SANJAY

KHAN

THE BEST MISTAKES OF MY LIFE

PENGUIN BOOKS
 Contents

Preface

The Great Mysore Fire Tragedy

My Formative Years
My Dream City
Meeting My Life Partner
My Entry into Films
Closer to My Dreams
The Apples of My Eye
The Bollywood Years (Part 1)
The Bollywood Years (Part 2)
Abdullah and the Arabian Princess
Tipu Sultan
Television Triumphs
Political Affairs
A Royal Salute
Be a Sport!
Living on the Edge
A Phoenix from the Fire
The Best Mistakes of My Life

Illustrations
Footnotes
Political Affairs
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
 To my father and mother who instilled in me a sense of honour and duty and
taught me to be compassionate, charitable and helpful towards my fellow
humans and to respect time and commitment

To my wife, Zarine, and our children Farah, Simone, Sussanne, Zayed and
Malaika for their enduring love and support

To all my grandchildren Azaan Ali and Fizaa Ali (Farah and Aqeel Ali), Armaan
Arora, Yuraaz Arora and Adah Arora (Simone and Ajay Arora), Hrehaan Roshan
and Hridaan Roshan (Sussanne and Hrithik Roshan), Zidaan Khan and Aariz
Khan (Zayed and Malaika Khan)

This book is dedicated to those who made me who I am.

 Preface

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves that we are underlings.
—Cassius, Julius Caesar

Any life will face what Shakespeare called the ‘slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune’ which buffet our lives about, but, as Cassius says, it’s what
we make of that fortune that distinguishes us and builds our characters.
The facts of life speak for themselves. But do they tell the whole story? I have
been the star of many major blockbusters that are remembered to this day. I
remember the rush of producers to sign me in as many as 100 films as a leading
man. I was heralded in the press and in public opinion as the most handsome star
of the Indian film industry and earned both fame and awards, national and
international. I worked with some of the leading producers and directors of the
industry and co-starred with talented and beautiful leading ladies, produced and
directed three major motion pictures, and produced several mega, monumental
TV shows. I hope that in the following chapters (and, gentle reader, I insist that
this is a youthful autobiography, so don’t go looking for my age on the Internet!)
I have successfully captured not only the excitement of those years, but
conveyed my thoughts and ideas of what films did and could mean for the
development of India.
In the midst of my rising film career, I was induced, much against my will,
because I am not superstitious, to allow a fortune teller to draw up my kundli,
my predictive horoscope. The fortune teller prophesied that I would meet with a
fatal accident around the age of forty-six; if I survived, I would make a big name
for myself.
Now, as my scientific friends tell me, stars are nothing but nuclear exploding
gases in space and constellations are merely patterns we create to explain them
to ourselves—but somehow, through the coincidences that haunt the world, his
prediction came true.
My life has been like a giant explosion, very exciting and vibrant. Even as a
child, I sensed that I was blessed with something special when my friends would
ask me to narrate stories and listen spellbound. My voice and style of narration
became popular in my gang and perhaps foreshadowed my life in film. Of
course, at that age, I couldn’t even imagine the experiences, challenges and
thrills, or the fame, flattery, disappointments, triumphs, awards and adulation
that awaited me, let alone the life-threatening accident which was to occur. I
could in no way have anticipated the exciting times and exotic places where my
career in films would take me.
Then, in my most ambitious venture, fate took an unexpected tragic turn. I
was producing, directing and acting in the historical serial The Sword of Tipu
Sultan. We had a cast of hundreds, elaborate artwork, fabulously ornate and
historically accurate costumes and sumptuous sets. But on that fateful day, either
by an act of God or man, the set was consumed by an inferno. Fifty-two
members of my crew lost their lives. I have distinct and haunting memories of
rushing into the fire to save my crew, being engulfed by the flames and smoke,
and almost losing my life. I was hospitalized for over eight months in India at
Jaslok Hospital in Bombay, and later transferred to Georgetown University
Hospital in Washington DC for a further five months for surgery and treatment.
In the later stages of my recovery, I began to get restless and aching to go back
to India. The shooting of The Sword of Tipu Sultan was in full swing and I knew
that several episodes had already been rescripted and shot without me. This
played on my mind and when Dr Bogomal and Dr Scott Spear were both visiting
me in my room one day, I asked them to release me as early as possible,
explaining that it was very urgent that I get back to work.
The two doctors looked at each other and then back at me with puzzled looks
on their faces. It was Dr Bogomal who finally exclaimed, ‘Mr Khan, you must
be joking. You can never work again. Your survival itself makes you a one-in-a-
billion case. Surviving the trauma of sixty-five per cent third-degree burns
combined with over seventy operations can only be described as a miracle. You
are a miracle man, Mr Khan!’ I did appreciate the gravity of what the doctor was
saying, but I was undeterred and replied, ‘I have to work. I will die if I cannot
work.’
Thirteen months later, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I returned to claim
my life back and rebuild it once again. The fire merely interrupted the saga of
the sword but could not extinguish it; The Sword of Tipu Sultan is still
remembered as a classic.
Branching out from my acting career into something entirely different—real
estate—I built the luxurious five-star Golden Palms Hotel and Spa in Bangalore,
which became a popular destination for people from the city and abroad, and
was host to many artist friends who came there at my invitation to write
screenplays and compose music.
Yes, the facts speak, but they don’t tell the whole story. How much of a life’s
fulfilled ambition is the consequence of hard work and innate talent, and how
much of it is the hand of circumstance, of luck, of being in the right place at the
right time? It’s not a question that can be answered with any certainty. But what I
have found, in the course of penning this autobiography, is that in addition to
being a medium for sharing the facts and the stories, the act of writing itself is a
process of self-discovery. Yes, that happened, but how did it come about, and
why?
I hope that I have been successful in conveying to my readers the adversities
and joys, the twists and turns, the surprises and unexpected adventures in as
diverse places as Russia, Turkey, Iran, London, Dubai, Mauritius, New York,
Los Angeles and so many more. But in the midst of all these, I am most proud of
having fulfilled my duty as husband and father. My children received a good
education, learnt good manners, to be patient, to be giving and to help and
respect their elders and fellow human beings. These principles may seem like
standard fare in any Indian household, but they have steered my life, having
been passed on to me by my honoured father and mother whose kindness and
compassion for the weak and the poor remain a beacon in my life. I remember
my mother’s words, which have influenced me throughout my life: ‘Son, you’re
the hand of God, and God is guiding you to help people.’
My family is what I treasure most in this world. I am thankful to the Almighty,
who has blessed me with the most wonderful partner, guide and navigator on the
ocean of life: my wife, Zarine. Fortunate is the man who has such a loving
family: Zarine; our three wonderful daughters—Farah, Simone and Sussanne; an
adored son, Zayed, and his wife, Malaika; and three sons-in-law—Aqil, Ajay
and Hrithik, who, although divorced from Sussanne, is the father of my two
grandchildren.
A banker once asked me my net worth and the question made me smile. I
could have told him about the vast fortune I had accumulated, lost and regained.
But these are the ups and downs of material existence and I am not overly
concerned with them. The gains didn’t elate me and the losses didn’t defeat or
depress me. I smiled as I replied, ‘Please take a headcount of my wife, our four
children, our nine grandchildren, three sons-in-law and one daughter-in-law.
Now, attach a value to each one of them and total the figures. You’ll arrive at my
net worth.’ The banker smiled back and shook my hand.
I hope, through this book, to pay sufficient tribute not only to Zarine and our
children and grandchildren, but also to my late brother, Feroz Khan, who was
and is always with me; my guru, Satyen Bose, and Chetan Anand, both of whom
were my friends, who guided me on my path. Friendship means a lot to me, not
only with the rich and famous but those whom fame hasn’t touched, and who
wouldn’t want it to. All have been equally valuable and I honour them all. I must
mention one friend in particular: Raj Kapoor, my childhood idol and my
inspiration for entering films. He was a huge influence on my professional life,
and a very respected friend with whom I shared a special bond, and whom I miss
a great deal.
Chance meetings can often have a great impact on one’s life, as this small
anecdote exemplifies. In the late 1960s or early 1970s I was privileged to meet
David Lean, the director of classics like Lawrence of Arabia and Dr Zhivago. I
was rushing into a restaurant in the Oberoi, New Delhi, when I heard someone
calling out my name. When I turned and looked back, a woman introduced
herself as Leela Lean, who, I knew, was David Lean’s wife. In the same breath
she said that her husband was there and wanted to meet me. I was truly elated.
Leela led me to their table. David got up, shook hands with me and offered me a
seat, simultaneously asking the waiter for two double Scotches.
I said to him, ‘Sir, I’m a big fan of your work. I’ve watched all your films.
You are my god in films!’
 David smiled and thanked me and asked me to call him by his given name. In
the conversation which ensued, I asked him two questions and I remember to
this date the answers he gave.
I asked him: ‘What is a perfect script?’
He replied: ‘A perfect script is one which answers all questions.’
My second question was: ‘What is perfect acting?’
He replied: ‘If the actor thinks right, that is perfect acting, because the camera
catches the “think”.’
I have treasured the memory of this chance meeting all my life.
I hope my readers will see that, through the pages of this book, I have tried to
convey truthfully my experiences, thoughts and beliefs, and how much I
appreciate the contributions which so many people have made to my life.
 1
The Great Mysore Fire Tragedy

8 February 1989
The prediction of the astrologer who had prepared my kundli, that my life would
be like a giant explosion, was about to come true.
It was 6 a.m. I was in my bathroom, listening to soft music and filled with
excitement at the thought of the upcoming shoot on the sets of The Sword of Tipu
Sultan. While shaving, I looked at my naked self in the bathroom mirror and,
stretching my body, smiled as I felt a surge of happiness within. ‘God! Why have
you made me so handsome?’ I said, a little tongue-in-cheek.
Pride does, perhaps, come before a fall.
We had two stages in the Mysore studios: one was a massive set of Tipu
Sultan’s palace and the other was an auxiliary stage. Shooting started in the
evening and after a couple of shots, at around 8.30 p.m., as the lighting was
going on, I went out to chat with my writer, Nawa Lucknowi.
About half an hour later, I heard a huge commotion from inside. I ditched the
cup of tea I was holding and charged through the small wicket gate as the big
barn doors of the studio were closed. What I saw shook me to the core. The left
half of the studio was on fire. Above, on the catwalk, I could see a lighting man
trying to put out the flames with a piece of cloth. I shouted to him and ordered
him to jump down immediately. At the same time, I told somebody to open the
barn doors and another person to call for the fire brigade.
 On the sets of The Sword of Tipu Sultan

Just then something hit me on the back of my head like a cannonball and I fell
to the ground. I later learnt it was a tin of paint. Undaunted, I carried on with the
gash it left in my head and focused on the job at hand: saving my crew. In
retrospect, I obviously didn’t realize the severity of that crater, one that would
bullishly remain with me for an excruciatingly painful nine months.
The fire had grown exponentially and was sweeping across the set with
horrifying speed. I shouted at my crew who were all running in panic towards
the barn doors, surrounded by the raging fire, trying to get out through the
wicket gate.
Suddenly, a huge ball of fire came at me as if it had been launched from a
flamethrower used by the military. I quickly covered my face with both my
hands, but the fire was all round me, devouring me. I rushed towards the wicket
doors and ran out with flames all over my body. Fortunately, even in that
horrendous situation, I was able to keep my presence of mind and remember
what I had seen in movies: I dropped to the ground and rolled to douse the fire.
I saw my make-up man and four others moving towards me, crying. The sight
of their bodies—black like chimney sweeps—horrified me. It never occurred to
me that I too might be looking the same. By now, the people who were outside,
the visitors and studio staff who were rushing out of the inferno, surrounded me
and a few of my crew. There was mayhem all around: flames leaping out from
the studio, people running from here to there, some crying and shouting in panic,
others in pain, clearly badly burnt.
I ordered my driver, who had rushed to my aid, to take as many injured as he
could get into the car to the nearest hospital. I got into the front seat next to the
driver while three of my assistants and my make-up man sat in the rear seat. In
the all-round commotion, screams, shouts, raging fire and panic stricken,
harrowing atmosphere, I desperately looked around to see if I could spot some
more of my team.
Those in the car were all crying and asking me, ‘Sir, are we going to die?’
Though I was traumatized myself and in terrible pain, I put on a brave front and
told them in no uncertain terms not to worry because everything was going to be
all right. I still remember, as the car left the studio and raced to the hospital, a
strong resolve was formed in my mind: ‘God, it’s not my time. I am not coming.’
The driver drove the car like a man possessed, coming to a screeching halt
almost on the steps in front of the hospital reception. I put my left foot out of the
car to get out, but instantly slipped and fell. The sole of my foot had peeled off
and blood was oozing out. I somehow managed to right myself and led my
unfortunate team into the hospital. The doctors and nurses were aghast at seeing
us and stepped back, frightened by our appearance. It was like they were seeing
ghosts.
 On reaching Jaslok Hospital

I urgently pleaded, ‘Doctor, I am Sanjay Khan, and these are members of my

crew. Please help them; they are in great pain.’
I took off my Rolex watch from my right hand and gave it to Mohit Pahwa, an
assistant director, who was fortunate not to have been at the scene of the fire. I
told him to call my wife but not to alarm her, just inform her that there had been
an accident and that I was all right. Then I looked down and saw blood oozing
from all over my body. I blacked out.
 2
My Formative Years

Iwas born in Bangalore, 3000 feet above sea level and known as the garden city
of India, on 3 January 1940. Shah Abbas Mehndi Ali Khan was the name given
to me by my parents. The lush red blooms of gulmohar, the heady fragrance of
jasmine and mogra that floated in on the morning breeze, the sweet sound of
chirping birds, honeybees flitting from flower to flower, and the huge variety of
amazing flora were only some of the delights that nature had bestowed on the
idyllic city of my childhood.
Bangalore was known in the pre-Independence era and later as a pensioners’
paradise, and as a child I often wondered where all the people worked—there
was no apparent toil. When I was growing up, the city had a population of 3
lakh. The climate was so cool that we used to wear warm clothes for eight
months of the year. My family home was in Lloyds Road No. 3, Cooke Town,
Cantonment East. Even as a child I wondered whether I would spend my entire
life there, or if I would be able to see what lay beyond Bangalore. I wanted to
see the world.
My father was in the construction and real estate business and was a very
upright and honourable man. He instilled in me values I still hold dear today. He
would tell us, for instance, ‘Watch the ground you walk on.’ When I asked him
why, he said, ‘Asmaan dekh ke chaloge to thhokar lagegi.’ (If your gaze is
constantly on the sky, you are likely to trip over a stone.)
Sadiq Ali Khan, my father, was a tall, athletically built, handsome man who
was very warm and affectionate with all of us. I’m always pleased when people
tell me I resemble him. We were five brothers and two sisters: Feroz was the
eldest, followed by myself, Shahrukh, Samir, our sister Dilshad, and Akbar who
was only a year old when my father passed away in his mid-forties. My father
was elated when my sister Dilshad was born after four sons, and he doted on her.
 With my father and brothers for our circumcision ceremony

Khurshid, our other sister, was my mother’s eldest child from her first
marriage. When she was fourteen my mother was married to her first cousin,
Majid Khan, who was the private secretary to the Aga Khan. After my sister
Khurshid was born, the family learned that Majid Khan had married a lady in
Iran and had a third wife in Pune. News travelled very slowly in those days, but
as soon as my grandmother, who was a strong-willed Persian lady, found out, she
had the marriage annulled and sued for divorce. My mother was then remarried
to my father at the age of nineteen.
My mother, Fatima Begum, was an altruistic, generous and extraordinary
person endowed with charismatic oratory skills. The goodness within her shone
brightly and touched people’s minds and hearts. People always told me that even
if they spoke with my mother for five minutes they felt as if they had known her
for a lifetime. For her, her family was her world. When she wasn’t planning what
to feed us, she would be attending to and solving the problems of our collection
of servants, to whom she was unfailingly kind and compassionate. My father
would complain that she was employing too many people and it was a strain on
his purse, but she would refute this by saying there were a lot of very poor
people in the world and it was our duty to help them in any way we could. I hope
that I have inherited a wee bit of her generosity and traits.
Every evening, my mother and her three sisters, who lived nearby, would sit
around my maternal grandmother, a grand lady with tremendous powers of
concentration and an endearing personality. Of her seventeen grandchildren, I
was her favourite and she affectionately called me ‘Bashi’.

My mother

My mother’s family goes back all the way to Aga Ali Asker, a Persian
businessman from Iran who settled in India in 1825. Ali Asker went on to make
a name for himself in Bangalore and a prominent road in the city is named after
him. He also built the Askari Mosque, the Ashur Khana, the Imamwada and the
cemetery in Richmond Town, now called Sir Mirza Ismail Nagar. Incidentally,
Sir Mirza Ismail, prime minister of the erstwhile Mysore state, then Jaipur and
Hyderabad, was my grandmother’s cousin. He had been a student in England at
Cambridge University whereas Muhammad Ali Jinnah was studying at Lincoln’s
Inn, and, just before the partition of India, is believed to have said to Jinnah,
‘Muhammad Ali, please don’t break the country. By having a wing on the right
and a wing on the left, the wing on the right will fall in twenty-five years.’ It fell
in thirty. How I wish Jinnah had listened to that wise man.
My father’s family came from Peshawar 300 years ago and settled down in
Hyderabad. My paternal grandmother was of Indian descent. My fourth great-
grandfather was a judge in Hyderabad and it is said that when he was refused the
hand of the girl he loved, he had charged into her house on horseback, lifted her
up on to the back of the horse, galloped out and married her. I’m glad I have
some of his genes!
My maternal grandmother, Bibi Khanum Muchul, was an extraordinary lady
of Persian stock who spoke fluent Farsi. She was alert and happy even at the age
of ninety-nine when she died. Her story was like a fairy tale. She was married to
Aga Hamid Khan, a cousin of Sir Sultan Mohamed Shah, the Aga Khan, who
resided in the Yerwada Palace in Pune where the British imprisoned Mahatma
Gandhi. At the age of seventeen, Aga Hamid Khan went to Bangalore on
horseback and came in contact, in the Persian settlement of Richmond Town,
with the Ali Asker family. There he saw, proposed to and got married to my
grandmother. His family in Pune, however, disowned him as they were Sayeds,
the direct descendants of the Holy Prophet, and thought the marriage to the
daughter of a mere Persian mogul was below their status. The couple’s first few
children died in infancy. Thereafter my mother was born, followed by her three
sisters. Aga Hamid Khan, my grandfather, was very fond of riding and hunting.
Unfortunately, he died at the young age of twenty-seven on a hunting trip where
he drank the plague-infested water of a well.
Bibi Khanum Muchul’s mother was Bibi Kaukab Sultan, a direct descendant
of Nadir Shah, the king of Iran, as inscribed on her tombstone in the cemetery in
Bangalore. She was betrothed to my maternal great-grandfather Ghulam
Hussain’s elder brother, Bawqar, in Bangalore, at the age of twelve; he was
seventeen. The story is that there was a horse-riding competition in Shiraz, Iran,
which Bawqar, who was a great horseman, had won, beating the king’s
champion horse. Having lost, the king gave one of his daughters in marriage, on
Ali Asker’s request, to his son Bawqar. The king was happy to part with one of
his many daughters! Unfortunately, the marriage ended about a year later when
Bawqar fell from his horse and broke his neck in an equestrian jumping
competition in Bangalore. As per tradition, Bawqar’s younger brother, Ghulam
Hussain, married the young widow.
Our was a very happy childhood. Feroz was a bit of a rebel and would often
do things which displeased our father. Once he got a cowboy outfit made for
himself complete with a ten-gallon Texan hat, ‘Tom Mix’ boots, and a red
checked shirt with double lapels. He even managed to buy two toy pistols. After
that he took to walking down the street like one of the characters in the
American movies we used to watch in the local Rex Theatre. Unfortunately, poor
Feroz was caught red-handed. As he was walking down the street, looking for a
cowboy-style ‘gunfight’ with the rest of us, my father’s car turned into the street.
Dad stopped the car and got out, aghast. He was very angry and reprimanded
Feroz soundly. ‘How can you dress up in that monkey suit?’ he shouted. Out
father said no more, but when we all got home that evening, he bundled up all
the cowboy clothes, boots and all, and sent them off to the Salvation Army. I
thought he was a bit harsh on my brother who was just having fun.
Feroz, being the eldest and the most handsome of us all, was the apple of our
parents’ eyes and he took full advantage of the fact to get away with mischief. I
remember the times when he used to come home from the local billiards saloon
on M.G. Road, way past his curfew. Dad would pace up and down in the library,
then walk into my room, which I shared with Feroz, and ask me where he was. I
would remain quiet, knowing he had gone to the billiards saloon, but not
wanting to betray him. One night even I got worried. It was 11 p.m., which was
late for a young boy of fourteen to be out. Then I heard a tap on the window and
saw Feroz asking me to let him in as Dad had locked the door. He told me to
loosen the ventilator so he could get in. I did as I was told and he came inside.
This became a frequent occurrence, until one night the inevitable happened and
Dad caught him on his way in. He got such a thrashing, but even that wasn’t as
bad as it might have been because our mother, who always took Feroz’s side,
stopped our father from caning him with his stick.
When I was about eight years old, my younger brother Shahrukh and I were
both stricken with typhoid. In those days, after the war, there was no medicine
available and our father had to source it from the contacts he had within the
army. Shahrukh and I were confined in a different room in our house.
Incidentally, this room was adjacent to the dining room. We could smell the
aroma of the food all day long, which intensified our craving, but the nature of
the disease was such that we weren’t allowed to eat that food. My other younger
brother, Samir (as Ahmed is popularly known), would come out from the dining
room and stand by my bedside and I would ask him to get me a potato from the
table. ‘Yes, I will,’ he said, ‘provided you give me a silver rupee from under your
pillow.’ He knew that I had a collection of these, given to me by visitors as per
tradition to help people get well. He got the potato and took the rupee. Samir
became a very good businessman later in life!
Dilshad was my father’s only daughter and he doted on her. Unfortunately he
did not live long enough to watch her blossom into a beautiful young woman.
When Dilshad came of age, we received a proposal for marriage from a very
eminent Punjabi Muslim family from Srinagar, Kashmir. On the appointed day
the boy, along with his parents, came to meet all of us at our home in Juhu.
Dilshad—her hair oiled and greasy, wearing a very simple salwar-kameez,
without a touch of make-up—entered the room with her eyes crossed, intent on
chasing away the groom-to-be. Everyone was shocked to see her in that state.
The tables turned on her soon, for she had hardly taken a seat when Javed, the
boy, looked at his father and told him in Punjabi, ‘Mainu kudi pasand hai.’ (I
like the girl.) Shock and surprise dissolved into laughter. Dilshad’s plan to chase
away the boy had not worked. The two got married and lived a very happy life in
a lovely house in Srinagar. Javed, my brother-in-law, who was a very handsome
man and bore a strong resemblance to Omar Sharif, tragically passed away at a
young age leaving three beautiful daughters to the family: Sheeba, Shelha and
Sabah. I am deeply attached to Dilshad and people have often pointed out that
she is my lookalike.
The dining table was central to our lives and a great place of learning during
our childhood. My father would teach us those life lessons which mattered most
to him: manners, loyalty, patriotism, and kindness to the fellow traveller in the
journey of life. He also taught us concern for the poor and helpless, and told us
never to be late for a meeting. When I asked him why the latter, he said that if
you keep a person waiting, you are insulting him. He added, though, that you
should not wait for anybody for more than fifteen minutes because if you waited
longer you would be demeaning yourself. In such circumstances, he said, one
should leave a note saying you came at the appointed hour and, having waited
fifteen minutes, have left. He told us that the other person would respect us for it.
He believed very much in carrying truth in one’s heart as it fills one up with
strength and honour and the ability to think right and do right. On a more
mundane level, he used to say that one should chew food thirty-two times as it
helps in digestion. He was full of ‘theories’ like this. He would routinely point
out to us the flight of birds which went north each morning and came back south
each evening. This was his way of telling us that, like the birds, which flew back
to their nests in the evening, we should all be home in good time to study before
dinner and go to bed by nine as we had to get up early.
The partition of India was a key moment in our childhood, one that left a deep
impression on all of us. My father was a great admirer of Gandhi, Nehru,
Maulana Azad and Sardar Patel and was very depressed by the turn of events.
Once, when some of his Muslim friends came to our house and asked him what
they should do and where to go, my father coolly told them, ‘Why would you
want to leave? Stay here and don’t ever make the mistake of leaving your
country.’ My strong belief in integration comes directly from my parents’
thoughts and behaviour. We had almost forty staff at our home, and they all came
from different yet distinctly Indian communities—Laxmi, Rauf, Anthony,
Narayan—and we never discriminated between them on grounds of caste or
creed. I never once heard a negative word about any member of any community
in our home. Years later, when I came to Bombay I discovered how deeply
entrenched social inequality was and it quite revolted me. It was totally alien to
me while growing up.
In school, both Feroz and I were studious but mischievous too. Feroz used to
top not only the routine Friday tests in his class, but also the middle school
examinations in the state of Mysore. In fact, on the rare occasion when he came
second, Father Pat Aranjo, the principal, would come to the class and reprimand
him. Though I could not equal Feroz’s academic success, I too was promoted
straight from the first to the third standard.
We studied in St Germain High School, a renowned Catholic institution of the
time. It prided itself on the breadth of its extra-curricular activities and I
participated in most of them, including sports and stage plays. Once, after
finishing my lunch on a bench near the principal’s office, l looked around and
since no one was there I decided to rehearse my role in the school play: General
Wolfe, the British commander of Quebec, fighting American rebels in the
American War of Independence. I imagined that I had been shot and fell to the
ground, moaning and writhing in agony. Suddenly, to my great shock, I saw the
stoic figure of Father Pat standing at the window of his room with a cigar in his
mouth, looking intently at me. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of
my life.
 St Germain Boys High School, Bangalore

I got up quickly and said, ‘Sorry, Father.’

Surprisingly, he replied, ‘No, no, my son. Carry on; you are doing a good job.’
I felt immensely proud at his praise. It enhanced my self-respect and boosted
my confidence. After a couple of days, when the play was staged, my
performance was appreciated and everybody applauded me, including the
principal. After that my popularity in school swelled.
Another person I remember is Mr Brown, our PT teacher. He was a very stout
paunchy Anglo-Indian with a stern face. He always wore a string with a whistle
attached to it around his neck and kept blowing it as if his life depended on it. He
also carried a cane and would whip the students with it. This was second nature
to him and we dreaded that cane. In the school compound, there was a big tree
with a long rope hanging from a stout branch. He would stand there, shouting
‘One. Two. Three!’ and blow his whistle. We had to grab the rope and scramble
up quickly, otherwise we would be smacked on our legs. Sometimes, he jumped
and hit us, which I thought was not fair.
Those were the days of the ‘cane raj’. Our punishment system was ‘six of the
best’, which meant caning us on our open palm or buttocks. Feroz and I often
got six while other boys got four or two, which, at the time, we thought was
discrimination, but, in retrospect, it was because we were the naughtiest. Feroz
and I were restless rebels, and always had a band of followers. When Mr
D’Cruz, the headmaster, clad in his old faded jacket and smelling of the cigars he
smoked, summoned us to dispense the ‘six’, Feroz would tuck a copybook in the
seat of his pants. Feroz was very good at this and never got caught, but the one
day I tried it, I got caught. I couldn’t get a copybook in time and the only book
available was a bit stiff. This meant that the cane sounded different and they
knew what I had done, so I got two extra and could not sit at all that day.
In middle school, I played centre forward in the football team. In a match
against another school, my classmate Sarmad Khan, who later became the East
Bengal football champion, was playing on the left wing but his pass was too
forward for me to shoot into the goal and our school lost. I’ve always wondered
if Sarmad did it deliberately. Father Joseph, who had a black beard and red eyes
and also used to smoke cigars, called me over. The moment I reached him, he
slapped me so hard that I saw stars, and said, ‘Why didn’t you shoot the goal?’ I
was shocked at this treatment and had a complete brain fade. I charged at Father
Joseph and hit him in the stomach with my shoulder in a rugby push. He fell
down and I ran home and told my father what had happened. He too slapped me
and then took me to school where he asked me to apologize. But he also told
Father Joseph that he could scold me as much as he wanted, but not slap me. I
apologized to Father Joseph and he hugged me. I hugged him back. I guess we
were both disturbed by our loss in the match.
I was ten when my association with the great Raj Kapoor began. I slipped out
of the house with a servant and coaxed him to take me to see Awaara. My father
believed that it was not respectable to see films, because they were a bad
influence on children, hence the need for me to do it surreptitiously. I often
wonder what his reaction would have been if he had lived long enough to see me
working in films.
As I sat inside the dark cinema hall, I found myself completely mesmerized by
the film and the character played by Raj Kapoor. After the film ended, I asked
the servant to take me to meet the actors. He laughed at me and said that what I
had seen were only moving images and the actors were not present in the cinema
hall. But I was adamant and forced him to take me ‘backstage’ so that I could
meet the actors. The servant had no option but to take me. I ran, excitedly,
behind the screen, thinking I would find Raj Kapoor and the others standing
there; imagine my disappointment when all I could see was a white projection
screen with a black border and some ropes hanging. Seeing how dejected I was,
the servant got an idea; he took me to the projection room so that I could
understand how I had seen what I had seen.
 The projectionist was a kind man, and since there was still some time before
the next show, he explained to me how a film was actually projected on the
screen. He had loaded the reel for the next show so he played a small portion of
it, especially for me, so that I could understand the concept of twenty-four
frames per second and the soundtrack. I was stupefied and astonished by the
revelation. It was on that day that the idea to make my career in films hit me and
crystallized like a diamond in the head. It was my road-to-Damascus moment.
My father always asked Feroz to take me with him whenever he went out on
the weekends, so I would tag along with him. However, Feroz observed the
orders only up to the corner of the street! Then he would turn around and tell me
to buzz off because he didn’t want me to see the girls he was dating. I would
shoot off happily; I was independent and had my own set of friends.
Once, there was a diphtheria outbreak in Bangalore; nearly 100 children
succumbed to the disease. I too was infected, and the doctor advised that I be
sent to the isolation hospital as per the law at the time. I still remember my
parents comforting me in the car while taking me to the hospital. My mother
stayed in the hospital with me, in spite of the doctor warning her about the
danger of catching the deadly disease. She told them that she could not leave me
alone. Her love had no bounds and I still cherish the memory of how selfless and
devoted she was. I loved her deeply.
Surviving diphtheria was the first of many tests life threw at me. My second
escape also happened during my childhood.
I used to spend my holidays not only with my brothers and sisters but my
cousins, Mirza Ghulam Ali, whom we called Pandu, and Azghar, and many
female cousins. We would go for picnics in the nearby fields and invariably
pluck those tempting blue grapes and be chased by the villagers. In one of the
villages where we played, there was a big round well with steps on the side. I
loved swimming so I used to go and bathe there, jumping from the top into the
water, almost twenty feet below. One day, to my horror, I discovered that the
villagers had planted sharp bamboo poles to prevent people from swimming. I
had missed the poles by inches while diving. Little did I know that I had many
more and bigger challenges to face later in life.
One Saturday morning, I was feeling adventurous and wanted to test the new
catapult which I had purchased so I ventured out alone to the nearby Signal
Rocks. I was practising on the lizards that were darting in and out between the
boulders, when I saw a man about 30 metres from me, stealthily walking
towards an alcove. I was curious to know why he was walking in this furtive
manner, so I ducked behind the rock and observed him. I saw him take out
something from his dhoti and put it under some rocks and quickly depart,
looking around to make sure no one had seen him. I waited for a few minutes
and then, spurred on by curiosity, went to investigate. I moved some of the rocks
with my foot and discovered a bundle wrapped in silver foil. When I opened it, I
discovered it was full of cigarettes. I realized they must have been stolen from
the nearby Golden Tobacco cigarette factory and the man must have hidden the
package there, intending to pick it up on his way back home. I put the whole
thing back but mischievously took out one cigarette and walked away. The urge
to smoke it took me to the shop to buy matches. I bought a box of matches for 5
paise and a sweet for 1 paisa, but when I tried to light the cigarette, the match
blew out. I tried again but the same thing kept happening, until there was only
one matchstick left. I panicked for a moment, but composed myself and finally
managed to light the cigarette. I took a drag and instantly felt giddy and started
coughing, so I threw the cigarette down. But, determined to succeed, I picked it
up again and took one more puff. It made me cough again so I gave up. I put the
lozenge in my mouth to mask the smell and headed home.
As luck would have it, when I entered the house, my father was sitting with
his friends. He called me over to him and as he hugged me he noticed that
instead of smiling or greeting him and his friends, I was keeping my mouth shut.
Realizing something was wrong, he asked me to open my mouth. As soon as I
did, he caught a whiff and immediately knew what I had done. He was furious
and said angrily, ‘Hah, you have been smoking cigarettes!’ He took me to the
garage where he removed his belt, held my head between his legs, pulled up my
shirt and gave me a beating. I still remember screaming and shouting in agony,
and my mother yelling from outside, ‘Sadiq, you will kill the boy!’
My father died after a freak accident in the bathroom. He bent down to pick
something up and hit his head on the tap when he straightened. He was beyond
any medical help as he developed a tumour in his brain from which he never
recovered.
 Since Feroz was always out with friends and would come back late, I spent
many evenings with my father after the accident. I remember one evening when
he confessed his condition to me and said, ‘Son, you need to take care of the
family in case something happens to me.’
On hearing this, I began crying and he held me to his chest. Even the thought
that he could die was unimaginable. We had thought he would get better, but six
months after his accident, he lost his eyesight and some time later, on a rainy
day, he passed away. I was down with fever and was resting in the adjoining
room, when I heard the wailing from my father’s room and realized that he was
no more. It was the saddest day of my life. The city of Bangalore was shocked
by his demise as he had been a perfectly healthy young man with no vices and a
golden heart. His passing was a big blow to us.
My mother, a widow at the age of thirty-seven with five sons and a daughter
—my elder sister lived in Pune with her father—to bring up, was a most
courageous lady, with a very strong character. She ensured that none of us
suffered as a result of this situation. She would huddle all of us children together
and tell us that we should concentrate on our studies and not worry about
anything. She would pack us off to school, see we were all well fed, and attend
to all our needs.
It was only much later that I realized the hardships she had to endure. She had
had to learn quickly about my father’s business, of which she had had no
knowledge when he was alive. Although much of the business had all but
disappeared when he died, like dust on a windowsill blown away by a gust of
wind, she resolved to make things work. We survived, apparently, on the rent
from our properties, and when the increasing expenses and the meagre rent could
not take care of our education and the household expenses, she would quietly
sell one property. The money was kept in a big blue porcelain jar in her cupboard
and the monthly expenses were taken out from it. This is how we were taken
care of by my brave mother who had never stepped out of the house.
 3
My Dream City

Before I could finish my Senior Cambridge at St Germain, I was ordered by

the doctors to move to a warmer climate as the cool environment of Bangalore
was not conducive for me as I had survived a serious bout of diphtheria a few
years back. My mother decided to take me to Bombay. That was my first long-
distance train journey and I was very excited. My mother started preparing ten
days before, as she had to get all the bags, food, and everything else ready for
the trip.
That journey was about to change my life. I still remember the continuous
sound of the train hammering on the rails. Most of the time, I looked out of the
window at the passing fields, my thoughts scattered in all directions.
Occasionally, I would quietly open the door, hold the bars and lean out,
swinging, to catch the wind in my face. The excitement and the thrill of the
journey clearly got the better of me and even the other passengers reprimanded
me for the risk I was taking.
We had to switch trains at Belgaum and continue to Bombay. It took thirty-six
hours then and was a great adventure, unlike today’s smooth and sophisticated
way of travelling. Funnily, I didn’t realize till I had reached Bombay that I
looked like a chimney sweep from all the soot.
The train slowed down as it entered the great city. The first multi-storey
buildings I saw were near Dadar Station. Dark grey edifices without any life in
them, as if they were monuments of sorrow waiting for something to put a smile
on their faces. I was amazed by how tall they were, as I had never seen such
buildings ever before.
Victoria Terminus Station, or VT Station, was another wonder. It was crowded
with bands of red-turbaned coolies charging towards the trains. Even before the
train stopped, they entered our compartment and started dragging the baggage
out, much to my mother’s consternation. I was amazed at the sea of humanity
with everyone pushing against each other. We stood to the side, anxiously
watching the crowd till we saw my sister, Khurshid. I must confess, however,
that from the start, the pace of the city made me feel right at home.
Though I was very excited to see my sister and brother-in-law, while driving
back with them in their car it was all the billboards of the films that I couldn’t
take my eyes off. I kept thinking of the time I watched Awaara and I wondered
where Raj Kapoor lived.
Like any other fifteen-year-old boy, I was keen to get out of my sister and
brother-in-law’s fourth-floor apartment to explore the city. Once, I sneaked out
and stood for a while on the kerb in front of the building and looked at the
Colaba causeway. The street was so wide and so long; the widest and longest I
had ever seen. I started walking, my mind occupied with all the sights of the city.
Suddenly I realized that I had come a long way from the apartment, and had
reached Regal Cinema. I looked back and took a mental shot of the street in case
I forgot the way back before I went on further. At that time, trams used to ply
from Colaba to Flora Fountain and VT Station. I gathered my courage and
jumped on to the tram and got down at Flora Fountain to see the exquisite
buildings. Then, I caught another tram to VT Station where I ate a rasgulla and
started walking back on Feroz Shah Mehta Road. By the time I reached Flora
Fountain, I was exhausted but managed to find my way back home—tired but
exhilarated by the experience.
My initial days in Bombay were very lonely, as I had no friends, so I started
reading books by Leo Tolstoy and Ayn Rand. (Later on, as books became my
friend, I read Jean Paul Sartre’s Existentialism and felt quite fortified after
reading and absorbing his ideas.) I also explored the city on my own, fascinated
particularly by the seafront and the harbour, with its naval ships, the Taj Mahal
Hotel and the Gateway of India. I would sit there for hours, staring at the sea.
Regal Cinema fascinated me even though they used to run only English films
in those days. My favourite actor was James Dean. Film stars would also come
for the screenings; the first leading Indian star I saw and took an autograph from
was Ajit. As fate would have it, later he played the villain against me in Mera
Vachan Geeta Ki Kasam (1977). Such are the coincidences in life.
 One cannot be in Bombay without coming into contact with the film world.
My first real friend was Devinder Chadda, who was related to the late actor
Shyam. His brother was a cameraman in Filmistan Studios. Devinder introduced
me to Muzaffar and Vimal Chadda and a host of his other friends. All of us
would meet every weekend or whenever it was possible at Friends’ Cabin, a
Parsi-run restaurant at Nariman Point on the seafront. It was on one of these
outings that I learnt a few karate tricks from a twenty-year-old French hippie
who had parked his caravan close by, and which later saved my life.
Within the year, Feroz had also come to Bombay. He was on his way to
Germany for higher studies in engineering but while in the city, he became
popular and soon had a wide circle of friends. He hung around in the billiards
saloon in Greens Hotel, which was eventually demolished and added on to the
new Taj Mahal Hotel. He was a snooker champion and had earlier played against
Wilson Jones in the Karnataka championship, which he lost when he missed the
black ball on the mouth. Wilson Jones went on to become a world champion.
One day my gang and I were at the Parsi Dairy, which still stands across from
Ambassador Hotel on Marine Drive, when Devinder Chadda, nicknamed Din,
brought a message for me from his brother. He said Mr S. Mukherjee, the
founder of Filmistan Studios, had seen Feroz somewhere and was impressed by
his personality and good looks. He had spread the word to track my brother
down and invite him to the studio. I was surprised and couldn’t believe it but
was very excited at the news.
When he heard this, Feroz retorted, ‘What the hell, I am not going to work in
a Hindi film and run around trees, chasing the heroine.’
It was only after Khurshid, our mother and I convinced him that he couldn’t
ignore such an invitation, that he went to Filmistan to meet S. Mukherjee. He
came back with contracts for three films. Bye-bye Germany. Hello Bollywood!
Feroz went on to become a big star, admired by many for his verve, style and
looks. Unfortunately, being from a different background from most people in the
film industry, he was ignorant of the intricacies of it, and was too upfront and
honest to deal with the jealousies and hatred, which his success evoked in some
people. Consequently, his career was bogged down in its initial stages with
mediocre films. It was such a waste.
 My own quest for films was still a dream then. I was a tall, skinny, gangly
youngster of eighteen, looking at myself in the mirror and wondering when I
would enter the world of films, and fantasizing about the day I would become a
star.

