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Nimmi – Down the Memory Lane

Nimmi

Pictures accompanying this article – Pic 1 – Pic 2 – Pic 3 – Pic 4

Today’s event can be tomorrow’s memory.

Every moment that passes becomes a me­mory and I, for one, diligently collect all kinds of memories, both happy and sad, because the happy memories alone cannot make up a full life.

Now that I have been “commissioned” by “Filmfare” to recall my memories, I find that they keep rushing to my mind at an alarming pace. I would be most happy to bring to read­ers the memories of my entire life, but, for that, I am afraid, “Filmfare” would have to be exclusively booked for a whole year!

One memory leads to another and, although some are fleeting and inconsequential, there are others which are indelible and bring a vivid picture to the mind. Memories are apt to snow­ball during the process of recalling them, and in thinking of a recent memorable night I could not help going back to a certain day in Cal­cutta when I made my first public appearance on the stage!

About six years ago a few of us film stars had been asked by the Governor of West Ben­gal to participate in a variety programme in aid of the Blind. I was terrified, since I had never faced an audience before. When my turn came to recite a “ghazal” by Ghalib, I sat in front of the mike, a piece of paper held before my eyes.

Immediately, the audience started stamp­ing and shouting: “We can’t see your face. Let us see your face.” That unnerved me complete­ly, and when I began to recite the poem, the voice that came out of me was not my own normal voice, but a trembling, croaking sound that quivered with agitation.

When I had finished, my hands were like lumps of ice and my eyes were filled with tears of frustration and humiliation. I vowed never to appear on the stage again. I said I would rather sweep the stage, or shift the scenery, than face an audience.

Recently, when I took part in a “mushaira,” in which leading poets participated, I was re­minded of the Calcutta episode.

But this time it was a different story and I am told I was cool, calm and wildly success­ful. Frankly, once again, I was very nervous and I am grateful to my colleague Meena Ku­mari, who also took part in the “mushaira,” for giving me courage. My voice was clear and distinct and, if people indeed thought I was calm and poised, I must be a good actress, be­cause I was actually petrified.

It is indeed strange how many a childhood memory remains vivid in the mind, while others, more recent, are completely forgotten. Most chroniclers of memorable events delve into their childhood and bring forth memories which usually make engrossing and often de­lightful reading.

One such childhood memory is stamped on my mind, not because it is particularly de­lightful, but because it deeply affected my views on religion.

I was a devout and religious child. My mother had always told me that the Koran taught all Muslims to be broad-minded and never to hate other religions. But I felt that the adults did not practice what the Koran preached. All around me I saw class and reli­gious distinctions which baffled my young, unsullied mind. I had among my dearest friends many Hindu girls, but our parents would never dream of partaking of food at each other’s homes.

As children sheltered in the home without benefit of much outside influence, we often had “doll marriages,” at which we copied all that we had seen at adult weddings. Doll mar­riages were also a kind of education for us, for, while playing, we learned to cook (meals for the “wedding” guests) and to sew (trous­seau for the “bride”).

One day, I had a doll marriage in my house. My “girl” was to marry the “son” of my best friend—a high-caste Hindu girl. All the preparations had been made, the “bride” was dressed and the “baraat” came to my house. The ceremony was performed, after which I ordered dinner to be served.

But the “bridegroom’s mother” refused to eat in our house. I was taken aback and per­suaded her to eat. Still she refused, saying: “My mother will beat me if I eat in your house.” The other Hindu girls in the “baraat” also reused. I was furious.

I stamped my foot and shouted: “Get out of my house and take back your `baraat’. I shall not give my ‘daughter’ to you.” They all tried to plead with me, but I was adamant.

Turning to the “Teli’s” daughter, I asked her: “Will you eat in my house?” She answered readily, “Of course, I will”. “Then your ‘son’ shall marry my ‘daughter’,” I said imperiously, oblivious to the horrified gasps from my guests.

This experience, which as a child I took very seriously, left me bitter on the subject of religion. I could not see the point or the sense in driving human beings apart instead of drawing them together in love and friend­ship. I continued to feel this way until I came to Bombay. Then I began to notice that Raj Kapoor and others made no such distinction. I was delighted and happy, and I felt that here was religion practiced as it should be—by a display of love and affection and complete social equality.

And now I must relate a most amusing incident, also from my childhood. I am remind­ed of it very often—indeed, every time I am at the studio for my work. The moment I see electric wires coiled up on the studio floor, I giggle„ uncontrollably, and people wonder why. Here is the story behind my laughter.

When I was a little girl of five, living in Bombay for some time with my parents, a re­gular visitor to our house was Producer Meh­boob Khan. He was a friend of the family and I was his favorite. Often I used to sit on his lap and fall asleep while he talked till late in the night with my parents.

In those days, I was fascinated by cars and would want to sit in one whenever there was an opportunity to do so. One morning Mehboob Saheb had stopped at our house be­fore going to the studio. As he was leaving, I saw his car and insisted on going with him. In spite of my father’s objections, I got into the car for my first trip to the studio.

Arriving at the studio, Mehboob Saheb carried me to the set and put me down on the floor.

As soon as I saw the masses of coiled wire, I screamed in panic and climbed a chair. To my impressionable mind the coils looked like black reptiles. Crouched on the chair, hugging my knees, I watched in apprehension.

Sternly, Mr. Mehboob Khan asked me to be silent, warning me that the least noise would cost him a fortune. Holding my breath, I pursed my lips trying to be brave.

The still atmosphere and the glaring lights were oppressive. Suddenly, I saw the mike racing towards me as if from outer space, and regardless of Mr. Mehboob Khan’s warning I screamed in terror.

The shot was ruined and Mehboob Saheb finally took me home in desperation.

Who would have thought at the time that the coiled wires, the fierce lights and the mike would one day become like dear friends with­out whom I feel lost. Now they are my means of communication with my audience—indis­pensable like pen and paper to a poet. They scared me once—now I would be scared if I were not to see them again !

Looking back on these incidents, I realize that I have not cited a single sad memory, although I do have plenty to recall. Perhaps it is because they are too personal or it may be that I just want this journey down memory lane to be pleasant and cheerful for the readers. (July, 1960)

Memories