An Ordinary Life Page 13

  Anjali had disappeared for almost a year; there had been no word from her at all. I got married and went to shoot Patang in Ahmedabad, tagging Sheeba along. We lived together for nearly two months. The crew of Patang knows her well. Then she went home and I went on to shoot my next film.

  Sheeba was a wonderful girl with a heart of gold but her brother was very intrusive. He interfered in our marriage constantly. Every now and then, he would call me up and ask me to come over because it was their paternal uncle’s son’s birthday or some such function in their extended family. I would politely tell him—and sometimes her other relatives as well—that I could not come because I had to go on a shoot. They knew about my work and how it involved endless travel. But he would keep calling. Soon enough, tension began to simmer between him and me. Added to his tower of complaints was the fact that Sheeba did not live with me in Mumbai. This was her complaint as well, which was fair. But the fact was I did not have a good enough house at the time to get Sheeba in. And naturally if she were there, then there would be many visits from her family members, so the house must be able to accommodate all of them, which it could not then. But my work was picking up. I had promised her that within a year at the most I should be able to afford a residence that was decent enough. In the meantime, I used to go to Dehradun every second month or so to visit her.

  But then I had a burst of work which kept me so occupied that I could not visit her for three or four months. Her brother got hyperactive and shouted at me over the phone. All the pent-up tension came flowing through with the force of water after a dam burst.

  ‘Why can’t you come when we call you?’ he demanded angrily. ‘What kind of a marriage is this anyway!’

  I tried to explain: ‘You know I am an actor. You knew my line of work and its lifestyle even before the marriage. Why is this coming as a surprise?’ He spiralled into a fit of rage, which infected me as well. I got so angry that I did not show up at Dehradun for three months more. Sheeba’s brother now began to issue threats that he knew a politician who could completely screw me up. I retorted, asking him to do whatever he wanted to do. Nearly a year, about eight months, passed this way in fights which had turned from sour to bitter to plain unbearable. The marriage decayed until its weight and its strength matched that of a single feather’s. It was only the brother’s fault and possibly mine, but not the girl’s. She was completely innocent.

  Sheeba’s family filed a police report against me at the local court in Haldwani, under the infamous Section 409. We soon discovered that the police would be taking a seven-hour journey from Haldwani to Dehradun to raid us and then arrest me. We made a few phone calls immediately and found out that the cops were already on their way. We had to act fast. The entire family had to flee the scene. My brother revved up the car engine. It was comically strange. On one side of the route the police were driving, on the other we were. We were transporting Ammi, Almas’s wife, most of the women, the children and much of the family to a safe place while we dealt with the issue at hand.

  You see what happens is that the police often undertake several raids and arrests on Friday. The court is closed throughout the weekend. So your very best chance of getting bail is on Monday. Meanwhile, you rot in jail for three horrible days, irrespective of whether you are innocent or guilty. This is why we had to act fast.

  After tending to the safety of most of our family, Shamas and Faizi drove at top speed to Haldwani to file an application at the court there, before it closed. The idea being that if I—and anybody else along with me—were arrested, we would get bail immediately. While they finished this emergency procedure, the police reached our house in Dehradun, and were utterly flabbergasted to have driven all the way only to discover our house locked up with a big fat padlock on it. They searched around the area for us; they asked people around if they knew of our whereabouts. They stayed the entire weekend looking for us.

  The case dragged on for almost a year in court. During the first hearing, which was at the family court in Haldwani, Sheeba came too, accompanied by an army of relatives. In such cases, the court always asks the two parties if they have explored all options for the couple to get together, and suggests that separation and divorce should be absolutely the last resort. Before I had set off for the court, Ammi too had advised me on similar lines. ‘If you feel there is even a teeny bit, even a drop of love left between the two of you, suleh kar lena (go for a compromise). Tell the judge then that you have made a compromise and you two want to live together.’ Her voice rang in my ears, her advice swirled in my head in a loop. I tried to make eye contact with the woman who was still my wife, but might not be within a matter of minutes. Her eyes were often lowered or gazing elsewhere. Perhaps it was a mismatch of moments. I tried again and again and again, my desperate, apologetic eyes seeking hers, but I just could not get her to look at me. (I got plenty of eye contact from her brother though.)