Film Distribution Gig

Feroz and I had by this time moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Firdaus
building on Marine Drive, and it was he who, realizing that I needed a job until I
got a break in films, organized a position for me with a film distribution
company.
My job was to take films all over India, so that they could be shown in
different towns. One such journey took place a few days before Christmas. I
remember the date because I had to leave before the big party which my friends
and I had planned for the festive season.
My first stop was Belgaum. I carried two tins of a film starring Dev Anand to
Rex Cinema and spent four uneventful weeks in a small, clean room as per the
contract while the film was screened to appreciative audiences.
This was very different from the experience I had in the next town, Belapur.
On arrival, after travelling all night, I was greeted by an elderly gentleman with a
white scrub of a beard and a mouth red with paan. On the way to the cinema, he
seemed oddly over-solicitous towards me, and I remember wondering why. I
handed over the tins to him and he took me to the room within the premises of
the cinema which was to be my home for the next few days. I was shocked. It
was a dark hole where even rats would not stay. I confronted him angrily. He
called me ‘hero’ and asked me not to shout. I realized shouting wasn’t going to
get me better accommodation, so I crossed the road, checked into a hotel and
went to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up, had breakfast and got to the cinema by 12.30
p.m. The first show was on and the soundtrack was blaring so loudly over the
speakers that everyone could hear it outside. I walked into the ticket booth and
was aghast to see duplicate tickets, without the tax stamp, being sold. ‘What is
happening?’ I yelled, and the old man said, ‘Hero, don’t worry, we will take care
of you,’ and continued selling tickets. I banged the shutter down and grabbed the
bundle that did not have the entertainment tax stamp and walked across to my
hotel room.
I tried to call Bombay, but in those days it took a long time to get a connection
and before I could get through, in walked the owner of the cinema. He was a real
slimeball who tried to win me over with smooth talk, constantly calling me
‘hero’, and tried to bribe me with a 20 per cent cut. I said I didn’t want his
money and I would lodge a complaint with the collector, as I had been instructed
by the distribution company. At that point, one of his henchmen walked in with a
bottle of Black Label whisky and a bundle of notes. I stomped out of the room to
catch a rickshaw, followed by the three men. Unfortunately, however, I couldn’t
find the collector, and the police were completely indifferent when I tried to file
a report.
I decided there was only one way to deal with this, so I held the fort on my
own. I sat in the box office and didn’t let them sell the tickets. A fellow
representative came over to ‘persuade’ me to toe the line, saying that he feared
my life would be in danger if I didn’t. I was defiant though and stuck to my
guns. The circumstances were very trying, but against all odds, I enabled a
successful and legal two-week showing.
On my way back to Bombay, I came to the conclusion that this was not the
honourable job I had thought it would be. I had been away for three months and
was supposed to be getting a salary of Rs 300 per month. The payment, however,
was ‘deferred’ and I never got the Rs 900 I was owed, a good sum of money in
those days.

Blitzkrieg
I was now making friends with people in our area. Two of these were Zaida and
Sarwar, the niece and nephew of Nargis, Raj Kapoor’s celebrated heroine. They
lived in a different building—Chateau Marine—down the road.
Another building close by was called Ganga Vihar, and I often passed by it on
my way to the Parsi Dairy. A man called Anees, who was working as a chauffeur
in Ganga Vihar, used to sit near one corner of the building. He was fair-skinned
and blue-eyed and his colleagues called him Raj Kapoor. Each time I passed by,
he would taunt me with remarks till one day, I could not take it any more and
warned him that the next time I would beat him up.
 Once, Sarwar, Zaida and I were returning from Nargis’s birthday party when I
heard someone behind me, hurling abuse. When I turned, I saw Anees with a
knife in his hand, and before I could stop him, he had slashed the side of my
head, which started bleeding profusely. The next moment he stabbed me in the
arm and was about to plunge the knife in my chest. Fortunately, I remembered
the karate the French hippie had taught me and jabbed my two forefingers into
Anees’s eyes. He screamed in agony and fell to the ground, clutching his head in
both his hands. The knife fell from his hand and when he recovered, he ran
away.
My friends took me to G.T. Hospital with a throbbing pain in my head. I can
still distinctly recall the faces of the doctor, nurses, policemen, Feroz, and
Nargis’s brother Nassir Hussain who were with me when I came to. Feroz was
emotionally charged, crying in anger and demanding to know the name of the
assailant. I told him. To my dismay, I discovered that the left side of my head
had been shaved. I was sent home after a few days with stitches on my partly
bald head, feeling a little worse for wear.
Some days later, I learnt that Anees had been found in the garage of the
famous Dhanraj Mahal, near the Gateway of India. Feroz had accompanied the
police and on his request had been allowed to enter the garage first as he wanted
to confront Anees alone. He went inside and closed the door behind him, not at
all afraid or worried that Anees might be armed. After a good five minutes,
Feroz emerged from the garage dragging behind him a badly bruised Anees who
he then handed to the police.
The police charged Anees with attempted murder, but the charges were
dropped on my request. I had found out that he was a married man with small
children. After this, he asked the police if he could see me personally to
apologize for his behaviour. I accepted his apology and we drew a line under the
episode. I never did find out the cause of his animosity towards me.
 With Raj Kapoor

Raj Kapoor
Two years after coming to Bombay, at the age of seventeen, my dream to meet
Raj Kapoor came true. Seeing my absolute fascination with him, Randhir, the
famous comedian of his times, who I knew from Bangalore, was good enough to
take me to R.K. Studios for its famous Holi party.
I was now a tall, good-looking fellow, but still a teenager so my excitement at
meeting my idol in person knew no bounds. Even so, I couldn’t imagine what a
lasting impression that first meeting would leave on me.
I was but a fan, and Raj Kapoor must have been meeting many of them every
day, but when Randhir introduced us, the warmth with which he shook my hand
and welcomed me showed me what a fine gentleman he was, and how totally
unaffected by his superstar status and stardom.
Something clicked between us that day, and marked the beginning of a long
association and a bond of brotherhood.
During that first meeting, I felt the pulse and pounding heart of this magic
kingdom of films. R.K. Studios was the Mecca of the Hindi film industry and it
was celebrating Holi with great pomp in its usual style. I met a lot of illustrious
personalities, including the charismatic Shammi Kapoor and the beautiful
Nargis. I was mesmerized as I watched Sitara Devi dance ecstatically, like a lady
possessed, glancing from time to time at Raj Kapoor to fuel her spirit.
I also met producers, directors and technicians at the party. It was an
enthralling experience and I wanted it never to end. I was by now very keen to
learn how this formula worked and was sure that this first meeting with Raj
Kapoor had brought me closer to my dream of becoming a part of this magic
world.
As I watched these stars, it occurred to me how small these big stars looked in
person compared to their larger-than-life images that I was used to watching on
the silver screen. It crossed my mind that they were actually just as vulnerable,
in their own way, as I was.
What was even stranger though was how at home I felt with them, how
confident, almost as if I knew that I belonged there—perhaps a little too much!
As the day progressed, I had got so deep into the swirl of the celebration that
when someone offered me a glass of sharbat, I took it. Little did I know that this
innocent-looking sweet drink made out of almonds, pistachios and milk was
spiked with bhang, which I know now is traditionally drunk on Holi. The effect
on me was instant! I felt quite dizzy and my head started spinning, but the
funniest thing was that the thought that I had a red sports car embedded itself in
my mind. For the remainder of the celebration, and even when we got back to
Randhir’s house at Khar, I pestered everyone about where my red sports car was.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized it had been the bhang talking.
Everyone thought it was hilarious, but I was so embarrassed that I’ve never had
bhang again in my life.

Defining an Indian
I make no apology for including in my autobiography a short digression on Raj
Kapoor and what I see as his unique place in the history of Indian cinema. He
was not only my idol from childhood, but encapsulated for me the power of
films.
In 1947, after nearly a century of struggle against British colonial rule, India
gained independence. During the protracted freedom struggle there were many
reformers, scholars and movements which contributed to the idea that the ancient
civilizations of India made it a nation worthy of governing itself. This struggle,
preoccupied with winning political control from the Raj, defined India’s past, its
glories and many cultures but didn’t give it the voice which would define what
an Indian was. Serendipitously, the medium that would be used to construct such
a definition had already been born and was making rapid technological
advancements. This was the medium of the silver screen, the moving, dancing,
speaking, singing, image—the cinema!
Two of the idols of Indian cinema in the era immediately after Independence
were Yusuf Khan, who took the screen name Dilip Kumar, and Raj Kapoor, from
a family of consummate actors with a long association with theatre and now a
prominent presence in cinema.
Dilip Kumar was a phenomenon. I believe an actor can be paid no higher
compliment than to be acclaimed as the characters which he or she brings to life.
Such is the enduring magic of Dilip Kumar whether it is his portrayal of the
eponymous Devdas, or Prince Salim in Mughal-e-Azam or the dacoit in Ganga
Jumna.
However, it was Raj Kapoor who, as a conceiver of stories, director and actor
in his own films, had the genius to set about constructing the idea of who an
Indian was. At the time of Independence, 70 to 80 per cent of India was still
rural. Our cities were not the metropolises of today but they held the promise of
development. Raj ji, probably through a subconscious drive, conceived the idea
of the noble Indian—most often a wanderer from rural India, lost and bewildered
in the big city. He was innocent and pure of heart and would bring to the harsh
realities of urban life the compassion, generosity, innocence, honesty, piety and
even the sense of humour which his upbringing endowed him with.
Raj ji’s heroes were the Awaaras, the Shri 420s, the boatmen of the Ganges
who brought a sense of generosity and large-heartedness to the characters they
encountered. They were Robin Hoods but also more, for they weren’t dedicated
to operating through militant force and swashbuckling heroism (that came to
Hindi cinema with later heroes). They were simpletons who triumphed through
the force of goodness. The anthems he inspired and used in his films
demonstrate this time and again:
 Hoton pe sachchai rehti hai
Jahan dil mein saffai rehti hai
Hum uss desh ke vaasi hain
Jis desh mein Ganga behti hai.

Where Truth exists in words

Where the heart is pure and clean
We are citizens of that country
Where the Ganges flows.

The geography is indeed accurate. The rest is a mythological construct of the

ideal Indian. Another of his films begins with the song:

Mera naam Raju

Gharana anaam
Behti hai Ganga jahan mera gaam.

My name is Raju
Homeless
Where the Ganges flows is my home.

Furthermore:

Mehmaan jo hamara hota hai

Woh jaan se pyara hota hai

Our guests are

More beloved to us than life itself

And:

Zyada ki nahin lalach humko

Thhodey mein guzaara hota hai.

We don’t desire for more

We can survive with the bare minimum.
Raj ji didn’t shy away from adding a roguish element to his heroes. One of his
characters is called Chhallia—and reminds me of Autolycus from Shakespeare’s
A Winter’s Tale—but is always employed to right wrongs! Raj ji’s achievement
was establishing the pride of being an Indian citizen:

Mera joota hai Japani

Yeh patloon Inglistani
Sar pe laal topi Russi
Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani!

My shoes are Japanese

My trousers very British
My red cap is from Russia
But I am an Indian at heart!

Such is the timeless magic of Raj Kapoor.

 With Raj Kapoor and Zarine

Given my immense respect for Raj ji, I was delighted when he agreed to do a
cameo in my directorial debut. It was 1976 and the film was Chandi Sona
(1977), which broke new ground in Indian cinema, being technically ahead of its
time, with underwater sequences and exciting visual effects which had not been
seen before.
Raj ji completed his three-day schedule most professionally. Since it was a
guest appearance, no formal agreement was signed nor was a fee discussed. It
was a goodwill gesture on his part and while I was deeply indebted to him for
gracing my film, I felt he should be paid for it. Later that year, when we were
together at a wedding, I tried to give him Rs 1 lakh. His response was
characteristic of him. ‘Abbas,’ he said, ‘you are like Shashi to me. Do you think I
would have charged Shashi if he had asked me to do a guest appearance in his
film? I’ll quote you my price when you formally sign me for a film, okay?’
Shaking his hand, I said, ‘Done.’
Just then the women walked in. He grabbed my hand and held it beside to his
own, wrist to wrist, and said to his wife, ‘Dekho ji, hum do Pathan. Ek Hindu, ek
Mussalman.’ (Look, we’re two Pathans. One Hindu, one Muslim.)
I was extremely touched. That day, he had set the code of understanding
between us. The man I had seen on screen as a ten-year-old in 1951 had called
me his younger brother. I had indeed come a long way.

Just before signing Raj Kapoor for Abdullah

Signing Raj Kapoor for Abdullah

My opportunity to formally sign Raj ji for a film came two years later, in 1978,
when I was planning my film Abdullah (1980), and needed someone to play the
title role. I was certain there was only one man who could do justice to the role.
My idol: Raj Kapoor.
It was the year when Raj ji was directing Satyam Shivam Sundaram, with his
brother Shashi Kapoor and Zeenat Aman in the lead roles. I sought an
appointment and visited him at R.K. Studios where he was in the process of
winding up shooting. I remember meeting him in his famous cottage at the
studio where he was relaxing on a recliner, his hands resting on his tummy as he
moved his thumbs around each other in a clockwise motion. He knew why I had
come and smiled when he saw me.
‘Come, sit, Abbas. So, are you ready to pay me my price?’ he joked with me.
‘Yes, Raj ji, please name it,’ I said earnestly, ready to pay him whatever he
asked for.
His grey-blue eyes twinkled mischievously and he quoted a figure. Without a
moment’s hesitation, I said, ‘Done.’
As I extended my hand to shake his and seal the deal, he immediately pulled
back and protested, ‘No, no! I was just joking . . .’
But by then, I had grabbed his hand. Now, it was my turn. I held his hand
firmly and said, ‘Hum do Pathan. Ek Hindu, ek Mussalman.’
He continued to protest but nothing could have made me change my mind.
Later, as I was leaving, I met Raj ji’s eldest son, Dabboo (Randhir Kapoor), in
the parking lot and he asked me jokingly, ‘So, you have signed him, eh? Well,
good luck to you, Abbas. Do you know that nobody in the entire Kapoor
khandaan has been able to get him to a film set before 2 p.m.? Even the
cockerels of R.K. Studios don’t crow before two in the afternoon!’
I laughed and told him that Raj ji had promised to reach the set by noon and
make up for the lost hours by shooting late in the evening.
As promised, Raj ji did reach the sets at noon. I had devised a plan wherein I
would shoot those scenes which he wasn’t in first and then shoot his portion
when he arrived. This system worked out perfectly and we were able to shoot a
large number of scenes in less time.
Once, however, when we were shooting outdoors in the deserts of Jaisalmer,
he was a little late in reaching the set. Since we were shooting in the open desert,
we could usually spot Raj ji’s car from a distance. That day, it was almost 12.30
p.m. when we finally saw the car. I decided to play a prank and told my chief
assistant director, Vijay Pandey, and the production controller to switch off all
the arc lights and turn down the reflectors which would suggest to Raj ji that the
unit had been sitting idle, waiting for him to arrive.
 Everyone obeyed and took their positions. I turned my chair around so that
Raj ji would see my back when he arrived and pretended to read a newspaper. I
told Vijay to stand facing the entrance and provide me with a running
commentary. He was under strict instructions to keep a straight face and, under
no circumstances let the cat out of the bag. To his credit, he did a fine job of it.
When Raj ji arrived, he quickly rushed to the make-up room, along with
Repti, his man Friday.
‘Abbas, I am sorry. I got a little late today. Has no shooting taken place
because of me?’ he asked me remorsefully after he emerged with his make-up
on.
I got up hurriedly, acting as if I had just noticed him. ‘Yes, Raj ji, today . . . err
. . . we were thinking that we would do your shots first but . . .’ I lied with a
straight face.
He looked at me and then walked over to the nearest light and put his hand on
it to check if it was cold or hot. He had caught on to our prank! The whole unit,
Raj ji included, started laughing loudly and everybody got down to preparing the
shot for him. He was truly a great sport.
Another evening, just after we finished shooting, he rushed into my tent and
showed me a brand new double-barrel gun he had bought. He asked if he could
go out and shoot a gazelle. Since this was an army area he had got clearance
from the commanding officer. I asked Bob Christo, who was acting in the film
but was also someone I knew I could rely on, to accompany him as a backup
because I was not very sure of Raj ji’s ability to fire a gun.
The driver of the jeep slowed down on spotting a gazelle. Raj Kapoor who
was sitting in front took aim, and simultaneously Bob, standing behind him, also
took aim and shot. The kick lifted the barrel of Raj ji’s gun into the air, and he
missed the gazelle. It was the shot from Bob’s gun which brought the poor
animal down. It was hailed around the camp, however, that Raj Kapoor had shot
a gazelle; the secret was suppressed from the crew. Raj ji, flush with his ‘kill’,
spent two hours with the chef in the kitchen preparing the meat, When the food
was ready he walked in gleefully like a head chef with his ‘sous’ chef and
‘butler’ carrying a huge dish of delicious meat. Before he divided the portions,
Raj ji raised his hand as if it were a large knife and, drawing an imaginary line
down the centre, said, ‘This half is mine; the rest is for you all to share.’ We all
burst out laughing.
In 1982, I was invited by the Russian government to the Moscow Film
Festival to attend a screening of Abdullah, which had been released all over the
country with 100 prints, a record for those times. I was astounded by the
adulation the Russian people had for the great Raj ji and I was touched when I
heard ordinary Russians on the roads singing Awara hoon (I am a wanderer)
from Awara. I will never forget the moment when I walked on to the stage in
front of an audience of 6000 people in the large Russian cinema hall, to present
Raj ji. The thundering standing ovation lasted for almost ten minutes.
Raj Kapoor’s creative genius was undeniable, and the story of the creation of
one of the most popular songs in his film Sangam is testament to his brilliance.
Keen to get Vyjayantimala, a top star of her times, to be his heroine in that
film, he sent her a telegram saying ‘Bol Radha bol sangam hoga ki nahin’. (Tell
me, Radha, if there is a possibility of a confluence, of flowing together.) She
replied promptly with a three-word telegram: ‘Hoga hoga hoga.’ (Yes, yes, yes.)
This prompted the ever-creative Raj Kapoor to come up with a strategy to get
Vyjayanti to agree to do the film.
He called Shailendra, the famous lyricist, and showed him both the telegrams.
He then walked out into the studio compound, lost in thought. Fifteen minutes
later he returned with an additional line written on a piece of paper from his
cigarette packet. The lines now read: ‘Tere mann ki Ganga aur mere mann ki
Jamuna ka / Bol Radha bol sangam hoga ke nahin / Hoga hoga hoga.’ (Will
there be a confluence of the Ganges of your thoughts and the Yamuna of mine,
tell me, Radha? Yes, yes, yes, there will be.)
It was 1 a.m. when Raj ji picked up the phone and called Jaikishan, the
famous musical maestro. He arrived about an hour and a half later and the three
of them got to work on the song—Jaikishan on the harmonium, Raj ji with his
duff and the lyrics flowing from Shailendra’s pen with suggestions from Raj ji.
By 6 a.m. the song was complete. One could call it a concerted effort but it was
indeed the genius of Raj Kapoor.
In those days, films used to take a couple of years to complete. Generally
producers used to record songs before they got into shooting scenes. Zarine and
I, together with the Wali Ahad of Swat in Pakistan and his wife Naseem,
daughter of President Ayub Khan, were invited to be present at the Tardeo music
studio for the recording of another song from Sangam which has been popular
ever since—Ye mera prem patra padhkar. (After you read my love letter.) We
were delighted to be a part of this little moment in musical history.
My last meeting with Raj Kapoor was when I went to visit him at the Breach
Candy Hospital in Bombay where he had been admitted with some respiratory
complications.
When I reached his room, I saw he was having an argument with Krishna ji,
his wife, over his favourite eau de cologne, the famous 4711. The bottle was
over and he wanted to know why another had not been ordered. Raj ji could
behave like a child at times, a facet of his personality I found very endearing.
Krishna ji was trying to pacify him but without success, so I decided to
intervene and told him that I would organize the bottle of cologne with the help
of a friend of mine from Dubai, as early as possible.
The bottle arrived in a day’s time, but by then Raj ji had gone to New Delhi to
receive the prestigious Dada Saheb Phalke Award from the President of India.
He collapsed at the event and had to be rushed to the All India Institute of
Medical Sciences for treatment. I rushed to Delhi but it was too late as he was
already in a coma. I handed over the bottle of 4711 quietly to Krishna ji.
At his funeral in Bombay a few days later, the entire film industry and hordes
of his fans turned up. It was a day when the entire nation cried. Perhaps, the
world too. I was devastated at the loss of the man who had been my friend,
philosopher and guide. As I watched the smoke rising skywards from his funeral
pyre, the song Awaara hoon from the first film I had ever seen, played in my
mind. The realization that I would never see him again dawned on me, and in
that moment my restraint broke and I cried like a child.
Some days later, I received a call from Krishna ji and what she said to me
brought tears afresh to my eyes.
She said, ‘Abbas, after the last bath, we anointed his body with the eau de
cologne that you brought for him.’

Na hua par na hua Mir ka andaz naseeb

Zouk yaaron ne bade zor gazal mein maara
 The creativity of Raj Kapoor was drowned in the cacophony of his
contemporaries.

There will never be another Raj Kapoor.

With Raj Kapoor

 4
Meeting My Life Partner

One fine day, Feroz told me that he had found a beautiful, large flat in Juhu.
This was an area of Bombay which I knew little about, except that it was away
from the city, where all my friends lived. In fact, I hadn’t even realized that Juhu
was, at the time, an island—though it has been connected since.
I didn’t have very high expectations when I drove there with him. However, I
soon discovered that I was wrong, and it wasn’t long before I fell in love with
the area.
At that time Juhu was a very quiet place with the atmosphere of a village and I
found many aspects of it quite charming. It had, for instance, gaslights which
were lit every evening by a fellow from the municipality who would come on his
bicycle, carrying a long pole with a hook at the end. Then there was Juhu beach,
which drew me from the moment I set eyes on it, with its clean, silver-brown
sand and lush palms fringing the island.
As we entered Jussawalla Wadi, now known as Oberoi Enclave, we stopped
right opposite what would be our home for many years to come. Feroz finalized
the deal and signed the lease agreement and a couple of days later, we moved
from our apartment in Marine Drive to our lovely airy apartment overlooking the
sea and surrounded with palms which swayed in the breeze. That evening, we
celebrated with our friends and I knew we had made the right decision.
The atmosphere of Jussawalla Wadi was enchanting. Beautiful villas with
lovely gardens were awash with bright, soft sunlight, shaded by towering palms
and cooled by the breeze from the sea. From the very first day when Feroz and I
moved in, the community welcomed us with open arms and made us feel right at
home with neighbours dropping in to see if we needed any help. Over time, we
got to know each and every member of this wonderful community—people like
the Shroffs, the Engineers, the Katraks, the famous writer Rajbans Krishen
Khanna with whom I used to discuss ideas on history, politics and other matters.
He was a close associate of Nehru and Sheikh Abdullah. I shared his concerns
for the highest ideals of nation building and humanity. He was a guiding light in
my early life. He and his wife Usha Khanna, founder of the popular Samovar
Café, were both wonderful human beings and an extraordinary couple. I also got
to know respected actor Balraj Sahni, famous writer–director K. Abbas and a
host of Parsi and Bori Muslim families. I remember Mrs Jer Jassawala, an
elderly Parsi lady who wore shorts all the time.
Another couple, whom I used to great on the beach every day, was celebrated
director Satyen Bose and his wife, Ruby. One day, they invited Feroz and me to
their home for dinner, a night that marked the beginning of a long friendship
between us. I didn’t know it then, but Satyen would have a big hand to play in
my future.
Some weeks after moving in, I was sitting in the spacious balcony of our
apartment overlooking the access road to Jussawalla Wadi and reading Leo
Tolstoy’s classic War and Peace when I heard a girl’s voice. Something about it
caught my attention and I looked up from the book to see who it was. An
extraordinarily beautiful young girl in shorts was chasing after an elderly obese
man. She repeatedly called him by his name—‘Nana Bhai’—until he stopped.
When she caught up with him, she took his hand and said in Gujarati, ‘Tamune
Mummy buleway che,’ (Mummy is calling you) and together they walked back
past my flat.
I had never seen such a beautiful girl in my life. Though she was totally
oblivious to my presence on the balcony, I could not take my eyes off her. It
really was as if an arrow had pierced my heart, and I felt the pain of pleasure
surge within me. As I watched her turn into the house next to my immediate
neighbour’s, I was determined to get to know her. Thoughts of her dominated the
rest of my day and that night I even dreamt of her.
Until then, I had never felt a lasting interest in any of the girls I had met in my
active Bombay social life, though a few of them had been keen to be my
girlfriend. I remember, in particular, two very pretty Sindhi girls who had a crush
on me and even though I enjoyed their company, my interest in them was not
serious. But this girl was different—she was an enchantress!
 Our first picture for one of the magazines

The next day, I was up early so I decided to go for a jog and a swim in the
ocean. As I passed the small house into which she had disappeared the day
before, the thought of her infused my mind and body with energy and I jogged
ten kilometres that day! Just seeing this girl from a distance, without meeting or
talking to her, filled my heart with the kind of joy you feel when you’ve found
something you’d lost. I was eighteen, a lanky, skinny boy just shy of 6'2". She,
as I found out eventually, was just thirteen, but to me had looked like a sixteen-
year-old beauty. Years later, she confessed that she had fallen for the intense look
on my face and my baritone voice.
The story of our romance began the day we met: 2 May 1960. I was preparing
to go out for a run and a swim in the sea when I spotted her walking towards the
beach with another girl. I started jogging and crossed them, purposely ignoring
their presence, but stopped some distance away. I looked for a twig but I
couldn’t find one, so I bent down and wrote a big ‘HI’ on the sand (which,
soaked as it was with the waters of the sea, made a big, clean writing slate) with
my index finger. Then I loped away, only to stop further ahead and look back. I
saw both girls curiously looking at what I had written on the sand, and then, to
my delight, my dream girl bent down, wrote something and walked back with
her friend. I waited impatiently for a short while then returned to the spot to see
what she had written on the sand before the rapidly rising tide washed her words
away. I got there just in time to catch a glimpse of her answering ‘HI’ before the
waves erased it. But it was enough for me! Emboldened with joy, I ambled
towards them and introduced myself with a warm smile, ‘Hello! I am Abbas
Khan.’
My dream girl was standing right in front of me with dots of sweat above her
upper lip. Her beautiful smile was like sunshine and I couldn’t help noticing that
she had a full mouth. She looked at me and said, ‘I am Zarine Katrak.’ We gazed
into each other’s eyes and in that moment, I knew hers were the eyes of someone
I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. After what seemed like ages, I broke
the silence; the words just spilled out of my mouth. ‘I want to marry you. Will
you say yes?’
Understandably, she was startled by my admission, but she quickly regained
her composure and said, ‘If after a year I feel the same way as I feel about you
now, I will say yes.’
Now, when I recall that encounter, it seems like I am watching a scene from a
movie in which two lovers meet, fall in love and the world stands still.
Her answer was intriguing but it made my respect for her soar. I had found my
girl and I felt I could spend my whole life with her in bliss. She was my destiny.
As we stood there, not quite knowing what to say to each other, there was a
sudden storm accompanied by the cool winds whistling through the tall palm
trees. I could visualize the two of us standing on the top of a mountain looking at
a magnificent golden-hued sky and listening to the rustling leaves of the trees.
The scene felt so real that I could smell the aromatic scent of the flowers mixed
with the freshness of the evening breeze.
That night I slept like a log and the next morning, jogged ten kilometres along
Juhu beach, bursting with energy and happiness.
Though I was blessed with a large loving family and many close friends,
Zarine very quickly became my confidante, the person I trusted the most and
whose advice I relied on. It didn’t take long for me to discover that not only was
she intelligent and mature for her age, but she also had the kind of common
sense which is so uncommon in most people.
 Our courtship lasted six long years and they were some of the happiest years
of my life. We used to walk aimlessly for hours on Juhu beach, hand in hand,
whispering sweet nothings to each other and dreaming of our future. My dreams
were the only asset I had at that time; I had no money in my pocket, and
constantly worried about how I would ever provide for her. The thought haunted
me and hung like a dark cloud over my head. I was not one to be pessimistic for
long, though, and was determined to find my niche in life and become successful
so that we could build a good life together.
One evening while walking on the shore, I was feeling particularly confident
about the future. Pointing to a row of beautiful villas on Juhu beach, I asked
Zarine to choose one that she would like to own and promised to buy it for her
one day. She smiled, looked carefully at the villas, selected a very modest-
looking one, and said, ‘Absi, [that’s what she calls me] that small one will be
enough for us.’
I shook my head and said, ‘No, no, select a bigger one! That’s too small.’
As we strolled, we passed a large white house on the Silver Beach Estate.
‘That’s a beautiful house!’ she suddenly exclaimed. Little did we know then that
years later we would buy and live in that big house on Silver Beach, now known
as Sanjay House, our home of many years.
As she grew older, Zarine became a model and was swamped with
assignments, which introduced her to a completely new world. She would travel
for work not only within Bombay, but sometimes also to Delhi and Calcutta.
Even though I knew that male and female models worked in close proximity, I
was never jealous because it never, even in the remotest recesses of my mind,
occurred to me that Zarine would ever allow an outsider to invade our space. We
both knew that we were committed to each other and it was always going to be
‘till death do us part’.

Introducing Zarine to My Mother and Family

When my beloved mother arrived from Bangalore, I waited for an opportunity to
introduce Zarine to her. One day as we were sitting and chatting on our balcony,
my mother mentioned that she had noticed a pretty girl passing each day and that
she had responded to my mother’s smile and wave of hand. I was thrilled to
know that she liked my precious find and concluded it was time to make the
introductions. And so, a few days later, I surprised my mother by inviting Zarine
over to the house. My mother was so happy to meet her that she insisted Zarine
join us for lunch. To my mother’s utter delight, Zarine had a good appetite and
she happily kept on taking more food on her plate.
After that day, Zarine became a frequent guest to our home and in a short time
she had blended seamlessly into our family, even with my brothers hovering
around her and teasing her. It was as if she was already a Khan. My mother
loved her company, particularly because she was a real ‘foodie’ and would ask
my mother to share her recipes with her. Later, Zarine translated all these recipes
carefully in her neat handwriting into the bestselling cookbook Family Secrets:
The Khan Family Cookbook which won Best Book of the Year in the Gourmand
World Cookbook Awards in 2016. Zarine has carried on my mother’s tradition of
preparing excellent food and ensuring a stimulating discourse at the table. This is
an essential aspect of the Khan family, enjoyed not only by our children but also
by a stream of friends and VIP guests over the years. As in my childhood, the
dining table was where our children received much of their education—to not
speak ill of anyone, to serve the weaker sections of society and to be proud of
our country. Zarine and I have passed this torch to our children and it fills us
with pride when people praise and appreciate our children.
Dear Absi,
It was destined! How else would a Bandra girl and a Bangalore boy
suddenly move to Juhu in Jussawalla Wadi and become neighbours? I guess
it was love at first sight. You had reminded me of the handsome hero in the
Mills & Boon books which were very popular among schoolgoing teenage
girls then. We met . . . and the world stood still! I was thirteen and you were
eighteen.
It’s been a long time since then, and now we are both grandparents to
nine loving grandchildren. The journey has had many up and downs, but
having you beside me has given me the strength to face all the trials of our
life. You are a very special man who has the spirit and the courage of never
saying ‘Can’t’. I love your favourite saying: ‘If it’s possible it will be done,
and if it’s impossible it SHALL be done!’ With you in my life, I was never
afraid even in the worst of times, as I felt you would see us through.
Besides being a good husband who gave me a beautiful life, you are an
excellent father. You have always dreamed big! But somehow, through sheer
hard work and determination, you make wishes come true. But what I love
most about you is your generosity towards the poor! Of course, sometimes I
gently have to remind you to take it a bit easy when you tip too
extravagantly. Your spontaneous reply at such times is, ‘Please, Zarine,
don’t lecture me on this!’ Now I have learnt to lie back and just enjoy all the
attention we get because of this, whether it’s in a restaurant or a hotel
where the staff welcome us with open arms! When I look at our life, I
realize that in spite of our many difficulties like the thirteen months of your
hospitalization after your fire accident and other ups and downs, I still
thank God for allowing me to meet this very special man, who has been a
great husband and an excellent father through it all.

Your loving wife,

Zarine
 5
My Entry into Films

Tarzan Goes to India

My first proper break in films came when Feroz was signed to play the romantic
lead in an MGM film called Tarzan Goes to India (1962), being shot by a
Hollywood team in the Mysore jungle. Feroz got me a job as an assistant
director to John Guillermin, who later directed films like Towering Inferno and
King Kong. I was very excited about my prospects and to meet John Guillermin,
particularly when they hired me on a salary of Rs 500 a week. John Guillermin
took a liking to me; he recognized my keenness and hard work, and would
entrust me the job of arranging the background action for the shots. He
communicated directly with me, at times side-stepping other ADs who were
senior to me.
I used to slave for John Guillermin, leaving the hotel at 6.30 a.m. sharp to
reach the location which was 100 kilometres away and getting ready to take the
first shot at exactly 9 a.m. One day, on the way to the location, he observed that
the leaves and branches had been lopped off the trees. He thought it was strange
and asked me if I knew what might have happened, but I didn’t. When we
arrived on location, we found out that the leaves and branches had been cut to
feed the massive herd of 175 elephants in the film. John Guillermin lost his
temper and blasted the producer, saying, ‘How could you do that? It will destroy
the environment.’
Elephants played a big part in the film, and in one scene we had to shoot a
stampede. Hundreds of labourers dug a giant ‘U’—almost 300 metres long, 3
metres wide and 1.5 metres deep. At the mouth of the ‘U’, a set of a narrow
mountain pass was built. Tarzan was supposed to lead the elephants to safety as
the government was building a dam and flooding the area. The other actors in
the scene—Feroz, Simi and a little boy—all climbed on to the elephant, but
surprisingly, the actor playing Tarzan, Jock Mahoney, refused. John Guillermin
was furious and said, ‘Jock, how can you not sit on this elephant; you are Tarzan.
See, all of them have done it except you. I have a thousand drummers with three
hundred apache repeater rifles ready to make the rin-din to make them run fast
and you are wasting time.’
An argument ensued but Mahoney did not budge and eventually the stuntman
had to replace him. John, who was slightly built compared to Jock Mahoney,
who was 6'4" and weighed 110 kilograms, mocked ‘Tarzan’, calling him a
chicken. Mahoney smiled coolly and said to John, ‘Why don’t you find
somebody your own size to fight?’ After witnessing this tiff I left and went to the
back end of the ‘U’ canal in a jeep with a walkie-talkie. All the members of the
crew were ready and waiting for my order.
It was a magnificent sight. John Guillermin said, ‘Abbas, are you ready?’ I
told him I was. John then gave the orders for the cameras to roll. This was a
challenging moment for me because after days of planning, procuring the
elephants from all over the state and confining them in the giant ‘U’ for the
elephant exodus scene, I could not afford to make a single mistake. So, when I
heard John’s voice saying ‘Action’, I fired my Winchester rifle, which was the
signal to fire hundreds of rifle rounds, backed by 200 men beating on big empty
tin cans. The din was enough to get the elephants into a tizzy. It looked
dangerous and I was deeply concerned for the safety of the actors. I knew the
stuntman could take care of himself in case of an emergency but not the other
three, who were doing this for the first time in their lives. I was also concerned
for the special stunt cameraman and his south Indian assistant who was
positioned right in the middle, fronting the elephant charge. He had a white
bamboo curtain in front of him so the elephants would split into two sections to
avoid the white screen when they approached the centre camera. This was a
high-risk shot but the cameramen showed no fear and it worked.
I told the jeep driver to drive alongside the elephants. I was amazed at the
speed at which the elephants were running; the speedometer indicated that we
were travelling at 30 mph! The shot looked magical and the elephants ran
through the pass magnificently, but some fifty elephants ran off into the jungle. It
took quite a while for the mahouts to retrieve them from the jungle for other
shots. By the end of the day, I was hoarse from shouting and giving instructions
to the team, but John was pleased with the scene.
The American unit seemed to have greater respect for me after that. Joe Levy,
the production manager, asked me to do him a favour and get about Rs 5000
worth of firecrackers. I agreed grudgingly as this was not my job. I went to the
Mysore bazaar, bought two large boxes and left them outside his office. Later, I
got a message from Joe to come to his office, and when I got there I saw the two
local production managers standing around looking peeved. In front of them, Joe
asked me how much I had paid for the crackers. I told him I had bought them for
Rs 5000. At this, he brought out a small box of crackers, and said to one of the
local production managers, ‘You said you bought this for Rs 10,000 but Abbas
has got a bigger box for only Rs 5000.’
Later, I realized that I was undermining the production managers’ scheme and
apologized.

* * *

One night, we were having briefing sessions and discussing the next day’s call
sheet which included the role of a pilot. Suddenly, John told me to be ready with
make-up the next day, as I would be doing that role. I was pleasantly surprised to
hear this and not a little excited. Of course I agreed and since I was the baby of
the unit, everyone helped me. As I sat on a biplane parked at Mysore airport, the
costume guys came and put a leather helmet and wind glasses on my head. I
looked in the mirror and I couldn’t see my face so I asked John Guillermin what
to do. I told him that I had an idea: while flying, I could turn around, look at
Tarzan and remove my goggles. He laughed out loud but agreed to my
suggestion and that’s how the shot was taken. It was a success.
The first shot of Tarzan Goes to India had two baby elephants running and
nudging Tarzan awake. We hid bananas in Tarzan’s lap, who was shown sleeping
under a banyan tree with his back to the camera. The handlers managing the
baby elephants at a nearby river would let go of them at the sound of ‘Action’
and quickly hide behind the bushes while the animals came running with lifted
trunks and nudged Tarzan. As he woke up, Tarzan would greet them with a
‘good morning’ and feed them the bananas. The trick was to keep the baby
elephants hungry during the rehearsals and feed them just one banana to provide
the incentive to run over to Tarzan.
I learned the craft of directing a film from John Guillermin: the intensity and
the concentration required for setting up each shot; the discussions on camera
movements with the cameraman; how to capture the highlights of the scene; how
to juxtapose the background action; the importance of understanding the
psychology of the actor; and last, but not least, how to make animals act. The
excitement of working in a real film unit was incredible. The words ‘Camera’,
‘Roll’, ‘Action’, ‘Cut’ became music to my ears and in the night, I used to look
up at the ceiling and wish to be able to make a name for myself in this business.
John was happy with my work and asked me to join him in South Africa. I
was flattered, but I didn’t accept his generous offer as I felt that my destiny was
beckoning me to stay. It was a good decision. John hugged me and gave me a
letter of recommendation saying I was a top-class first assistant director. I
treasured the letter for years.
I remember spending my first salary on buying an expensive silk sari for
Zarine, my sweetheart.

