Daily Times

I always thought that acting was a gift: either you have it or you don’t. It was only a matter of time before a gifted actor is discovered or discovers his own gift. I was told that I had the gift, it was in my genes. The story to prove this was told by my proud parents umpteen times. This was when I was six months old, or even younger, and my mother was acting in a PTV serial, ‘Neelay Hath’, written by my dad.

She was playing the role of a political prisoner who during her stay in prison comes into contact with so-called ‘criminal prisoners’. One such prisoner was the evergreen Bushra Ansari, who was playing a murder convict with a prison-born baby. In a scene where Madeeha (my real Mum) and Bushra (my drama Mum) meet, the director thought it might be sensible if the real mother takes the baby from the fictional mother so that the baby does not cry wanting to go to the real mother.

I am told that as soon as the camera started rolling, I began reaching out to my drama mother and Bushra had to hold me. True to the demand of my character, I became calm and happy. The viewers thought I was Bushra’s real baby. The last shot of the serial was where my real mum (who had adopted me since sadly my drama mum had been sentenced to death) holds me high in her arms and says: “I will make you not only a good man but a good human being too.” Ever since I have been vacillating between the two poles (a good man and a good human being). So I was gifted at the age of six (months). An actor would do anything to have a serial end with his freeze shot, and I got that status without asking (I had not learned to speak by then).

It was many years later when I found out that like fate, acting is also 90 percent hard work and training. It was a month-long theatre workshop held by the Indian National School of Drama. It was my first such workshop. I was not convinced that I need training into the ‘art’ of acting but agreed to attend as it meant I would be away from home (and school) for a full 30 days. The workshop was conducted by eminent theatre trainers and practitioners and attended by carefully selected Indian young actors. As a special case, a limited number of Pakistani aspiring actors were also invited (if they could get a month-long visa). During those 30 days, I learned a lot at the workshop and also through my interaction with my Indian classmates. I was on my own for the first time, and was able to explore myself, and the city, to the fullest. We were staying at the DAV Police (yes Police) College Hostel. The rules were strict there.

The first thing I learned was that Indian Punjabi teenagers loved to break or bend rules like Pakistani Punjabis. The naughtiest (and bravest) of us would sneak out in the middle of the night, and head to our favourite ‘dhabas’. We would order our favourite Butter chicken and drinks, and invariably cause a ruckus. The dhabas institution was a great discovery, a place where you could be free, even free for all and at a very low cost. The dhaba owners, usually sardars, were very jolly and so were the customers. There were no limits on the noise they could make. Once I almost got into a fight with a group of young customers sitting at another table. I think it was a competition about who could make more noise and laugh louder. One of them from the rival gang came up to challenge us. Before we could get ready for a brawl, he found out that we were from across the border. The imminent Indo-Pak conflict turned into warm embraces and back-slapping in a matter of seconds. They insisted that we join them and became aggressive only when we tried to pay for our food. We discovered all the good and bad jokes were our common heritage.

I am told that as soon as the camera started rolling, I began reaching out for my drama mother, Bushra who had to hold me. True to the demand of my character, I became calm and happy. The viewers thought I was her real baby

After an All-Punjabi dhaba party, they offered to give us an Amritsar night round before they dropped us home on their Mahindra. I had by then become their best friend and offered to drive the jeep. I had hardly driven in Lahore and my only introduction to a jeep was my Mamoo’s ancient vintage jeep, which was parked outside the house more as an antique piece. Driving a jeep in a new city at night was another challenge. The drive was unforgettable not only for me but the Indo-Pak passengers as well. I am sure the night crawlers of the Amritsar roads would also remember the fully loaded jeep. Close to our destination, as I followed directions from my local guide, I turned a corner without slowing down. The jeep crashed into a roadside pole. But no one except the jeep showed any sign of hurt. Many years later, on a visit to Amritsar, as I passed by that road I was nostalgically surprised to see that the big dent made by the jeep was still there and the poor pole was still leaning like the tower of Pisa. I was pleased to note another common characteristic between us and them, love for our damaged monuments! I was tempted to have a plaque placed saying “This dent was made by Lahore’s Nirvaan in year…”.

Back to the stay at the Police Hostel. One day when we returned unusually late at night, we found the hostel’s steel crisscrossed gate was shut. We were stuck! There was no other place to go. Being Pakistanis, checking into a hotel at such an hour would be tempting fate. We decided to tempt the Police Hostel guards instead. We sat on either side of the gate and pulled with all our might, creating a small opening through which we could squeeze in one by one. We were later told by one of the guards that they had orders to shoot at sight if anyone was found climbing the hostel walls. On another night two of us were actually locked out, and we decided to get a cycle rickshaw and seek shelter at the Golden temple. We knew that no one is ever denied entry into the Darbar Sahib and is given food and shelter without any questions asked and faith or nationality. There was one restriction, however, no meat or cigarettes. Once a police officer was even beaten up for carrying a weapon inside the premises.

Our stomachs full of butter chicken, all we needed was a place to sleep and what a heavenly place it was. We heard the enchanting gurbani and lied down on the clean and shiny marble floor, only to be woken up with a stick-wielding Sardarji announcing Pooja da time. We got up and had a fulfilling breakfast meal at the langar. As I was taking the langar with one hand, the laangri serving it slapped me on the wrist. ‘Both hands’.

The workshop covered all aspects of Theatre, with different teachers covering different skills. Apart from the usual acting exercises, there was one teacher from northern India, who was a martial arts specialist. A small man, he was almost half my height (I am 6’+). He asked me to pick him up. I walked up to him, and comfortably did it. A good ego boost. He then stood in a posture, knees bent, and asked me to pick him up now. Smiling, I tried to do it again. I couldn’t even move him a few inches. He then asked four other’s to do it, at the same time. The five of us tried with all our might, but couldn’t get him to budge. I was astounded. He then shared one of his training exercises. His teacher used to make him walk up mountain streets, with a boiling hot pitcher of water on his back. If he lost his balance, or the symmetry of his body moved by even a quarter of an inch, he would get burnt. I was honoured to be able to learn from such accomplished teachers.

From eating ‘dubious’ 30 Rupee chicken Manchurian to expensive 5-Star dining, from riding (and even driving) cycle rickshaws to exploring shops on the famous Lawrence Road, Amritsar evokes fond memories. Since my first workshop, I have been to Amritsar for theatre performances several times and have seen the sacred city grow into a modern commercial hub with shinning Malls, multiplex cinemas, and international hotel chains. I am told that a lot of the development and investment came to Amritsar during the early years of the new millennium when there were great expectations and hope of an increase in Indo-Pak trade and tourism. Sadly the hopes did not materialise. Just a 30 min drive from Wagah, people used to travel there on a bicycle in pre-Partition days. Even now if you have the visa and can cross the hurdles created by the border authorities on both sides, you can reach the Darbar sahib from Lahore in nearly 30 minutes. It is a pity that the 30 miles distance is getting longer and longer due to the hate-mongers on both sides of the border.

The writer is a director/actor; and a core member of Ajoka Theatre Pakistan. He has been involved in spreading awareness on socio-political issues through theatre

Published in Daily Times, April 24^th 2018.