  Our hearing began. The judge called Sheeba and asked her, ‘What do you want?’ She replied, as if with a sense of urgency, ‘I want a divorce. These guys have tortured us.’ My heart sank on the spot. My lawyer, to whom I had communicated Ammi’s wishes as my own which indeed they were, whispered in my ears what I already knew, ‘They have asked for divorce. There is nothing we can do now. I’m sorry, Nawaz.’ The hearing went on but I kept seeking her gaze even if for a second. I wanted to apologize to her, I wanted to seek her forgiveness. But now she blatantly avoided looking at me, seemingly on purpose. She seemed different from the sweet Sheeba I had known. Clearly, she had been brainwashed by her brothers, possibly pressurized too. Perhaps deep down she too wanted to live with me or else why would she try so hard to avoid any possibility of eye contact? Perhaps she feared that it might create a silent conversation between us and she would give in.

  True to the nature of court cases, the case dragged on.

  In the meantime, Anjali had returned from her house in Jabalpur, which was where she had disappeared to. Throughout all this time, we had had zero correspondence; I did not even have her telephone number. But she had found out from our friends all about this saga. She did not contact me while I was married, not even once. It was only about six months after the collapse of my marriage that she called me up. We had a long, moving chat during which we connected emotionally. I told her all that had happened. She was deeply depressed about our break-up. I was deeply depressed due to all the drama of my marriage and its bitter dissolution. Both of us were beautifully tender, beautifully vulnerable to each other, crying, providing each other with the emotional support we needed so badly. She became extremely sentimental about me.

  ‘Why did you get married?’ she asked softly.

  ‘In wrath. I got married when you were not there. The emptiness was unbearable. What else could I do? I got married in anger,’ I replied.

  We had frequent phone conversations. Meanwhile, the accusations against me kept getting dismissed in the court on account of being based on unsubstantial grounds. The other party could not find evidence to back their blame. For example, one of the accusations against me was of domestic violence. But when the court asked for proof, they could not provide a medical report or an FIR. Moreover, it was clear that I was physically not even in their area then (I was away for a shoot) to have been able to do that. Another accusation they had filed was of dowry, of which again there was no evidence. The judge sympathized nevertheless and decided to check on my earnings. If the judge saw that I earned all right—that is, around or above the total value that Sheeba’s folks had claimed to have provided—then why would I need dowry? By then, work had begun to pick up—Patang brought me a lot of appreciation and work—and I was earning what the judge deemed as being all right in this case. So he could not understand why I would need that amount of dowry that was lower than my earnings. This allegation too was dismissed.

  Displeased, they took the case to the next court: the Nainital High Court. Sheeba and her brothers came too. The authorities, our lawyers, everyone suggested t
hat we agree to an out-of-court settlement because ‘iss case main dum nahin hai (there is nothing to this case).’ It would unnecessarily linger on for no reason and be a total nuisance to all involved. They agreed but her brother wanted money from us, insisting on a one-time settlement. Knowing him pretty well by now, we had anticipated exactly this and had carried money with us. It was quite a sight. Faizi and I stood outside the court, just the two of us from our side. From their side, there was practically a mini battalion comprising Sheeba, her brother, her paternal uncle, half a dozen or more cousins, all standing outside as well.

  ‘How much will you give us?’ one of them asked.

  ‘How much do you want?’ Faizi asked.

  ‘Five lakh,’ said another.

  ‘Five is too much. Three lakh!’ Faizi said.

  This bizarre discussion stretched on for one very intense hour. Ultimately, it ended and a final settlement was arrived at. I was so grateful for this not-so-small mercy! They wanted the three lakh rupees, of course, and also all the gifts they had presented at the wedding. Moreover, if any of those items was broken or even mildly damaged, then we had to pay for that as well.