Shooting for Haqeeqat at the Indo-China Border

Although I had made my debut as an actor with the small part in Tarzan, my first
real break came from Chetan Anand, a respected intellectual who had been a
teacher at Doon School in Dehradun. His younger brother, Dev, was an
established film star considered to be in the same league as Dilip Kumar and Raj
Kapoor. Chetan Anand lived near us in Juhu in a large cottage facing the sea. He
had announced the making of the film Haqeeqat (1964) based on the fierce 1962
Sino-Indian war. One day, out of the blue, he sent for me—even now I don’t
know how he heard about me—but of course I was thrilled.
I found him a very cultivated and intense person with a winning smile.
Without much of an introduction, he said, ‘I would like you to work with me on
my film. Of course I can’t give you the main lead but I will cast you. Frankly I
haven’t even written the script yet!’ I was impressed with his truthful
presentation of facts and without any hesitation said I’d do it. He told me a bit
about the film and said I would have to go to the military training camp in Santa
Cruz for about a month to learn how to handle weapons and other aspects of
military life. ‘This will help you while performing,’ he said, and I was very
happy to comply.
My role in the film was that of a young soldier whose friend is shot in a
pitched battle with the Chinese. Because my character knows that his friend has
a girlfriend whom he loves very much, he tries to help him to safety, even though
the friend has been badly wounded. At one point, I had to burst out crying as I
came out from behind a rock, the tears being not only for the loss of my friend
but, symbolically, for the defeat of the Indian regiment. This was a challenge!
How would I make myself cry in front of so many people? I stood behind the
rock, knowing that the unit was all set and the cameras were placed and ready. I
wondered for a while, and then came up with the solution—I hit myself on my
right shin bone with the butt of the Sten gun. I hoped this would trigger the tears
and it did. As I came into the sight of the cameras, I burst into tears as directed.
My first attempt at method acting!
The film was being shot in Leh, Ladakh, on the Indo-China border, and
Chetan Anand, Priya Rajvansh, Dharmendra, Balraj Sahni, Vijay Anand and I
were staying at the officers’ mess. One evening, after a drink, Dharmendra and I
decided to go across to the soldiers’ mess to meet the rest of the crew that was
staying there. A snow leopard was rumoured to be on the prowl in the area and
we were asked to be careful. We decided to play a prank and scare our crew
members. We quietly walked up to the window of the large tent where a group
was staying; we could see they were engrossed in playing cards. We threw
ourselves at the cloth wall, and started scratching it and making the growling
sounds of a leopard. To our amusement, they got frightened and started shouting
hysterically. We entered then, laughing loudly, and when they saw us, the crew
members heaved a sigh of relief and told us that we had scared the dickens out of
them.
 A still from Haqeeqat

On the way back, in the pitch dark and terrible cold, as we approached our
camp we heard the word ‘Tham! (Stop!) Password?’
The moment I heard the sentry call out, all I could think of was Major A.G.
Singh, Camp Commander, telling us how a young captain had been shot dead a
few days before we had arrived at the camp for not responding with the
password at the call of the sentry. I braced myself to receive a bullet because
neither of us had even thought to ask for the password when we left.
When we did not respond again, we heard the terrifying sound of a rifle being
cocked. It was enough to make Dharmendra and me sweat even in the sub-zero
temperature. We knew we had to do something quickly or risk getting shot.
It was Dharmendra who spoke up in a faltering voice, ‘Arre, hum filmwaale
hain . . . filmwaale.’ (We are the film people . . . film people.)
There was a pause from the other side and complete silence for the next ten
seconds, the longest ten seconds that I have ever experienced in my life.
 Suddenly, a torch was flicked on. As the bright light from the torch hit our
faces, blinding us, the sentry shouted a command, ‘Haath upar.’ (Hands up.)
We squinted in the bright light and immediately put our hands up. A voice
boomed, ‘Aage badho!’ (Come forward!)
Dharmendra repeated, ‘Main Dharmendra hoon, yaar . . . actor.’ (I am
Dharmendra, the actor.) While we waited anxiously for a response, we heard the
sound of gravel crunching underfoot coming towards us. A burly Sikh soldier
walked up to us, his eyes fixed on Dharmendra all the while.
To our great surprise, he let out a yell of excitement. We imagined him to be a
fan, but soon realized that the man was an acquaintance of Dharmendra’s from
his village in Punjab. Dharmendra cursed him good-naturedly in choicest
Punjabi while I simply let out a sigh of relief at still being alive.

Transporting 600 ‘Chinese’ soldiers for shooting

For the shooting of a war scene, Chetan Anand required Chinese soldiers. He
had already spoken to the defence ministry and had been given permission to use
600 Gurkha soldiers for the scene, but he was still nervous because the shooting
had been planned on a grand scale for the next day and he did not want anything
to ruin the carefully mounted scene.
As I was one of the youngest members of the unit and very close to Chetan ji,
he asked me to go down to Karu, about 40 kilometres from our camp in Leh, and
oversee the smooth transportation of the Gurkha soldiers from the army unit that
was stationed there to the location of the shooting.
It was already late afternoon when I left with two trucks loaded with Chinese
army uniforms and prop wooden rifles to fetch the brave Gurkha soldiers from
their camp. I reached the unit by the evening and was taken on foot to complete
the last leg of the journey through meandering mountain trails and narrow
passes, all fortified with sandbags, to finally reach the commanding officer’s
tent.
I stood at the entrance and saw two officers engrossed in playing chess.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
They looked at me intently for a few seconds, then back at each other, and
finally said, ‘Hi, who are you?’
 I smiled at them and said, ‘Good evening, I am Abbas Khan, from Mr Chetan
Anand’s film unit. I have come in connection with the Gurkha soldiers that are
required for shooting the war scene.’
The commanding officer came forward and shook my hand.
‘Ah yes, welcome. They are at your disposal, Abbas Khan. Tell me, when do
you need them?’
I told them that the soldiers would have to leave with me at the crack of dawn
the next morning. He nodded and instructed two of his junior officers to get the
men and the transportation organized.
The following morning, we were ready to depart at 5 a.m. Even though I knew
that these were our own brave Gurkhas carrying wooden prop rifles and wearing
Chinese army uniforms, it was an awe-inspiring sight. The commanding officer
told me that he would be travelling with us as the men were his responsibility. I
welcomed his decision and we set out on our journey to Leh.
I was in the first jeep of the large convoy, with the commanding officer by my
side. The Gurkha soldiers were in an upbeat mood as it was a picnic of sorts for
them, away from the regiment. They were behaving like children, singing and
dancing inside the open trucks and generally having a whale of a time.
Excitement was writ large on their faces.
We were nearly halfway along the mountainous road when we saw an army
jeep displaying the stars of a three-star general approaching us from the opposite
side. The commanding officer nudged me in the ribs and playfully said under his
breath, ‘Watch the fun now!’
The general’s jeep whizzed past us at great speed. Then, we heard the loud
screeching sound of the jeep braking hard. I looked at the commanding officer
and he smiled back at me.
‘I can hear him coming back,’ he said to me.
The next second, the general’s jeep drew alongside ours. He was leaning out
of the jeep with his revolver in hand, screaming, ‘What the bloody hell is going
on? Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?’
The commanding officer stopped our jeep, got out and explained the situation
to the general. I could not hear what was being said as I was still in the jeep, but
could see the anger on the general’s face turn to an expression of relief.
 All I could hear at the end of the conversation was the general saying loudly,
‘Chetan Anand! These bloody filmwallahs . . .’
The commanding officer came back to the jeep, got in beside me and we
continued our journey without any further incident. On the way, he laughed and
commented, ‘The general must have got alarmed at seeing so many Chinese
soldiers on this side of the border.’
I nodded and wondered why the general had not been informed in advance of
the movement in the first place and whether he had risked his life in stopping
and turning around to investigate the way he had done. To this day, I have not
been able to decide whether the general displayed bravery or foolishness.
Maybe, it was a bit of both.
Haqeeqat was a very successful film and was well received both in India and
abroad, including the Cannes Film Festival. Chetan Anand called me to his Juhu
residence on his return from Cannes and told me that the international press had
noted my work in particular; no other artist had been singled out for praise. I was
quite thrilled by this approbation.
After Haqeeqat I felt poised to make my destiny in this enchanted world of
cinema; I felt that my dream of stardom was within reach. This made me reflect
on my earlier days when I used to stand for hours outside Brabourne Stadium in
Churchgate to watch the stars arriving for the highly rated Filmfare Awards.
They would alight from their cars to the roaring welcome of a huge crowd of
fans, who screamed their names and the gods of the industry would wave back in
acknowledgement. Even dreaming to be one of the celebrated heroes of the film
world seemed a far cry then. But as it was destined, I would belong there soon.
My curiosity about the magical personalities of the industry took me to the
Friday premieres of new films. Throngs of fans would choke the route to the
cinema, especially Naaz Cinema which at that time had a narrow entrance. The
cavalcade of cars brought many invitees to the cinema each week and fans
would push against each other to get a glimpse of the heroes. It was a crazy
sight. Occasionally a frenzied fan would scream, ‘So and so star is coming!’, and
the crowd would get even more excited and close in on the approaching car,
fighting each other just to get a glimpse of the hero or heroine. But if it turned
out to be some other hero the fans would jeer at him saying, ‘Yeh toh hero nahin
zero hai!’ (He’s not a hero, he’s a zero!) Observing this from a distance I would
imagine myself to be the hero sitting in the car receiving the adulation of these
people.
I would dream of a time when phone would ring non-stop, when I’d be
courted by a stream of film producers, directors and luminaries—the social
who’s who of Bombay—together with the leading media. In my dreams they
would request me for meetings or a mere handshake and the media would buzz
all around describing me as the most handsome actor on the Indian screen. I
would be a hypocrite if I were to say that I felt daunted by the challenges that I
hoped were in store for me, when the truth is I was thrilled, excited and raring to
make my mark in the arena of films.
 6
Closer to My Dreams

One morning, soon after Haqeeqat was released, Satyen Bose came over to my
house in Juhu. I assumed he had come to ask me to push his old Morris car
again. This had become such a regular occurrence that I had even asked him why
he didn’t buy a new one. He had told me, laughing, that it was an English car
which he was very sentimental about and he wouldn’t get another one easily.
However, on this particular day, I was in for a surprise. He said, ‘No, I have
not come here to ask you to push the car but to give you a push—into films.’ He
explained that he had a good script about two boys, one blind and the other lame.
I would be the romantic lead with a pivotal role in the film. I was delighted and
accepted the offer readily.
The next day he took me to meet Tarachand Barjatya, the producer. He gave
me an assessing look, then turned to Satyen Bose and said, without consideration
for my presence, ‘You want to cast him?’ I am a sensitive person and I felt hurt.
This, however, strengthened my resolve to succeed so I looked at him and
smiled. He said, ‘He has a good smile.’ Just then I heard music coming from
somewhere in the building: Chahunga mein tujhe. Tarachand Barjatya stood up
and rushed out of the room. Five minutes later he came back and said he had
selected a song for the film and this had put him in a very good mood. The music
directors were Laxmikant and Pyarelal, whom I had the privilege of working
with in many of my films later on.
 I was signed up for the film Dosti (1964), but then a question arose about my
name. Satyen Bose said that there were three Abbases in the industry already—
the director–producers K. Abbas and S.M. Abbas, and the third who was a stunt
choreographer.
‘You’ll get lost among them,’ Satyen Bose said. ‘We need to find you a stage
name.’ I just looked at him, wondering what he would come up with. ‘How do
you like Sanjay?’ he said. I immediately agreed as I knew about the character of
Sanjay in the Mahabharata, and he was a visionary.
On my first day, arriving on the sets of my first film as a lead actor, I felt
nervous and excited. I was guided to my make-up room where I spent some time
learning my lines, looking in the mirror and trying to think how I would deliver
them. Just then there was a loud knock on my door and an even louder voice
summoned me to the floor in the next five minutes. Later in life, when I became
a successful star, the knock on my door changed to a soft one, and was followed
by the assistant director entering my room with a big smile, and requesting my
presence on set.
I was about to learn what it was to start at the bottom in the industry. I refused
to be distracted by the attitude of the chief assistant director on the sets of Dosti.
I decided to ignore it and focus on my work. I was not a trained actor from an
institution with a diploma or a gold medal; I was my own institution, my own
teacher. I realized that I had to fend for myself and navigate my path to the best
of my ability. I was most grateful to my ever-smiling director, my friend and
mentor Satyen Bose, who patiently guided me, encouraging me to do my best.
He told me at the end of the day that I was good and to keep it up. His words
inspired me and boosted my confidence.
Dosti proved to be a superhit and did as well as Raj Kapoor’s Sangam at the
box office. I still remember Tarachand Barjatya calling me to his office and
showing me the statements and comparing the figures. Sangam had made Rs 1.6
crore while Dosti had earned Rs 1.64 crore. The production cost of Sangam in
colour was Rs 60 lakh and Dosti in black and white was Rs 4 lakh.
Although Dosti’s success was the talk of the Bombay film industry for many
weeks after its release, I had still not benefited from this. Discouraged, I told
Satyen Bose one day while going with him to buy fish near Lido Cinema, ‘Dada,
I am so frustrated that I want to commit suicide.’ He retorted, ‘Bakwas band
karo! (Don’t talk rubbish!) Soon you will be signing many films.’ He told me
that the industry had recognized my screen presence and my baritone voice and
that I was being hailed as the most handsome star of the Indian screen.
Even so, six long weeks passed and nothing happened. It felt like an eternity. I
had promised Zarine the world, and unless my career really took off, I wouldn’t
be able to fulfil the promise. I would lose my world.
One day, however, Satyen’s words came true. There was a knock on my door
and standing there was producer Tony Walker, brother of comedian Johnny
Walker. He seemed excited and anxious at the same time. He asked me to be the
leading man in his film Dillagi (1966) and told me that he had cast Mala Sinha
as the female lead, emphasizing what a big star she was.
That evening Zarine and I celebrated with Feroz.
 With Mala Sinha

I walked on to the set of Dillagi with a huge surge of excitement. This was my
first film as the solo leading man and I felt closer to achieving my dream.
Everyone on the set applauded in welcome, the producer garlanded me and
laddoos were distributed to all present. Mala Sinha, the much celebrated leading
lady of the Hindi film industry, shook hands with me and gave me a sparkling
smile and invited me to sit beside her.
As work on Dillagi progressed, I noticed that Mala talked and giggled a lot
with the crew. She was also very warm and welcoming to me. I didn’t think of
this as patronizing but helpful; she did not flaunt her stardom at me and I held
her in the esteem she deserved, without showing the kind of sycophancy which
was the currency of the times. Between shots, Mala and I chatted, and it seemed
to me that she genuinely enjoyed my company. Which was a good thing, because
the floodgates of offers for other films had opened in the meantime and I had
already signed six films with her as the leading man.
It was as if there were no other stars in the entire film industry. It looked like
all roads were leading to my flat and I was swamped by producers and directors
wanting to sign me up for their next venture. I signed nearly 100 films within a
period of six months. Leading film industry magazines, including Screen, were
writing about this new star who had emerged. The phone kept ringing because
every journalist in the film industry wanted to interview me. The constant flurry
of activity around me was unimaginable. In one day I signed more than five
films; it might have been a record of sorts. There was hardly any time to pause
and think and it made me realize that I needed help to manage my affairs.
When I shared my challenges with Zarine, she asked, ‘Absi, what are we
going to do?’ I laughed and said that although there would be trials and
responsibilities, she would be my partner through the long journey. I also
thought that the challenges would help me grow and this sent a tingle of joy
down my spine.
Or was that a warning of the burden of stardom to come?
One day, while I was shooting, I was surprised to receive a call from a leading
actress’s father, who asked me to meet him. I invited him to my flat but he
suggested we meet elsewhere. I drove into the nearby Juhu Hotel, parked my
new sports car coupe and looked around as he had suggested we meet in the
parking lot. Very soon, a convertible Impala Chevrolet, which was the status
symbol in those days, rolled in. The gentleman stepped out of his car looking
unhappy—the smile he had on his face seemed forced. I wondered what the
matter was and why he needed to see me. He started telling me how his
daughter, the actor, thought I was a true gentleman, and liked me so much that
she wanted to marry me.
This was as ridiculous as asking Romeo, while he was climbing the vine to the
balcony where Juliet was waiting, to marry another girl who was tugging on his
foot from below. I was shocked beyond words and quickly thought back to my
conversations with her on the sets and tried to recall if her behaviour had shown
that she was smitten by me. ‘Oh my God!’ a voice inside screamed at me as I
realized that I had misinterpreted her feelings for friendship.
I quickly regained my composure and very politely thanked him for thinking
me worthy of his famous daughter. Then I added, ‘Sir, I can’t marry her. I am
already committed to my girlfriend whom I am in love with.’ The gentleman was
outraged by my refusal and threatened to cancel the five other films I was doing
with his daughter and destroy my nascent film career. He raised his hand and
snapped his fingers to make his point.
No one in my life had ever threatened me in this manner. I controlled my
rising temper, though, and responded to his outburst calmly, telling him that he
was free to do whatever he liked. I walked to my car and drove off. On the
principles of honour and self-respect, I would rather lose my career than lose
Zarine.
As soon as I reached home, one of the producers I had signed with called to
inform me that he had dropped me from his film. Two more such calls followed.
The fourth was from Devendra Goel. At first I assumed that he had called for the
same reason as the others, but he said, ‘No, I don’t like such attitude, and I am
not dropping you.’
Fortunately, the incident didn’t have a long-lasting effect, but it certainly gave
me food for thought and taught me a lot about the industry in which I had chosen
to work. I was growing up fast.

Marrying My Dream Girl

When Zarine and I decided to get married, I walked straight into my beloved
mother’s room and, after giving her a kiss and a hug, I lay down on the other bed
in her bedroom, and broke the news to her. She was delighted! She sat up
straight in her bed and said she couldn’t be happier with my decision. Together
we discussed the date and decided on 16 April 1966.
By now I was the new emerging star, and the date of my wedding was widely
publicized by the media, but before that there were other important people with
whom we had to share the news. Two of these were the aunt and uncle of one of
Zarine’s best friends and classmate Bina. Munna and Mohini Shiv Narayan were
extremely sincere and friendly people who treated Zarine as their daughter and
me as their son. If they had had their way, we would have dined with them every
night in their beautiful residence in Santa Cruz, because they loved having us in
their home, which was always joyful and full of warm bonhomie and laughter.
Mohini, partly in fun, would constantly bring up the subject of marriage and
ask when I was going to marry Zarine. So when I told her that the date had been
approved by my mother, she nearly burst into tears with delight. Munna and
Mohini hugged us affectionately and within minutes popped open the
champagne. Someone put on shehnai music on the record player and everyone
started dancing happily and congratulating us. Then Munna and Mohini played
an even more overwhelming card; they insisted that we honour them by holding
the wedding in their home.
 Soon it was time to make up the wedding guest list. Although I was a new
entrant into films I had many friends both in the industry and outside, but I
didn’t know how many of them would accept my invitation to the wedding. On
the day, however, when Feroz, along with my other brothers and sisters, received
the guests, Zarine and I were delighted to see several guests from the film
fraternity; we had clearly been accepted. I was perhaps most overjoyed when I
was able to welcome my childhood idol, Raj Kapoor, but also ecstatic that so
many others had come to share our special day—Krishna ji, Shammi Kapoor,
Kamal Amrohi, Meena Kumari, Nargis, Dharmendra, Saira Banu, music director
Jaikishan, Dara Singh, Rajendra Kumar and Mehmood, among many other close
friends from Bombay society. Jaikishan played the harmonium; Raj Kapoor
played the duff; Dara Singh did the bhangra. It was an evening of pure love and
friendship, with sounds of joy and laughter mingling with the aroma of night-
blooming jasmine from the garden. The celebrations went on until 6 a.m. the
following day.
Zarine came into my life like the fresh morning breeze—that’s how I felt
when I woke up in the morning after our first night together as man and wife.
Looking at her asleep, I planted a soft kiss on her cheek while she slept and said,
‘Good morning, my precious darling wife.’ It all felt new and exciting. I told
myself that I had to fulfil all the promises I had made to keep her happy and give
her the best in life. The thought of having children entered my mind and thrilled
me.
 Zarine and I on our wedding day with my family

Within three years of our marriage we moved into our newly built villa, the
dream house I had promised her once. We named it Sanjay House, and it was
one of the largest homes in the film industry in those days, with six bedrooms
with attached bathrooms, a dining room, a large living room, my home office, a
private theatre and a gym. We added a swimming pool, a large compound garage
for the cars, and servants’ quarters.
We were a newly married couple and I had no idea about the numerous
imposing responsibilities of setting up a house; I left all that to Zarine. The first
thing she did was furnish one bedroom and bathroom, the dining room, the
living room and the kitchen. I asked her, ‘Why don’t we furnish the entire house
then move into it in style?’
‘First we move in, then plan the furnishings while living here. We can take our
time to think and get the right furniture and fixtures without making mistakes
and losing money,’ she explained and I was incredibly impressed with the
confidence and acumen she displayed.
 Since then Zarine has managed our home and lives with such skill and grace
that I can’t help but marvel at my own fortune in finding her. In our early years
together I often wondered where she had learnt all this, but now, having lived
with her for so long, I can say one thing with confidence—that she is a natural. I
have always admired the manner in which she organizes the kitchen, the dining
table, including the selection of dishes and the delicious food, making the house
look warm and welcoming. From the start she kept everything running smoothly.
She would record the minutest details of the needs of the house, and take care of
all the maintenance—electrical, plumbing, interiors, exteriors and the garden. It
was like running a hotel.
Zarine has always been a wonderful mother. She knew exactly what the
children needed—whether it was their nutrition or their education or their
emotional needs. She took extraordinary care about their social behaviour and
responsibilities, such as their punctuality in reaching school. She instilled in
them the values of life we have always lived by. For instance, though the car
picked the children up from school in the afternoons, she made them travel to
school by public transport in the mornings. When they asked her why this
system was being imposed on them she simply told them, ‘To make you realize
the value of things in life; nothing comes for free. You have to work hard and
earn your place in the world.’ Each time I look at my beautiful daughters—
Farah, Simone and Sussanne—I thank the Almighty for painting my life with a
special brush.
Zarine is a great hostess. We love entertaining, and she has organized some
extraordinary parties in our house for anywhere from twenty to over two
hundred guests. She never brings in caterers from outside but has the food
prepared by our own chefs. Friends who visited our home openly admired the
decor of our house, and, encouraged by this and prompted by friends, she
ventured forth and founded her own extremely successful interior design firm,
Tradition. She designed not only some of the best homes at the time, but also the
interiors of public buildings such as the Maurya Sheraton Hotel in Delhi, the
Banjara in Hyderabad and the office of the chairman of the Bombay Stock
Exchange.
Zarine has always paid great attention to what I wear, not only on the screen
but otherwise too. My heroines often spoke to me about Zarine and jokingly
came up with reasons to explain why I did not bring her along on the sets; by
then she had been featured in several magazines for her work in interior
designing and had become extremely successful. They would say, good-
humouredly: ‘To spare our feeling. She is so beautiful, it might give us a
complex!’ When I narrated this to Zarine she would laugh it off.
In financial matters, we shared everything. In fact from the day we got
married I just handed over the keys to her and told her that she was an equal
partner in everything I earned. And that’s how we’ve remained till today.
I am indeed very fortunate to have a wife like Zarine. She has never allowed
the tranquillity of our home to be disturbed. She continues to hold the home
front with fortitude and courage. We have never discussed the unfortunate mess I
was in—it was too raw. Another woman might have revolted and sought divorce,
but Zarine has always believed that a human being has two sides, one good, the
other bad, and that we must always look at the good side. She saw the good side
of me and chose to stay with me despite some of the unjustifiable wrongs I have
done.

Our First Trip Abroad

Zarine and I left on our first trip abroad on 1 August 1972 aboard an Air India
flight to Tehran to meet a Sindhi friend and pick up our foreign exchange in US
dollars from him for our holiday. The system in those days was that one paid
Indian rupees in cash to a person in Bombay and the amount in foreign currency
was exchanged at that day’s prevailing rate when one was abroad.
Our first stop after Tehran was Paris and we were very excited. We wanted to
eat French onion soup in the Paris market and visit Moulin Rouge, the world-
famous nightclub that we used to see glimpses of in Hollywood movies. The
club was visited by people from across the world in those days and was much
talked about.
 Zarine and I before our first trip abroad

From Paris, we went to Nice on the French Riviera, famous for its beaches
and Mediterranean peaches. We checked into Hotel Negresco, one of the best
hotels on the Riviera, and as we were being ushered to our suite, I saw a plaque
with the name of the Greek shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis outside one of the
suites. When I was a teenager, I had read a book on Onassis in which he had
mentioned that he had become a millionaire at the age of twenty-four. His words
had left a lasting impression on my mind and I too was a millionaire by the time
I turned twenty-four. I was very impressed that we were staying in the same
hotel.
The rooms, however, were not at all impressive as they were devoid of air
conditioning. It was the month of August and the lack of air conditioning made it
unbearably hot. The boom-boom sound of the Ferraris and the Mercedes-Benzes
throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning was annoying and I
did not sleep well that night. Zarine was still fast asleep when I woke up so I
went out to have a look around. I walked towards the boutique supermarket
attached to the hotel and loitered in front of its vast fruit section. I love peaches
and my mouth was watering as I concentrated on selecting the best ones from
their display. At that moment I saw in the field of my vision a pair of naked
breasts which uncannily resembled the pink of the peaches. I slowly turned my
head and saw a stunningly beautiful, topless young blonde girl in white jeans
with a wicker basket slung on her left hand. She looked at me with an inviting
smile and said, ‘Bonjour!’
I smiled and said, ‘Bonjour!’ Her look was engaging but I just smiled and
concentrated on the peaches. I could feel her eyes on me for quite some time and
when I looked up, I saw that she was still smiling at me. I smiled back and kept
selecting peaches. When I told the story to my wife, she started laughing and
said that I was quite a hunk of a man and she couldn’t blame the young girl for
looking at me the way she had. But she also said that she didn’t believe that the
girl could be roaming around topless in an open market. I proved my point to her
when we went to the beach opposite our hotel and saw hundreds of women
roaming around topless, without any care or self-consciousness. Zarine was quite
amused by the spectacle. Later, we watched African dancers, two men and a
woman, in scanty leopard skins with white and yellow plumes and all sorts of
beads in their colourful headgear dancing away to fast engaging African music
which sounded like a cry of victory. We, and the large crowd assembled there,
watched the dancers spellbound.
Our next stop was Monte Carlo—an experience I shall never forget. Even
though I was not much of a gambler, the idea of visiting a casino in Monte Carlo
was thrilling. Zarine cautioned me, ‘Absi, please be careful. Do not lose our
money; we have shopping to do in London.’
She was standing behind me while I was playing and losing at the tables. It
was about three in the morning and the casino would close in an hour. Slightly
irritated, she kept nudging me to get up, so I left the table and we went back to
the car that was waiting to take us to our hotel. Zarine kept saying she hoped we
had enough money left for the shopping as in those days there were no credit
cards or ATMs. We were out there in the cold with whatever cash we had in our
possession.
At the hotel, when she saw I was not getting out of the car, Zarine angrily
slammed the car door and stormed away. The French driver, who though very
friendly was also a character, turned around to look at me and said, ‘Monsieur,
please listen to Madame.’
I told him to shut up and drive straight to the casino as there were hardly forty
minutes left till it closed. On reaching the casino, I quickly changed $2000, a lot
of money in those days, and sat at the very same table and started playing. I
selected number twenty-six and placed a bet of $1000, making a cheval. It was
unbelievable when I hit the number and won, so I repeated the number and, to
my delight, won again. I seemed to be in great luck that night so I placed another
bet on number twenty-six and won the third time also, making nearly $75,000 in
winnings. After I had won the third time, the croupier announced that the casino
was closed.
I was quite amazed with the bundles of francs I got as my winnings and did
not know where to keep all that money. So I stuffed it all inside my shirt and
walked out into the cool night looking like a fat man. My friend, the chauffeur,
was waiting for me. He looked at me and asked, ‘Did you win, Monsieur?’
I said, ‘You bet I did!’ and giving him a 500-franc note, told him to go home
and come in the morning.
However, after he had left, I was struck by the thought that with so much
money on my person at 4 a.m. on the Riviera, I could easily be attacked.
Nevertheless, I was feeling exhilarated and walked into a bar and had a brandy
to brace myself against the cold of the night. I started walking towards the hotel
which was just a block away and saw several girls and a bunch of boys strolling
on the streets. I inferred that they must be gigolos, remembering a recent movie,
starring Warren Beatty, where he played such a role.
As I was about to cross the road, I was intercepted by a car that came to a
screeching halt right in front of me. Just as I was regaining my composure, the
door opened and the driver, a lady, about ten years older than me, invited me in
French to hop inside. It appeared that she had mistaken me for a gigolo. I
politely said in French that I was sorry but I didn’t speak French. She at once
realized her mistake and scooted faster than she had arrived on the scene.
 I slowly opened the door of our hotel room, trying my best to avoid making
any noise which might disturb Zarine’s sleep, but as I closed the door, she called
out softly, ‘Is that you, Absi?’
I said, ‘Yes, darling.’
There was a pause and the room was still dark. She asked me in a soft voice,
‘Did you win?’
I said, ‘Yes, darling.’
Snap! The lights came on. Zarine jumped out of the bed and embraced me. I
was too exhausted by the experience of the evening, so I emptied all the money
from my trouser and shirt pockets and from inside my shirt on to the bed and
collapsed on the bed to get some sleep. The last thing I remember was hearing
the sound of crisp currency notes as Zarine sat there counting all the money I
had won that night.
Later, when we were in the US, I was most thrilled to see the city of New
York, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty and the American way of
life. I found American people to be warm and friendly. I could not have
imagined then that many years later I would be fighting for my life at the George
Town Hospital in Washington DC.
I remember an incident when I was walking on the pavement on Fifth Avenue.
Wanting to cross the road and accustomed to the Indian habit of looking to the
right for approaching vehicles, I did just that, but as I took my first step, a huge
truck swished past, barely missing me. By the time I recovered, the truck’s tail
lights could be seen disappearing down Fifth Avenue. It was yet another close
call, one of the many that I have had in my eventful life.
 7
The Apples of My Eye

My family is the most precious thing in my life, and has always come first for
me. Zarine and I have been blessed with four lovely children—three girls and a
boy. During my heavy shooting schedules, when I was at the lowest ebb of my
energy, the very thought of my children would suffuse my body with happiness
like energy from a nuclear reactor.

Farah
From the day our daughter Farah came into our lives, everything turned to gold.
She was born in Ajinkya Nursing Home on Peddar Road. Dr Ajinkya, the
gynaecologist who delivered her, informed me that my darling child had Down’s
Syndrome. I remember it was 4 a.m. and he was reeking of the liquor he had
consumed the night before. I was stunned, confused and angry and repeatedly
asked him what he meant. He very matter-of-factly told me that some children
were born like that. I looked at my baby and her flat nose with anguish and tears
in my eyes, but remember Zarine holding her in her arms as though she was
infinitely precious and murmuring in a soft, soothing voice, ‘We love you, my
darling.’
 With my kids

Luckily for us, the doctor was mistaken. It turned out that the forceps he had
used for the delivery had wrongly gripped the baby’s nose, leaving a deep mark
on it and flattening it for a while. Caroline, her nanny, massaged it every day
with oils she had brought from Goa until it regained its shapeliness.
One day, while she was playing in the sand on Juhu beach, an out-of-control
galloping pony jumped over Farah’s head and kicked her with its hind hoof,
injuring her face and head. She was just three years old at that time and Zarine
and I were distraught as we rushed her to the hospital. It was a very worrisome
day for us to see our child suffer. The sleepless nights, grief and sorrow clung to
us for months. It took Farah some time to recover from that experience and she
had a scar for a while, but eventually she grew up to be a charming, bright,
beautiful and happy child with a great sense of humour. As a young girl, she was
a natural leader and very creative. When her sisters and brother were born, she
also had full command over them; she was like a second mother.
 With Farah and Zarine

Farah was a brilliant student and after finishing the tenth standard from
Jamnabai Narsee School, she enrolled in Sapphire College, where she obtained a
bachelor’s degree in arts and history. She then went on to California, USA, and
joined the renowned and respected Gemological Institute of America where she
topped in the final year. Today, she is a well-respected name in the field of
jewellery design and is considered an expert in gemology. She is the founder–
owner of her jewellery brand FKFJ (Farah Khan Fine Jewellery) which has a
showroom on Turner Road, Mumbai, and boasts clients from all over the world.
 Farah’s wedding

Farah is married to Aqil Ali, the internationally renowned DJ, and together
they have two adorable children, the dashing Azaan and the gorgeous Fizaa who
has the most beautiful eyes in the world. Both are studious, loving and obedient
children to their doting parents. I’m very proud of Farah and love her deeply.

Simone
Our younger daughter, Simone, was born at Elizabeth Nursing Home, Malabar
Hill, Mumbai. She was a beautiful child with a delicious smile and I instantly
fell in love with her.
Though we had a large villa, as children, Simone and Farah shared a room
because Zarine felt sisters should be together and this would make them close to
each other. Simone was a studious, brilliant student and always stood first in
class and, later, first in the entire school. She was Assistant Head Pupil in the
eighth and ninth standards and then Head Pupil of the school. Like her sister, she
too studied in Jamnabai Narsee School and then joined Sapphire College from
where she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in arts.
 One day, while she was still in school, for some strange reason which was
beyond my comprehension, Simone’s PT teacher instructed her, in spite of her
protests, to perform a long jump on a concrete floor. It was a disaster. She broke
both her shin bone and her hip bone in the incident. Zarine and I were shocked
beyond words.

With Simone

A black cloud of grief and sorrow hovered over us for months. It broke my
heart to see my child limping and in pain even after the plaster was removed. I
would cry at night in my bed and wonder if my beautiful daughter would always
limp and asked God why she had to suffer so much. I was ready to do anything
in the world to see her walk normally. We consulted the best orthopaedic
surgeons, and gave her the best medical attention available, hoping and praying
that she would recover. I’m proud to say that Simone conquered that disaster
with sheer willpower, courage and determination.
Today, she is married to Ajay Arora, an extraordinary man and her teen crush.
Their marriage has an interesting background story. One day, as I was coming
out of the men’s saloon at the Hotel Maurya in New Delhi I saw an attractive
lady in a white sari emerging from the ladies’ section of the same parlour; she
was looking at me and smiling. I smiled back, thinking she was probably a fan,
but when she introduced herself, she said, ‘We are going to be related soon.’
 I was a bit taken aback but quickly regained my composure. She explained,
‘My nephew, Ajay Arora, is marrying your daughter, Simone.’
I was surprised and told her that I did not know anything about this, but she
kept chatting happily and expressing her delight at the alliance between her
nephew and my daughter. When I got into my car, I called Zarine and narrated
the incident to her. She was equally taken aback and said she would find out and
let me know. She called me back after a couple of hours and said that it was true.
Hearing that, anxiety gripped me. I wondered who this boy was. I was not
angry but disappointed that I did not know anything about it. I reached Bombay
the same night around 9 p.m. and I asked Zarine where Simone was. She replied,
‘Absi, she’s crying and is very upset. Please be tender with her.’ I called Simone
to my study as Zarine walked out; she did not want to intrude in the father–
daughter conversation.
Simone entered the room looking frightened. Her hands were clasped, her
head was bent and she had tears rolling down her cheeks. It broke my heart to
see her like that. She sat down quietly on the sofa while I looked at her. There
was silence in the room. My heart was crying out but at the same time my mind
was conjuring images of various boys I might have met in the past, trying to
place this one. I had never heard this boy’s name being mentioned in our home.
Even Farah had never mentioned anything; maybe she was protecting her sister
by keeping it a secret.
After a while, I simply asked her if we could find another match for her. She
did not answer but I saw that she was still weeping softly. Then, I asked her if
she loved him. She looked at me and said through her tears, ‘Yes, I love him,
Papa.’ I asked her if he loved her and she nodded confidently. By now, I was
overwhelmed by a surge of emotion and love for my daughter. Though who she
married was one of the most important decisions of her life, I got up and
embraced her tightly indicating my acceptance of her choice and then both of us
cried.
 Simone’s wedding

Simone’s wedding was a very significant day in my life as she was the first of
my children to be married. We had a grand reception for over 5000 guests and
the streets leading to Hotel Leela were jammed with traffic. Cabinet ministers,
state chief ministers, high-ranking bureaucrats, Bollywood stars and their
families and scores of Punjabi industrialist families from all over mingled
happily with the Khans. I got along well with Ajay’s father and he kept telling
me, ‘Simone hamari ho chuki hai.’ (Simone belongs to us now.)
Simone and Ajay are a happily married couple with three lovely children.
Arman and Yuvraaz, their two strapping boys are pursuing academic excellence
in the USA and UK respectively, and their intelligent and beautiful daughter,
Adaa, is studying at Jamnabai Narsee School, Mumbai. Ajay is from an
industrial family and he and Simone have worked hard to build their company
D’Decor, one of the world’s largest and leading producers of home furnishing
fabrics. Simone is personally the founder of a large and elegant store, which is a
treasure trove for home accessories, including furnishing fabrics specially
designed for her by D’Decor. Her store, Simone’s, is located in Amarchand
Mansion opposite the Prince of Wales Museum in South Bombay.
Simone and Ajay own a large home in the Juhu JVPD Scheme and an exotic
villa in Bodrum, on the coast of the Agean Sea, known as the Riviera, in Turkey.

Sussanne
While we were enjoying the experience of having two lovely girls, both Zarine
and I craved for a boy. But when the nurses brought Sussanne and placed her in
my arms, she looked such a beautiful bundle of joy that I was immediately
captivated. The first thought that occurred to me was: ‘Gosh, she is the spitting
image of her mother.’

With Sussanne

Even as a three-year-old, Sussanne knew her own mind. One day she insisted
on being seated at the dining table with our friends. I was cracking jokes at the
table and making everyone laugh so she said that she too had a joke to tell and
asked for my permission. We all looked at her indulgently and I said, ‘Okay,
Sussanne, please let’s hear your joke.’ She glanced around the table with a sweet
smile and started off, ‘Then and then and then so . . . and . . . The dog was
barking at the cat . . . then somebody came in . . . Then . . . then they all ran
away.’ She clearly thought this was the punch line, so we all laughed, pretending
to have understood and enjoyed the joke. I admired her for having the
confidence to take centre stage at the table and tell her charming story. It was a
good quality, which would stand her in good stead in her adult life, I thought.
Sussanne passed her ICSE board from Jamnabai Narsee School, after which
she, like her sisters, joined Sapphire College. In 1993 she went to Brooks
College of Interior Design in Long Beach, California, and graduated with an
associate art degree in interior design in 1995. Thereafter, she returned to
Mumbai and joined her mother in the interior design company. Today, she is a
top interior designer and founder of The Charcoal Project, a flourishing and
respected interior design firm.
Sussanne has always had a special place in Zarine’s heart and always got more
concessions from her mother than her older siblings. Once, when she was only
seven years old, she was having an argument with her mother on our terrace
garden. Zarine had a foot ruler in her hand and was using it as a warning
instrument though neither she nor I have ever struck our children. Sussanne was
stomping her feet while her mother kept telling her not to do it. All of a sudden,
Sussanne screeched and it sounded like a cat. Coincidentally, there was a cat
sitting close by and it too screeched in sync, almost sounding like Sussanne. I
arrived in time to catch both the action and Sussanne’s reaction to it. She looked
surprised, but saw the funny side and started laughing, as did Zarine and I.
Sussanne, like her sisters, is not only creative but determined. I remember that
when she was learning to write her name she insisted that the spelling should be
S-U-S-S-A-N-N-E, with two Ns and two Ss. It has remained.
Hrithik entered Sussanne’s life through her brother, Zayed, and my purchase
of a bicycle. When I was younger, I used to be an exercise freak. I used to swim
religiously—I still do—as well as jog, ride horses and cycle from my residence
in Juhu to Versova beach. I was very fond of racing bikes that had gears and
wanted to buy one so I asked my son, Zayed, which one I should buy. He said
that the best person to advise me on that would be Hrithik.
‘Who’s Hrithik?’ I asked.
‘My friend. He is Rakesh Uncle’s son.’
I asked him to bring Hrithik over one day. A few days later, Zayed introduced
me to a young, handsome boy with hazel-green eyes who I found to be a trifle
shy but very well mannered and respectful. On my asking, he advised me on
which racing cycle to buy, explaining the finer points that needed to be
considered. I followed his advice and bought one that suited my purpose best.
Little did I know then that this well-mannered young man would one day
become my son-in-law.
By the time Sussanne and he fell in love and decided to marry, Hrithik had
become a popular film star. In our preliminary discussions on the proposed
marriage arrangements, Rakesh Roshan, Hrithik’s father, suggested that the
wedding venue be my deluxe hotel and spa in Bangalore, the Hilton Golden
Palms. It had recently been completed and was ready for operations but had not
opened as we were doing trial runs. I told him that the hotel could only
accommodate 400 people at a time in its 150 rooms but if we planned a
reception on the poolside, we could easily invite 3000–4000 people. Rakesh
suggested that we limit the guest list to the two families and a few close friends
and have a total of 600 people with the families sharing rooms.
I was hesitant at first as I thought that the wedding of a popular star like
Hrithik would be attended by the entire film industry as well as friends from
Mumbai and overseas, but somehow Rakesh persuaded me. I agreed to go ahead
with the plan and invited my good friend and renowned chef Imtiaz Qureshi to
create for us a range of delicious food, which he did, and which was talked about
for a long time after.
As the wedding date approached, the main gates of the hotel were closed and
a big security detail was put in place as thousands of Hrithik’s fans camped
outside for four days to catch a glimpse of the excitement inside. Many also tried
jumping over the walls to come inside. Even the national press was focused on
the happenings at the wedding site in the Golden Palms.
It was a fairy-tale wedding, superbly planned by both the families. The wining
and dining went on for seven days and the hospitality of the Golden Palms was
well tested. The atmosphere was simply enchanting.
Early on during the ceremonies, when there were new arrivals outside the
main gate, I got a request from the police to at least allow the journalists to enter
the lobby to take pictures of Rakesh and me. They said it would make things
easier for them, so I agreed. We gave an audience in the lobby, which is quite
lavish with a high atrium and a metal veranda. Hundreds of pictures were taken;
hundreds of questions were asked.
None of us will forget the night of the wedding. There is a large circular road
around the Golden Palms which gave us the luxury of having a real baraat,
complete with Hrithik mounted on a horse, looking striking in a sherwani and
pagri with a sword in hand.
 Sussanne’s wedding

One of the lead dancers in the baraat was Rishi Kapoor who danced away the
night to the lively beat of the drums. He stopped after some time as he had been
dancing all the way and was out of breath. Rishi asked for a drink and I
beckoned a waiter and told him to give him a shot of whisky, which he gulped
down and joyously started dancing again.
Everyone was anxiously awaiting the bride’s arrival but Sussanne was making
Hrithik wait in the traditional way. The wait, however, extended to almost thirty
minutes and Rishi Kapoor had to stop many times to catch his breath and gulp
down a few more rounds of whisky. Though it was great fun, I was concerned
for him.
I sent messages to my wife to urge the bride to receive the groom. At last, the
Punjabi brigade gave a sigh of relief when Sussanne, along with her ladies-in-
waiting, finally approached the groom. Surrounded by almost 3000 guests, the
couple exchanged wedding vows on the island in the middle of the long pool
connected by a bridge.
 It was a magical evening. In the midst of all the music and dancing, Ghulam
Nabi and Shammim Azad’s young daughter Sophia came rushing to me, saying
that she had found a diamond ring on the dance floor. It was large rock, at least
five to ten carats! I took the ring from her and went up to the stage to make an
announcement. Dimple Khanna, a close friend of our family, screamed my name
and said it was hers, but when I invited her to take it, she started laughing and
told me she was just joking. Then I saw my diamond merchant friend Farooq
Ratansi’s wife walk calmly up to me with a smile on her face to claim her ring
and tell me she was very grateful. I handed the ring to her and promptly
announced over the mike: ‘You will never lose a diamond in the Golden Palms
but you could always lose your heart.’ People clapped and the high-spirited
celebrations went on till late and the night was lit up with an amazing fireworks
display.

