there. My sister Shabnam was born four years later. Tagore advised dad to write in his mother tongue, which was Punjabi. Dad learnt the Gurumukhi script, got himself a Gurumukhi typewriter and began writing. Then my parents went to London where dad joined the BBC’s Hindi service. He developed a love for Russian cinema, which introduced him to Marxism. They returned to India in 1943.

   He began his acting career with Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA). My mother was well-known as an actor much before dad made it. Dad resented that initially, something he’s mentioned in his autobiography (Meri Filmi Aatmakatha). Dad began his film career in 1946 with Insaaf, Dharti Ke Lal and Door Chalein, the last with mom. After the Partition in 1947, he came to Delhi, leaving me behind with my grandparents in Rawalpindi. The going was tough as he was a muhajir (refugee).

   Being a member of the Communist party, my mother engaged in social work. She worked with the slum-dwellers and even ate with them. Consequently, she developed amoebic dysentery. The medication had an adverse effect on her heart. She was only 26 when she passed away in 1947. I was around eight then and can barely remember her. Years later, my cousins shared that dad was devastated by mom’s demise. He’d bang his head on the wall and cry, “Dammo nahi rahee, Dammo chali gayee.”

Dad married again in 1951. My stepmother (writer Santosh Chandhok) was a fine lady. My step-sister, Sanober, was so named after the pine trees in Kashmir, my grandparents’ second home and dad’s favourite place. Dad thought it was best I stay in a boarding as he struggled in Mumbai. First, I was sent to Shivaji boarding school in Pune. Later, to the boarding in Sanawar. After that it was the boarding in St Stephen’s college in Delhi. I believe kids should not be kept away from the family for too long.

I didn’t know what a home meant.

The Actor

Initially, dad was mocked for being too thin. They called him ‘kawwe jaisa (like a crow)’. Being part of the Communist Party, he was once jailed. He was let off for a few days to complete the shoot of K. Asif’s Hulchul (1951). I was also working in the film as a child actor. I recall him looking so haggard.  Finally, Hum Log (1951) brought him success. He rode on a motorcycle from Mumbai to my boarding in Pune, to celebrate his success and have lunch with me.

   The ’50s saw him in notable films like Seema, Sone Ki Chidiya, Lajwanti and Ghar Sansaar, while the ’60s featured him in films like Neel Kamal, Anupama, Ghar Ghar Ki Kahani, Do Raaste and Ek Phool Do Mali. He began acting late in life, around the age of 42. Dancing around trees was not his cup of tea.

His commitment to his craft was incredible. Once I had accompanied him for the shooting of Aulad (1954). The scene had dad holding the gates of his master’s house and begging for his child, “Malik mujhe mera bachcha toh de do!” The scene done, everyone clapped and pack-up was announced. On the way back in the car, dad said he wasn’t happy with the shot. He drove back and told director Mohan Segal that he wanted a retake. Mohanji felt it wasn’t required. Dad issued an ultimatum that if he didn’t allow him to do so, he wouldn’t report for shooting. The studio was reopened. The lights were set up again. Dad gave the retake. But this time no one clapped. Because they were all crying. It was that brilliant a shot. Later, dad explained, “I wanted to feel the shot. I wanted to relive what I felt when your mother died.”

The Father

After college, I went off to Russia for six years to learn direction, scriptwriting and editing. When I got back, I was 26. Dad loved having me around. In the house, he made a special room where I could paint, a dark room, a bedroom, a huge balcony where I could gym... He said, “We’ve lived separately all our lives. Mere saath dosti rakho yaar. Don’t treat me like a father.”  But I was a misfit not knowing what a home and family is. My childhood was spent with my grandparents and later with uncle (Bhisham Sahni of Tamas fame) or in boarding schools.

I held it against him that aapne mujhe itne saal toh door rakha. I never reciprocated. I had become a loner. I still am. It’s one of my biggest weaknesses. I didn’t make a good husband either. My wife (late Aruna Sahni) often said, ‘You’re not husband material’.

  Anyway, I did Anokhi Raat (1968) just for the heck of it. After it turned to be a hit, I was offered Pavitra Paapi (1970), for which I’d also written the script. I never felt burdened by the fact that I had to match up to my father. I never wanted to be an actor. Also, no one could compete with him. I tried to copy him in some scene to which he remarked, “It’s better to be a first rate Parikshat than a third rate Balraj.”

The Person

On screen he may have played serious characters. But off it, he was full of jokes. He had a lust for life. He was a non-conformist in that he didn’t adhere to social norms. He didn’t follow the herd. He believed conformity was mediocrity. He didn’t like the showmanship, the artificiality or the partying. He didn’t like the glitter and the gloss of the industry. He was a Marxist, a man of the people. He connected with the masses. Dad adhered to the saying,

“A good actor is a good man.”

As a person, he was impermeable. He wasn’t prone to mood swings or anger. Only once did I find him disturbed. He was called at 9 am and asked to put on make-up for a shoot. Till 6 pm, he wasn’t called for a single shot. Finally, he was told it was pack-up. Dad was livid. Then on he began carrying his typewriter on the set. He’s written books including travelogues like Mera Pakistani Safarnama and Mera Rusi Safarnama and his autobiography Meri Filmi Aatmakatha. He was averse to religion. In his book, Mera Drishitikon, he urged readers to be wary of padres, pundits and mullahs. They are the ones causing wars in the world he wrote.

The Tragedy

My sister Shabnam had a bad marriage. She came back to live with us. She felt unwanted and had a nervous breakdown. Then one day she suffered brain haemorrhage and died. She was around 26-27, the same age at which my mother had died. She was the carbon copy of my mother. Dad was a broken man and didn’t recover from the grief. Shabnam passed away in 1972. Dad passed away in 1973. He felt somewhere responsible for her death.

   I was in a horrible condition myself. She had died in my arms. I began drinking heavily and taking tranquilisers.

During the last two years of his life, Dad and I had grown closer. One morning when I called up to ask him to come for a swim, I was told that he had suffered a heart-attack and was being taken to hospital. He passed away the next day. He was 59.   

It was dad’s wish that no flowers be placed on his body nor pandits be called or shlokas recited. Being a Marxist, he just wanted a red flag to be kept. I hold many regrets. I was not a good son. I feel remorseful about not doing so many things I could have. Dad tried his best all his life to develop a father-son relationship. But there was always a chasm between us. Today I understand he loved me deeply. The debt can never be repaid.

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