  It was around 3 p.m. We had to reach the family court by 4 p.m. All of us were walking the distance between the two courts. Through the hilly terrain was a shortcut that was best traversed on foot. Basically, we had to climb a little hill and then at the bottom of its other side lay the family court. It was cold but the trek helped warm our blood. But I had a chill in my bladder and needed to empty it urgently. There were bushes aplenty. I chose a bushy spot with a tree and took a leak there while everybody else walked on, slightly ahead. Just then it suddenly struck Sheeba’s paternal uncle, her elderly chacha, that according to Islam, I had to say the word ‘talaq’ thrice for the divorce to be validated. He turned and came running at top speed towards me, saying, ‘You have not granted talaq!’

  ‘At least, let me finish my business,’ I said, since I was still in the process of peeing! But clearly, he could not wait for even one minute more.

  ‘No, no! You must say it now. Right now. Abhi!’ he demanded breathlessly.

  ‘Fine!’ I said, disgusted at his vulgar urgency which could not wait for two seconds, until a man had finished peeing.

  ‘Talaq! Talaq! Talaq!’ I said as I zipped up my trousers. He was delighted and scampered off, screaming joyfully towards his folks, ‘Ho gaya! Ho gaya!’ (It’s done! It’s done!)

  Today, any religious Muslim will take offence at my behaviour. I was not religious at all but how could I disrespect religion in this way? But what was my fault? This guy, that too an elderly person whom we naturally respect, assuming they are wiser, left me with no choice. What kind of a man makes such demands while a person is peeing!

  As soon as we finished the formal divorce legalities in the court, they did not waste a moment and instantly demanded the promised money, insisting that time was running out. ‘Chalo, ab paisa do! (OK, now give the money!),’ they chorused. ‘Waqt chala ja raha hai. (Time is running out.) Ab paisa do.’ After I signed the divorce papers and gave them the three lakh rupees, all within minutes, we set off on the seven-hour journey back to Dehradun, where my family had returned. They went off to Haldwani.

  We did not get a day’s break to relax and recover from the insanity. The very next day they showed up in front of our house with a big truck to carry away all the stuff that had come in during and after the wedding, every single token. Among these was a television, the screen of which had a glaring crack but it worked fine.

  ‘Give us money! This TV is broken,’ said my now former brother-in-law with the vehemence that was his trademark. ‘Give us money for it instead!’

  ‘No, we will not give you any more money. You already have three lakh. But we will get you another TV,’ replied Faizi in his typical tone of calm confidence. ‘It will be the same model and the same brand.’ He went back and told Shamas about a market nearby where you could buy second-hand items, and of a particular shop in it. Shamas set off instantly and got a television set of the same model and brand, as promised. I cannot recollect exactly but I believe the brand was called Jolly. The screen was fine but this TV set was spoilt and it was even cheaper than the one they had. They beamed in victory; Sheeba’s brother actually broke into a broad smile, and delightedly drove away in the truck.

  After staying for a few more days, I returned to Mumbai, back to my life of shoots, putting this bizarre episode behind me. Anjali and I began to meet again and soon after, we got back together. She would arrive very upbeat, with a confidence that my house was her own. She treated the tiny space—which then was still the one-room flat in Malad—as if it was her own. It was lovely. Her presence soothed me. But something was different. This time, she demanded marriage right away. She insisted upon it continuously. I was afraid: what if she repeated her ways of leaving in bouts of anger? She persisted, trying to assure me that she would not. In Budhana, we, especially the elders, believe that any spoilt child—a spoilt youngster actually—is bound to mend his or her ways once she or he gets married. I have always had high regard for ancient wisdom—Ammi’s especially, has been the North Star of my existence. So I thought Anjali too might follow this dictum. Marriage might just be the remedy to make her stay. I gave in and agreed, but I asked her to wait until my career had picked up. She waited. It took another year and a half or so for us to finally get married in 2010.

  What had happened was that my brother was getting married in Budhana. Anjali insisted on attending the wedding. Ammi, who is quite liberal, especially given that she lived her entire life in a village, tried to explain to her that she could not show up just like that. It was Budhana, not Mumbai. Tongues were bound to wag at relationships that the villagers could not find a label for. They did not understand bonds like girlfriend and boyfriend. ‘You two have been in a relationship for so long anyway!’ she said. ‘Why not get married now?’