Zayed
Blessed as we were with three lovely daughters, I told Zarine that we were
indeed fortunate and should thank God that they were all well and healthy. But
she said that we must have a boy because it was my desire. We waited for almost
four years, during which time Zarine became obsessed with the idea of having a
boy. Seeing how keen she was, her close friend Lalita Giri persuaded her to visit
Balaji Temple and pray for a son. The prayers, it seems, were answered.
I was shooting at R.K. Studios when I was informed that I been blessed with a
son. I was so excited that I announced an early pack-up. The crew cheered and,
as word spread through the studio, everyone clapped and congratulated me as I
rushed towards my car.
 With Zayed

Zayed was a bonny baby. When I saw him, I bent down and whispered the
azan in his ear as per Islamic custom. Zarine was so proud and she looked at me
as if to say, ‘Look, I have finally kept my promise and filled your life with three
lovely daughters and a son.’
Grooming my son from a baby to a teenage boy and to a young man was a
delightful responsibility. I enjoyed playing and doing things with Zayed right
from his childhood. I taught him swimming, snorkelling and underwater diving.
Few know that Zayed is an expert diver and water skier, thanks to Adi Godrej,
our family friend and a really great guy, who diligently instructed him.
Like his sisters, Zayed studied at Jamnabai Narsee School. He was accepted to
the Doon School in Dehradun from class six, but due to my fire accident he lost
not only his place but also a full year of schooling. In fact, all my children
missed a year of their studies due to that accident. Fortunately, we were able to
enrol him in the equally prestigious Welham’s Boys’ School in Dehradun where
he finished his eighth, ninth and tenth standards. He completed his eleventh and
twelfth standards at the Kodaikanal International School after which he got
entrance into Montgomery College, Maryland, near Washington DC. After
earning a degree in business administration from there, Zayed asked me if he
could go to the London Film School; his application was accepted and he
obtained a diploma from there.

Zayed’s wedding

Malaika Parekh, our daughter-in-law, is blessed with a strong character, and is

a very warm, loving wife and a fine mother. Zayed made the right choice in
marrying her, his sweetheart from the time they were studying together at the
Kodaikanal International School. All of us adore her for her sweet temperament
and loving nature.
Zayed is a dream son. He is affectionate, obedient and respectful to his family
and friends. Anyone who comes in contact with him cannot help but love him.
He is a wonderful gift from God. I’m truly blessed and I thank my maker for it.
My deep and only regret is that I could not introduce him right in the beginning
in the manner he deserved. But I hope the winds of fortune will soon touch his
charismatic charm and good looks. I am working on a script to introduce the real
Zayed Khan and inshallah, God willing, before my last mile, I shall fulfil my
dream of seeing him as a successful actor.
Dear Papa,
You have always been passionate about everything you do and you always
make sure that it is a success. I owe my tenacity and grit to you, having
seen you successfully beat all the obstacles in your life, one after the other.
I’m proud to be your daughter because you have always led by example.
You are one of the kindest souls I know. Deep within that tough exterior is a
man so large-hearted that one truly wonders at your generosity and
largesse.

Your loving daughter,

Farah
 8
The Bollywood Years
Part 1

The Hindi film industry existed long before it was called Bollywood but the
name has, perhaps appropriately, stuck. Manoeuvring through it is like working
one’s way through Mumbai traffic—unexpected twists and turns and dodges
before you get there in the end. As the old film song puts it: Zara hatt ke, zara
bach ke, yeh hai Bambai meri jaan!
A film, while being a work of art, is also an article of business, or, to put it
another way, unlike a poem or a painting which can be solo enterprises, a film
involves teamwork, contracts, technology, a sum total of a hundred functions
which make it both an artistic as well as a commercial endeavour.
While the Hindi film industry has been the beneficiary of and nurtured some
superb talents in acting, direction, writing, camerawork, music, dancing,
choreography, costumes, set design and all the rest, it has also been the favourite
operating theatre for crooks, con men, ego maniacs, pretenders, poseurs, frauds
and fools. During my time, by which I mean my thirty-three years in the
industry, I have been fortunate enough to interact and work with the top talents
but I have also come across the ‘darker’ side of Bollywood.
The challenges of being a Bollywood star began the day I started shooting for
Dillagi. Initially, my shooting hours were quite regular—9.30 a.m. to 6.30 p.m.
—because even when I was doing three or four films at the same time, shooting
took place in different studios and on different dates. The madness began when
Dus Lakh (1966) became a blockbuster. There was a sudden influx of producers
seeking dates and my schedule became really hectic. The 9.30 a.m. to 6.30 p.m.
single shift morphed into a 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. double shift, which meant I was
shooting for two films each day. This was not only stressful but affected my
personal life too.
 Even though I accepted this, because that was the way Bollywood worked, it
was disturbing to my peace of my mind. I hardly saw, let alone played, with my
daughter Farah in those early years of my career. Our family grew, but the only
times I saw the children—before I left for work in the morning and when I
returned late at night—they would be asleep. The simple act of eating a meal in
the house with my family became a luxury for me; most of my breakfasts,
lunches and dinners were eaten in the studios.
Even though my family life was disoriented, Zarine stood firmly beside me.
Her cool and calm disposition was a source of great strength and inspiration to
me. Although incredibly busy, I tried as best I could to keep our social
engagements—weddings, birthday parties, dinner parties, including our own,
and celebrating the children’s birthdays and our anniversaries. We had made a
large number of friends by then, and they not only welcomed us with open arms
into their own homes but looked forward to being invited to ours. On most such
occasions I tended to make a grand entrance at almost midnight and more often
than not my arrival would energize the guests, so I had no choice but to be polite
and patient and join the party. I would go to bed at 2 a.m. and leave for the
studios at 6 a.m. sharp.
Unlike many actors of today’s generation, I adhered to the call time and was
always punctual. Over the years, in order to catch up on my sleep, I took naps
while being driven to the studios and back home or on a sofa on the set with
instructions to the assistant director to wake me up as soon as the shot was ready.
The hectic schedule left me so fatigued that I’d fall asleep instantly anywhere, in
spite of the din of the studio work going on around me.
After the grand success of Ek Phool Do Mali (1969), Intaquam (1969), Mela
(1971), Mera Vachan Geeta Ki Kasam, Shart (1969) and Daman Aur Aag
(1973), my situation became even more precarious. I would work sixteen to
seventeen hours a day, shooting for as many as three films in a day. Each shift
was five hours plus two hours driving from one location to the other.
Inevitably, the quality of work suffered, and though I was very aware of this at
the time, I was helpless to change much. The pace was so hectic that very often
we had no scripts until we were on the set. When actors asked for scripts at the
time of signing the film, we would be given a ‘story narration’ with the promise
of a script later, but very often it didn’t materialize until minutes before the first
shot was to be taken.
It has to be admitted that the storylines in those days were often very weak.
They were mostly love stories with three main characters—the hero, heroine and
villain—while a host of other, small characters (mother, father, sister, etc.)
meandered in and out of the story, often meaninglessly, and at the cost of the
main plot—as I frequently told my directors! Plagiarism was rife. But when I
protested the use of a story which was a complete copy of another film, probably
American, I was told, ‘Don’t worry about it; a good copy is better than a bad
original!’
Songs of course were central to every Bollywood film, with every film having
a minimum of six to eight. The nightingale of the Indian screen at the time was
Lata Mangeshkar who sang for many of my films. I am very proud that her last
song for television was for The Sword of Tipu Sultan and I am very happy that
we are still great friends. I was also very fortunate that more than sixty of the
songs in my movies were sung by Mohammed Rafi, one of the greatest voices of
his time, and are still remembered and played on all media platforms.
In the midst of all this chaos, the presence of a minimum of six producers
sitting on the sets with my secretary Prakash Chand Verma added to my anxiety.
I would feel their gaze on me even during rehearsals or a break in the shot. In
fact, at any time, a dozen pair of eyes—belonging to producers, journalists and,
inevitably, a few favour seekers—were on me with an expectant look. I would
look back casually, as if I was perusing the crowd, without stopping to engage
with any one person. My third eye, however, was busy absorbing the spectacle.
Prakash Chand Verma was entrusted with the responsibility of managing my
dates for over sixty out of the hundred films I signed. He was a prima donna who
relished his role a bit too much, and I heard from some producers that when one
enquired about me, Verma would say, ‘Sanjay Khan is in my bag, my dear sir,’
and lift his satchel up like a champion showing off the trophy he had won.
Verma loved being in the middle of this circus and enjoyed the attention he got
for being a go-between.
Once, I was leaving Gaylord’s restaurant with Verma in Bombay when I met
the reputed producer–director B.R. Chopra, who was also exiting the restaurant.
We greeted each other and I congratulated him on the big success of his film
Ittefaq with Rajesh Khanna and Nanda, who was working with me in four films
at the time.
Mr Chopra looked at Verma and exclaimed, ‘Ask your secretary. I offered
Ittefaq to you first!’
I was quite surprised and looked at Verma. Mr Chopra intervened and
informed me drily, ‘Your secretary asked me for a phenomenal signing amount.’
On our way home, I asked Verma to explain and was amazed to hear the story.
He had indeed asked B.R. Chopra for a sum which was in excess of what I
charged in those days, even though I was second only to Dilip Kumar in terms of
the asking price. I told Verma sternly that I would have loved to work for even a
quarter of my fee with a director like B.R. Chopra and he should have consulted
me before quoting a figure to him. Under my intense interrogation, Verma got
scared and blurted out that he and Chopra had been friends in Lahore, and that
he had used me as a pawn in his game of chess against him.
It was Verma’s job to meet all the producers and oversee my contracts. I often
suspected him of colluding with producers and signing away my dates to the
highest bidder. For example, Raj Khosla had wanted to sign me up for his film,
but told me that he didn’t have the money to pay up front. I told him that it didn’t
matter, and he could pay me when he had it. To my surprise, I heard nothing
further from him, and read in the papers some time later that Rajesh Khanna had
been signed for the film.
 Verma had this strange habit of never looking at me in the eye while speaking
to me but instead at an imaginary spot over my head. I tried to question him. But
each time, he apologized and swore to atone for his misdemeanours, and having
a soft-hearted nature, I kept him on. I have never sacked any member of my staff
ever.
At Amitabh Bachchan’s seventieth birthday celebrations at Anil Ambani’s Big
Entertainment complex, Ajitabh Bachchan, who was sitting beside me at a table,
remarked, ‘When Sanjay Khan’s dates were being auctioned to his producers,
Amitabh and I would be travelling in a local train to Filmistan Studios to find
work.’
I felt a pang of sorrow on hearing this and I regret I couldn’t do much about it.

The Naval Commander and the Lady

Stardom led me, at times, into some strange situations.
Once, very early in the morning, while I was shaving to get ready for my
shoot, I received a call on the bathroom extension. When I answered the phone, I
heard a polite, cultured voice requesting a meeting with me. I enquired who it
was and the caller identified himself as a commander from the Indian Navy. I
exchanged pleasantries and asked him to tell me the nature of his business with
me. I was very surprised when he said it was about his wife, who was the
princess of a small principality. When I asked him, ‘What about your wife?’ I
was flabbergasted by his response. ‘You are having an affair with my wife. I
know you two have been meeting in Srinagar and Switzerland.’
My immediate thought was that this was a crank call and I was tempted to
dismiss it out of hand. Nevertheless I told him quite explicitly that what he was
claiming was totally false and I was going to end the call. At this, he started
pleading and saying that it was not a hoax and that if I would kindly meet him,
he would tell me about it in detail.
Out of sheer curiosity and sympathy for this man, I agreed to meet him in the
evening in the poolside coffee shop of a city hotel. Verma said I should be
careful, because there had been another incident where a naval commander had
killed his wife’s lover—the famous Nanavati murder. He pointed out that the
man might be carrying a gun. I promised to take care.
 At the appointed time in the evening, I saw a person of medium height,
wearing white trousers and a white shirt with a peculiar red sash around his
waist. As he approached me, keeping the advice of my secretary in mind, I
looked for a bulge in his pockets, but saw nothing. I offered the man a seat and I
noticed his hands were shaking when he put a cigarette to his mouth.
When I asked him to elaborate on what he had said over the telephone in the
morning, he repeated the same story to me. After listening to his story carefully
and seeing the state he was in, I concluded that he was suffering at the hands of a
cheating wife and felt sympathetic towards him. I assured him categorically and
with complete honesty that I was not having an affair with his wife, whom I did
not even know. When he insisted, I suggested politely that maybe his wife was
fantasizing about me and had called out my name when in bed with him, leading
him to mistakenly believe she was having an affair with me.
Surprisingly, he seemed more disappointed than relieved by my assurances,
and left looking a bit lost.
As he was walking out through the front door of the hotel, my good friend
Parmeshwar Godrej rushed in, perhaps to go to the hairdressing salon. I called
out to her and asked her to take a look at the man. She turned around and caught
a glimpse of him before he entered his car. Then, she came towards me and in
her characteristic manner said, ‘Arrey darling, that is — (she took his name). He
is —’s (she gave the name of the princess) husband.’
‘Who is —?’ I asked her about the princess, mystified.
To my surprise, she replied that I had met the princess at her house. When I
said that I still didn’t remember, Parmeshwar, who loved having parties, offered
to throw one at her house that night and invite the lady.
That evening at the Godrej residence at Usha Kiran, I was sitting at the bar
when a dusky female came and sat down next to me on the bar stool. She smiled
at me and said, ‘Hi Sanjay.’
It was the princess.
I greeted her courteously but even after minutely scanning my memory, I
failed to recognize or remember her. Later, from her conversation, I understood
that she had made it all up to make her husband jealous.

My Co-stars
My life in Hindi films did, of course, bring me into close contact with many
screen heroines, and this autobiography would not be complete without paying
tribute to and describing some of my experiences with them.
All over the world when you mention the word ‘heroine’ it creates curiosity
and interest in the minds and hearts of people, because they look so bewitching
and smart, oozing charm, verve and style. Their melodious voices and every
gesture and movement make them into goddesses incarnate.
I have been fortunate to work with some of the most talented and beautiful
heroines of Bollywood. In the first meeting with my leading lady, I always felt
the lady was sizing me up, and likewise I too was curious to know her mind. I
was quite sensitive about their manners and behaviour, the tone and tenor of their
voice and their disposition. I have to say that many of the actresses I worked
with were charming and had beautiful manners—but not all.
My close contact with these ladies made me realize how vulnerable they were
and how they sometimes confused the roles they were playing with their own
identities. For example, an actress playing a queen could perhaps be forgiven for
behaving like one, but what is less easy to forgive was the bad behaviour that
sometimes ensued. I have known it to have a damaging effect not only on the
actress in question, but also on her producers, her co-stars and her friends and
family, who had to suffer the tantrums and mood swings. I remember one
producer who had to provide gallons of milk, sweetmeats, fruits in silver
utensils, incense and flowers for a puja before ‘Baby’ would come on the set.
Relationships between the ‘hero’ and his ‘heroine’ inevitably affected the
production of a film.
Once I was shooting a song in a garden and I had to come dancing and singing
down the slope. Each time I was about to complete the shot, my co-star would
start making faces which distracted me. This happened over and over again.
When she had repeated this for what seemed like over a hundred times, leading
to that many retakes, I became exasperated and expressed my concern to the
director. In spite of being requested by the director to refrain from her antics, she
continued. Eventually I could take no more and after one such take just walked
past her to my car and went back to my hotel room. This led to a huge
commotion. The producer and director rushed to the hotel to apologize. News of
this incident reached Dilip Kumar who was also shooting nearby and staying at a
hotel next to mine. He called me to meet him, and in his hotel room that evening,
in an elder brotherly manner, he said something to me which I have never
forgotten (though I don’t agree with it): ‘Some young ladies can be a little
flippant. You must handle them with tact and care.’
For example, when I was working with Sadhana, who was a consummate
artist and a lovely human being, in response to reporters’ questions about how I
found working with her I would always say: ‘Like driving a Rolls-Royce.’
Sadhana and her husband, R.K. Nayyar, or ‘Rummy’ as she liked to call him,
were good friends of ours. Sadhana was intelligent, talkative and always full of
energy. She loved to crack jokes. One day, when we were working on Intaquam
she approached me and in a very serious manner expressed her desire to give me
a haircut. I thought she was joking and laughed the suggestion away. Then she
said that she had been planning it for a long time and that she had even bought a
brand new salon chair and had it installed at her residence for that very purpose.
Rummy confirmed that this was true, but advised me not to allow her to cut my
hair as it could affect the continuity of work in the film, which he was directing.
But the haircut was on. I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. While the haircut
progressed, the room was silent except for the clipping sound of the scissors in
Sadhana’s deft hands.
I was blessed with a good crown of hair that was admired by my fans and was
not a bit concerned, but Rummy was holding his breath, his mouth opening and
closing with each snip. He did not want to disturb her, as she would have blamed
him if anything went wrong.
The haircut was superb; I am sure she had trained for it. After it was over, the
room filled with our happy laughter.
Sadhana and I had immense respect and affection for each other, but lost touch
for many years owing to our hectic lives. When I was informed of her demise, I
rushed to her house to find her lying on the bare floor with just a thin sheet
covering her. Rummy had departed for his heavenly abode several years ago and
there were no friends or family there at that point of time. It broke my heart to
see her, my dear, dear friend, in that state and I ordered the maid to help me
place her dead body on a mattress. Sadhana was a wonderful person and I still
think about her and miss her. May she rest in peace.
 One actress who I found very easy to get on with and always looked forward
to working with was the ‘Dreamgirl’ Hema Malini. Her mother was a very
charming and gracious lady; she always smiled happily at me when she
accompanied her daughter to the studio. Perhaps I was not a threat to her, being
already married. So she would always talk frankly to me about Hema in Tamil,
at which I was quite proficient.
Rakhee, who starred with me in Anokhi Pehchaan (1972), Wafaa (1972) and
Sub Ka Saathi (1972), was not only gorgeous, with her beautiful hazel-brown
eyes, but also warm and sentimental, and a fine artist. She would sit close to me
and chat with me in Hindi with her Bengali accent which I used to like to listen
to.
The most gentle, unassuming heroine I worked with was Nutan, who had a
subtle rustic charm and was always a pleasure to talk to. I particularly enjoyed
working with her on Maharaja (1970), in which she played the beautiful
daughter of a rich father who falls in love with the local Robin Hood character,
played by me. I was inspired working with Nutan, because she was such a
professional. I was deeply saddened when she died, at a young age, of cancer.
 I also enjoyed working with the shy, introverted Nanda, who was a wonderful
human being and had a touch-me-not look and a warm smile. Though I worked
in four films with her, she remained as enigmatic as the Sphinx with its
inscrutable smile.
 I shared a good rapport with Saira Banu, the reigning beauty whom everyone
was talking about at the time. We worked together in two films, Daman Aur Aag
and Mera Vachan Geeta Ki Kasam, and I remember her particularly for her
cooperativeness and openness to suggestions while shooting.
One actress who carried herself with a lot of self-confidence was Rekha. Since
I had shown her respect and support by launching her in my film, Haseenon Ka
Devta (1971), she and her sister would visit me on the set while I was shooting
in Chennai with Rakhee, carrying a tiffin box of biryani cooked by her mother. I
still remember how delicious it was.
I worked with Mumtaz in several films, including the big hit Shart, Mela and
Upasana (1971). Before I worked with her, I used to wonder how she made it to
the top, with her pug nose and round sweet face but I discovered the answer in
our very first shot together—she was a bundle of talent.
I was pleased to introduce some leading ladies to the film industry. One of
these was Parveen Babi who starred in my film Chandi Sona, after which she
made a very big name for herself in other films. She was an educated and
beautiful girl from a good family and a great actress. Then the world turned and
she went into a spin she never recovered from; she suffered some kind of
psychological break and left the industry, disappearing into thin air. Years later,
we heard of her tragic death, alone in her apartment.
Another intelligent girl with uncommon beauty and a very good nature was
Leena Chandavarkar; she was very personable and I enjoyed working with her.
Babita was also wonderful to work with and impressed me with her
performance in her debut film with me, Dus Lakh (1966), which was a huge hit.
Once, while we were shooting, the producer of the film was sitting beside me as
we waited for a particular shot to be arranged. He whispered into my ear, ‘Please
ask Babita not to eat so many chocolates. She might get pimples on her face,
which will prevent us from taking her close-ups.’ The same afternoon, I asked
Babita why she ate a dozen bars of chocolate a day. She looked surprised and
said, with an annoyed look on her face, ‘Sanjay, it’s not me, it’s my dad. He
takes the chocolate in my name from the production manager!’
I met Sharmila Tagore, a sophisticated and intelligent conversationalist, in
Calcutta in the late 1960s when she was co-starring with me in Milan Ki Raat
(1967). But what I remember most was playing Cupid for her, and my good
friend the Nawab of Pataudi. He had expressed to me his admiration for
Sharmila, so when she, in turn, asked me about him during shooting, I had my
cue. I was happy to recommend them to each other and was delighted when they
decided to marry.
Perhaps it would be suitable to end this section on actresses with the tragedy
queen of the Indian screen, the great Meena Kumari. I had admired her greatly
since I first began watching films as a young boy, and felt truly privileged when,
in her later years, she played my mother in Abhilasha (1968); it is something I
will never forget.

Pinned Down by a Bevy of Girls

Star power can be an amazing thing. It can also be bewildering. This incident in
the Oberoi Palace Hotel in Srinagar, Kashmir, took place in 1969 or 1970.
It was around 6 p.m. and I was in my room removing my make-up after a day
of shooting when I heard the sound of people rushing in the corridor. As I turned
to the door, it flew open and in rushed a very large number of college girls. They
were like honeybees, filling the entire room, pouncing on me like rugby players
and pinning me to the ground. They were very, very naughty. Some started
kissing me, some pulling my shirt, and some screaming my name in frenzy. It
was a bad, bad situation but in retrospect, very funny because I was desperately
trying to preserve my honour and dignity and cut loose from the sudden attack
on me. I don’t recall the exact details now but I somehow managed to extricate
myself from the onslaught and literally ran out of my room and into the corridor,
the fans in pursuit.
The hotel management came to my rescue and all ended well with the girls
being allowed to give a peck on my cheek and a handshake. They were
screaming excitedly throughout, their faces glowing with adulation and
innocence—I’ve never forgotten those expressions.
The incident was a hot topic of discussion all over the hotel that evening.
When Zarine heard about it, she laughed and said, ‘How stupid the girls are
getting, and also bolder by the day.’ She later told me that even the ladies’ card
group each day on the lawns of the Oberoi Palace was gossiping about it and that
all the women were quite tickled. Male friends who gathered in the hotel bar in
the evenings, on the other hand, congratulated me as if I had conquered Mt
Everest. One of them patted my back, congratulated me and ordered drinks for
everybody as an act of celebration with the words, ‘Wah, yaar! Naseeb ho toh
aisa. Hum toh kabhi soch nahin sakte ki aisa hoga hamare saath!’ (Wow, friend!
What luck! We can’t even imagine something like this happening to us!)
I had a similar experience later in life, but with a significant difference. After I
returned from my surgery in the US, we were shooting at the Samode Palace
Hotel near Jaipur when busloads of college girls came to express their sorrow
over the tragic Mysore fire accident. Looking at my frail condition, some
became emotional and had tears in their eyes. They touched me gently as if I was
a delicate crystal object. I was deeply moved by their love, concern and
expression of solidarity.

My Home under Siege

An incident occurred in 1976 which was horrifying for my family and me, and
which demonstrates the hidden jealousies which stardom can evoke.
It was around 2 a.m. and Zarine and I were fast asleep when we heard frantic
knocking on our bedroom door. I immediately jumped out of bed and rushed to
open the door.
Standing outside, with a panic-stricken expression on his face, was Shahid,
one of our drivers. I asked him what had happened, slightly alarmed because
never in his fifteen years of service with us had he come up to our first-floor
bedroom, let alone knock on its door in the middle of the night.
Shaking with fear, he blurted out, ‘Sa’ab, goliyan chal raheen hain neeche.
Moti Ram ko maar diya!’ (Sir, there are bullets being fired downstairs. Moti Ram
is injured.) Moti Ram was our watchman.
I quickly ran across the hall into one of the children’s bedrooms, as the
window in that room looked out on to the front parking area, to understand what
exactly was going on.
What I saw was chilling. I saw Moti Ram lying unconscious on the ground
and it seemed like he was dead. Beside the prostrate Moti Ram were three men,
one of whom had a pistol that he was firing in the air, screaming out loudly for
me.
‘Sanjay Khan, come down. We’re going to kill you tonight.’
 I was stunned and outraged. I knew the three men. They were acquaintances
from the film industry. One was an upcoming actor at that time and went on to
become a big star before joining politics. The other two were producer–directors
who had many big-budget hit films later. I had, in fact, recommended and helped
the actor secure his small first role in a film in which I was the hero. One of the
other men too was a person I had done a hit film with and who had learned shot
divisions from me.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. I was shocked beyond belief to see
three men whom I had helped and worked with in the past trespass on my
property in the middle of the night, hurling the filthiest of abuses and shooting at
my staff.
Thankfully, I recovered quickly and realized the gravity of the situation. These
men had illegally entered my house in the middle of the night, shot my
watchman, were calling me all sorts of names and daring me to come down.
Farah, Simone and Sussanne were huddled together, looking confused and
frightened. Zarine was shaken by the unbelievable scene that was taking place
inside our home and right in front of our eyes but I was proud to see that there
was not the slightest hint of fear on her face; she remained composed. It was a
situation that required a suitable and befitting reply from me if I was to protect
myself, my family and my staff. I was determined to protect my wife and
daughters even if I had to go down.
What does a man do when his home is invaded?
I rushed back to my bedroom and opened my steel cupboard in which I kept
my licensed .375 Magnum rifle. I grabbed it, ran back to the children’s room,
opened the window and thrust the rifle through it. I would have killed all the
three men had Zarine not stopped me. My finger was on the trigger.
Zarine held me back strongly, pressing her fingers into my arm and pleading,
‘For God’s sake, Absi, think of our children! Don’t do it.’ Thankfully, I heeded
her pleas and removed my finger from the trigger.
Since getting hold of the police over the phone was difficult, Zarine suggested
that we call our good friend Danny Denzongpa, who lived practically next door,
and apprise him of the situation. Danny told us he would go to the police station
and get the police as soon as possible.
 He arrived with the police about an hour later, but by that time the three
miscreants had vanished. Moti Ram was taken to the hospital where, later, he
was declared out of danger. He had become unconscious due to shock and loss
of blood but luckily, it was a flesh wound which the doctors said would heal with
time.
Later that morning we found out that one of the producers had been picked up
and locked up in Santa Cruz police station; the actor, however, was missing. The
producer who had worked with me came over to my house that same morning,
when he was released on bail. He apologized profusely, touching my feet. ‘I
don’t know what came over me,’ he said. ‘It was the alcohol. Please forgive me.’
Then the question of whether or not to press charges arose. Dilip Kumar
telephoned me later that day and suggested that I shouldn’t, on the basis of the
industry being a brotherhood. My lawyer felt differently, but in the end, Zarine
and I decided to take Dilip’s advice, and drop the charges for the sake of the
men’s families.
 9
The Bollywood Years
Part 2

Mauritius: The Paradise Island

I decided to shoot my film Chandi Sona on the beautiful paradise island of
Mauritius after a memorable visit there in 1973 when I fell in love with it.
I had been invited by the prime minister, Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam, when
he had visited Bombay, and from the first day of my trip, I had loved the island
with its sugar-white beaches and its emerald translucent waters which extended
to the famous coral reef and the gradually darkening blue beyond of the Indian
Ocean. Mark Twain once famously said, ‘God visited Mauritius first before he
designed heaven.’ I could see why.
My first stop was the town of Curepipe, which I was informed was named
after the French ‘curer sa pipe’ because travellers used to take rest there to fill
their pipes with tobacco.
Port Louis, the capital city of Mauritius, was quaint and filled with a colonial
air of the past. I was invited by Suresh Seegobind, the head of Air India on the
island, for coffee in his office. When I reached there, four burly policemen
walked in and started speaking to him in Creole, the local language, glancing at
me with polite smiles on their faces. He looked a little concerned but also
amused at what they were telling him. He explained to me that there was a huge
traffic jam in the square below and the policemen had come to request him to ask
me to tell the crowd to disperse.
 With Zarine, Chacha, Mauritian agriculture minister Satcam Boolell and others in Mauritius while
shooting Chandi Sona

I walked out to the balcony and saw hundreds of people gathered down below.
They were screaming my name ‘Sanjay! Sanjay!’ and were clapping their hands
in sheer excitement. I was impressed but also surprised that so many people
knew me there. I waved to them and assured them that I was here for a few days
and would be coming back to make a film. They continued clapping and
shouting my name so I asked them to disperse, as there was a huge traffic jam
building up in the city because of them.
Eventually, they did.

A Beauty and a Policeman

One fine Sunday in Mauritius, when it was a day off from shooting, I was sitting
with Zarine, Krishna Kapoor ji and my best friends, Abdul Elah from Dubai and
Sanjeev Kumar, chatting and having coffee. Suddenly, Raj Kapoor rushed in,
looking excited and told us that he had just seen a girl sunbathing in the buff
right outside. Sanjeev Kumar and Abdul Elah reacted to this information with
great delight and walked past Raj Kapoor. They returned ten minutes later with a
beautiful blonde called Tessa who was from South Africa. Raj Kapoor, at his
funny best, started claiming her as his discovery before Krishna ji cautioned him
with a smile to behave himself.
We welcomed Tessa and made her feel at ease. She was a lovely and very
likeable girl who started narrating an incident to us in her French accent. She
said, ‘I was lying peacefully and enjoying the sun when a policeman came to me
and said that I cannot sunbathe topless and asked me to cover myself.’ She added
that she was very disappointed but didn’t know who she should report this to.
While she was narrating her story, Sanjeev and Abdul Elah were whispering to
each other. Raj Kapoor, who always carried a comb with him, took it out and out
of sheer habit, started combing his hair as he always did when he was excited.
I intervened and suggested that Tessa join us at the prime minister’s dinner in
the evening and offered to make a personal complaint to him about the behaviour
of the police. She was very happy to hear that and agreed to come.
The prime minister’s house was full of dignitaries, and Chacha, as he was
affectionately called, received all of us very warmly. I introduced him to Tessa
and then prompted her to make the complaint to the prime minister. She said
exactly what she had told us and informed him that I had suggested that she
should report the matter to His Excellency.
The prime minister took a second to understand the funny situation and before
he moved on to greet his other guests, he gave me a wink and told her, ‘Oh, what
a stupid policeman!’
 With Chacha and Sanjeev Kumar

Acres of Paradise
The people of Mauritius were thrilled that I shot my film with such a big cast of
actors, including Raj Kapoor, Pran, Prem Nath, Danny Denzongpa, Parveen
Babi, Kamini Kaushal, Ranjeet, Mukri, Iftekhar, Achala Sachdev and others, in
Mauritius. At a public function hosted by the prime minister, my comment that I
would request the Indian Navy to hook Mauritius with an anchor and pull it
closer to India so that we could visit the paradise more frequently was greatly
appreciated and everyone cheered.
Prime Minister Ramgoolam, or Chacha, treated me like his own son. So much
so that he once consulted me when writing his political speech, part of which
was a Hindi couplet: ‘Humne toofanon se kaha hum toofanon se nahin darte,
tum bahut door se aye ho zara dum toh le lo, kahin humse takraane mein
tumhara dum naa tut jaaye.’ (I told the storm I wasn’t afraid. You’ve come a
long way. Rest a while, lest in trying to confront me you can never rest again.) I
later heard that he had recited this, as coached by me, in one of his political
campaigns.
One day, he surprised me with an unannounced visit. He asked me to come
along with him as he had a surprise for me. I sat with him in his car and the
prime minister’s cavalcade came to a halt at a picturesque spot by the seaside
near Grande Bay; I remember casuarina trees swaying in the wind, making a
whistling sound. We got out of the cars and Chacha went and stood right there
on the beach. Gesturing to the area around us with a broad sweep of his hand, he
said, ‘My boy, with the power bestowed to me by the constitution as prime
minister, I am gifting these four acres to you on lease for a hundred years for a
token payment of Rs 1 lakh per annum for the services you have rendered to this
nation and the worldwide publicity that Mauritius has gained from the making of
your film, Chandi Sona, here.’
I was overwhelmed by the offer and thanked him for his generosity. I still
remember receiving a call from Sir Abdul Razzak, the urban development
minister of Mauritius, a month or so after we returned to India, reminding me to
fulfil the formalities.
I have no explanation for why I did not pursue the formalities to secure this
wonderful gift from the people of Mauritius.

Zayed’s First Encounter

Years later, on a holiday in Mauritius, Bob Christo and I were walking on the
beach with three-year-old Zayed. My son, who was a little podgy then, kept
asking Bob to pick him up. I signalled to Bob to keep walking and as a result
Zayed got left behind. When we stopped to see where he was, we saw him
bending forward, his finger inches away from touching the breasts of a European
girl who was sunbathing in the nude, her eyes covered with a straw hat. The
moment she felt the touch, the girl got up, saw Zayed and picked him up in her
arms. It was too late to retrieve the situation, so I started towards her to
apologize when suddenly the thought struck me: ‘Good heavens! What if she
thinks that this was a set-up and I sent the kid as a way to get an introduction.’
I dismissed the idea from my mind as quickly as it came. Approaching her, I
introduced myself as the father of the child and said I was sorry if he was
bothering her. She was a charming young lady who was totally comfortable in
her skin. She told me it was not at all a bother and complimented both Zayed and
me on our good looks.
When I told this story to my wife and my other children, they all laughed and
Bob said jokingly, ‘He’s starting early!’ We all laughed at that and settled down
to a meal of champagne with the fresh grilled lobsters in hot butter sauce, lime
juice and black pepper which are so delicious there.

Feroz Khan: The Man with a Lion Heart

My beloved brother Feroz Khan was a charming, dashing, outspoken and daring
man who carried his passion for the ten-gallon Texan hats and cowboy boots of
his childhood throughout his life. After starring in many films, he went on to
produce and direct ten more. It was indeed something for the man who once
said, ‘I’ll never join Hindi films . . .’
Feroz approached life with cynical good humour which made him an iconic
personality. Once, when he applied for the membership of the elite Wellington
Club in Bombay, he received a response from the club stating that the rules did
not permit them to take professionals and actors as members. He promptly wrote
back to them, saying he had ten films which proved that he was not an actor.
This ability to laugh off the vicissitudes of life made him a remarkable character.
This passionate and macho man changed the course of music in Indian films
by introducing a fusion of Western music into Indian film music in his
blockbuster film Qurbani, ‘Aap jaisa koi meri zindagi mein aaye to baat ban
jaye.’ (If a man like you were to come into my life, I’d be saved.) In addition to
Qurbani, his prescient approach made possible unforgettable films like
Dharmatma and Dayavan.
Feroz filled the room with his presence and charisma; he loved life and lived it
on his own terms. He was passionate about playing snooker, and was considered
one of the best of his times; he was a skilled rider and swimmer, and a good
bridge player. He owned a string of thoroughbred horses, and stabled his own
horse in his large and beautiful farmhouse in Bangalore, where he kept his four
stunning Great Danes and two German Shepherds. The house, elegantly
designed by Parmeshwar Godrej, had a gorgeous swimming pool and a snooker
room. The farmhouse was the scene of many wonderful family gatherings and
parties to which everyone wanted to be invited. His hospitality was legendary.
After his divorce from his lovely wife, Sundri, Feroz would entertain his
beautiful lady friends from across the globe. Once, at a party, he was informed
that one of these ladies was upset with the behaviour of a leading businessman.
Feroz was so angry with the gentleman in question that he pulled him out of the
pool and chased him all over the farm; over a hundred guests watched with
gleeful interest and were visibly disappointed when Feroz let him go eventually.
The farmhouse also served as the film set for three of his films Janbaaz, Yalgaar
and Prem Aggan.
Feroz hated being addressed as ‘uncle’ by grown-up boys and girls, and would
respond with, ‘Did I ever know your aunt (in the biblical sense!)?’, leaving the
person most confused. In a similar vein, his famous opening lines when giving a
speech at a public gathering were ‘You can either be married or be happy . . . you
can never be happily married!’
His passion for smoking started at a very young age and he was heavily
addicted to cigarettes, beedis and cigars—the reason for the lung cancer which
took his life eventually. My lectures to him to stop smoking did have some effect
and he gave up smoking for a couple of years. Whenever he abstained he looked
healthier and more active, but he would eventually start smoking again and
would glare at me wordlessly whenever I told him to stop. Another of his quips
was ‘It is very easy to give up smoking . . . I have done it many times.’
One memory of Feroz stays with me. One cold December night, a few years
after our father passed away, Feroz and I went out with friends to celebrate the
New Year and saw a scantily clad old man sitting on the pavement and begging.
Without even a thought, Feroz took off the new white sharkskin jacket he was
wearing and covered the naked body of the beggar affectionately with it. The
family genes of compassion were at play and a warm feeling of love and
affection for my brother surged in me.
 With Feroz

In 2008, Feroz suddenly disappeared for over a year. I was curious and
concerned as to where he was, but his children, Leila and Fardeen, had been
sworn to secrecy. It was Tom Sleven, a family friend, who rang me from New
York to give me the appalling news that Feroz had been admitted to the Sloan
Cancer Hospital for treatment of advanced cancer of the throat and lung. I was
shattered by this devastating news, the suddenness of which caused a pall of
gloom on all the family. Feroz was flown to Bombay. His deteriorating condition
gave me deep anguish. Time was running out but he asked to be taken to his
beloved farmhouse. On his final night, the whole family was present till about 1
a.m., when the doctors told us to go and get some rest. We had hardly reached
the Golden Palms, when we received the news that he had breathed his last at 3
a.m. We all miss him deeply.
Ironically, in his last years he used to recite an Urdu poem ‘Kaun seh sakta hai
umre javedan ki talqivan? Zindagi pe maut ka kitna bada ehsaan hai.’ (Who can
endure the longevity of life? We owe our thanks to Death, who gives us the
relief.)

