Aamir, Nasir, Tahir, Tariq, Mansoor, Amjad: Movies, Masti, Modernity, Flashback 2

To remind you, Aamir is indeed Aamir Khan, Amjad is definitely Gabbar Singh, and the triple M above is to acknowledge that it was Akshay Manwani’s biographical book on the cinema of Nasir Hussain that got me delving into the period of about 15 years, when I interacted with the Hussain Khans (first five) and the bare Khan (last, but the most imposing personality). Actually, Mansoor did not use his middle name, so he can be called a ‘Khan’ too! Tahir stands for Nasir’s (younger) brother, Tahir Hussain.

Nasir Hussain (1931-2002) was already a in my favourites list much before I met him. Now, the story of my interactions with him is picked-up from the last para in my first instalment: “I’ll need all your support,” I emphasised. “Of course,” said Hanif. “You can depend on me,” responded Tariq. “Okay. I am game.” And the game began.

We called for auditions. Nobody turned-up. I got threatened and often felt that I was being followed all the way home, by one of the brawny Khan coterie. So be it. I wrote two plays, got my father to write the intro to the more serious one. Directed both. Was forced to cast Hanif as my father in the serious play (serious matter) and a henpecked husband in the other (that was okay). Hanif did mime too. I compèred the show, sang in chorus, played the lead in both plays and generally cobbled together a 150-minute event out of nowhere.

A visit to the local Police Station ensured that the abuses and threats hurled by anti-social elements did not become really bad. Two plain-clothes policemen sat in audience. Some booing was inevitable, and duly ignored. Just before the serious play, one of the actors disappeared. I went out, from the back-door, looking for him, without realising that I had forgotten to wear my glasses after make-up, myopia being a disability that I had acquired just a year ago. The actor was not traceable, but I was quivering as I made my way from the opposite door. Who were those 2-3 goons, loitering near the main door, who seemed to react with a burst of glee to my appearance, emerging as I did, out of nowhere? I needed to stay focussed, so I banished the bad thoughts, and hastened to the green-room. The actor was there. A huge sigh of relief.

Towards the climax of my serious play, I got carried away. Playing a politician’s son, badly mauled in a communal riot engineered by his own father, I made my fall to the fall too realistic, too hypotenused, 90 degrees to 180, for comfort, and got knocked out almost senseless. When I came to, the show was over. On the way home, I spotted Tariq just outside the hall entrance,

“Where were you? I was looking all over....”

“Indeed. So, this how you repay me?” he smiled.

“For what...?” I asked feebly, too dazed to get into a real argument.

“I might have just saved your life!”

“How? When?”

“An hour ago...when you made the mistake of coming out of the Hekandbai Hall, to look for somebody.”

“Yes, I wasn’t wearing my glasses...”

“You wouldn’t have recognised Rocky anyhow!”

“Rocky? Rocky who?”

“The guy who was waiting to teach you a real lesson, for daring to go against the bosses, and organising this Independence Day programme.”

“But there were policemen in the hall.”

“He was outside. You passed him. You saw him. He saw you. He followed you for a while...”

“Where were you all this time?”

“Behind him. I was afraid this could happen. He’s a bootlegger (brewing alcohol and selling liquor without a licence, both were cognisable offences in 1970) and carries a knife.”

“Are you telling me that he would have...!”

“Could have. But I tapped his shoulder from behind, and surprised him. He knows me. He knows I am NasirSaahab’s nephew. All of Pali Hill knows us. I caught him, almost in the act, and told him this was our programme. He dare not do anything here. In fact, he took me out for tea at Pamposh, while you were performing.”

“My God. You saved my life! Things were bad, you know, but I had never imagined I could be roughed up.”

“Part of the game,” retorted Tariq. “We must all play our parts....and to think that you would not give me even a small role in either of the plays, despite all my requests!”

“Look, Tariq, you have been a real good friend and true to your word. We are working with a bunch of first-timers. I had to cast Hanif, because he cast himself. I wasn’t too sure about your acting skills, and could not take the risk of endangering a play, what with all the unsavoury elements gunning for us. You are Nasir Hussain’s nephew, and maybe he will cast you in his own films?”

“Well, it’s too late to talk about missed opportunities,” he smiled sardonically. “Maybe next time!”

I never gave Tariq an opportunity to act in any of the college events. But I remain indebted to him forever, for his act of faith. I wasn’t really serious when I said that maybe NasirSaahab would give him a role in a ‘home production’. But he did. Those were the days of Pyar Ka Mausam and Caravan. And Yaadon Ki Baaraat was being planned by N.H. Films. Yaadon Ki Baaraat, which would introduce me to a gentleman called Vijay Arora, to the dazzling world of film choreography, and to a reincarnated Tariq Hussain Khan, son of the sister of Tahir Hussain (who produced Caravan) and Nasir Hussain, and cousin of Mansoor Khan and Aamir Khan.

‘Kya husn ne samjhaa hae, Kya ishq ney jaanaa hae,

Ham qhaak-nasheenon kee, Thokar men zamaanaa hae.’—Jigar Moradabadi

Flashback 3 coming-up.