  And so Shamas helped with the small nikah preparations, summoning the mullah and about ten friends, some hers, some mine. During the ceremony, the mullah told Anjali that she would need a Muslim name for the nikah, while her Hindu name would be in brackets. ‘Zainab,’ Anjali said instantly. ‘You can keep my name Zainab.’ I was completely shocked and looked at her wide-eyed in silent bewilderment. How did she come up with a random name like that on the spot? Your name is your identity. How could you change it just like that?

  During the nikah ceremony, the mullah asks three separate times, ‘Qubul hai?’ (Do you accept?) The persons getting married are supposed to reply each time with a ‘qubul hai’ three times. However, I blurted out rapidly, ‘Qubul hai! Qubul hai! Qubul hai!’ in one seamless, breathless go. Everybody broke into peals of laughter, including the mullah himself. My nervousness was that obvious. A little later, when photographs were being clicked and I was asked to place my hand on my wife’s shoulder, my shyness became apparent because I could not show intimacy publicly. I still cannot, I am a very private and shy person. In the wedding photo, my hand is on Anjali’s shoulder but there is a clear gap between our bodies, a formal aloofness—more like in an arranged marriage—that reflected nothing about the fact that we had had a live-in relationship and knew each other in and out well before the marriage.

  Approximately three years after our wedding, Anjali decided to rename herself. She called herself Aaliya Siddiqui. And so did I. And so did the world.

  Apart from that though, nothing changed. The fights continued and she would take off to her home in Jabalpur. During those few breaks between my shoots and her return, we were in a rush to plan a baby because we were not getting any younger. It did help too, because once we had children, she was too smitten with them to leave. The responsibility of bringing up children also happens to be always more on the woman. She never went back like earlier. Now she would only go for holidays.

  Going back to the wise old people of Budhana, they say the first few years in a marriage are always full of trials. It takes six to seven yea
rs for things to cool down and peace to settle in. Call it habit or maturity but this is a formula that I have seen work in many marriages around me. We are peaceful today. But I have never been able to give her the time that is her right. After Gangs of Wasseypur II released, I was deluged with scripts, 270 of them to be precise. Obviously, I did not accept most of them. But I got dangerously busy, so busy that we barely spent any time together. She realizes that it is work which is keeping her husband away from her but it also provides us with every material comfort possible. But she is human. Sometimes she still gets rather cranky and throws fits of irritation, which are completely valid.

  The habits Ammi had inculcated in us remain deeply etched. Sometimes Aaliya has to bear their side effects. We still wear our shoes everywhere. Aaliya has requested us many, many times to remove them before we enter our house for reasons of hygiene. Our children are small, they often play on the floor. So the floor must be as clean as possible. But somehow, all of us tend to forget. It is so bad that she had once imposed a fine of Rs 500 per person. Faizi has ended up violating this rule so many times—during one of his short visits he had to pay his bhabhi Rs 1000 within a week. Shamas has already paid over Rs 2500 within a week. Hopefully, we will give up this trait before the kids grow up.

  Today I am more unavailable to Aaliya than ever before. I shoot non-stop, back-to-back. Part of me aches for a break to holiday with the family. Part of me does not want to take a break, after those years of struggle. Moreover, the roles are too tempting to pass up. More than ever before, I am now beginning to understand the expectations that people have from me to portray each character in a certain way. People have a certain belief that Nawaz will act in a certain way. This kind of faith is a massive responsibility. I continue to do my best; now my focus is solely on work; my focus on my family is practically zero. I leave home early in the morning for the office from where I go off to shoots. I return home close to midnight by when my wife and the kids are already asleep. But what can I do? As the roles get tougher, so much more is required of me. Recently I played the author Saadat Hasan Manto in a biopic. Manto said things during his era which even today progressive people will not say openly. For the very first time, I was given a character whose sensibilities matched mine. This was incredibly liberating. There is so much bursting inside me that I have wanted to say for a long time; through Manto I could finally say it all.