My Friend Sanjeev Kumar: The Gallant Lover

Sanjeev Kumar was a brilliant actor and a true gentleman. He and I had a long
and enduring friendship and I even had a part to play in his screen name. I
remember the day I received a call from him, asking me not to change my name
to Sanjay as he had chosen Sanjay Kumar as his name, his real name being
Harihar Jethalal Zariwala. I was quite embarrassed by this request and told him
that Satyen Bose had already introduced me to the press and the industry as
Sanjay so it would be impossible to retract. I suggested he should call himself
Sanjeev and that is what he did.
In spite of this inauspicious beginning, over the years we developed a close
friendship. When we were shooting in Mauritius for Chandi Sona, I invited him
and his mother as my guests for a short holiday. I heard he was quite depressed
and a wee bit under the weather and I wanted to rejuvenate him. Even though he
was more of an indoors person, he was quite excited by my stories of the sea and
the sharks, so I took him in a large marlin fishing boat fifty kilometres off the
coast of Mauritius for a robust adventure at sea.
While I was belted to the seat, with the big rod in front of me, he stood on the
slightly higher deck behind me, anxiously watching the process. Suddenly the
bell jangled, indicating that the fish had caught the bait. There was excitement
all around. My rod bent almost into a ‘U’ with the weight of the pull. After some
struggle we hauled out a large tuna. Sanjeev started clapping his hands, thinking
this was the marlin. As the tuna lay on the deck I explained to Sanjeev that the
thirty-pound tuna would act as bait for the marlin. He said, ‘Baap re baap! Jab
bait itna bada hai toh machhli kitni badi hogi!’ (Oh my god! If the bait is so big,
how big will the fish be?) We burst out laughing. Unfortunately, we couldn’t bag
the marlin that day. I think Sanjeev was secretly relieved; he kept suggesting,
‘Let’s have a drink and relax.’
During the making of my film Babul Ki Galiyan (1972), we were shooting in
a church in Matunga, a suburb of Bombay, when Sanjeev dropped in to see me
on location. He clearly had a purpose. He said he was hopelessly in love and, in
a quiet voice, asked me to take his proposal of marriage to the lady concerned.
He implored me to tell her that he did not want any of her money (he was a
wealthy and successful actor himself), just her. I heard him out but could not
respond as the assistant director was knocking on my door and requesting me to
come for the next shot. After the scene was done, I revisited the matter and
wondered how to broach the subject. In the end I decided there was only one
way and that was to ask the lady directly and simply, which I did. She smiled
and said that although Sanjeev was a nice man, she did not love him; she was in
love with somebody else.
 I had to break the news to Sanjeev, who just kept looking at the carpet in the
make-up room without saying a word. Then, with a slight smile on his face, he
stood and glanced at me with his eyes brimming. He squeezed my shoulder
gently in thanks before walking out with a heavy heart. I was really sad for him.
I felt the pain of his rejection and considered myself fortunate that I had a
woman like Zarine in my life. Lonely is the man who cannot find the right
woman with the right chemistry to share his life with.

Devyani Chaubal
The press as we know is capricious. One moment I was Arjun looking in the pot
of oil as he aimed the arrow at the target above him—doing no wrong. The next,
I was Ravana who had kidnapped Sita—the villain of the piece.
Devyani Chaubal was a well-established film journalist in the industry, and
also the most loved and feared. In the process of her work, she had built a
reputation for being the most notorious film gossip columnist of India. We all
called her Hedda Chopper after the notorious American gossip columnist.
She could be real nice if she wanted to be but she was also a hard-hitting
journalist. I think she had a soft spot for my brother, Feroz, because she hung out
with him in those days when I was yet to arrive on the scene and begin my
journey to stardom. She had a pleasant personality, but she spoke with a slight
lisp and sometimes, a few spots of spit would shoot out from her mouth as she
spoke.
After I became a star, she seemed to admire my manners and my way with
words, and often came to the studios looking for me, sometimes without even
announcing she was coming.
I remember one particular time when she sought my help in writing her
column, saying, ‘Sanjay, you are the only person who can inspire me to write
this.’ When I asked her how I could be of help, she said, ‘I am writing a column
about Sharmila Tagore’s wedding with the Nawab of Pataudi, the captain of the
Indian cricket team, and I don’t really know how I should address her in the
headline.’
I said that since Sharmila was a sexy girl marrying into royalty, she should
combine the two and address her as ‘Her Sexellency’. Devyani screamed with
joy and said, ‘Wow, that’s perfect!’ with such excitement that a few tiny spots of
her spit hit my face which she immediately rushed to wipe with the corner of her
trademark white sari.
On another occasion, she came back with a classic question, ‘Sanjay, you
work with the most beautiful women every day of your life. Of course, I know
you have a beautiful wife, but are you telling me you don’t have any affairs at
all?’
I was amused by her question and decided to have some fun. I told her that I
could not answer her question then, but would tell her later. After I told her that,
she kept on pestering me for almost a year. Finally, one day when I was shooting
at Filmistan Studios, I asked her to sit down and have a cup of tea with me. She
was watching me with anticipation and excitement, pad and pen ready in her
hand, literally drooling.
I started very, very slowly: ‘Life is like a journey on a broad gauge train. The
train stops at several stations, some small whistle-stop ones and some big
junctions. I keep a scooter with me on the train and I take out the scooter when
the train stops at a big junction to take a little scooter ride in the town and then
come back to join the train to continue my journey.’
The next day, I saw the headlines: ‘So, it’s a scooter ride, says Sanjay Khan’. I
was deeply moved when she passed away and still miss her presence.
I noticed that some journalists wanted to carve a niche for themselves and to
become something in this world of magic. Sadly, the ones who could not
succeed took the pen and used it as a sword to slash the others in the industry.
Thankfully most succeeded and did a great job. I had many friends amongst
them.

Bob Christo
I first met Bob Christo on the eve of the departure of the unit to Rajasthan,
where we were going to shoot Abdullah. He was introduced to me by my dear
friend George Marzbetuny, the director of the American film Abdullah, and who
I had met in Iran.
George asked me to give Bob a job in the unit, which I was happy to do
because I found him to be very likeable. I asked my production chief to
accommodate him in the team and he was given a job as a gaffer.
 One day, while shooting in the middle of the desert on the outdoor set of
Abdullah, I developed spondylitis in my neck which made it so stiff that I had to
turn my whole body to speak to someone. I was wondering how I would face the
camera the following day, when Bob, who was walking behind me, said, ‘May I
help?’ He said he was a trained physiotherapist and could help me loosen my
neck. Before I could give him permission he laid his two hands, which were like
sledgehammers, but very gentle, on my shoulders and started working on them.
‘For god’s sake, Bob,’ I protested, ‘don’t worsen it.’ He smiled and asked me to
relax. He jerked my neck, in a sudden movement and, like magic, my neck was
cured. I looked up at him and said, ‘Where are you staying?’ He said, ‘With the
unit.’ I asked him to shift to my guest house, which he did, that evening, with a
big guitar and a haversack full of his things.
I soon discovered that Bob was a very talented person. He was an ex-
Australian army commando, who had served in Vietnam, and had worked as
Paul Getty’s bodyguard. I once asked him what had brought him to India, and in
response he showed me the front cover of Time magazine, and said, ‘This face.
Parveen Babi.’ Ironically, and coincidentally, I had been instrumental in Parveen
being on the cover, because Gerald Clarke, associate editor, had asked me to
recommend an Indian actress, and I had named Parveen. I had a good laugh with
Bob over this.
Bob was an excellent singer and turned out to be a very good actor. He made
his debut in Abdullah when, one day, I felt that the principal villain needed the
support of another character, like a henchman, to strengthen him. I ordered Bob
to stop shaving his beard and to shave off his head. He was transformed into an
evil sorcerer who influences the villain. Bob looked fierce and suited the
character to a T. His performance was good, and he acted in over 200 films after
that.
Bob was very loyal and very dependable, traits which once made me money.
We were in London and I needed someone to pick up money from a distributor
in Switzerland, so I sent Bob. He was to take the flight in the morning, pick up
the money and come back in the evening. It was 9 p.m. and Bob hadn’t returned
as expected. A friend, with whom I was having a drink in the hotel bar, joked
and wagered 100 pounds that Bob would not return. I accepted his bet. An hour
later Bob still hadn’t returned, so my friend raised it to 200. I was so sure of him
that I said I would raise it to 500. My friend looked at the door of the lobby and
smiling, said, ‘Okay, done!’ Seconds later, Bob entered. He was a man in whom I
had absolute trust.
Raj Kapoor, too, was very fond of him. He would make Bob sing ‘The
Windmills of the Mind’ until 2 a.m. One night, it was disturbing my sleep and,
pretending I didn’t know he was with Raj Kapoor, I shouted at him to stop. I
heard Raj Kapoor whispering that I was getting angry and they had better stop.
Later, Bob went on to take the major role of General Matthews in The Sword
of Tipu Sultan and still later, the role of the Afghan king Ahmad Shah Abdali in
The Great Maratha. He gave memorable performances in both.
Bob was a wonderful friend on whom I could rely completely. I was
devastated when he died in 2011.
When I look back, I have no regrets; I feel very fortunate to have been part of
the beginning of the golden era of Hindi cinema. Its rapid growth in the 1970s
and 1980s provided a foundation for the industry as it is today, and gave birth to
some excellent directors, producers, actors and technicians. Although it was hard
work, it is the optimism and enthusiasm of those days that I remember most
vividly.
Dearest Papa,
What I see in you is a brave man: spirited, passionate, undeterred and iron-
willed. I love the fact that as a self-made man, you have withstood and
overcome numerous challenges and with each obstacle that came your way,
you emerged stronger, wiser and more accomplished. Through my growing
years, you instilled in me the core values of honesty, hard work, discipline
and perseverance.
I am thinking particularly of how you survived the fire. You really were
the ‘miracle man’ as you came to be named by the American doctors. You
were so determined to complete the remaining episodes of Tipu Sultan that
you rode horseback immediately after your recovery, unmindful of the hot
desert sun. You faced the camera undeterred, despite the scars on your face
and body, not allowing even a wince to give away the extreme agony you
must have felt. Always loyal to your commitments, you finished what you
had intended to complete.
This episode in your life is a constant reminder for me of your
perseverance and never-say-die spirit.
What I also appreciate is how you made sure that my siblings and I were
raised in an environment where we were treated equally. You used to say:
‘Pursue your dreams with focused dedication and you can achieve anything
and everything you set your mind on.’ You not only raised us to be strong,
confident and fearless but also urged us to believe in ourselves, to strive
hard, to excel and reach our highest potential. You believe, I know, that
from knowledge comes empowerment and so you always stressed the
importance of a strong education.
Yet you also exemplify for me what ‘going beyond the letter’ means. Your
compassion towards the needy and less fortunate is inspiring. ‘Be kind and
generous towards the needy and less fortunate. Charity is the best form of
prayer,’ is your firm belief and what you taught us.
Although you are fundamentally secular in spirit, you brought us up to
believe that all religions preached the same principles but in different
languages. To be religious is to be a good human being, to think good
thoughts and practise good actions. Even today we cherish the strong
values and life lessons you imparted to us.
I respect you for your integrity, your grit, your passion for perfection . . .
For being a man of honour who has always kept his word.
Thank you, Papa, for your strong presence in my life, for being a loving
and dependable father, for all your love and guidance through the hard
challenges in my life. Your support and influence has constantly
encouraged and inspired me and this strength has seen me through many
trials.
No words can accurately capture or describe my immense love and
respect for you.

Lots of love,
Simone
 10
Abdullah and the Arabian Princess

Romance in Bollywood is legendary, and is, like fairy stories, fantastic in the
true sense of the word. But sometimes romance can reflect real life, and doesn’t
always have a fairy-tale ending.
The story of Abdullah lent itself perfectly to the romance of Bollywood. In the
film, set in an imaginary Arab land, Sheikh Mohammed Al-Kamal (played by
me), a man of honour, is asked by the government to assist them in bringing the
dangerous outlaw Khalil (played by Danny Denzongpa) to justice. Abdullah (Raj
Kapoor) is a Muslim man who is prepared to sacrifice his life for a Hindu boy,
Krishna, who is predestined to kill Khalil. It becomes a personal quest for the
Sheikh, when his wife, Zainab (played by Zeenat Aman), is kidnapped and
injured. Eventually Sheikh Mohammed defeats Khalil and his magician, and
saves Abdullah, Krishna and Zainab.
A romantic story deserves a romantic setting, and our choice of Rajasthan was
perfect. The atmosphere, particularly in the late afternoons when the scented,
cold desert wind blew gently on the brown sands which changed patterns with
every gust, and everything for miles around was tinged orange by the fast-setting
sun, was magical. The setting, the costumes, the music worked their charm,
bringing the intense passion of the Sheikh and Zainab to life on the screen. How
could the Arabian prince and princess not fall in love? She was not only
stunningly beautiful but filled the room with her presence and her intelligent,
scintillating conversation. The Sheikh was totally smitten. There was a fatal
attraction which seemed to pull them into a vortex with a billion twisters
spinning and lifting them into the air, into nothingness.
But there was another element to the Arabian prince’s infatuation—the
princess’s vulnerability, her lack of self-confidence which seemed at odds with
her other, confident side. The princess was in constant need of love, and the
prince wanted nothing more than to save her.
I had read a book called Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig a long time ago and
those memories created undertones of the story where pity is trapped in the name
of love and misunderstood, even as long ago as the Arabian Nights.

With Zeenat Aman on the sets of Abdullah

I was particularly pleased with the casting of Abdullah. Not only with Raj
Kapoor, who I knew with all certainty would be wonderful as the title character,
but with Danny as the villain, Bob Christo as the magician and Zeenat Aman as
the Sheikh’s wife.
I had first met Zeenat Aman in B.R. Chopra’s office when he had called me in
to discuss the casting of his new film, Dhund (1973). I knew her from the
popular song Dum maro dum in Dev Anand’s film Hare Rama Hare Krishna,
and I had also met her father, Amanullah Khan, at our house in Juhu. He was an
affable man who had co-written, along with K. Asif, the script of the great epic
Mughal-e-Azam. He had warmly embraced me when Feroz introduced us and
remarked, ‘Mashallah! Chhote miyan aapse se kam nahin. (As God has willed,
the younger one is no less handsome than you). Good looks run in your family.’
Zeenat and I got to know each other better on the sets of Dhund. Since most of
the film was to be shot outdoors in Mahabaleshwar in a large villa owned by a
Parsi family, the entire unit was put up in a hotel in Panchgani.
Early one morning as I was getting ready, Nana Palshikar, the veteran and
celebrated actor who was part of the cast, breezed into my room carrying a
pistol. ‘Sanju, please do me a favour, try out my pistol as I have not shot it for
almost thirty years. I thought you could try it out in the scene where Danny is
shooting at Zeenat’s photograph,’ he said excitedly.
I had learnt that one must exercise extreme precaution while handling
weapons so I slipped out the loaded magazine and pulled the slide to check the
chamber. It was jammed, so pointing the pistol away from us, I squeezed the
trigger to see if it was loaded and to my consternation, the blasted thing went off,
making a hole in the dressing table and destroying a large chunk of wood on the
left corner. Nana and I were aghast. The silence stretched for what felt like
eternity as we stared at each other.
Moments later, the door opened and B.R. Chopra’s horrified face slowly came
into view. He had been waiting for me in his car right outside, as he wanted to
discuss a scene on the way to the location. He said, with great concern, ‘I was
shocked when I heard the gunshot; thank God you are both okay.’ We were
indeed fine, but felt suitably chastened when we saw the anxiety our
recklessness had caused him.
In the evenings, we would all meet for drinks, but B.R. Chopra was very
particular about these sessions not going on too late because we had to be up
early for shooting the next day. As Zeenat and I became friends, however, we
would sneak out for walks after everyone had gone to sleep. Sometimes, we
would go for a spin in my latest, brand new Mercedes-Benz. Since we had to do
this without waking up the others, including the ‘headmaster’, I would open the
driver’s side door and push the car while Zeenat did the same from the other
side. As the car started rolling down the sloping car park, we would jump in and
I would take over the controls as it rolled out through the gates. We would turn
left towards the highway and only after a safe distance in silent rolling mode
would I switch on the powerful eight-cylinder engine which purred gently but
powerfully like a lion. And as we zoomed ahead, Zeenat and I would burst out
laughing with joy, which helped release the pent-up tension that used to build up
in the course of our escape plan.
We would head straight to what became our favourite haunt, Table Top in
Panchgani, and drive around in circles on the vast flatland, listening to music,
laughing and chatting away. Then, when we returned to the hotel, we would
reverse the earlier process to let the car roll silently down into the parking lot.
My respect for Zeenat soared one night when she showed great courage. A
truck stopped while we were strolling on the side of the highway and the driver
and his two assistants—all of them burly north Indians—got out of the truck, one
holding the starting rod or ‘handle’ as they were called in those days, and walked
towards us. I could sense trouble heading our way. My apprehension was
confirmed once I heard their slurred speech, which suggested they were drunk. I
was not overly worried as I am over six feet tall and was 85 kilograms of pure
muscle then. I was also quite proficient in karate and knew that I could easily
take care of the three men. My sole concern was for Zeenat as I did not want her
to be harassed by these drunkards who were staring at her and muttering some
curse words. They must have recognized me because they started addressing me
in sarcastic tones as ‘Sanjay saab’. I told Zeenat, under my breath, to quickly run
away while I took care of the men, but she refused to go, saying that she couldn’t
leave me alone in that situation.
As they neared us, I quietly took out my licensed pistol that I always kept
tucked in the back of my jeans on outdoor shoots. Brandishing it, I simply told
the louts, ‘Even after shooting two bullets in each one of you, I will have one left
in my pistol.’ Though I said this to scare them off, as soon as they saw the pistol,
they beat a hasty retreat.
I didn’t see Zeenat again for about five years.
In 1978, when I was beginning to finalize the cast for Abdullah, she was
playing the heroine in Raj Kapoor’s Satyam Shivam Sundaram. She was
standing outside her make-up room when I came out of Raj ji’s cottage at R.K.
Studios. When I told her that I had signed Raj ji for Abdullah, she congratulated
me and expressed her desire to work in the film. I promised her I would consider
it and later, while casting, decided to offer her the leading lady’s role.
 After our first shooting schedule completed, the entire unit shifted to Gotharu,
almost 100 kilometres west of Jaisalmer, near the Indo-Pak border. This location
was equally magnificent and atmospheric, but in a different way. I was struck by
the sheer beauty of the ethereal fort which was our setting. The structure was
made of baked clay bricks and was surrounded by desert brush. It stood like a
witness to time; I could not help but wonder how many love stories and how
many intrigues, heartbreaks, celebrations and sorrows had lost their way over
time within the confines of this resplendent fort. The shooting took fifteen days
to wrap up and the entire cast was present including Raj Kapoor, Zeenat, Danny,
Bob Christo, the comedian Mehmood, two hundred junior artists, two hundred
horses, buses and cars. It was a logistical nightmare for the production chief,
Asgar Ali. We owed a great deal to the commander-in-chief, Ashwini Kumar of
the Border Security Force, a remarkable gentleman who was also fluent in Urdu
poetry.

With Border Security Force personnel during the making of Abdullah

The final scene of the film was truly a fantasy straight out of the Arabian
Nights. We were filming a poignant song on the exquisite pristine light brown
sand dunes. The lyrics underpinned the tensions and the events to come: ‘Aye
Khuda har faisla tera mujhe manzoor hai / Samne tere tera banda bahut
majboor hai.’ (Oh God, I bow to your will and all your commands.) The Arabian
prince in his white tunic with the flowing cape hanging from his shoulders, black
cross belts on his body, and black boots, walked determinedly, looking up at the
skies and accepting his maker’s decision. The Arabian princess, clad in a black
robe embroidered with delicate gold thread, walked towards her prince and fell
into his arms. The prince, still singing the song, looked at her tenderly and saw
tears the size of pearls falling from her eyes. A few moments later, the forlorn
princess stood lost and lonely on the edge of the desert, watching her prince
galloping away into the distance on a white stallion and disappearing from her
life forever. The story ended with the prince and princess parting ways, each
carrying memories of their romance, now merely a mirage in the desert.
But that was Bollywood, and that was then. In the years since, I’ve often
wondered what the ending might be in a more realistic, contemporary story—a
film I might make now. Would the princess really watch her prince gallop away
and leave her life forever? Would not such a character, who clearly likes to get
her own way, want some kind of revenge?
In this ‘new’ film, I imagine the princess pursues the prince who has moved
on with his life, and has a new love interest. However, he still cares for her and
doesn’t want to hurt her.

Scene 1: The princess calls him and implores him to come and see her one last
time. The prince tells her that it would be pointless to stoke the ashes of their
relationship, but she is insistent. So the prince goes with a friend who knows
their story to meet the princess in a hotel in an exotic location. She is, of course,
looking particularly alluring, and persuades them to attend a party being hosted
by a mutual friend who is also on holiday there.

Scene 2: At the party, the princess is whisked off into the garden by the host,
who ogles her all evening, even though his wife is watching. The prince is
bemused; he had expected something of the kind. He pours his drinks
surreptitiously into the ground so that he can keep a clear head.
Scene 3: The prince learns that the host has taken the princess on a holiday
abroad and his wife is devastated. The princess calls the prince, though, hoping
to have made him jealous. She is disappointed.

Scene 4: The princess arrives at the prince’s home and announces that the host is
going to marry her. The prince congratulates her, but tells her it’s unlikely; the
man will go back to his wife. She soon finds out that this is true.

Scene 5: The princess arrives at a luxury hotel where the prince and his friends,
including his beloved, are having dinner. She insists on entering the private room
where they are eating. She is upset and announces for all the world to hear that
he has treated her badly. The prince tries to calm her down, but she is
unrelenting. He is stunned and outraged. He restrains himself; the princess
rushes out and disappears from his life forever.

Scene 6: The press has a field day. ‘A prince and a princess in a violent
altercation in a posh hotel!’ They add all manner of embellishments to the story
in an attempt to destroy the prince’s name.
I didn’t make that film. Nor did I make any other films after Abdullah, for
almost four years.

Kuch iss tarah se zindagi ko aasan kar liya

Kisise maafi li toh kisiko maaf kar diya.

I accepted the inevitable; I forgave some and accepted the apology of some.

Four Years in Self-exile

The events during the making of Abdullah, and the subsequent wanton attacks of
the media isolated me even from my own family, both in the final stages of
filming and after the release. The burden of anguish borne by my wife and
children during those excruciatingly painful days left a deep scar on my psyche
which is difficult to describe. I was advised by numerous friends to counter-
attack and present my side of the story, but I felt it was beneath my dignity. I
went into a period of deep introspection, which prevented me from making my
own films as well as accepting any offered to me by other producers.
 By the time I came out of this period of self-exile, almost four years had
passed without my having done any work. I realized that I had to find the will to
reclaim my life, so I dug deep, my school teacher’s homily echoing in my mind:
‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ Somehow, this call to action gave me the
motivation to return to creativity, and I began work on a new film, Kala Dhanda
Goray Log (1986). Besides writing the screenplay, I produced, directed and
starred in it. This film, which had as its focal point drugs and their devastating
impact they have on young people, was among the biggest blockbusters of
1986–87.
With my pet ET
 11
Tipu Sultan

To the Country which lacks a historian

To Men whom History owes rehabilitation
To Faith in the destiny of man
To Conviction that the Sun rises in the East and
To all the Youth of India who shall be told the truth.
—The Sword of Tipu Sultan

After making Kala Dhanda Goray Log, I felt ready to do something new, and I
was fortunate to come across Bhagwan S. Gidwani’s book The Sword of Tipu
Sultan at Bombay airport one day, and began reading it on the flight to Delhi.
I was quite intrigued to read on the first page that Bhagwan was born in
Karachi in 1923, and that his father had been the head of the Hindu Mahasabha
there. Bhagwan had specialized in the technical, economic and legal fields of
civil aviation, acted as the counsel for India in the International Court of Justice
and had served India in many other responsible positions.
The book was in its forty-fourth edition and had sold more than two million
copies. Bhagwan was inspired by a European history research scholar who
informed him in a chance meeting in London that Tipu Sultan had the distinction
of being one of only four kings in the history of mankind who actually died
fighting on the battlefield. This motivated him to research Tipu Sultan and he
borrowed Rs 3 lakh from his brother for the purpose.
Bhagwan shared the story with me when I met him with the intent to acquire
the film rights. Our collaboration made big news all over the country. I
remember at a press conference in Bombay Bhagwan and I were being
interviewed by a large number of journalists when one question came out like an
accusation: ‘Tipu Sultan chopped off the heads of Hindus.’ Bhagwan promptly
replied, ‘Yes, he did,’ but he went on to explain that it should not be taken as a
Muslim or a Hindu head; it was not a religious war, but a political war with
Hindus and Muslims on both sides. Tipu’s own army comprised large numbers
of Hindu generals and soldiers. He added that Tipu did what he had to for the
protection of his country which comprised 70 per cent Hindus, as certain Hindu
rulers in Kerala had aligned themselves with the British, usurping Tipu Sultan’s
territories.
The idea of making The Sword of Tipu Sultan on the big screen as a magnum
opus had to be dropped due to the rampant piracy of films in those days. This
had crippled and dislocated the entire Indian film industry. The conditions were
so bad that financiers and distributors were hesitant to invest in any film till such
time as a solution was found to this problem. Meanwhile, the advent of the
television and its promise of a great future inspired me to consider making The
Sword of Tipu Sultan as a grand serial for the small screen, telling the story in its
entirety.
We decided to shoot the series in Mysore, because it was the centre of Tipu’s
empire, which was called the Sultanat-e-Khudadad (The Kingdom of God). I put
together the best writers, technicians, visualizers and actors and before the fire,
we had completed the pilot episode, shot entirely in the palaces of Mysore and
other nearby locations. Doordarshan was very pleased with the pilot and we
were looking forward to filming the next episodes.
 On the sets of Tipu Sultan before the fire

The production value was very high because the series was very well
researched and had the support of the Mysore government. The Mysore cavalry
had provided 100 of its best horses and the chief of the Archaeological Survey of
India, who was in charge of the palace and the historical artefacts in Mysore, had
been persuaded to allow us to use the twelve nineteenth-century cannons in the
palace. They were so heavy that we could only put two in one large truck. On
location, we actually fired them with blanks—probably the first time in 100
years.

The Mysore Fire Tragedy

Reaching Jaslok Hospital in Bombay

I came round from my blackout feeling very cold and thirsty; my throat was
parched. My chief assistant director, Vijay Pandey, and my cousin, Mirza,
quickly reacted to my request and poured water in my mouth.
I asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’
 ‘We are taking you in this ambulance to a hospital in Bangalore,’ they replied.
My condition was beyond pain. I asked for water again and went into
delirium. My mind created horrific images like I was sinking into nothingness
and the burning pain in my body left me swinging between consciousness and
unconsciousness. I knew that Bangalore was 100 kilometres away and that is all
I can recall thinking before the pall of darkness descended over my mind.
I learnt later that on that fateful night, our residence in Bombay was flooded
with phone calls informing my wife about the fire accident. When Mohit called
and told her what I had instructed him to say, Zarine displayed great fortitude
and courage. She is a firm believer in Sai Baba and she rushed to the
photograph, kept at a special place, to make a silent prayer for my life. By then
our house was filled with anxious friends and relatives and there were calls from
the families of the other victims. It was the darkest night in our lives.
Early the next morning, St John’s Hospital in Bangalore, where I was
admitted, was besieged by fans and media, anxious to know my condition. The
nurses and doctors around me looked stunned; it was as if they had never seen
somebody in my state because they seemed to want to avoid looking at me.
Had the fire burnt my face? I realized the only two faculties I possessed at that
time were my voice, still deep and strong, and my mind, razor sharp even though
my head was throbbing and my body felt like it was on fire. I had no idea
whatsoever about my condition. When I asked for a mirror to see how I looked,
the nurses and doctors exchanged wary glances with each other, refusing to
oblige me. I learnt many months later that my head was bloated to three times its
size and my hair had turned into tight round curls and was sticking to my burnt
black scalp.
Before Zarine entered the room, the doctors had apprised her of my condition
and told her that my chances of survival were only 10 per cent. But when she
walked in, she did not display the slightest fear or alarm. She approached me
slowly with a smiling face but before she could speak, I told her, ‘Don’t worry,
darling. I’m all right and I will start shooting in the next two weeks.’
The strength and the conviction in my voice, she later confessed, gave her
courage and hope. As for me, the calm composure of her smile, the steady gaze
of her serene, beautiful eyes and her gentle voice infused life and vigour into my
mind and body, giving me the faith I needed to fight, to stay alive.
 The man entrusted with resurrecting me, Dr Buch, a Gujarati gentleman who
had been brought by my good friend Yusuf Lakdawala, to my bedside in
Bangalore, whispered in my ear, ‘Mr Khan, if you stay in this hospital, you will
die. I will save your life; move to Bombay immediately.’
He convinced my family that it was only there that I could receive the
intensive and sophisticated care which my extraordinary condition needed.
I am indebted to the late Rajiv Gandhi for his support. I was told by Ghulam
Nabi Azad that when he saw the news flash on Reuters about the fire tragedy
while in the middle of a late-night cabinet meeting, he took Ghulam Nabi aside
and told him, ‘What a handsome man!’ as if he was talking to himself, and then
said, ‘Our friend is in trouble. Help him.’
He immediately sent Ghulam Nabi Azad to Bangalore with two specialist
doctors from AIIMS and further requested the Government of Karnataka to rush
me from Bangalore to Bombay. On his instructions, the roads were cleared for
the ambulance and a special Indian Airlines plane with thirty of its seats
removed to accommodate the stretcher, the medical equipment, the oxygen
cylinders and the medical team was made available for my transfer. My
daughter, Simone, held the bottle of saline high above her head all the way with
her eyes closed, praying continuously for my survival.
My cousin Mirza described many months later how the then police
commissioner of Mysore had arrived on the scene of the fire, dressed in a
raincoat over his uniform and a long whip in his hand like a ringmaster in the
circus. He had remained at the site and managed the situation but obstinately
refused to allow me to be taken to another hospital in Bangalore. It took great
effort to persuade him to do so.
There was also a huge drama enacted at the Bangalore hospital amongst the
doctors and authorities who were reluctant to let me leave, stating that it was
risky to take me away and that I was in no condition to travel. But I was destined
to live. God had sent Dr Buch as my guardian angel.
From Bombay airport, I was rushed to Jaslok Hospital through a specially
planned route that had been blocked for other traffic. On reaching the hospital, I
remember asking for the time and somebody said that it was 10 p.m. on 10
February 1989. The hospital was surrounded by hordes of press reporters, TV
cameras, fans and well-wishers. As they were taking out the stretcher from the
ambulance, I remember seeing a multitude of lights flashing. My brother
Shahrukh asked them to stop but I told him not to keep them from doing their
jobs. I even started giving them my profile, still believing myself to be the
handsome man I was a few days ago. The thought never occurred to me that I
was burnt beyond recognition. The hospital authorities rushed me to the ICU
where I soon passed out.
My wife had taken over the responsibility of flying all the relatives of the
injured and the dead to Mysore so that they could be near their loved ones. Many
of the badly burnt could not survive. Zarine, although facing the worst days of
her life, because the doctors had informed her that the next forty-eight hours
would be extremely critical for me, provided monetary help to the injured and
those in hospital. Unbelievably, some of this money was pocketed by wolves
posing as relatives.
The essential saline water that was needed to pass through my body was
unable to do so due to serious burns which had clogged the veins. The only
recourse available to the doctors was to cut my jugular vein. However, this
process had to be performed without anaesthesia as my body was too weak to
take any kind of sedation. Zarine was sitting beside me during the procedure.
She told me later that even at the time of this procedure, my light-heartedness
gave her strength to face the situation. She wept with pain and anguish internally,
but on her face there was always an encouraging smile.
Along with Zarine and my children, my brothers Feroz, Shahrukh, Akbar
Sameer, and my sister Dilshad and kept vigil around my bedside for months.
Farah was nineteen at that time, Simone eighteen, Sussanne thirteen and Zayed,
the youngest, only nine years old. I am also deeply grateful to my cousin, Mirza,
who drove me to Bangalore from the site of my accident, and to my friend
Ghulam Nabi Azad who was there by my side, closely monitoring my situation.
I had suffered 65 per cent third-degree burns. For a man aged forty-nine to
survive such severe burns was unimaginable. It was a daunting task for both the
doctor and the patient.
The only word I can use to describe Dr Buch is ‘genius’, even though he was
somewhat eccentric and prone to mood swings. He was very conscious of the
fact that his patient was an internationally known celebrity, and was very
possessive of me.
 Initially, when he started to work on me, he covered the burns with a special
kind of gauze to stop the oozing of pus and blood, but that was not working.
During one of the normal routines, when my stretcher was being wheeled in and
out between the surgical wards and my room, a man with a white beard made his
way through the hospital crowd to Zarine and pressed a bundle of silver sheets in
her hand.
‘Please use these,’ he said. ‘They will heal the wounds.’
Before Zarine could respond he had disappeared. A thought flashed through
her mind then, causing goosebumps: Could that have been her patron saint, Sai
Baba?
After carefully examining them, Dr Buch used the sheets to cover my burns
and the pus and blood stopped oozing from my wounds! Whoever the old man
was, his silver sheets worked. Thereafter, inspired by the results, the good doctor
worked relentlessly to save my life. Along with a team of doctors and nurses, he
performed a number of surgeries one after the other. They would examine parts
of my body which had been spared in the accident and indicate areas to graft
from. Every inch of skin was scraped out from wherever they could find it. The
pain was unbearable; I was delirious most of the time. During those awful
nights, my nurse Roxanne, my Florence Nightingale, stood vigil at my bedside
and did her best to comfort me.
Dr Buch was an enigmatic man and it was difficult to gauge his mood. I still
remember vividly the moment when he walked into my room to seek my consent
to administer a new anaesthetic which numbed the patient’s ability to feel pain
but kept them fully conscious during the procedure. I really liked the idea and
while I was anxious to know how it was done, my innate curiosity and thirst for
adventure had me agreeing to it. Sure enough, even after the anaesthetic had
been administered, I could see and hear the sound of surgical instruments being
taken in and out of shallow stainless steel trays, the beeping of other machines in
the operating theatre; I could also see the team of doctors, assistants and nurses
in white tunics performing their respective tasks. They all looked like white
ghosts, mumbling and walking around in slow motion. It was surreal, like a
Salvador Dali painting without colours. As the doctor had told me, I felt no pain
at all, just the sensation of tugging and pulling. My mind was oddly at ease. This
was a major surgery and it took several hours to complete.
 An emergency appeal was made to friends and the public to donate O+ blood
which was my blood group, because I needed it on a continual basis. I came to
know later that people from all religions—Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs,
Zoroastrians—including students, lined up to donate blood. I was most touched
to know that the young cadets from our armed forces contributed blood towards
my treatment. I remain eternally grateful to these wonderful compatriots. The
108 bottles of blood that gave me a new lease of life came from all these
wonderful people. I feel very honoured especially whenever I see a man in
uniform. I always watch the Republic Day parade by our defence forces in Delhi
with immense pride and gratitude, and I feel a deep kinship with them for their
blood courses in my veins.
Dr Buch, with his wholehearted commitment to save my life, stretched his
mind and body beyond limits. His possessiveness meant that he would not allow
any other specialist consultations without his prior approval. He even threatened
to walk out from my case midway once. Zarine was petrified. She said it looked
as though he had taken on more than he could handle. The fact was that he
himself was suffering from a back ailment which was preventing him from
carrying out his normal activities. Or perhaps he was frustrated; to come so close
to the finish line and not receive the full glory and recognition. He kept his
promise to save my life, however, and thereby wrought a medical miracle. He
had asked me to allow him to take pictures of all the surgeries he performed on
me to use in his lectures. I was happy to give him the permission to do so, in the
hope that such a study would help save lives and inspire people, but at the same
time I thought to myself, ‘God forbid that anyone else should be in a situation
like this.’
Since the doctor’s prime focus was to save my life, the fingers of both my
hands became deformed due to neglect. My wife and my children were horrified
when it was suggested that both my hands needed to be amputated. My wife
calmly told the doctors, ‘My husband will never accept it. He would rather die.’
As he was unable to treat me at that time because of his back ailment, Dr
Buch made meticulous arrangements for the transfer of my care and handed over
the reins to Dr Narendra Pandya, another equally capable and respected doctor
and a gem of a human being. Over time we became close friends and enjoyed
each other’s company. His passing away has left a big void in my life.
 Dr Pandya performed much of the surgery on my back prior to my departure
for the US for more aggressive work on my left hand. He accompanied me and
stayed by my side for almost a month, cancelling all his appointments in
Bombay. He was a warm person, with smiling blue eyes and without any
pretences or posturing. He immediately got to work on my back, which had
almost forty burn patches that hadn’t yet been treated. The pain from these
wounds was unbearable. Tears rolled down my face and depressing thoughts
came to my mind about the pathetic condition I was in but I never allowed that
to weaken my resolve or my will to survive. I could not wipe my tears as both
my hands were in bandages and even if they hadn’t been, I did not have the
strength to lift them.
These two wonderful gentlemen were instrumental in saving my life. My
gratitude towards these noble, angelic souls will always remain and I will be
forever indebted to them.
After almost four weeks of intensive care, the doctors discovered that I was
affected by septicaemia. This is a very serious condition and 90 per cent of
affected people do not survive. It was essential to pull out a sample of marrow
from my bones for testing in a research centre in Switzerland to determine which
type of drug was needed to treat the septicaemia. The procedure involved
drilling a hole in the middle of my sternum to draw out the marrow. I could not
believe what I was hearing, lying there in a mangled heap. I had no choice but to
agree. They gave me local anaesthesia. I was in horror land, lying on plastic
sheets with blood and pus oozing from my body and accumulating under my
back, the stench of which was unbearable. The drilling pierced my chest and I
felt my heart crying out silently in anguish but I willed myself to ignore my
physical pain and let my consciousness fly at a zillion miles an hour into the
blackness of infinity.
Amazingly, Doordarshan wanted to interview me on this tragedy. They didn’t
consider my condition or how it might affect me. I was obviously not in the right
frame of mind to face the camera, but I felt a responsibility to my fans, and
asked Zarine to convey a message through the media. She told me later that even
when she was giving the positive message, she was extremely doubtful if I
would ever be able to fulfil my promise to appear as Tipu Sultan.
 In the days that followed, newspapers were filled with various gruesome
pictures of me and the other heavy burn victims amongst my crew. Despite this,
a section of the malicious press tried to insinuate that my condition was not so
serious, and that I was in hiding.
There was one elderly journalist who had been trolling and harassing me for a
couple of years, publishing baseless lies. To this day I wonder why he hated me
so much. I was told later by my younger brother, Shahrukh, that the man loitered
in the ICU area day after day, making a nuisance of himself and demanding to
see me in person. My brother said that he was very annoyed with this gentleman
who had the audacity to claim right there in front of the ICU that I was faking it.
Fed up, he told the reporter that if he did not believe it, he would get the ICU
doctors to allow him a glimpse of me from a distance; no one was allowed to go
near me so as to avoid the risk of infection. Apparently, when the reporter finally
laid eyes on me he was horrified and began shivering, his hands pressed to his
open mouth.
My brother escorted him out and told him never to come back or he would
report the matter to the hospital authorities and the police. I later learnt that the
reporter collapsed and died of a heart attack at the doorstep of his flat while
unlocking the door. I felt sorry for the old man. It was apparent that he did not
have a family.
When I was shifted out of the ICU and into a private room, my wife booked
another room right across the passage to receive the VIP guests, friends and
relatives who came to visit. Akbar, my youngest brother, was vigilant round the
clock and helped Zarine take care of and manage the various problems one faces
in such a situation. I distinctly remember to this day the people who were
allowed into my room, amongst whom were the then chief minister of Madhya
Pradesh Arjun Singh, cabinet minister Balram Jakhar, and Ghulam Nabi Azad to
name a few. My good friend Dharmendra cried loudly in an expression of
concern and sadness when he saw my condition. He kept saying repeatedly,
‘Don’t worry, brother, I am with you. You will be all right.’ I wanted to shake his
hand but was not in a position to do so.
I kept telling everyone, ‘I’ll be okay in three weeks and will come to see you
guys.’ However, the expressions on their faces suggested that they thought they
were seeing me for the last time. I later realized that all my well-wishers had
been told that I wouldn’t last long. Every time a visitor graced my room, I would
be consumed by the eerie feeling that I was witnessing my own funeral.
In my solitary moments, left alone with my consciousness, thoughts and
vulnerabilities, I truly wasn’t sure if I would survive. My case became so
hopeless that I felt like a small insect trapped within a huge vertical cylinder,
whose insides had been greased. No matter how relentlessly the insect tried to
grip that slippery surface in the desperate hope of eventually climbing out from
the top, it was an exercise in futility. All I wanted to do was fly out of that
cylinder like a bird and join humanity once again. With restrained wonder and
yearning, I imagined the simple treasured interactions of life: a conversation
with my entire family around the dining table, the joyous exchanges of pure
laughter with friends, and creatively brainstorming with collaborators on an
artistic pursuit. I had always been grateful to God for my life, but I now fully
embraced the appreciation for each momentary thread which connects life’s
experiences. The agonizing moments caused strange convulsions and reminded
me of Ali Sardar Jafri.

Loha aag mein tapkar nikharta hai

Insaan musibaton ka saamna karke insaan banta hai.
Mita de apni hasti ko agar kuch martaba chahe
Ki daana khak mein milkar gulo gulzar hota hai.

Iron glows when thrust into the fire

A human grows through life’s tribulations
Assume humility on the path to greatness
For the seed blooms into flowers through dust!

Zarine did not tell me about the huge financial loss we suffered or the large
sums of money that were required for my recovery and the treatment of my crew
members. All our lives were blown away, scattered by the winds of destiny. We
had lost all my savings and were dependent on overdrafts from banks against our
properties. To make matters worse, the Film Producers Guild was completely
insensitive. Fully aware of the circumstances we were going through, they still
summoned Zarine to Rajkamal Studios for a meeting. They demanded full and
complete compensation and settlement for the victims or they would stop the
shooting of The Sword of Tipu Sultan.
This was many months after the accident. Confident of my recovery, and in
consultation with me, Zarine made the decision to resume the shooting of The
Sword of Tipu Sultan. The members of the guild were unsupportive. Only J. Om
Prakash, a leading producer–director and a true gentleman, came to her rescue
when Zarine argued that if they stopped the shooting they would be denying her
the revenue which she needed to settle all legitimate dues. She told them that we
were not running away from anything. Hearing this, J. Om Prakash rose in
support and influenced the members of the guild to accept her offer.
Success has a shadow following it. It’s called envy. When you are down, that’s
when they hit you.

Leaving for the US

One morning, during my seventh month of hospitalization, just before I was to

leave for the US, I was watching television in my room when, suddenly and
inexplicably, everything became a blur. I had lost my sight and my immediate
reaction was panic. Instinctively, my mind raced to ask, ‘Is this the end?’ But
three or four thunderous heartbeats later, I calmed down, reached for my nurse,
and told her, ‘Roxanne, I think I can’t see.’
 She immediately rushed me to the specialist. Going from the seventeenth to
the first floor of the hospital seemed to take eternity. As I lay on the stretcher, I
couldn’t shake the relentless and pounding thought that while I could endure the
most extreme physical pain, I simply couldn’t lose my sight; that was an
adversity too steep and profound to overcome.
Thankfully, Dr B.K. Shroff, the eye specialist, said that my retina was intact
and that my eyesight would return as I regained my strength. However, I didn’t
tell anyone about this additional impairment as I didn’t want to further burden
my wife and family. I shared the experience with Zarine only after some days
had passed. With this knowledge between just the two of us, I quietly took my
prescribed vitamins and after a few weeks, my sight returned. My vision was one
of hope, praying for a swift recovery.
The lonely darkness of my room evoked thoughts which flew in all directions.
Nobody told me what had happened to my crew. All news was blacked out. I
was just informed that everything was fine and that I shouldn’t worry. I remained
under the impression that they were all recovering in other hospitals.
The various twists and turns of destiny have led me to believe that nothing in
life is a tragedy unless it kills you. I am convinced that every negative situation
turns positive if one has the will and the courage to face failures and the
imperfect condition of life.
The Sword of Tipu Sultan was destined to be beset with complications.
When I had first announced the series, before the fire, we were immediately
sued by a Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) MLA contending that Tipu was a tyrant,
and hence the work must be stopped. The Bombay High Court rejected his
petition and ruled in our favour, but this did not deter the MLA from taking us to
the Supreme Court after obtaining a special leave petition.
Eventually shooting began, but the fire struck soon after. When I was
recovering, the first eight episodes were shot without me, while the case
continued in the courts.
I returned home after thirteen months of hospitalization and travelled to Delhi
for a three-bench hearing in the Supreme Court. I had hired a top lawyer from
Bombay to represent us and was sitting watching the proceedings of the court
with bandages on my hands when my learned counsel rushed towards me and
whispered in my ear that the bench was ready to give us clearance if we deleted
the words ‘The Sword of’ and reduced the title to just ‘Tipu Sultan’.
I refused to agree to this. I told him that several editions of the book were
already sold out under the title The Sword of Tipu Sultan and this had never been
proscribed. I said that I had bought the book not only for the content but also for
the value of the title. I asked him to kindly explain this to the honourable court
and tell them that I would never compromise on it. Hearing this, the lawyer’s
eyes lit up and giving me a smile, he rushed back to the bench. I noticed the
three judges murmuring something to each other but could not hear what was
being said from where I was sitting. Then my counsel returned to the table and
exclaimed that the court had dismissed the petition of the plaintiffs.
As I came out of the Supreme Court, I saw hordes of reporters rushing
towards me, enquiring about the verdict. I just smiled and answered, ‘We won,’
and drove off in my waiting car with a great sigh of relief. Now I was even more
determined to complete and release the serial.
When we presented the first eight episodes to Doordarshan, they referred them
to Mr Malkani, vice president of the BJP. In turn, he passed the tapes on to
Nagpur, to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) headquarters. A few days
later, Bhagwan came into my office and showed me a copy of a letter Malkani
had sent him, written by Nana Deshmukh, a senior RSS leader whom I had met
earlier in a friend’s house. The letter clearly stated that he had no objection
whatsoever about the content of The Sword of Tipu Sultan as it was patriotic and
he thought it should be released.
Coincidentally, a call came just then from my friend Shatrughan Sinha to say
that Nana ji was in his house and wanted to speak to me. Nana ji informed me
that he had cleared the tapes for release and had already written to Malkani about
it. I knew he was speaking the truth because the copy of the letter was on my
desk.
During one of our meetings, Nana ji had said he would like to show me his
initiative, the Chitrakoot project, a campaign for self-reliance. I was very
interested, but due to my busy schedule of shootings the visit never materialized.
It was clear to me from our many conversations that his charitable projects on
education and new methods of farming for the village people, including
Muslims, were indeed laudable, as he was a member of the RSS. I told him that
he could also consider me a Sevak, because I too had concerns about the welfare
of and regard for the downtrodden of my country. He was keen to tell me that the
RSS had nothing against Muslims—that there were many Muslims already in the
organization and they wanted to include more. I suggested that the RSS would
do a great service to the country if they enrolled individuals from diverse
backgrounds. The nation then would benefit from the glue of unity and be both
safe and prosperous. I added, ‘India has the opportunity of dining at the great
table of the four largest superpowers of the world. The political class has to
make up their minds and not play politics, but earnestly govern the people and
not destroy their trust; that is the real test.’
I firmly believe a united and strong India, embracing its pluralism, caste and
communities without distinction, is the only solution to the problems that plague
us as a country. Eventually, we got a date for the release the whole series, I
resumed the role of Tipu Sultan, and the series was televised to great critical
acclaim.
In later years, it was painful and disturbing for me to see the politicization and
vilification of Tipu, without considering the facts of his life. The Sword of Tipu
Sultan broke the TRP records in those days and is still remembered by one and
all as a classic. It gives me great satisfaction to have conveyed the message of
national integration and communal harmony in my work.
Dear Dad,
You continue to be my inner voice in times of taking crucial decisions.
You’ve raised me to be tough enough to hear the truth, and wise enough to
not show how it might affect me.
The disastrous fire accident in 1988 was the darkest time for our family
but strangely, you taught us, through it, to be bold and fearless. It was
inspiring to see you staying cool and composed around us despite your
severe burns and injuries; trying not to show your suffering so that we
wouldn’t worry or be affected by your pain. I watched you through the
horrors, the brave-heart warrior who would never give up, and those years
are etched forever in my memory as the greatest lessons in resilience and
endurance.
Now that I am a mother myself, I realize how much of you I have in me.
So today I dare call myself a brave-hearted girl, a reflection of you. I am
proud to be the person I am, your daughter. One hundred per cent.

Your loving daughter,

Sussanne
 12
Television Triumphs

The success of The Sword of Tipu Sultan convinced me that television was a
creative direction I wanted to pursue. I already had several topics in mind which
I thought would lend themselves perfectly to the form.

The Great Maratha

I had been fascinated by the story of the Marathas in the Battle of Panipat for a
long time, so it was an obvious choice for my second television series,
particularly since I felt that several events had never been portrayed.

Directing The Great Maratha

 The word ‘Panipat’ had become synonymous in Marathi with ‘defeat’. In fact,
on the eve of the Battle of Panipat the Indian princes, divided and caught in
intrigue and suspicion, deserted the Maratha camp and left them to face the
Afghan hordes who were led by a very astute king, Ahmad Shah Abdali. I felt
that the courage of the brave Marathas and the magnitude of this story had to be
told from the right perspective and this motivated me to make the series.

Jai Hanuman
My next television series, Jai Hanuman, has an interesting story behind it.
I was once sitting on the steps of the Samode Palace, 60 miles away from
Jaipur, signing autographs for a few busloads of students from Jaipur who had
come to greet me when a tall, gracious man wearing saffron robes and a
rudraksha mala approached me and greeted me warmly. I looked at his face and
found myself captivated by his large powerful eyes. He said he had prayed for
me after the fire accident in the nearby Hanuman temple of which he was the
priest and invited me to visit the temple for darshan and to offer thanks to the
great deity.
Being from Bangalore, I had grown up seeing Hanuman ji’s statues all over
wherever I went and knew that he was a supreme god of Hinduism. I readily
agreed but drew his attention to the frail condition of my health—I could not
even sit up without the assistance of my nurse—and promised him that, health
permitting, I would surely visit his temple.
If anyone believes in miracles then they will certainly believe what I am
saying. Exactly one week after my meeting with this wonderful man, I started
feeling the strength building within my body and, since I do believe that you
should respond with gratitude for a good deed done for you, I decided to walk
the 400 steps and three hills to the temple even though my nurse protested all the
way that I would get a heart attack.
On reaching the temple, I sat down on the cool stone slab, my gaze fixed on
the finely etched figure of Hanuman ji in charcoal on the saffron wall. The priest
was sitting beside me, chanting the Gayatri Mantra, which I heard seamlessly
change into a Koranic sura. Surprised, I turned towards him and, once he had
finished, asked, ‘Pandit ji, aapko yeh bhi malum hai?’ (Priest, you know this
also?)
 He simply replied, ‘Maine padha hai.’ (I have read it.)
After exchanging pleasantries, we said goodbye to each other and on the way
back, inspiration struck me. I realized that I had never seen any film in India
produced in the last 100 years (it was 1995) which showed the childhood and
origins of Hanuman. I resolved there and then to make a grand serial with the
title Jai Hanuman.
In the extensive research required for this massive venture, my good friend
Iqbal Malhotra introduced me to a priest from Varanasi, who in turn reached out
to five other leading priests with a deep knowledge and understanding of the
Puranas and the Vedas and the scriptures of Hinduism. The first question I asked
them in the story discussion room in my office in Bombay was who was
Hanuman ji. Over several such sessions with the priests, I learnt many
enchanting facts about Hanuman ji. He was the eleventh Rudra avatar of Lord
Shiva. He is known as ‘Pawan putra’ but in fact, he was the son of King Kesar
and Angini, formerly Punjikasthala, a dancer in Lord Indra’s court.
Jai Hanuman was one of the largest blockbusters on Doordarshan and carries
the distinction of being charged the most—Rs 66 lakh—for a one hour prime-
time slot.
 With Irfan Khan and Raju Shrestha in Jai Hanuman

The success of Jai Hanuman also led to my being honoured with a doctorate
by the Kashi Pandit Sansad in Varanasi. There was a grand reception held near
the precincts of the Jagannath temple in Varanasi in my honour. A huge crowd
was present—people had come from all over Varanasi to hear me speak. The
next day, a local Hindi daily carried a centre double-page spread with the
headline ‘Visit of a Second Great Muslim to Varanasi’. The contents showed that
the first was the crown prince Dara Shikoh who spent three years in Varanasi
translating the Upanishads into Persian and then distributed them across the
world. I was the second.
While in Varanasi, I could not resist the temptation to visit the 1000-year-old
Sankat Mochan temple dedicated to Hanuman ji. When I arrived there, I was
welcomed by the press and a reporter from Zee TV, who introduced himself as
Ansari. He greeted me with a ‘Salaam alaikum’ and extending the mike, asked
me, ‘Are you going in?’ The undertone of his question was, undoubtedly, one of
surprise. I simply said yes and walked in. When I looked back to see if Ansari
was following, I saw that he had vanished.
 A havan was organized in my honour in the temple and I went around the
edifice seven times, as requested by the priests as a mark of respect to them and
Hanuman ji. I was clear in my mind that this act of mine would not be taken as a
surrender of my Islamic faith but as a humane act as it is ordained in all religions
that the path to God is humanity.
When I came out, the reporter from Zee was waiting for me. I asked Ansari
about the Gyanvapi mosque in that area and he volunteered to take me there to
recite our namaz as it was nearing the time for the midday prayer. As I entered
the mosque, I looked back and saw that Ansari had vanished, again. After
finishing my prayer, when I came out, I saw he was sitting outside as before. I
said to him that I could understand his not entering the temple but did not see
why he did not come inside the mosque.
He replied with a smile, ‘I am a communist, sir.’ I laughed out loud. Well, to
each his own.
After this, I made several other series, like Maharathi Karan, the
Mahabharata and 1857 Kranti.
Whenever I have put pen to paper to write a story or plan a film production,
my thoughts have always been directed towards national integration and unity
and harmony between the different communities that make up the fabric of our
great nation. The subjects of my films and television series have contributed to a
greater awareness of society’s needs and concerns, be it philanthropy for the
poor, handicapped and downtrodden as narrated in Chandi Sona, or national
integration and communal harmony in Abdullah or a fight against abuse of
drugs, to save future generations from this evil, in Kala Dhanda Goray Log. I
am proud that I have been able to contribute, in my own way, to my country.
 13
Political Affairs

I am a Gandhian and a great admirer of the Indian freedom movement which

showed the world that you can achieve anything by peaceful means, rather than
aggression. My father instilled these ideas in me from my childhood, and when I
grew up, I became both a friend and a critic of the Congress Party. I lauded them
when they did well and criticized them when they did not.
I was very much in favour of Pandit Nehru’s five-year plans to establish a new
India by planning a strong industrial base, including the giant irrigation schemes
like the Bhakra–Nangal dam, strengthening India’s defence forces and using
atomic power for energy as well as making India a nuclear power. I was all for
the policies of Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri, especially ‘Jai Jawan, Jai
Kisan’ which promoted a strong army and boosted the agriculture sector; I
concurred with the idea that this would strengthen India.
I thought the Green Revolution promoted by Mrs Gandhi was a wonderful
initiative and I admired the part India played in helping Bangladesh attain
freedom. I applauded Rajiv Gandhi’s drive to bring information technology to
India, thus revolutionizing our country; the encouragement he gave this
transformational industry not only made ours one of the most advanced nations
in the subcontinent, but created millions of jobs and earned billions of dollars in
revenue.
It cannot be denied that the Congress Party laid the basic foundations of a
modern India, enabling it to grow exponentially into the third largest economic
power in the world.
What I didn’t like was the rampant corruption in the party and its habit of
blithely promising people the moon and not delivering it. I deplored the lack of
jobs, which ensued because the Congress’s political elite lacked the will to
strengthen the backbone of this country for the good of its people. In the end, it
was all politics. I came to the conclusion that the people’s welfare was never
their intention and I have, I admit, become disillusioned.
India is a diverse country of twenty-nine states and seven union territories
with different languages, castes and religions and distinct cultures. To make
India a superpower, we, the people, need to stick together. If politics takes
precedence over the rights of the people, their happiness and welfare, we will be
Balkanized and broken into pieces; it will take away our strength and lead to us
falling prey to a modern East India Company.
It is my belief that Prime Minister Narendra Modi is a strong and decisive
leader. His famous slogan ‘Sab Ka Saath Sab Ka Vikas’ (Together all,
development for all) has raised high expectations in the minds of the people of
this nation. He has taken major and bold decisions on economic reforms which
may look new and intimidating in the beginning but which I am sure will be
beneficial to the nation in the long term. However, he has to decide whether to
allow the nation to develop into a splendid garden with the aroma of fresh
jasmine in the air or to allow human blood to be spilled on the streets in the
name of religion.
For a strong India we need to be united and embrace its pluralistic character.
During the seventeenth century India’s GDP was 27 per cent, the highest in the
world.1 This was largely due to the Hindu–Muslim harmony which existed for
centuries. Our nation must be kept intact for its own betterment. India’s largely
peaceful history and achievements are widely respected across the world and we
cannot allow this to be marred by civil disorder among its own people.

Sanjay Gandhi, the Tragic Prince

I was at a Bombay film laboratory in 1980, editing my film Abdullah, when my
close friend Ashok Khanna, grandson of Rai Bahadur Oberoi, the legendary
hotelier, came to see me with a message from Sanjay Gandhi. He told me that
Sanjay Gandhi wanted me to contest the north-west Bandra parliamentary seat
on the Indian National Congress ticket. I was surprised and honoured to know
that Sanjay thought so highly of me, but I declined politely, stating that I had a
commitment to releasing my film and couldn’t accept the offer. Ashok was taken
aback and tried to persuade me but could not change my resolve.
 Sanjay Gandhi and I were friends. He invited me, sometime later, to his
residence at 24 Akbar Road for the screening of From the Ocean to the Skies, a
documentary by Edmund Hillary, the Everest hero, which was about a group of
mountaineers who travel via rubber dinghy from the mouth of the Ganges to its
source in the Himalayas. It was a thrilling story of courage and valour.
As I entered the living room along with Jagdish Tytler, I saw Mrs Indira
Gandhi, the then prime minister, for whom I had great respect, as well as Pranab
Mukherjee, Dhirendra Brahmachari and Maneka Gandhi. I greeted Mrs Gandhi
and she smiled back with a nod.
After the screening, Sanjay, Jagdish and I walked out into the garden, taking
an internal path that led to the Safdarjung residence of the prime minister (where
she was assassinated four years later). We stopped midway and Sanjay
expounded his great vision to revamp the Indian film industry as he felt it had
great potential not only for entertainment but also for the creation of
employment, grooming new talent and showcasing to the world India’s rich
culture, heritage, history and civilization. This would not only promote tourism
but promote ‘Brand India’. In this connection, he asked me to prepare a report
for revamping the entire film industry and I committed myself to presenting it in
four months. I thought that perhaps he had specially invited me to see the
documentary as a prelude to our conversation.
I had no way of knowing then that I’d soon be making my own thirty-minute
documentary on him.
One week later, on 23 June, I received a call from my friend Kamal Siddiqi in
Delhi informing me that Sanjay Gandhi had been killed in a plane crash while
performing acrobatics, which he used to do quite frequently. I was so distraught
that I left for the capital in my kurta-pyjama, and it was only when I felt my feet
burning on the hot pavement in Delhi that I realized I was not wearing my shoes.
I handed over the print of Desh Sevak to Mohammad Yunus one day prior to
the first anniversary of Sanjay’s death, and flew back to Bombay. Later that
night, he called me to ask why I was not present for the screening of the film that
I had made. He told me that Mrs Gandhi saw the documentary at the Siri Fort
Auditorium along with her cabinet colleagues and had, in fact, asked for the film
to be screened twice. Yunus said that she had tears in her eyes and had asked for
me.
 I felt extreme sorrow for my friend, Sanjay Gandhi, who would have made a
dynamic leader; his death was India’s loss.

Varun Gandhi, the Promising Young Politician

Sanjay’s son, Varun, was only three months old when his father died. When he
grew up he was educated in England, and became an apprentice to Arun Jaitley,
then a prominent Delhi lawyer and now finance minister of India and a good
friend of mine.
Much later in life, when my television serial Jai Hanuman was having a very
successful run as the number one show on Doordarshan, the then Prasar Bharati
chief, S.S. Gill, summoned me for a meeting and informed me that he had
discontinued the series because I was spreading andhvishvas (blind faith). I hired
the services of Arun Jaitley to get me a stay against this unreasonable and
unjustifiable order and it was he who introduced me to Varun Gandhi at the
Delhi High Court. With a grin, he told me that though Varun’s father, Sanjay
Gandhi, had sent Jaitley to jail, he was training Varun to be a lawyer.
I was delighted to meet this bright young man and embraced him warmly.
When I enquired about Maneka, his mother, he replied that she remembered me
fondly and then invited me to their home to meet her; I told him I would be
pleased to do so.

King Creole, the Knight

My various activities in Mauritius brought me into contact with the politics of
the island in several different ways.
 With Sir Charles Gaetan Duval, deputy prime minister of Mauritius, and his brother

When we were filming there, the whole island was buzzing with the name of
Sir Charles Gaetan Duval, affectionately known as King Creole. He was the
foreign minister and the leader of the Parti Mauricien Social Démocrate (PMSD)
in Mauritius. He had been knighted by the Queen of England and awarded the
Légion d’honneur by the French. His people were mesmerized by his charm; he
was deeply loved, but also hated and feared by the opposition.
He had asked to meet me, so a meeting was arranged at the Continental Hotel
in Curepipe. He walked in wearing stylish jeans, his hair ruffled like a movie
star’s. He was accompanied by a group of young men. They were heading
straight towards where I was seated in the lobby when Suresh, the head of Air
India, who had come with me to the meeting, muttered under his breath, ‘He is
our foreign minister.’ After introducing himself and his friends, he told me that
he had heard about my arrival and the news was also all over the papers. We had
a good chat, and I found Gaetan to be an intelligent, friendly man with a good
sense of humour. Though he was a high-ranking minister, he had no airs, unlike
what we often see in India. He invited me to dinner the same day and when I
accepted, he held my hand, gave me a hug and simply said, ‘A friendship has
begun; it will last.’ It did. We remained close friends for the rest of his life.
The following day, I spent the first half of the morning at the prime minister’s
office, chatting with Chacha. The meeting had been officially arranged by his
political secretary so I was a little surprised that, although his greeting was
cordial enough, he seemed to be a bit peeved. I was informed later that this was
because the newspapers were full of stories about my meeting with Gaetan
Duval, who was the leader of the opposition. This was my baptism in Mauritian
politics.
Destiny had a lot in store for me but at that point, I was pleased to be able to
mediate between these two great leaders, the ‘king’ and the ‘prince’ of Mauritian
politics, and they formed a coalition government. By talking to both, I helped
ensure that the combination of the Labour Party with the PMSD provided the
right balance to run a steady and good government in the nascent days of the
young nation. To their credit, both these leaders contributed immensely to the
growth and stability of Mauritius. I look back with nostalgia to those amazing
days when the political chess game was so well played by both Chacha and
Gaetan.

Chacha, the Generous Host

I’ll never forget the day when I arrived in Mauritius to shoot Chandi Sona and
was received by the prime minister’s private secretary and driven to Trou-aux-
Biches, the newly built five-star resort overlooking the sparkling blue waters of
the Indian Ocean. As we were heading towards the hotel, the private secretary
informed me that the prime minister was right behind and that he had signalled
us to stop. I looked back and when I saw Chacha’s motorcade stop right behind
us, I got down and greeted him.
 With Danny Denzongpa, Parveen Babi, Sir Charles Gaetan Duval and a guest

Chacha passed an order in Creole and I saw two policemen from the prime
minister’s security opening the boot of his car and taking out two crates of wine.
This was a very unusual occurrence by the side of a highway, and I was deeply
touched by the gesture. Chacha told me that one crate was a Riesling German
white wine and the other was a Mateus red. It was not the delivery of the wine
but the style in which it was done that made me wonder if it was unique in
political history.

Yasser Arafat, the Samaritan

In 1982, I had the opportunity of meeting Yasser Arafat, the chairman of the
Palestinian movement at the Embassy of Palestine in New Delhi where Rajiv
Gandhi, whom I had met before, was the chief guest. Rajiv had also brought his
eight-year-old son, Rahul.
 During the conversations that evening, I observed that Yasser Arafat was a
true friend of India and referred to Mrs Gandhi, the prime minister, as his sister.
Arafat, with whom I had a long conversation, seemed to like me and invited me
to accompany him to Beirut in his private jet. This was the time when there was
a full-fledged war raging between the Palestinians and the Lebanese
government, so it was fraught with danger, but since I had always admired
Ernest Hemingway for his participation in the Spanish Civil War, and was not
averse to a bit of danger, I agreed. Unfortunately, the shock on Zarine’s face after
I told her of my decision was so pronounced that I had to change my mind
immediately—I decided not to go before she could utter a single word.
My friendship with Yasser Arafat and his ambassador proved to be extremely
useful. One evening in 1984, Faisal Oweda, the ambassador, came looking for
me frantically at the Oberoi Intercontinental in New Delhi. He walked into my
suite and begged me to get him an appointment with the prime minister. When I
asked him why he did not use his own ambassadorial channels, he said that it
would take too long and that there was no time. He then sat down and informed
me that he had received an urgent message from Yasser Arafat for Mrs Gandhi.
Palestinian intelligence in Karachi had picked up on a terrorist plot to bomb nine
cities in Uttar Pradesh that very night and it was imperative that he met and
informed the prime minister to take countermeasures.
 With President Yasser Arafat

For a moment, I was stumped and shocked. However, I quickly called my

good friend Jagdish Tytler who was then Mrs Gandhi’s political secretary, and
apprised him of the situation. He heard me out and rushed to my suite. After
speaking with the ambassador, he rushed to Mrs Gandhi’s residence to tell her
the news and then returned to my hotel. This was an emergency situation and
utmost secrecy had to be maintained.
Yogendra Makwana, another close friend and the then minister of state in the
home ministry under Giani Zail Singh, also rushed to my hotel suite. Jagdish,
Faisal, Yogendra, and I were the only people in the room. The Palestinian
ambassador, once again, narrated further intelligence reports he had received
from Yasser Arafat and asked that we inform Mrs Gandhi. After a protracted
discussion with the ambassador, Makwana called Mrs Gandhi to convey the
exact conversation to her and listened to her orders anxiously. ‘Yes, madam . . .
yes, madam . . . it will be done, madam. Namaskar, madam.’ He hung up,
sweating profusely. That was the kind of effect Mrs Gandhi had on her ministers.
Time was of the essence so Makwana had to give the order to our intelligence
agencies on the phone right there from my suite and fortunately, they were able
to prevent eight blasts out of the nine. When I read all this in the newspapers, a
sense of patriotism swelled in my chest and I felt very proud that I had been
useful to my nation.
The second and the last time I met Yasser Arafat was when he came to New
Delhi to pay his last respects to Rajiv Gandhi in May 1991. Rajiv’s remains,
embalmed and wrapped in a white sheet, were kept in a large hall at Teen Murti
Bhavan, where a huge number of people from all over the world had collected.
Yasser Arafat, visibly moved, with tears in his eyes, walked straight up to me
and we embraced, sharing a common grief.

Orville Lothrop Freeman, My Friend in Washington

All kinds of people make money out of politics, and it’s easy to be cynical.
Cameron Longman who, along with his wife, Pam, had been very supportive
when I was recovering from surgery in Washington DC, suggested I meet a
friend of his, the former secretary of agriculture of the US government, Orville
Freeman. I was curious so I agreed.

With Ghulam Nabi Azad, Orville Freeman and Balram Jakhar

During our discussion in Orville’s office he said that he was trying to revive
his contacts in New Delhi and asked if I could help him since I was well
connected in Indian political circles in those days. This seemed like a reasonable
thing to ask, but his second question made me a little cautious. ‘Is Sharad Power
approachable?’ he asked. I replied, ‘It depends on what you mean by
“approachable”. Do you mean a friendly person? If so, yes, he is very friendly. If
you are implying that he may be corrupt, then I don’t think so.’ We left it at that.
In appreciation of the support Cameron and Pam had shown me, I agreed to
host Orville in Delhi, and introduce him to the political elite. I invited almost
fifty MPs and seven or eight cabinet ministers and a chief minister to a dinner at
the Maurya Sheraton, New Delhi; they consented to attend because they were
friends and acquaintances, but also because they were keen to meet the former
US secretary of agriculture.
 It was a wonderful evening. Orville Freeman got more introductions than he
could have imagined. He looked happy and flushed and exchanged his card with
all the guests.

Rajiv Gandhi, a Life Cut Short

In the 1991 national elections, Rajiv Gandhi’s right-hand man, Ghulam Nabi
Azad, asked me to campaign for Rajiv. I was very keen to do this—not only for
political reasons, but to show my gratitude for the help he had extended to me
after the fire accident.
As per the rules of the Election Commission regarding stars supporting
candidates, The Sword of Tipu Sultan had to be suspended for four weeks. I was
aware that this would cause significant financial loss, but felt strongly that I
wanted to do this, against the advice of my team.
I campaigned in 300 parliamentary constituencies across India. In the first
month of the campaign, I travelled 800 kilometres with at least eight stops to
give speeches at various places. At the end of the first month, after the initial
campaigning was over, Ghulam Nabi Azad, S.N. Chaturvedi, and a few other
ministers from the Maharashtra cabinet and some Congress leaders from Akola
were at Akola Station in Maharashtra, waiting to catch a train to Bombay, when
a man rushed towards us, crying out loud and screaming, ‘He’s dead . . . bomb . .
. explosion . . . dead!’
The man just fell on the ground in front of Ghulam Nabi Azad, and started
tearing out his hair and screaming that Rajiv Gandhi was dead. Shocked by this
horrific news, a devastated Ghulam Nabi rushed to a phone to speak to local
officials. ‘Have you seen with your own eyes? Have you heard with your own
ears? Are you confirming this news?’ he asked, emotion writ large on his face.
On receiving confirmation of Rajiv’s death, Ghulam Nabi screamed like a
wounded tiger in anguish. As I tried to console him, I could see him bleeding
from his mouth. I remembered he had undergone intestinal surgery a short while
ago and wondered if he had ruptured something inside. He told me that we
should go to Nagpur by car but I stopped him and told him that he might be on
the hit list too, so we should not travel by road. He agreed but the train journey
from Akola to Bombay was very traumatic; we were grief-stricken. Thankfully,
S.N. Chaturvedi, the senior Congress leader who was travelling with us, had the
presence of mind to alert the police commissioner in Bombay with the result that
at every station, more armed policemen joined the train.
When we reached Bombay, we were greeted at Dadar Station by a huge crowd
of nearly 30,000 people, each one screaming for revenge. Ghulam Nabi
immediately addressed the crowd and begged them to maintain peace and not
take the law into their own hands.
An Indian Airlines Airbus was waiting for us at the airport, and when we
entered the aircraft, all the captains of industry, including Dhirubhai Ambani,
came on board to offer us their condolences. I was sitting in one of the front row
seats and when the plane took off, I asked Ghulam Nabi, who loved Rajiv like a
brother, who would now lead the party. I saw that he was crying silently so I did
not press for an immediate answer; later, he confided in me that he would be
talking to Sonia Gandhi about leading it.
After the second phase of elections, the Congress emerged victorious, though
in a minority government and when Sonia was reluctant to lead the party, they
had to search for another suitable leader. I proposed the name of Balram Jakhar
as he had all the qualifications and a solid background, having been an important
cabinet minister and the speaker of the Lok Sabha. But things got more
complicated. Sharad Pawar came to Delhi with signatures of support from 170
Congress MPs. That was a challenging night for Ghulam Nabi as he realized that
he would need to throw in a heavyweight against Sharad Pawar; Balram Jakhar
had capitulated by stepping down.
That night, Ghulam Nabi, along with K. Karunakaran, then chief minister of
Kerala, met the leaders of the party at various state guest houses, to get a
consensus candidate. Ghulam Nabi proposed the name of Narasimha Rao as he
was the most senior Congress leader—a brilliant move that checked Sharad
Pawar’s burgeoning ambitions.
The leaders woke Narasimha Rao in the wee hours of the morning in a safe
house where he had been confined. Once informed about the decision, he asked
Ghulam Nabi, ‘But why did you not tell me anything about this?’
‘Really, sir, if I had told you this, you would have got a heart attack!’
It was the night of the generals and I witnessed history being created.

Congress Politics
In November 1972, my friend Mohammed Yunus, head of the Trade Fair
Authority of India, later rechristened the Indian Trade Promotion Organisation,
invited me to Pragati Maidan, New Delhi, to be the chief guest at the
inauguration of Asia ’72, India’s first international trade fair. The fair was
inaugurated by the prime minister, Mrs Gandhi, and Yunus introduced me to her.
Since I was established as a popular film star by then, she knew me and
expressed her pleasure at being there to hear me answering questions from
students about films and my life. Later, she introduced me to some of her cabinet
ministers, including Pranab Mukherjee and P.C. Sethi through whom I learnt
about some of the internal workings of the Congress Party.
Over time, I got to know P.C. Sethi well. I found that he was a very well-read,
intelligent man, perhaps even one of the more competent ministers in the
cabinet. Whenever I visited New Delhi, we would try to meet and catch up.
On one such occasion, he was busy in a meeting with some people so he
invited me into the house and suggested I make myself comfortable until he was
done. I had just had a sip of whisky when in walked the familiar figure of
Dhirubhai Ambani, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. I had met Dhirubhai
before and greeted him. But his response was a blank. Of course, he knew who I
was but at that point in time, he seemed totally focused on the sheet in his hand.
With a perfunctory nod in my direction, he started to say how it was so
important to make briefs for ministers. For a moment, I thought he was speaking
to me, but I realized quickly that his statement was directed to himself. I smiled
at the man’s ability to concentrate like that, and could not suppress my laughter
when suddenly, he said, ‘In ministers ko kuch nahin aata!’ (These ministers
know nothing.)
After a short while, P.C. Sethi walked in and Dhirubhai handed him the paper
that contained the brief. The minister read it and waited anxiously for the phone
to ring. He was expecting a call from Mrs Gandhi. So tense was he that when I
told him to fix himself a drink, he just mumbled, ‘Later . . . later . . .’
Suddenly the sharp ringing of the telephone pierced the silence in the room,
startling everyone. PC jumped up, hurriedly grabbed the receiver and said,
‘Namaskar, madam.’ The prime minister was on the line.
Over the next ten minutes he read out the brief. The call ended with him
saying, ‘Yes, madam . . . okay, madam . . . yes . . . yes . . . thank you, madam . . .’
in the most respectful tones I have ever heard in my life. Once the call ended, the
minister threw down the sheet of paper, wiped some imaginary sweat off his
forehead, let out a sigh of relief and asked his orderly to fix him a stiff one.
All this while I had been watching Dhirubhai watch PC rattle off facts and
figures to Mrs Gandhi. It was only after the call had ended that he turned his
attention to me, winked and said, ‘Now you know why it is so important to
prepare a brief for ministers? The prime minister is very perceptive but in
ministers ko kuch nahin aata.’
I smiled at him and nodded politely.
Even as I recount this anecdote today, there is a smile on my face. I vividly
remember the way Dhirubhai said to me, almost as if he was sharing a great
secret, ‘In ministers ko kuch nahin aata . . .’

Sunil Dutt, the Courageous Icon

It’s not hard to see that in order to succeed politicians need a bit of the actor’s
art, which is probably why some Bollywood actors turned to politics. Sunil Dutt
was one such person.
Before I met him, I was mesmerized by Sunil’s performance in Mother India
in which he played the rebellious son of a mother who is seeking revenge against
the village sahukar who has tortured her. His mother was played by Nargis, who
was not only one of the greatest actresses of her time, but also Sunil Dutt’s wife.
The first time I saw Sunil Dutt in real life was when he was motoring along
Marine Drive in a Fiat, but it wasn’t until 1976 that I was introduced to him
during the making of the blockbuster film Nagin in which we co-starred.
In 1984 Sunil Dutt was nominated for the north-west parliamentary
constituency in Bandra as the candidate for the Indian National Congress. As
part of my backing for the Congress Party, I decided I would offer my support to
Dutt Sahab, which is what I affectionately called him. One night, Yusuf
Lakdawala, Rajendra Kumar and I ensconced ourselves in Dutt Sahab’s house
working out how to raise funds for the campaign. The meeting was very
successful; I remember that we raised Rs 15 lakh that night and Dutt Sahab was
very pleased.
It was a lot of money in those days, however, and clearly we needed a reliable
and trusted person to be the fund manager, so I proposed Rajendra Kumar’s
name and everybody instantly agreed. Dutt Sahab being very fond of me and
appreciative of my support, suggested that I should be his polling agent. I was
flattered by this, but pointed out to him that the polling agent is in some ways as
important as the candidate himself, because any mistake committed by the agent
would reflect on the candidate, who could even face disqualification. I didn’t
want this level of responsibility and Dutt Sahab appreciated this; I don’t think he
had realized what he had been suggesting.
I loved Sunil Dutt’s charisma, and found him a really remarkable, personable
man, whose political journey I was proud to be part of. I was there when he
began, wishing him luck in his first public appearance as a politician, and later
when I contributed to his continuing success as a politician.
I was in Washington DC at Georgetown University Hospital in the last stages
of my recovery. Dutt Sahab was in New York to meet his daughter-in-law, Rhea,
who had cancer. He called me and we had a long telephone conversation after I
persuaded him not to make the journey to Georgetown, given Rhea’s health.
What he wanted to talk to me about was a misunderstanding between him and
Rajiv Gandhi, the then prime minister. The party was unhappy about Sunil’s
padyatra to Punjab to quell the Sikh upheaval although his intention had been to
buy peace. For this reason, Sunil said that he was refusing to accept the ticket
again, which I felt was a serious mistake. I used all my persuasive powers to
make him see that he had worked hard for the constituency, and had earned the
respect of a wide range of people as an MP. I urged him not to react to and fall
victim to the petty jealousies of other party workers. I told him that Rajiv was a
very fair person and would listen to the truth. I was glad that eventually I
extracted a promise from him to accept the ticket.
Dutt Sahab went on to serve for a total of five terms and is remembered for his
earnest and sincere effort to bring his Punjabi brethren to the platform of peace
and harmony for the sake of the country.
I had, and still have, great respect for Sunil Dutt. In his long journey in both
films and politics, he faced many challenges and tragedies but he dealt with all
of them with dignity and honesty. Not only did he lose his beloved wife, the
great Nargis, but he also had to cope with the accusation against his son, Sanjay,
of being a terrorist.
 When he was appointed as the union minister for youth affairs and sports, he
warmly invited me to visit him at his office in New Delhi. I was surprised when
he guided me to the committee room full of his officers and insisted I sit on his
chair and convey my views on the need to encourage and promote sports in the
country. He sat next to me, smiling warmly and listening to whatever I had to
say. No one could surpass Dutt Sahab in courtesy and hospitality.
Ours wasn’t only a political association; in 1986, we had great fun co-starring
in my film Kala Dhanda Goray Log, which I produced and directed. Dutt Sahab
and I spent many evenings at my house, talking into the night. He was
particularly fond of eating pomfret with green masala and would always ask if
there was a possibility of having it for dinner. Of course Zarine made sure that it
was on the table. His sudden demise was a great personal loss to me as well as to
millions of his countrymen and people around the world. This was a passing of a
truly great man: a gentleman.

Balram Jakhar, the Champion of Indian Farmers

I have always admired great orators, and I met one of them in the late 1980s:
Balram Jakhar, speaker of the Lok Sabha, governor of Madhya Pradesh, the first
Asian to be elected as the chairman of the Commonwealth Parliamentary
Executive forum and president of the Bharat Kisan Sabha.
Balram, whom I called ‘Bawji’ out of respect, was a tall, dignified man, who
carried himself with what I would call a quiet confidence, whether dressed in
jodhpurs, suits or a dhoti-kurta. I admired him and was pleased that over time we
became close friends.
I visited him at his farm in Ferozpur in Punjab. It was surrounded by high,
fortress-like walls and huge doors protected by scores of security personnel
because, he explained, it was in the middle of nowhere and very close to the
Pakistan border. He had to be careful, but his genial hospitality never allowed us
to feel anything other than comfort and warmth as we sat on the terrace, chatting,
surrounded by Malta orange trees. He was very interested in the development of
farming, and was partly responsible for the Ganga Nagar canal which brought in
huge volumes of water, turning that arid desert land into a luscious green valley
filled with all kinds of vegetables, fruit trees as well as sugar cane and wheat
crops.
 A skilful orator in English, Hindi and Sanskrit, he was always a pleasure to
listen to, and I particularly enjoyed sharing a stage with him when we were
together on the campaign trail. Once, while we were staying in a small town, he
narrated a story about Goddess Lakshmi. In the story, she descended on earth
one evening and asked an old farmer carrying a bundle of wood on his back if
she could stay in his house that night. The poor farmer looked at the gorgeous
lady, attired in diamonds, pearls and other precious stones and started
stammering, ‘Devi, I’m a poor man. How can I keep you in my small house?’
and he walked away. Undeterred, the goddess walked a little further until she
met another man whom she asked the same question. He was so dazzled by her
looks that he refused and politely walked away. The disappointed goddess
entered a small Marwari pawn shop, and asked the old man managing the shop
the same question. He looked at her in disbelief, realizing that she was none
other than the Goddess Lakshmi. He readily agreed to her request but only on
the condition that she would stay in the house until he came back after bathing in
the nearby Ganga river. The goddess agreed to his condition. The old man
quickly stepped out, locked the door and rushed to the river, where he looked up
at the heavens and said, ‘Hey Bhagwan, I waited all my life for her to come. You
have answered my prayers. Now I shall die a happy man.’ With that he drowned
himself in the river and the goddess was lodged in his shop forever. And that’s
why the Marwari community is blessed with wealth. I was as delighted to hear
this story as the throngs of people who had gathered around us, clapping and
cheering happily.
In 1985, Bawji requested Sunil Dutt and me to come to Ferozpur for an
election campaign. In those days Punjab’s law and order situation was very
precarious. I was reclining in the front seat of an SUV. Dutt Sahab was sleeping
in the back seat. As soon as we entered the outskirts of the town, I saw a posse of
armed policemen dragging some young men who were bleeding profusely from
their heads. Our driver got excited. ‘Sir, it’s very dangerous out here,’ he said. I
heard Dutt Sahab snoring in the back seat. I nudged him to wake him up. He
looked at me and said, ‘Welcome to Punjab.’ That same afternoon, at the venue
where we were to speak, the security personnel cautioned us, and the other
speakers, ‘If we hear a report of a gun or an explosion we should all dive flat to
the ground.’ When I was delivering my speech there was a loud explosion.
Everyone dived to the ground. Dutt Sahab just bent forward in his seat I
crouched at the podium. We all burst out laughing when we were informed by
the policeman that it was the sound of a tyre bursting.
Bawji visited Bombay quite frequently and had lunch or dinner with my
family on each visit. We all loved his good-natured presence. He was
particularly proficient in Urdu poetry and blessed as he was with an
extraordinary retentive memory, was able to recite any number of verses—a
quality I always admired in him.
Once, Bawji invited me to join him on a visit to Cuba to meet President Fidel
Castro. I could not join him due to some pressing work engagements, but when
he came back he told me a story which I have never forgotten. He said Fidel
Castro took him on a fishing trip where the Cuban president not only caught the
fish, but cleaned it himself, then cooked it right there and then, and served it to
both of them for lunch on the riverside. I knew Bawji was a vegetarian, so I was
surprised. He realized what I was thinking, and quickly added, ‘Yes, I ate it as a
courtesy. I could not have refused his gracious hospitality and personal attention
to me. He was a thorough gentleman and I wanted to prove to myself that I too
am one.’
Bawji was like a member of my own family—a father figure or an elder
brother. He was a truly noble soul. I don’t remember hearing anyone bad-mouth
him nor did he speak ill of others. I had the honour and pleasure of knowing this
gem of a man for a long time. We remained in touch until his last day and I still
think of him.

Atal Bihari Vajpayee, the Poet–Statesman

Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee was a visionary and a statesman, known for
his great oratory skills. He was also a poet but above all, he came across as a
kind and compassionate human being. I first met him when he was foreign
minister in the Morarji Desai government, when we were both getting into a lift
at the Oberoi. Recognizing me, he stopped to speak and we had a brief
conversation during which he told me to let him know if he could do anything
for me. I liked him instantly and made a mental note to meet him again in the
future.
 While we were shooting The Great Maratha at the Samode Palace near Jaipur,
my good friends Maya and Sunil Alagh asked me to invite Atal Bihari Vajpayee,
who was at that time a respected MP, to join us. Recalling our brief meeting in
the Oberoi Hotel I was happy to do this, and he arrived with his adopted family
on 24 December 1994 and stayed with us for three days.
One evening, when I was sitting next to him, I asked him which path he felt
was the right one for India. He replied in no uncertain terms that the only way
forward was the secular way. ‘There is no other way,’ he said firmly.
The next morning, we celebrated his birthday on the outdoor sets of The Great
Maratha, in a huge circular tent, its canvas walls removed to give a clear view of
the set prepared for the Battle of Panipat.
There was a mix of forty-four big and small cannons on the set and I had
asked my crew to secretly prepare a twenty-one-gun salute for ‘Baapji’ as we all
affectionately called Mr Vajpayee. The protocol was that Neha, his grandchild,
would cut the cake and as she did that I would remove my red cap as a signal to
start the salute. As planned, the cannons started to roar and everyone was
surprised. Baapji remained calm but turned slowly and looked in the direction of
the cannons. Then, standing very close to me with wet eyes and holding my
forearm tightly, he revealed that his mother had told him that a cannon shot was
heard from the Gwalior Fort when he was born. I told him smilingly that maybe
this salute heralded his future and that he might become the prime minister of
India one day.
Later, when he had indeed become prime minister, he invited me to his
residence over tea. This was served with the usual pomp of the prime minister’s
house, but as the butler departed, leaving the tray on the table, I heard a snoring
sound. I looked at Baapji and found that he was fast asleep. It was a very funny
situation and I wondered how I should handle it: Should I touch his shoulder and
shake him awake? Would that be rude? Instead, I decided to take a spoon from
the tray and make a tinkling sound which would be natural while having tea. The
trick worked and he abruptly woke up saying, as if he’d been awake all the time,
‘Samosa khao.’ (Eat the samosa.) I found it a very endearing moment.
Later, during his prime ministership, the country barely experienced any
communal tension between Hindus and Muslims; on the contrary, everything
was tranquil. He was also responsible for opening the Indo-Pakistan dialogue
with Nawaz Sharif, prime minister of Pakistan, to boost friendship with our
neighbour. I had a lot of respect for him and his inclusive policies.
The passing of this great soul is a huge loss to the Indian nation and people all
over the world who loved him. For the past several years my dear ‘Baapji’ had
been in a coma. My thoughts were always with him and I wished that with some
magic he would regain the possession of his faculties so I could spend an
evening just chatting with him. His presence always emitted a warm feeling of
comfort. May his soul in peace.
Baapji will live forever in my mind. As the great poet Iqbal said,

Tu shaheen hai, parwaaz hai asmaan tera,

Asmaan aur bhi hain fateh ke liye, sitaaron se aage.

You are an eagle, flight is your vocation:

You have other skies stretching out before you, beyond the stars, waiting to
be conquered.

Vasant Dada Patil, the Grassroots Leader

I was delighted to be a star campaigner for Vasant Dada Patil, whom I knew to
be a principled political leader with real concern for the development of the state
of Maharashtra. He was a well-respected chief minister who was dedicated to the
cause of a pluralistic and united India. I admired these qualities in him. His son
Prakash, an MP, was a close friend.
I took on the role of campaigner for Vasant Dada literally overnight. Without
explaining to me the reason for the short notice, he called quite late one night,
asking me to campaign for him in the Sangli constituency from where he was an
MLA. He said the matter was most urgent and he needed me to be there by early
morning the next day. I didn’t know what had caused the urgency, but out of
respect I went, along with my friend Yusuf Lakdawala.
As a star campaigner it was expected that I would win all six legislative
assembly seats for Dada. I worked hard and spoke straight from the heart, as was
my forte. I spoke truthfully about the concerns of the people, assuring them that
Dada would do his best to address their grievances. I addressed six to seven
meetings every day. Prakash, who arrived for the last big meeting, assured me, as
we sat on the high rostrum, that the huge crowds were there because of me.
Modesty demanded that I dispute this, but he was adamant. Sharad Pawar, who
was also a good friend of mine, was campaigning for his own party and his
meeting coincidentally was happening near ours. He had a very small crowd, I
was told. When the campaign came to an end, we were delighted to learn that we
had won all the six constituencies.
Sometime later I was having coffee with Prakash at Varsha. The secretary to
the chief minister rushed in, asking me to join the chief minister in his office. I
drove off with him in his cavalcade, with my own car following, to the
government secretariat. When we entered the chief minister’s spacious office,
Dada looked at his staff and told them to leave the room. He settled down and
first of all thanked me formally, saying, ‘Son, you have done me a great favour.
You have kept my prestige and honour intact. Winning these six seats was very
important for me and you helped me win them.’ He looked at me, took a deep
breath, and said, ‘I am the chief minister of Maharashtra. Please tell me what I
can do for you. I will do it.’ I was surprised and quite overwhelmed by his offer,
and simply said, ‘Dada, thank you very much. I shall remember that and if I ever
need anything I will come to you.’
It so happened, however, that our paths never crossed again. He was busy with
his politics and I was busy making films.

Ghulam Nabi Azad, the Invaluable Politician

In the old days I heard someone say that when all the avenues of medical relief
were exhausted, a diseased patient would go to Hakim Ajmal Khan, the
renowned hakim or physician who had the magical power of healing all kinds of
ailments.
Political parties need a Hakim Ajmal Kham and, for the Congress Party, it has
been my friend of thirty-five years, Ghulam Nabi Azad.
Ghulam Nabi Azad is a senior and highly respected leader of the Indian
National Congress and has been with the party right from the days of Mrs
Gandhi through to the Manmohan Singh era. Currently he is the leader of the
Opposition in the Rajya Sabha. For almost three decades he held some of the
most important portfolios in successive governments. When Rajiv Gandhi was
the prime minister, he was recognized as number two in the political hierarchy.
 In India’s volatile political landscape the fortunes of political parties either
soar like an eagle into the skies or plummet like a rock rolling down a chasm in
the valley of lost opportunities. Whenever the latter happened, the Congress
Party was fortunate to have Ghulam Nabi Azad to call upon as one of its inner-
circle strategists and a master of the art of crisis management. His understanding
of the demography of not only the country, or a state, but all the way down to the
block level made him invaluable in selecting candidates for both state elections
and the Lok Sabha. In fact, each time the party was in crisis, they would hand
Ghulam Nabi a ‘deck of cards’ to shuffle, and he would demonstrate the uncanny
ability to deal an ace.
One thing that particularly impressed me about Ghulam Nabi is his knack of
remembering the names of party workers, which showed a genuine interest in
people, and not just politics. I have huge regard for him, and my autobiography
would not have been complete without paying my respects to such a
distinguished politician and human being.

P. Chidambaram, a Chance Meeting

I always admired P. Chidambaram as a politician in Rajiv Gandhi’s government.
He is a highly educated man and an eloquent orator.
One day in 2003 when I was at New Delhi airport waiting for a plane, I
spotted him sitting very glumly in a corner. I sat down next to him and after
exchanging pleasantries, I asked him why he had left the Congress Party to join
the Tamil Manila Congress Democratic Forum. He admitted to having made a
mistake and said that he had been trying to get back into the Congress but they
were not taking his calls. I asked him what he had on the table to offer by way of
political strength and he said that he could arrange a grand alliance between the
Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam, the Manila Congress and the Congress which
would sweep the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam out of power in
Tamil Nadu.
When I asked if I could help him, his face lit up. Leaning closer, he said that
he would greatly appreciate it if I could help him to meet Madame—Sonia
Gandhi, the Congress president.
As it happened, I had recently met Sonia Gandhi briefly at Ghulam Nabi’s
house. I was on my way in and she was leaving, and she had said to me, ‘Why
don’t you call me?’
So when I was next in Delhi, I called and she agreed to meet me. When I
explained my chance meeting with Chidambaram, she said, ‘Yes, I remember
him. He was a good minister in my husband’s cabinet.’
General elections were due so I suggested that she meet him as he could be an
asset for the party. She paused for a few moments and then looked squarely at
me without saying a word. When she asked me what he had to offer, I told her
about the grand alliance he had suggested. She agreed to meet Chidambaram and
told me to inform him.
The Congress formed the government at the centre after the general elections.
After he had moved into North Block as finance minister, I visited Chidambaram
in his office to congratulate him. A satisfied smile creased Chidambaram’s face.
He seemed happy to be back in the Congress, this time as a key minister.
Moments like these always bring back to me my mother’s advice in my
childhood: help others without expectations.

Nawaz Sharif, Asif Zardari, Benazir Bhutto and Imran Khan

It has been my privilege to meet and enjoy the company of four of Pakistan’s
most significant political figures in the last thirty-eight years.
I first met Nawaz Sharif in December 1979, when, ironically, he was
introduced to me by Imran Khan. The occasion was the India–Pakistan Test
match which was being played at the Feroz Shah Kotla Stadium. Delhi was
packed with people from all over India, there to see the clash of the titans, Imran
Khan, the debonair captain of the Pakistan side, and Sunil Gavaskar, the star
opening batsman of Indian cricket, fondly called ‘The Little Master’, captaining
the Indian team. Imran had a massive following of Indian cricket fans,
particularly girls, who would scream their heads off ecstatically the moment they
spotted him.
Nawaz Sharif, whom I found to be a very polite, self-effacing man, accepted
my invitation to have lunch at my hotel. He was, at the time, the junior finance
minister of the state of Punjab in Pakistan, and he told me that by entering
politics he had become the black sheep of the family, because the rest were
industrialists. At lunch, I introduced Nawaz to a good friend of mine, Zulfiqar
Ali Khan, who was familiarly known as Mickey Miyan. Mickey belonged to the
royal family of Rampur and was a five-time MP for that state. He and Nawaz
shared an instant rapport and the three of us got along like a house on fire.
Nawaz was staying at the Oberoi, but came to lunch with us every day at the Taj
Mansingh where I was staying.
At that time, Mickey had recently been elected an MP and was confident of
being nominated as a minister in Mrs Gandhi’s cabinet. He wasn’t surprised,
therefore, when the phone rang in my room and a staff member from his house
told him that he had been called by R.K. Dhawan, Mrs Gandhi’s confidential
secretary. He immediately tried to call the prime minister office, but was told,
politely, that they would call him back. Though Mickey was a bit irritated by
this, he could do nothing but wait. After a while, the phone rang again and once
more someone asked for Mickey, saying that there was a call from the PMO and
Mr R.K. Dhawan wanted to speak to him. Mickey was elated and grabbed the
phone from my hand. Yet again, though, he was told that Mr Dhawan would call
back. Mickey was still happy, and performed a funny little jig. However, the
same thing happened over and over again—he would receive a call from his
house telling him Mr Dhawan wanted him to call, but when he called he would
be told that Mr Dhawan was busy and would call him back.
Nawaz and I looked at each other curiously. Something clearly wasn’t right.
As time went on, Mickey got more and more irritated, eventually banging the
phone down and muttering to himself, ‘How can this country ever progress when
people are so irresponsible? They ask me to call and when I call back they don’t
have the courtesy to receive my call.’
Mickey never did get to speak to Mr Dhawan that day, and the next morning I
found out why. It was a set-up! A mutual friend was playing a prank on Mickey.
When I told Nawaz he burst out laughing, but also commiserated with Mickey
for being the victim of a practical joke.
After five days, Nawaz returned to Lahore and although he gave me his
contact details and invited me to visit him in Pakistan, it never happened. That
was the only time I met Nawaz in person, though he kept in touch by telephone
while his political career rose and he became prime minister. When he was
exiled to Saudi Arabia by Parvez Musharraf, he would make lengthy calls to me,
expressing his frustration at how Musharraf had derailed his dialogue with Prime
Minister Vajpayee, and therefore his initiative of forging closer links with India
—something I had welcomed.
When Zarine and I visited Lahore to attend the premiere of my younger
brother Akbar’s film Taj Mahal, the Sharif family picked Zarine and me up from
the theatre and took us to their home for dinner. Unfortunately, Shahbaz Sharif
had gone to London to meet his brother, Nawaz, who was still in exile, but he
telephoned to apologize for not being there to receive us.
Although Nawaz invited me to Pakistan on many occasions as his guest after
he returned to the premiership, I was never able to accept. We were, however,
able to welcome Shahbaz’s wife and their son Hamza to the Golden Palms in
Bangalore for health treatment.
Imran Khan frequently came to dine with us when he was visiting Bombay,
and I was especially pleased to meet one of his friends, Salahuddin, who was the
grandson of the great poet Iqbal. Imran became particularly good friends with
Parmeshwar and Adi Godrej, whom he met at my house. He often visited their
home in Juhu, but I remember one very special party which they threw in his
honour after one India–Pakistan match. Imran was by this time very popular in
the Bombay social circuit, and all the city’s glitterati were present.
My good friend Abdul Rahman Bukhatir was the owner of the famous Sharjah
Cricket Stadium which had hosted several sensational cricket matches between
India and Pakistan. When these matches were being held, Dubai would be full of
international cricketers and prominent businessmen from all over the world, as
well as Bollywood stars. The atmosphere would be supercharged and animated
as everyone looked forward to these matches with great anticipation. This mood
of elation would carry over to the fabulous parties which Abdul Rahman used to
throw in the evenings at his own lavish home and at the Marbaya Club in
Sharjah, a five-star hotel he owned.
Once, in 1982, I invited Abdul Rahman, Imran and a few other friends to
dinner. Amongst these were Adi and Parmeshwar Godrej, our close friends, and
Asif Zardari, who was a bachelor at the time. It was a wonderful party. The
guests stayed till 3 a.m. Asif, clad in his twelve-yard Balochi salwar kameez,
danced like there was no tomorrow. I found his attire to be very attractive. I
complimented him on it, and the next day, to my delight, I received one as a
present from him. Destiny played its role. Asif and Benazir Bhutto became man
and wife, and Asif Zardari went on to become the president of Pakistan.
In 1997, I was in Karachi as the leader of the Indian specially abled cricket
team who were playing against their Pakistani counterparts. I knew the Indian
team had lost the last match they played with Pakistan, so before they went on to
the field I tried to give them an ‘inspirational talk’ to encourage them to play
hard and keep their hopes high. We won by four wickets and it was a great day
for us all! I like to think that my pep talk had a little something to do with that
win.
At the club later, I met Asif’s mother and father. Asif was in prison at the
time, so I enquired about him. They told me they were visiting him that evening,
so I wrote a small note which simply read: ‘He who has felt the deepest grief is
best able to experience supreme happiness’, a line from The Count of Monte
Cristo which I have always valued. The following day, Zarine and I received a
fantastic bouquet of flowers with some chocolates and a small note from Asif
thanking me and saying he was sorry he could not be there personally to offer his
hospitality.
Years later, I visited Asif Zardari in the Dubai nursing home where he was
convalescing from a heart ailment. Benazir Bhutto, his wife, was present and we
were able to share a memorably stimulating conversation. A few years later, she
came to meet us in our hotel suite at Burj Khalifa in Dubai, just prior to leaving
for Pakistan to re-establish her political career. She sat with Zarine, my children,
my sister-in-law Pareen Khan and me until 2 a.m. I felt very concerned for her
and told her that I thought she was taking a big risk in returning to the volatile
state of affairs in Pakistan at the time. I am sad that my fears were realized.
The last time I met Imran Khan was in 2003, at the Grand Hyatt in Mumbai
where he had come to attend a wedding. He had just lost his first election and I
remember wishing him good luck.
Imran recently won the Pakistan elections, and this gives me pause for
thought. I sincerely hope that Imran fulfils all his promises to his people and that
he brings the two countries closer. My humble suggestion to him is that the most
important thing he can achieve is to provide a better standard of living for
ordinary people, and transform his debt-ridden country into a prosperous one. I
wish him success.
Politics and Religion
My sincere belief that all religions in India must work together and support each
other led me to form a long association with the ISKCON temple in Juhu.
I met Swami Prabhupada, the guru of the ISKCON movement, on Juhu beach,
where I was jogging, a long time ago. He was walking along with a group of
bhaktas, and was looking intently at me, so I stopped and introduced myself. He
said, ‘You need no introduction; we know who you are.’ I said I knew who he
was too, and we both smiled. That was my first and last meeting with this noble
soul, but it was not to be my last contact with the movement.
Some time later, three Indian and one American bhaktas came to see me late
in the night looking very harassed and disturbed. They told me that a political
unit had evicted them from their land, destroyed the shed which was used as an
auxiliary temple and had taken away the Radha-Krishna statues. The miscreants
had hurled all manner of abuse and accused them of being CIA agents in India.
This story infuriated me and early the next morning, determined to set things
right, I went to the house of the corporator responsible for this carnage and
persuaded him to return the items taken from the temple and vacate the land
immediately. I said that if they did not reinstate the status quo, I would report the
incident to the chief minister of the state. He did as I requested and I was happy
that things ended in favour of the temple.
Some years later when I was shooting at Mahalaxmi Studios in Bombay I was
again approached by a delegation from the temple, this time seeking financial
assistance in building the ISKCON temple at Juhu. Against the advice of my
secretary, Prakash Chandra Verma, who thought I should donate Rs 1000, I gave
them a cheque for Rs 10,000, a lot of money in those days.
The ISKCON temple is located quite close to my residence in Juhu and each
time I passed it, during its construction, it filled me with joy to see it rising so
gracefully. It was clearly going to be a very beautiful edifice, with excellent
architectural patterns, and my small contribution in its early struggling days
made me feel quite attached to it.
Many years later I received a letter from the ISKCON temple inviting me to
become a life member. I was quite honoured become and happily conveyed my
consent. After a few days I got another, very laconic four-word letter asking,
‘Are you a Muslim?’ I promptly replied with the shortest letter I have ever
written in my life. ‘Yes.’
I’m delighted to say that this was not considered a problem and I was given
life membership.
In 2000 I became even more involved with the temple, when my friend P.S.
Subramaniam, chairman of the Unit Trust of India, invited me to become a
member of the ISKCON Temple Committee, and I accepted. I remember
attending a few meetings which were interesting, but very soon circumstances
led me to resign. A proposal was submitted to build an extension to the existing
temple, titled ‘Heaven on Earth’. When I saw the proposed structure, I was quite
dismayed. The architecture of the proposed project was totally out of sync with
the harmony of the elegant temple, and I expressed my opinion very vocally to
the committee. This was seconded by Subramaniam, but none of the other
members agreed. Ironically, while we were discussing this, I could hear the
sound of bhajans coming from the temple. It was quite obvious to me there was
some vested interest in this proposal, and sadly, I resigned.

Chandraswami, the Chichi Godman

If the cross-fertilization of religion and politics is part of India’s history, then one
of its most active protagonists has to be Chandraswami, ‘godman’ to some,
genius con man to others. Whichever he was, he had a mesmerizing effect on
everyone he came in contact with. Although Chandraswami was not technically
a ‘politician’—at least not in the regular sense of the word—I include him in this
chapter for two reasons: firstly, because many politicians sought favours (or
blessings) from him (I never found out exactly why), and secondly, because just
as politicians manipulate people, so did Chandraswami manipulate politicians. In
some ways then he was the most consummate politician of them all.
I don’t exactly remember how he came into my life, but I think it was just
before the mahurat event of Abdullah that someone introduced us. He latched on
to me in Bombay and asked me to allow him to perform the mahurat and since
he seemed well informed and knowledgeable about the Hindu religion, besides
being a good speaker, I agreed. He did it well but I noticed that he also made
sure that he exchanged cards with all the people who attended, especially the
stars and politicians. That’s when I realized that he had wanted to perform at the
mahurat to broaden his base and develop his business. He was indeed a real
networker!
A few years after that I met him in Delhi and he insisted that I visit his
ashram. Intrigued, I accepted his invitation. When I walked in, I was surprised to
see Narasimha Rao, the Congress heavyweight and later prime minister of India,
sitting opposite Chandraswami like a bhakta. There were also a few other
devotees and the atmosphere was ripe with the fragrance of burning incense and
of fruits, flowers and sweetmeats. All around were statues of gods and
goddesses. After welcoming me, he introduced me to Narasimha Rao who shook
my hand and without hesitation gave me his phone numbers. As I was speaking
to him, in walked a Sikh gentleman whom Chandraswami introduced to me as
the chairman of Coca-Cola in India.
Over the years, I read reports in the press and also heard from various people
that Chandraswami was blazing the international scene with Adnan Khashoggi,
the billionaire from Saudi Arabia, meeting with British Prime Minister Margaret
Thatcher, US President Reagan and a host of other international celebrities. His
profile was also gaining eminence in the dark world of politics. So much so that
many cabinet ministers, whom I can’t name for the sake of propriety, would
approach me to reach him.
One fine day, Chandraswami arrived at my Juhu residence with his retinue of
followers and my compound was suddenly full of cars, people and police
escorts. I was amused at the display but at the same time admired his prowess in
elevating himself to such a position of power and importance. He was flush with
success and I could see the shine on his face as he talked away happily of his
experiences and the people he had befriended. He said he held me in high esteem
and was grateful to me for giving him the opportunity of performing my film’s
mahurat, owing to which he had received worldwide publicity. Though I did not
want to delve into the nitty-gritty of his activities, I was happy for him.
In the course of our conversation, Chandraswami made me an interesting
offer. ‘Sanjay ji,’ he said, ‘you have a terrific personality and speak English so
well. I speak Hindi very well. If we joined hands, we could conquer the world.’
I burst out laughing, understanding exactly what he meant. I responded gently,
‘Swami ji, what you need is a good secretary. I’m sure you’ll be able to find
one.’
 Once, Chandraswami came to see me in Mumbai in panic and beseeched me
to protect his life. I was quite surprised and asked him what the problem was, to
which he replied that his secretary was planning to kill him and he needed my
protection. He stayed with me for a couple of days during which his secretary
also came over to meet me with a complaint against the godman. He said there
was a financial dispute between them and asked me to arbitrate.
Eventually the matter was settled amicably, and Chandraswami took his leave.
However, before departing he took out a small packet with some red powder in it
and told me, ‘If you touch any lady with a tiny pinch of this red powder, she will
go bananas over you.’ I found it so funny that I burst out laughing. Realizing his
faux pas, he too started laughing in his distinctive way he would bend his hand,
keeping it open with straight fingers and moving it rapidly like fanning a fire. He
said to me, ‘I got it, I got it. Aap ko zaroorat hi nahin padegi. Aap toh swayam
un se bhagte honge.’ (You may not require it since you would be running away
from them yourself!)
When Narasimha Rao was the prime minister of India, Chandraswami asked
me to drive with him right into the highest security area in India, the prime
minister’s house, telling me on the way: ‘I’ll be sitting in the front seat. You’ll be
in the back seat. Now, see how I will drive into the PM’s house without being
stopped by security.’ I swear he did it. I was amazed at the clout which
Chandraswami had, and also very concerned at the obvious lapses in the prime
minister’s security.
We met the prime minister and had tea with him. The conversation was about
Chandraswami going with some mahants to Jaipur for a conference to promote
secularism. Chandraswami suggested, and the prime minister agreed, that I too
should join this conference. When I asked both of them why I should participate
in a conference with all the mahants, Chandraswami in his typical, inimitable
way, swinging his hand, said, ‘You will be the representative of the Muslims.’
The prime minister, a man of few words, just smiled and nodded.
At the conference, we were all seated in a circle, Indian style, on mattresses
covered with white sheets. I got on well with my new friends, the mahants. One
in particular was a fairly good-looking, bearded, young chap. As the proceedings
began, he asked me seriously if he could get a break in films. I was amused but
also flattered by the power and the attraction of the film industry.
 That fateful day in 2001, when terrorists attacked Parliament, I happened to be
in Delhi and received a call from Chandraswami. Even though he was by then
embroiled in legal proceedings brought against him by the authorities, he, in his
usual charming way, persuaded me to visit him in his new palatial ashram.
I reached his ashram late in the evening and as I was sitting and chatting with
him, I heard a voice from behind me say, ‘Swami ji, aaj to gazab ho gaya . . . all
hell broke loose in Parliament. I was walking down the corridor when I heard the
sound of gunfire and thought it best to go to the safest place, Mr Advani’s
chamber, as he is the home minister as well as the deputy prime minister. But
when I entered his chamber, I did not see him sitting at his table. I looked around
quickly and saw that Advani ji was under his table with the phone in his hand,
giving orders to security people!’
The moment the person had begun speaking, Chandraswami had gestured to
me not to look back. Gradually as the person came up from behind me, he was
quite shocked with my presence there. He smiled and introduced himself as an
MP from the BJP, but Chandraswami, by then, had burst into his typical,
infectious laughter and peculiar hand movements.
The end of his story is sad but perhaps predictable. Chandraswami served
several terms in prison for financial irregularities, and eventually passed away
from multiple organ failure in 2017. I had dissociated myself from him long
before that, and hadn’t seen him in many years; I still felt sad for him though,
and will not judge him.

The Quest for the Seven Cities Theme Park

Encouraged by the dynamic growth of Gujarat under the progressive leadership
of Narendra Modi, the chief minister, in 2013, I was motivated to probe the
possibilities of setting up a theme park there. This would be an entertainment
park, which would celebrate 5000 years of Indian history, culture and
civilization. It would be a huge venture and, if successful, would be very
important for India’s tourist trade.
Narendra Modi’s personal secretary, Sanjay Bhavsar, kindly arranged a
meeting with the chief minister. I was accompanied by Zayed, my son, Hafiz
Contractor, one of India’s leading architects, Sunil Alagh, the marketing adviser
for the project, and Anirban Dutta Gupta, my executive director. The meeting
went well; Modi was so impressed with our presentation that he asked us to
repeat it. He appreciated that this was a very big ‘dream’ project and offered us
six prime sites including Sardar Sarovar. He promised that he would give
clearance quickly and would call me when he was next in Mumbai.
A few days later we had a company meeting. The consultants on the project
were of the view that the success of a major theme park depended on
connectivity and footfall, so it was decided to set up this project in Agra, which
has excellent connectivity by air, rail and road, and, of course, very high footfall
(12 million annually) to the Taj Mahal, the seventh wonder of the world. We
therefore approached the Government of Uttar Pradesh which was headed by
former chief minister Akhilesh Yadav. He and the secretaries of various other
ministries saw our presentation, and were equally excited about the project,
particularly when I told him how many employment opportunities it would
generate, one of Yadav’s great concerns. It was agreed between us that the park
would be set up in Agra.
After going through the entire process of tendering and inviting competitive
bids, our proposal was chosen based on the concept and detailed plan for
execution and design. We initiated the paperwork on 16 August 2014 and the
final contract was signed in the presence of the chief minister in Lucknow on 18
May 2016 and announced to the press. Full steam ahead, we thought. However,
when the BJP victory ushered in a new government headed by Chief Minister
Yogi Adityanath, things slowed down. Even though the Essel Group, one of
India’s leading companies, is keen to invest in the project and has signed the
preliminary papers, progress has been slow. I hope I am able to realize my dream
of building the iconic theme park in Agra soon.
 14
A Royal Salute

Over the years, I have been privileged to meet many members of royal families
from India and other parts of the world.
Since the stars of the Hindi film industry were, in a manner of speaking, the
new emerging royalty of India it was perhaps inevitable that the old and the new
would meet at parties and social gatherings. I have always had a consuming
interest in history and was thrilled to be able to meet many of these people who
were steeped in India’s past, including the royal families of Jaipur, Mysore,
Gwalior and Kashmir. I found most of them charming and well educated and I
am proud to count some of them as friends. The one I was closest to and felt the
greatest fondness for was Bhawani Singh, His Highness the Maharaja of Jaipur,
whom we affectionately called Bubbles.
 With Sundri Feroz Khan, Maharani of Gwalior Madhavi Raje, Zarine, His Highness Madhavrao Scindia
of Gwalior, Dilshad, His Highness Maharaja Bhavani Singh of Jaipur, Mahrani Padmini of Jaipur and
Parmeshwar Godrej

I have also been privileged to know many members of international royal

families, including Nasser Al-Sabah and Salem Jaber Al-Sabah of the royal
family of Kuwait, and Birendra, His Majesty the King of Nepal, to name but a
few.

His Highness Maharaja Bhawani Singh of Jaipur

Bubbles, His Highness Maharaja Bhawani Singh of Jaipur, was an
extraordinarily adventurous man and also a wonderfully self-effacing human
being. A brigadier in the Indian army, he was a war hero and had been decorated
with the Maha Vir Chakra for the 1971 Indo-Pak war. He was also a brilliant
polo player. We remained good friends for over four decades, until his passing.
Zarine and I remember idyllic nights at Bubbles and his wife Maharani
Padmini’s magnificent palace in Jaipur where we enjoyed the absolutely
splendid hospitality of the Rajput royals. It is not surprising that the palace was
the central meeting place of kings, queens, prime ministers, Arab sheikhs and
other famous personalities from across the globe.
 Jaipur is a charismatic city. Coincidentally, my grand-uncle, Sir Mirza, was
prime minister of Jaipur from 1942 to 1946 and conceptualized the Pink City
with its wide roads. Sir Mirza Ismail Road, popularly known as M.I. Road, is
named after him.
Bubbles was an incorrigible prankster. In the winter of 1970 I checked into the
Rambagh Palace Hotel owned by Bubbles. Around midnight I woke up with a
start to find an intruder bearing down on me, his hand at my throat.
My immediate reaction was to swing my body upwards and send the intruder
flying across the room. By the time the man could get up, I had switched on the
lights and I saw that it was my friend, Colonel Bhawani Singh, in his military
uniform with black paint on his face, holding a bottle of Old Smuggler whisky in
his hand. I was amused to see that he had maintained his grip on the bottle in his
right hand in the midst of his tumble. One could give the credit for this to the
army’s excellent training, but I think it was Bubbles’s presence of mind—he
always got his priorities right.
I said to him, ‘What the hell, Bubbles! I could have had a heart attack!’
He started laughing as he opened the bottle and said, ‘Let’s have a drink. I
came to the hotel to have a drink after army manoeuvres and I was informed that
you were here. Now, how could I allow you to sleep without a drink? So I
decided to drop into your room, commando-style.’
As we started drinking, we got into the swing of conversation and started
cracking jokes. We were laughing so loudly that soon the European lady in the
next room knocked on the wall and asked us to stop talking so loudly. Bubbles
and I looked at each other sheepishly and signalled to each other to speak softly,
but after a little while we forgot the old lady next door and were back in our
element again. This time, there was a knock on the door. Bubbles, thinking that it
was the management, asked me to let him handle it but when he opened the door,
I saw it was the European lady. Seeing Bubbles in warpaint and combat uniform,
the poor lady got the scare of her life and rushed back to her room.
 With His Highness Maharaja Madhavrao Scindia of Gwalior and His Highness Maharaja Bhavani Singh
of Jaipur

It was 6 a.m. when we finished our two-man party. Coincidentally, we were

both travelling to Delhi by the same flight and before landing, I invited Bubbles
to dinner at the Oberoi and warned him to be careful in the polo match that he
was playing that afternoon.
In the evening, I waited for Bubbles in the restaurant for almost forty-five
minutes before he arrived with a bandage on his head and a plaster on his right
hand. He told me he had fallen off his horse during the polo match. I was very
impressed that he had turned up for dinner—a lesser person would have called it
off.
My dear friend passed away in 2011. I visited him in Jaipur before he left for
his heavenly abode and was deeply saddened to see him ravaged by illness. May
his soul rest in peace. Bhawani Singh lived his entire life like a true gentleman.
His wife, Maharani Padmini, and his daughter, Divya, continue to be our
friends to this day. In fact, Zarine is a director in one of the educational
institutions run by Maharani Padmini.

Kaash phir milne ki wajah mil jaaye, saath jitna bhi bitaya woh pal mil jaaye,
Chalo apni apni aankhen band kar lo, kya pata khwabon mein guzra huya kal mil jaaye.
 I wish the hours we met would come again, for that fleeting time my heart does yearn,
But maybe if we close our eyes and dream, those moments of yesteryear would return.

King Mohammed VI of Morocco

Munna Kasliwal, a well-known jeweller of Jaipur, told me that the king of
Morocco had expressed a desire to meet me. He had arrived in Bombay with a
retinue of three hundred, and they were all staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel. We
duly extended an invitation to them to have dinner at our house. Their arrival, in
sequence as per royal protocol, was planned through his secretary, Zaidi. The
first group would arrive with Zaidi, followed by two others and then a group of
three with Munna. The king’s entourage would be the last to arrive.
On the appointed evening, Ramchandra, our house help who had been with us
for a long time, informed me that three guests had arrived and were waiting at
the front door. I got up to receive them, thinking this would be the first group
with Zaidi, but to my great surprise, King Mohammed VI of Morocco himself
was standing on my doorstep with two of his bodyguards.
I recognized him instantly. In my recent visit to Morocco I had seen huge
billboards and banners of his portrait and had been told that he was the newly
married young King Mohammed VI. I had never thought then that he would be
standing on my doorstep in Bombay one day.
I greeted him and invited him in, to which he responded with a big smile. He
was tall and handsome and had gracious manners. Two bodyguards accompanied
him, but at a slight sign from him they slipped out of sight.

With His Majesty King Mohommed VI of Morocco

 King Mohammed was very much at his ease and apologized to Zaidi for the
faux pas in breaking protocol by coming early, explaining that he had preferred
to take the car I had sent him, because my driver obviously knew the roads
which gave him an advantage over the other driver.
I had invited about thirty friends including Vineet Jain of the Times of India
Group, and Talat and Bina Aziz. Zarine, our son, Zayed, his wife, Malaika, and
our daughters, Farah, Simone and Sussanne, were also all there.
Before the party started, Zaidi whispered in my ear that the king preferred to
drink only Dom Perignon, and that a silver goblet was to be kept for it. He also
added, ‘Please do not mention the word “champagne” when you offer it to His
Majesty.’ I found this a bit strange but said nothing.
The king was at his informal best, blending well with all the guests and
putting everyone at ease. As the evening went on, the atmosphere became lively
and jovial. He started dancing in the middle of the floor and after some time he
went up to my wife and asked her not to serve the dinner as per the arrangements
made by Zaidi at midnight but rather at 3 a.m.
Throughout the evening I kept asking the king if he would like some more
‘water’ and the waiters poured champagne into his silver goblet. In the middle of
the party, a friend of mine who had observed this came up to me and, whispering
in my ear, asked me why I was offering the king so much water. I told him it was
a state secret.
When the king was leaving our residence after dinner, I gave him a gift fit for
a king. The next day I was informed by Zarine that the king had sent us fabulous
gifts—a dagger with a pure gold sheath studded with emeralds and diamonds
with his seal, and an exquisite gold purse embellished with rubies for her.
His Majesty King Mohammed VI of Morocco invited all the guests at my
party, my family and me to the New Year celebrations at his palace in Morocco.
I understand from Talat that all of them went for it. Unfortunately, my family
and I had to decline the invitation.

Sheikh Nasser Al-Sabah of Kuwait

In the early 1970s, I met Sheikh Nasser Al-Sabah and his wife Sheikha Hassa at
the Bombay residence of our close friends, Sunita Pitambar, a famous interior
designer, and her husband Pitambar whom we used to call Pit. He was a man of
medium height but carried himself with great self-confidence; he had large, soft-
brown eyes and was always smiling. Hassa was a charming and gracious lady.
Together they made a wonderful couple.
Nasser was to become the first deputy prime minister and defence minister of
Kuwait after the invasion by Saddam Hussein. The museum known as Dar al
Athar al Islamiyyah, which housed Nasser’s collection of armour, calligraphy,
carpets and textiles, coins, ivory, jewellery, manuscripts and miniatures—
perhaps one of the largest collections in the world—was ransacked by Saddam
when he invaded Kuwait in 1990; fortunately, much of the collection was
subsequently recovered and restored.
Nasser had a friendly disposition and he was great fun to be with. He visited
me often in Bombay, but I observed that he chose to keep a low profile; he
clearly wanted to keep his identity as private as possible and was cautious in his
interactions with Bombay society.
One morning, Nasser invited me to the Taj Mahal Hotel where he was staying.
He was wearing his traditional kandura with an aghal, a cloth wrapped around
his head but without the black rings which are normally worn by Arabs with this
type of headgear. He was cheerful and suggested that we travel in a kaali-peeli (a
black-and-yellow taxi) to a particular jalebi shop in Bhendi Bazaar which his
grandfather and father used to frequent when they visited Bombay. I explained to
Nasser that travelling there with me might not be as enjoyable as he imagined
because I was a well-known star and the crowds would harass us. However, my
suggestion that he go there without me was met with annoyance. So, when he
dragged me to one of the Kashmiri shawl shops behind the Taj, still determined
to go, I thought I would play a little trick on him.
The shopkeepers obviously did not realize that this simple Arab man was from
the royal family of Kuwait so they approached me as the potential buyer.
Without him seeing me, I secretly told the shopowner who Nasser was and
instantly the staff surrounded him. He wriggled out and came towards me,
looking quite peeved.
‘Absi,’ he said in a hushed voice, using the name only Zarine calls me by,
‘what did you tell them?’
I replied, ‘That you are the prince of the royal household of Kuwait.’
 ‘What! Absi, you’ve completely spoilt my bargaining fun! Next time I am not
going to ask you to come shopping with me.’
I was relieved that my trick had worked. I hate bargaining with shopkeepers; I
even leave the side of my wife when she starts doing it.
On another occasion Nasser called me and said that his forty-odd sisters and
cousins of the Al-Sabah family were die-hard fans of mine and wanted to meet
me. I agreed and invited them over. Zarine and I arranged a sumptuous meal for
our royal guests, and waited for them in the house, which had been filled with
fresh flowers. At the appointed time, the head of my household staff, Motiram,
informed me that the watchman wanted permission to allow a bus to enter the
compound. I was curious and I walked out of the front door to see what was
going on. As I stepped into the compound I saw Nasser standing next to
Motiram in his usual kandura and headcloth, looking visibly irritated. ‘Absi,’ he
called out. ‘Will you please tell this idiot to open the doors?’ And quickly added,
by way of explanation, ‘Since we were more than four, we thought that if we
came by separate cars, some might get lost, not find the address and so on, so to
avoid confusion I decided to bring them all in a bus.’
I congratulated him on this excellent idea, ordered Motiram to open the gates,
and a big luxury bus glided in. Nasser’s forty cousins and sisters, along with his
wife, Hassa, trooped out of the bus and into the house. It was quite a memorable
evening.
Our friendship, which endured for almost two decades came to an abrupt end
when the Al-Sabahs were driven out of their own country into exile by Saddam
Hussein. It just so happened that this was the same year that I was hospitalized
for thirteen months after the fire tragedy, and during this long gap, each
burdened with his own problems, we lost contact with each other.
 With Sheikha Sheikha, a cousin of Nasser

* * *

Sheikha Sheikha, one of Nasser’s cousins, once asked me for advice on who she
should marry, which, according to the customs of the Kuwaiti ruling family, had
to be a cousin. Knowing that Sheikha was by nature a kind, affectionate person
who was involved in a number of charities for educating the poor, I
recommended Salem Al Jabber Al-Sabah. I had always found him to be very
straightforward, and thought he would make a good husband. She acted on my
advice and they married.
On the last lap of their honeymoon, which was in Mysore, Salem expressed a
desire to see the Dussehra festival and since the Maharaja was a friend of mine I
was able to arrange this for them. We entered the Mysore palace to the chanting
of the powerful Vijaya shlok and my guests looked around in amazement at the
glitter, splendour and majesty. They were particularly enchanted by the
maharaja’s elephant, decked out in all its finery with its golden howdah.
Amongst the huge gathering of men and women dressed in their festive best we
spotted the maharaja in his regalia sitting by the havankund along with his wife
and some pandits, reciting mantras. Salem Jabber Al-Sabah was mesmerized by
the festive atmosphere and was recording it on a video. ‘How splendid! All the
money in Kuwait couldn’t make this!’ Hearing this filled me with pride.
Since we were guests of the maharaja, we were ushered to his private
chamber. We were just noticing how austere the interiors of the private residence
were, when he entered, wearing a baniyan and his silk dhoti minus the pagdi and
his sherwani. He had stepped out from the ceremony to meet the Kuwaiti royal
couple; he welcomed us and then rushed back. As he left, we all noticed there
was a gaping hole in his baniyan. Sheikha asked me, ‘Is he poor?’ I had a good
laugh and said, ‘No, he is extremely rich, but a little eccentric!’
Sheikha and Salem were great fans of Mehmood, the comedian, whom I knew
well, so he invited us, the next day, to his farmhouse in Bangalore. When we
arrived, Mehmood, dressed in short pants, was standing around two cooking
stoves. His wife, Tracy, was sitting on a chair nearby. They both made us all feel
at home and Mehmood’s jokes, delivered in his pidgin English mixed with the
southern style which she had seen in his movies, made Sheikha laugh so much
she had tears in her eyes.
After a good lunch Mehmood made a business offer to Salem. He said if
Salem would sponsor a full circus to tour the entire Arab world, starting from
Kuwait City, he would play the role of the circus joker. Salem was highly
impressed and instantly agreed to be his partner in the enterprise. I liked the idea
of an Indian circus touring the Arab world and I congratulated them on the
business venture. Unfortunately, the idea didn’t materialize as the logistics were
too challenging.
We drove down from Bangalore to Ooty through the famous Bandipur forest
known for tigers. In one particular spot, near a mandir, hundreds of monkeys
leapt on to our car bonnet. Sheikha was delighted, clapping her hands and
offering them bananas, while Salem filmed the scene. In Ooty we stayed at the
Savoy Hotel. After dinner Sheikha went back to her room, but Salem and I sat
by the fireside in the hotel lounge sipping coffee and talking. We covered a huge
range of subjects and I was impressed by the breadth of his interests, particularly
in international affairs.
Over the years we maintained a warm and steady relationship and during one
of my visits to Kuwait, Salem informed me that his mother, Mama Maryam,
wanted to meet me. As I was ushered into the zenana, I realized I was the only
man there, amongst dozens of palace female staff. A lot of them recognized me,
and from their language and accents as they greeted me by name, I noticed some
of them were from Goa. They guided me to Mama Maryam, who I found to be
very charming and kind. She asked me to sit beside her and treated me like her
own son, enquiring about my wife and family and my films. She said she was
looking forward to visiting Bombay in the rainy season. At the end of my
conversation she presented me with bags full of perfumes and expensive
watches.
Some months later Salem called me from Kuwait and in his characteristically
humorous manner said: ‘Brother, your girlfriend is coming to Bombay!’ He
meant, of course, his mother, whom he asked Zarine and me to meet. Sheikha
was accompanying her, and we spent many pleasant hours with them watching
the monsoon from the windows of their hotel suite. Unlike us, Mama Maryam
loved the rains!
Sometime later Salem invited me to Kuwait. As we were driving deep into the
desert in his limousine he said, ‘I want to show you something different.’ True to
his word, right there, in the middle of the desert, we came upon a huge black tent
outside which dozens of the most expensive cars in the world were gleaming in
the sunlight. The black tent against the golden hue of the desert looked, to me,
like a gigantic landscape painting.
Inside the tent, the seating was Eastern style, with luxurious carpets and
bolsters and Arabic coffee tables with silken covers and tassels. Salem seated me
comfortably in an area a little further from the main gathering, where thirty-odd
people were sitting in a circle making conversation and drinking coffee. Salem
told me that it was a board meeting of one of their companies, and I was struck
not only by the splendour of the surroundings, but the unconventionality of it. It
wasn’t like any board meeting I had ever seen before. About half an hour later
the board meeting was over and the people stood around talking to each other. It
was then that I realized the huge profits that were the outcome of this meeting
and so when Salem asked me, on the way back, ‘What can I do for you, my
friend?’ I thanked him and said, ‘I’ll let you know!’

King Birendra Bir Bikram Shah of Nepal

Once upon a time there was a noble king with a wonderful disposition. This was
King Birendra Bir Bikram Shah of Nepal, my true friend for over a decade.
Zarine and I, along with Zayed, who was fifteen years old then, were invited
to a dinner hosted by Maharaja Bhawani Singh and his wife, Maharani Padmini,
in their palace in Jaipur in honour of King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya of
Nepal. King Birendra and I had known each other for some time, and were
catching up on news. Zayed was sitting beside me and enjoying the humorous
and scintillating conversation between the king and me when I asked him
abruptly what he thought of His Majesty.

With twelve-year-old Zayed and His Majesty Bir Bikram Shah

Zayed endearingly answered, ‘His Majesty is very kingly and very friendly.’
The king was very amused to hear Zayed’s impression of him. He got up from
his seat and hugged Zayed and then took him by the hand and made him sit next
to him.
Queen Aishwarya and Zarine were good friends too. The queen was an
admirer of Zarine’s interior designs and ordered lots of furniture from Tradition,
her company. She was genuinely warm, down-to-earth and unpretentious; her
laughter was musical and charismatic. We remember her very fondly.
 With Zarine, His Majesty Bir Bikram Shah, a relative of the king, and Queen Aishwarya

King Birendra and his family visited us in Jaipur during the shooting of The
Great Maratha and spent hours on the sets watching the shoot. We loved it too;
it was a very exciting experience for the crew to see a real king and his family
amongst all of us, watching our work. Birendra got into the swing of things and
asked me to allow Princess Shruti to play a part for fun. Shruti was a very
confident girl, and very keen to act, so I gave her a few lines of dialogue which
she delivered with ease, laughing happily when she was done. Then, the king
jokingly asked me if Shruti had the talent to join films. I replied in the same vein
that she had the looks; all she needed was a three-year professional course in
acting from the National School of Drama. Everyone laughed heartily. It still
pains us a great deal to remember that that lovely child was a brutal victim on
that tragic night of Rathi Bhoj.

The king was a frequent visitor to Bombay and we looked forward to meeting
him whenever possible. On one of his visits, I received a call from him that he
and Aishwarya would be flying to Italy the same evening and would like to see a
shooting at Film City. I agreed and we spent an hour on the sets of B.R. Chopra’s
Mahabharata, the TV serial being shot by Ravi Chopra. While driving back
home after bidding them goodbye, I was so engrossed in a conversation with my
chief assistant director, Shiv Dutt Sharma, that when I received a call from a lady
saying that she was Aishwarya, I disconnected the call, not for a moment
imagining it could be the queen. When I reached home and stepped into our
sitting room, the landline rang and Zarine picked up the phone. I heard her
exclaim, ‘Oh, Aishwarya, hello!’
She spoke to her for a moment, then covering the mouthpiece with her hand,
she asked me if I had hung up on the queen. I had a good laugh and took the
phone from her hand to explain to Aishwarya why I had disconnected the call.
As I told her, I could hear her musical laughter from the other side. Then,
Birendra, whom I could hear laughing in the background, came on the line and
told me that it was he who advised Aishwarya to call on the landline.
King Birendra told me, in one of our conversations, that he was highly
concerned about the rise of the Maoists in his kingdom and also the bureaucratic
hassles and the political jingoism which existed between Nepal and India. He
expressed his ardent belief that the best course was to keep India close, and the
Chinese friendly, but at a distance. I felt privileged that he took me into his
confidence in this way.
King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya had their last dinner at our home about
six months before they were assassinated. It was a wonderful evening, full of
fun. My whole family was there, and Farah was in her element. At one point she
told me, ‘Papa, I was born on 28 December, and so were His Majesty the king,
and Dhirubhai Ambani and Ratan Tata. I can clearly see where my future lies.’
Their tragic end, when the whole family was ruthlessly assassinated at their
weekly dinner, was a personal blow to me and my family. We remember them
with deep fondness and I am glad to have so many happy occasions to remember
them by.

Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum

I have been travelling to Dubai for the last thirty years and I greatly admire the
confident, cheerful disposition of the people of Dubai.
One of the things I have often marvelled at is how they were able to convert
the massive sand dunes of the desert into such a magnificent city—it is truly a
miracle. And the man who made it all happen was Sheikh Mohammed bin
Rashid Al Makhtoum, the ruler of Dubai. It was the vision of this simple,
dignified, modest man that made Dubai the internationally acclaimed city it is
now. Its excellent infrastructure, and dynamic financial trading have earned the
respect of the business world. Its superb connectivity has also made it a tourist
destination; Dubai has some of the best airports of the world, and features its
own five-star Emirates airline.
My friend Abdul Elah Saleh introduced me to this miracle maker, His
Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, almost twenty-five years
ago and he invited me to visit him on his private farm. During the visit Sheikh
Mohammed was driving his four-wheel SUV and I was sitting beside him in the
front seat, with Abdul Elah in the rear. All of a sudden a little white rabbit
appeared on the sand dune on the driver’s side. With lightning speed, Sheikh
Mohammed took out a pistol from the right pocket of his kandura and shot the
rabbit. The animal disappeared so I said, ‘You missed.’ He smiled at me, got out
of the car and went behind the sand dune. When he came back he was holding
the dead white rabbit by its ear, and said, ‘I shot him through his heart.’ This
made me a bit sad, so I asked him, ‘Why did you kill him?’, to which he replied,
‘I’ll show you why.’ He drove us to a large barn resembling an aircraft hangar.
To my amazement, it was full of thousands of brown rabbits. He explained that
he had to kill the white rabbit to save the brown rabbits, which he had imported
to rehabilitate in the new environment. The vermin from the white rabbit would
have killed them all.
It was almost twenty-five years later when Abdul Elah, Zarine and I spotted
Sheikh Mohammed, dressed in a very light saffron kandura walking towards the
exit of the Emirate Tower, flanked by a small group of people. He recognized us
and stopped to talk to me. After the customary greetings, he came up close to me
and said, with a smile, ‘I shot him through the heart.’ I was quite stunned that he
remembered the incident from twenty-five years ago, particularly since during
that time he had carried such responsibilities and was attempting to transform
Dubai from a desert kingdom into the paradise it had become. It struck me that
he must have a very sharp memory to remember the minutest details of his life
and bring them out in the appropriate place and time. I do not remember meeting
anyone else in my life who could do that.
 15
Be a Sport!

Prince Khartoum, my Champion Horse

On the day my eldest daughter, Farah, was born in December 1969, a friend,
Haji Abdul Sattar Sait, who was staying with my brother Feroz, asked me to
drop him at the racecourse, on my way to the hospital.
Though I was a good horseman and had always enjoyed riding, the racing
world had been, till then, alien to me. The racecourse took me by surprise.
Inside, there were rolling circles of horses, all thoroughbreds; outside there were
lines of imported cars belonging not only to the Bombay glitterati but also
people from all over India, busy striking deals with the stud owners.
I was about to leave after dropping Haji, when Suresh Mahindra, owner of the
Green Acres Stud Farm, and uncle of Anand Mahindra, my friend and chairman
of the Mahindra Group, accosted me and invited me to see a classic prize horse.
I laughed and explained to him that I was just there to drop a friend and not to
buy horses, but he persisted and started telling me about a two-year-old that was
sired by the Rock of Gibraltar and Pink Bamboo, a classic English dame. I
walked up to the horse he was referring to and saw that it was a chestnut with a
curly mane. It had very intelligent eyes which seemed to be looking at me as if
there was a connection between us. When I patted him on his snout, he gently
nuzzled up to me. I was hooked.
Suresh told me that Madhavrao Scindia, the maharaja of Gwalior, had offered
to buy the horse for Rs 1.3 lakh, but he had rejected the offer. He said he would
sell the colt to me for Rs 1.35 lakh plus Rs 30,000 as taxes. This was a huge
fortune in those days, but I was so involved in romancing the colt that I just
asked Suresh to complete the formalities for purchase. Suresh quickly flashed a
slip of paper and asked me to sign it and I did.
 With the Triple Crown Winner

Later, after reaching the hospital and greeting our newborn baby girl, I had to
tell Zarine about my purchase. She flared up in surprise. She sat up, looked at me
and said, ‘Absi, oh my god, Parmeshwar and Adi Godrej were asking us to buy
the four-bedroom flat in their building, Usha Kiran, on Carmichael Road, where
Dhirubhai Ambani also stays, for Rs 1,25,000. What have you done!’
I could not explain the rationale of my decision to her. Perhaps it was my
destiny. But later, thankfully, Zarine too fell in love with him and we jointly
decided on the name, Prince Khartoum.
Prince Khartoum did not enter any races as a two-year-old owing to sore
shins. He ran his first race as a three-year-old with three horses, each of which
had won three races already. In the 1200-metre race, Prince Khartoum finished a
flying short head second, beating two of the other horses. Rashid Byramji’s, the
trainer’s father, put his right hand into my jacket and said, ‘The Indian Derby is
in your pocket.’ I asked him what he meant. He said, ‘Do you realize this is his
first race and the distance is only 1200 metres? You saw the way he was moving.
He comes from behind. He needs a longer distance; all the classics are a
minimum of 1600 metres and above. This is a classic colt.’
I respected Rashid’s father’s expertise in these matters, so we entered Prince
Khartoum in a one-mile cup race in Bangalore, prior to the Colts’ Trial Stakes.
When the horses turned for the home run which was only 400 metres to the
finishing post, he was ten lengths behind the last horse; it looked impossible for
him to win. He left the entire racecourse agog, however, when he came up from
behind and finished a flying first. Many experienced owners congratulated me,
saying that this would be one of the greatest horses to hit the turf. After this
victory, we were confident of him winning the Colts’ Trial Stakes, a 1600-metre
race. However, mysteriously, a horse called Thundering, belonging to the
maharaja of Gwalior, who later became a very good friend, won the race.
Two weeks later, on the eve of the Bangalore Derby, I found out that someone
had hooked my horse in the Colts’ Trial Stakes, which confirmed our suspicions.
To our delight, Prince Khartoum won the Bangalore Derby in style. This was his
first big classic.
After that big win, he was the favourite for the prestigious Ramnivas Ruia
Gold Cup. He was trained to run from behind to stay in the striking position of
the third and fourth places as he came closer home and then, depending on the
pace, open up to strike in the last 300 metres. In the Gold Cup race, jockey
Jagdish did not keep to the orders of the trainer and took Prince to a flying start,
leading the pack and blew him up in the first 800 metres to finish a poor fourth.
This was disastrous and when Rashid Byramji, the trainer, and I rushed to the
paddock, the brazen jockey had the gall to tell us that the horse’s career was
finished. It was a blow that was hard for us to accept.
We now needed a new jockey, so I asked a friend in Bangalore to arrange for
the number one English jockey, Wally Swinburne, who was in Bangalore in
those days, to ride Prince. Early one morning, a few days later, Wally and I were
at the Mahalaxmi Racecourse when Wally said he would like two class-one
horses with which to match strides in a trial run of 2400 metres and to also check
the condition and stamina of Prince. I watched this run from the Gallops
Restaurant and could see the three horses moving through the morning mist. The
other two horses were running first and second and Prince Khartoum was
running third with one length separating each of them. Soon after, Wally joined
me at my table. He was also looking a bit dejected and striking his right leg with
his crop. ‘Sir, the touts are watching us; you are an actor and you know what to
do.’
I looked at him and understood what he meant. Then, he told me that he
weighed 55 kilograms while the other two jockeys weighed around 47 kilograms
each. He told me that even after his conceding 8 kilograms to them, his hands
and legs were aching from holding Prince Khartoum tightly to stop him from
showing a clean pair of heels to the two horses. He added that Prince was so
good that only God could stop him. I did not show any emotion, as per Wally’s
advice, but felt the hand of destiny on my shoulder again.
The odds on Prince Khartoum for the Indian Derby were four to one. A few
nights before the race Zarine dreamed that the number of the winning horse was
five and to her delight, when the numbers were declared two days before the
race, this was the number Prince Khartoum had been allotted. The entire racing
fraternity in Bombay, mostly from the Parsi community and other rich families,
was very superstitious, whether about the day of the race, the horse, the colour of
their clothes, the hat they wore or the cigar they smoked so Zarine ordered a
white Jodhpuri suit for me to wear on the race day, to match what she had seen
in her dream.
Zarine’s dream came true; we went on to make history by winning the Blue
Ribbon in the Indian Derby in Bombay, but not without angst. I had instructed
Wally to keep Prince Khartoum in the middle position before reaching 800
metres so I was very surprised when I saw my orange and white colours coming
round the bend, leading the pack. Then my heart was in my mouth when he
veered towards the tan, while Storm, ridden by English jockey Eldin, rode
towards the finishing post. Within seconds, however, Wally brought Prince
Khartoum back into the race, and the two horses were neck and neck as they ran
to the post. It was a photo finish, but I only found out Prince had won when I
came round—I had blacked out!
Following this Prince Khartoum won the Turf Invitation Cup in Chennai.
Interestingly, two days before the big race, the trainer, Rashid, came and
informed me that it would be good if it rained. When I asked him why, he said
the soft going was good for Prince.
I had invited a few friends for a dinner party, including some people from my
rival camp, a very powerful owner of over 1000 thoroughbreds who held sway
over the Madras racecourse. At the party, everyone asked me if my horse was
going to win and I assured them that Prince Khartoum would win provided, I
said according to the plan, it didn’t rain.
 Winning the Turf Invitation Cup

Early next morning, Wally walked into my hotel suite and showed me his
running shoes. ‘Sir, they have taken the bait and watered the racetrack the entire
night with hundreds of water tankers,’ he informed me.
In the journey of my life, I have learnt that reverse psychology works
beautifully. There is a saying that if you want to put a donkey into a well, tie a
rope around his neck, pull him in the opposite direction and as he moves back to
resist, he will himself fall into the well. It was this psychology that had worked
again and Prince Khartoum won the Turf Invitation Cup by almost 200 metres,
creating a new turf record, while Star Heaven, the southern favourite, came last.
I had a huge bet on my horse, which ran into millions. That was the first and last
bet I placed but I am told that it may have been the largest bet ever in racing.
Funnily enough, just two or three weeks before the Indian Derby, I had
received a letter from the stewards of the Royal Western India Turf Club
(RWITC) stating that I was required to meet them the following Sunday. The
letter cited the ‘disparaging remarks’ I had made against the stewards of the
RWITC as the reason for the summons. I was truly surprised because as far as I
knew, I’d never even met any of the stewards, let alone insulted them. I went,
however, to the meeting. When I walked into the stewards’ room, it was full of
elderly men, none of whom were known to me except one, a Mr Kanga.
Suddenly, one of them started speaking to me in anglicized Hindi, struggling
with the words. He said haltingly, ‘Aapne hamaray stewards ke khilaf
disparaging remarks pass ki hai.’ (You have made disparaging remarks about
our stewards.) I interjected and suggested that I could speak to them in English if
they were finding it difficult speaking to me in Hindi. All of them looked at each
other in surprise, probably thinking I was like Mehmood the comedian, or Agha,
both racehorse owners who could not speak English.
It was now my turn to have fun. I pointed out that except for Mr Kanga, I had
never met anyone present in the room in my life, so it would be very difficult for
me to have passed disparaging remarks against them. This really put them in a
fix. Mr Kanga looked at his colleagues sternly and asked me to step out so that
they could have an internal discussion after which they would invite me back to
conclude the meeting.
The chairman of the RWITC, Mr Ruia, had invited me to step in for a coffee
when I was walking towards the stewards’ meeting room, so I decided to take
him up on his offer. He greeted me graciously and asked me how the inquisition
was going. I told him and he had a good laugh about it. Just then, an officer of
the club came into the chamber and asked me to return to the stewards’ room. I
was informed that the investigation was over and they could not find any
substance in the accusations contained in the letter. When I insisted on knowing
the source of this canard, they all looked at each other but Mr Kanga informed
me that Mr Joshi, a steward appointed by the government as per the rules of the
club, had complained. He looked towards Mr Joshi to point him out to me, and I
followed his glance and saw a man with a lantern jaw, looking guilty and
uncomfortable.
The story behind this was that one of the owners of the contenders at the
Derby had tried to stop Prince from taking part by any means, including trying to
create a cause célèbre. I was learning the tricks of the trade fast.
After winning the Bangalore Derby, Indian Derby and the Turf Invitation Cup
—the Triple Crown of Indian racing as it were—I sponsored a trip to Europe for
my trainer and his wife. Prince Khartoum had earned a well-deserved rest and
was sent to Bangalore but after a month, a devastated Rashid Byramji informed
me that some unknown persons had damaged his tendons. It was a huge shock
for my wife and me and I felt a twisting pain inside me. I rushed to Bangalore to
meet the champion and looking at his handsome face and beautiful expression, I
saw that he looked sad, as though he knew that his racing days were over.
About a month before the St Ledger’s race where my Prince would have been
the favourite, two people came to see me in Mahabaleshwar where I was
shooting a film and proposed that I enter Prince in the race. When I asked them
if they did not know that he had been sent to the stud, they awkwardly explained
that if I entered him in this very big race, he would be the natural favourite and
when he lost the race, the public that had betted on him heavily would lose their
money but I would walk away with a huge profit. I have no idea how I
controlled my anger and the fury that was raging inside me—that they should
want me to become part of their nefarious racket was unbelievable. I screamed at
them for trying to involve me and my champion horse in cheating the public in
this way and I ordered my staff to throw them out. This was the ugly side of
racing I abhorred.
During our racing days, perhaps due to my star status, many influential and
rich horseowners from the higher echelons of society would invite us to their
parties at their homes. Cyrus and Zaware Poonawalla, leading industrialists and
owners of the Poonawalla Stud Farm, are friends till today. In fact, Cyrus
Poonawalla invited me to be a fourth partner in one of his classic horses, as he
believed that I was lucky, but I politely declined.
 With Feroz and Cyrus Poonawalla at Mahalaxmi Race Course, Bombay

When I look back there was so much elegance and style in those gatherings,
which sadly I find missing today. The world of racing is a complex, beguiling
place, easy to lose oneself in. I lasted there for a brief period of two and a half
years and made some good friends, but I got out of it at the right time.

Shooting Skeet
We were staying at the Bikaner Palace Hotel while shooting for Abdullah, when
I received an invitation from His Highness Maharaja Karni Singh, whose palace
was nearby.
I noticed that there was skeet shooting apparatus and that several double-
barrel twelve bore guns were laid out on a table in the palace. When His
Highness asked me if I could shoot skeet, I replied I could shoot a gun but had
never shot skeet. He then personally selected a double-barrel gun from the lot
and handing it over to me, suggested I take a shot. Maharaja Karni Singh was a
champion shooter who had medalled in many international events, so I
concentrated on his tips when he explained to me the nitty-gritty of shooting
skeet.
I waited for the fling from the apparatus and when it went up like a flying
saucer, I shot twelve clay pigeons in succession. His Highness was delighted and
congratulated me. He also reconfirmed quietly that this was really my first skeet
shoot. He then ushered me into his library, pulled out a ledger from the shelf and
sat down to induct me in the membership of his private skeet shooting club and
asked me to sign the ledger. I did so happily.
 16
Living on the Edge

From an early age, I loved reading about adventures of all kinds. I was
particularly inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s books, including Death in the
Afternoon, The Sun Also Rises and Homage to Catalonia, as well as the Shogun
series, in which the central character was full of courage.
Perhaps enthused by these stories, I have never shied away from danger,
whether it was horse riding (I’ve always loved the speed of a thoroughbred);
mountaineering (I was trained by Captain Sharma of the Indian army) or
undersea diving and motorcycling (I had a Norton 650 cc when I was sixteen and
once touched 103 miles an hour). I also did my own stunts in my films, some of
which were very dangerous—like the one in which I fought with a leopard.
Given this love of adventure, it’s not surprising that I have found myself in some
very tense situations.

In Search of a Tiger
In 1975, the film industry came to a standstill owing to widespread industrial
action in Bombay. This meant that we had a lot of time on our hands, and Feroz
suggested that we go to the jungle on a tiger hunt. I was quite averse to the idea,
because I found it cruel and despicable, but environmental awareness at that time
was dismal and the media was full of hunting stories. People were always going
on hunting trips to Africa and the rest of the world while many from abroad
came to India; it was something to discuss over cocktails and dinner. So, not
wanting to dampen Feroz’s enthusiasm, I agreed to join him after he organized
the necessary licence. He had previously shot twelve leopards but his great
ambition was to shoot a tiger. The list of animals mentioned on the licence
included a tiger, two leopards, four deer and wild pigs.
 Besides Feroz and me, the hunting party comprised our respective wives,
Sundri and Zarine, our younger brother, Sameer, Captain S.C. Singh of Air
India, who was a close friend, Mohan Bijlani and his wife, Mohini, Rajshree, the
celebrated actress of our time and my co-star in Mohan’s film Dil Ne Pukara,
and her American husband, Gregory. Munzeer, Feroz’s good friend, who was an
excellent spotlight expert, also accompanied us; his role would be to spot the
animal with his powerful light while Feroz took the shot. I noticed that everyone
in our hunting party was a bit wide-eyed; maybe I was too, as this was a new
experience for all of us. After an exciting journey through the thick jungle and
over bumpy roads, with the sound of birds and animals around us, we drove up
to a large, charming, sprawling colonial-style bungalow. I was very impressed
with the cleanliness of the house, the well-organized furniture, the dining table
and the plentiful stock of food and drinks.
All the ladies immediately went to work to set up the house and plan the
menus while the boys sat outside on the veranda, eating freshly fried eggs on
toast with coffee and oranges. Gregarious Gregory was a coffee addict and lots
of fun, but not so much for our south Indian chef, Rauf, because he had to cook
on a wood fire and it was impossible for him to provide several cups of coffee at
short notice. Gregory hauled Rauf to me, complaining about his service. When I
asked him what the problem was, he replied, ‘Bhaijan, har do minute ke baad
“Caffe caffe” poochte hain . . . Choolha phoonk phoonk aakhen phoot gayee
hain.’ (Brother, he keeps asking for coffee after every two minutes . . . My eyes
are smarting from the smoke from blowing on the fire wood.) This sequence
repeated each morning and we all used to have a hearty laugh at it.
 Feroz barbecuing

Feroz called for a meeting of the hunting party and that is when I met an
unforgettable Muslim man called Chacha, a 6'5" local with a weathered face,
wearing a long kurta and pyjama. His manner of speaking, along with his raspy
voice and choice of four-letter words while referring to leopards and tigers,
captivated us all. It was Chacha who arranged for four buffalo calves to be tied
as bait in areas believed to be tiger territory.
A large group of Adivasis would stand outside the compound and watch us
with great curiosity. We were informed by Chacha that this was a normal
occurrence as they expected deer or wild boar meat from the hunt and that was
their source of badly needed protein. Sameer was deeply concerned about the
health condition of the tribals and set up a chair and table laden with our medical
supplies to generously help anyone who needed medication or bandages. We
jokingly started referring to the area as the hospital of Dr Sameer Khan.
The watering hole turned out to be surrounded by large, round, black rocks
and had the most divine crystal clear sweet water. The jungle heat during the day
was scorching, and we would take turns diving off a high rock that jutted out
over the cool waters like a diving board. For fun, we told the ladies that there
could be crocodiles in the pool. Surprisingly, they were not at all scared at
hearing this; they simply rebuked us for trying to scare them and continued to
have fun in the water. Our schedule in the jungle was quite simple. During the
day we would relax by the pool and head back to the bungalow before sundown.
In the evening, we dressed and were served a barbecue dinner. We also had a
well-stocked bar and a professional bartender at our service. Zarine made sure
we had good music. The government had provided an officer to accompany us
on our hunting trips; he was affable but he kept to himself.
We broke up into three or four groups each night and went hunting in separate
jeeps. One night, Mohan and Mohini persuaded me to take them for a wild boar
hunt and after searching for a while I spotted a huge boar crossing the road from
our right to left. Mohan, in his excitement, could not take the shot and begged
me to instead. I shot the boar on the run but was surprised to see him keep
running. We followed the boar in the jeep until a second shot brought him down.
We all jumped out to see this big wild boar with the huge tuskers. The animal
was so large and heavy that the driver and I could not lift it into the net
contraption behind the jeep. We asked the officer, who was a Muslim, to give us
a hand but this upset him and he refused to lift the pig. Mohan, however, was
very keen to take some meat to Bombay to make pork pickle and only after great
coaxing did the reluctant officer finally help us lift the big boar into the net. The
next morning, I saw him soaping his body several times while having a bath.
Later, he confessed with a smile that he had prayed to God to forgive him. I felt
bad on hearing this, as well as for having shot the poor animal. However, it was
a consolation to watch the meat being gifted to the tribals in the area.
Eventually, Chacha came along with his two assistants to tell us that one of the
buffalo calves set up as bait had been killed by a big cat. We all immediately
jumped into several jeeps and drove down to the spot and saw the dead buffalo
calf which had been tied to a small tree.
After inspecting the dead calf, Chacha took stock of the pug marks and told us
that they were slightly smaller than a tiger’s but larger than a leopard’s, so it
could either be a large leopard or a small tiger. He sat down, looking intently at
the carcass to see if any teeth were embedded in the throat; the stomach had been
torn out and some intestines eaten.
 Chacha told us that a machan would have to be set up. I asked if the machan
could be put up on the big tree which was away from the little tree where the kill
happened so that when the cat was dragging away its kill, it would give us more
space to shoot. Chacha agreed and a charpoy was hoisted up and tied firmly on
the big tree. Then, the old man explained in his raspy voice that we were to be
very very quiet; so much so that we should not breathe through our noses but
only from our mouths. Hearing him, the picture of a dog panting crossed my
mind. I thought it was funny but practical because in the silence of the jungle
even a dead leaf falling on the ground makes a sound. That evening, around 5.30
p.m., Feroz and I sat on the machan along with Munzeer, the spotlight specialist
who was a frail, skinny man but quite strong.
The ladies were quite concerned about us and before they returned to the
bungalow, they told us repeatedly to be careful. ‘We hope you guys know what
you are doing,’ they said. I just smiled, as this was my first experience, and I
wasn’t that confident, but Feroz, with all his characteristic style, assured the
ladies, saying, ‘We are big boys. We will take care of ourselves.’
Suddenly, the lonely isolation of the jungle hit us. It was also getting cold and
we were wearing only light woollen sweaters. It was agreed that Feroz would be
the number one shot with his .375 Magnum; I was the backup, holding a loaded
double-barrel gun with LG’s number one making it a single powerful shot in
both barrels. Munzeer, with the spotlight and a 12-volt battery resting on his lap,
sat between Feroz and me. We waited, sipping black coffee extra gently to avoid
any slurping sound.
The jungle started getting quite dark as early as 7 p.m. and we could hear
every small sound. It was eerie and pitch-dark. All of a sudden, we heard a
snuffling sound followed by what seemed like the sound of bones being crushed
by the powerful jaws of an animal. The cat was right there but we could not see a
thing. Feroz nudged Munzeer and seconds later the powerful spotlight
illuminated the area. It fell a little short of the target but Munzeer quickly
corrected its position. I will never forget the sight that I saw in that light.
The large head of a huge leopard with its mouth open, blood dripping from its
jaws as it growled angrily at the spotlight, its eyes red with fury. Feroz,
forgetting that I was to shoot a leopard and he was to shoot a tiger, instinctively
fired his .375 Magnum. The leopard gave a big growl, buckled almost eight feet
in the air, fell to the ground and then leapt towards us with all its anger and fury.
Seeing how close the snarling leopard had come to us I let loose a volley by
pulling both the triggers. I certainly diverted the leopard from his aim and he fell
straight down and ran into the jungle. Feroz, turning around at the same moment,
released another shot. He was furious and kept on repeating, ‘Oh my god, I
missed.’
I was fairly certain, however, from the sound of the impact of the shot that it
had found its mark. I told Feroz that he had hit him in the stomach, which was
perhaps why he had buckled. We quickly jumped down from the machan. Feroz
insisted we go after the animal, but I told him it was a crazy idea. ‘A wounded
leopard is the most dangerous animal in the jungle. A leopard is only dead when
you see his skin on the wall,’ I cautioned, quoting Jim Corbett, the famous
hunter.
But there was no stopping Feroz when he had made up his mind. He said, ‘If
you call yourself my brother, then come with me; we will find him.’ Saying this,
he sped off in the direction the leopard had taken. I had no option but to follow
him, so I loaded my gun and went after him. Munzeer came too. We had hardly
gone ten steps when we slipped on a long slope. The 12-volt battery which
Munzeer was carrying, the wires, the spotlight, and all three of us tumbled to the
bottom of the nala; we landed near a thick bamboo grove, the guns still clutched
in our hands. Feroz and I got into an argument while Munzeer searched for the
battery and the lights. I insisted that we call Chacha by firing the signal shot and
after a lengthy argument, Feroz finally relented and I fired the single shot.
When Chacha came charging in, he confirmed that Feroz hadn’t missed. He
told us to go back to the bungalow while he would organize a search for the
leopard’s body. Munzeer stayed back with them with the lights.
Early the next morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I heard the tooting of the
jeep horn and the sound of three gunshots. I quickly rushed out on to the veranda
and there it was. The huge carcass of the mighty leopard strapped to the bonnet
of the jeep. All of us except Feroz rushed out; he remained in his chair, sipping
coffee coolly, looking dejected about shooting a leopard instead of a tiger.
Thank god those days are over. The very thought of killing animals is
repulsive to me. Together we must all protect our environment and the
ecosystem to ensure the planet’s survival.
The Storm in the Indian Ocean
It was a glorious day in Mauritius. The sun was shining brightly on the blue
waters of the Indian Ocean. The large ocean liner aboard which we were
shooting the climax of Chandi Sona was cutting through the translucent waters,
rhythmically keeping in time with the pitch. It was the lunch break so I was
standing with my co-stars and crew, watching the menacing tiger and bull sharks
which were following the ship, looking for food.
The captain, a stocky, blond, bearded Swede with a jovial look was standing
next to me, and suggested that we feed the sharks. We thought this would be fun
so we began to throw whole dressed chickens, supplied by the ship’s chef, to the
hungry sharks. Within minutes the scene erupted into a frenzy, with dozens of
sharks fighting each other for the meat and the lucky ones grabbing the chickens
and darting away.
All of a sudden, in yet another extraordinary aquatic display, a pair of shiny
black whales came out of nowhere. It was as if they were competing with each
other, one following the other as they surfaced, arced and disappeared into the
blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Their movements were like those of dolphins,
except that they were gigantic and this made the show unbelievably dramatic.
None of us had witnessed such a spectacle before.
Soon after, the captain took me aside and informed me that he had received an
early warning message on the ship’s radio that we were in the line of an
approaching storm. It was estimated to hit us in the next thirty minutes. Greatly
concerned about my crew and the cast, I asked him how severe the storm would
be and how long he thought it would last. He gestured with his hands and said
gravely, ‘This one could be bad. That’s why it is essential that all of you go
below deck. I also suggest that you don’t tell them about the high danger the
storm poses.’
I did as he advised and told my crew to cooperate with the ship’s captain and
go below deck. They all looked a bit concerned, but I assured them that it was a
very sturdy vessel and we were in good hands. I asked Pran, who was not only a
highly respected actor but also the most senior of my colleagues, to guide the
crew below deck. I did not disclose the seriousness of the situation to them
because I wanted to avoid panic, but of course they sensed that it was an
emergency. Pran, Parveen Babi, Danny Denzongpa, Ranjeet, Asrani, Mukri,
Paintal and all my technicians—all of them showed a lot of courage by keeping
their spirits up and not giving in to their fears.
Although the others went below deck as asked, I remained on deck, and the
captain was surprised to see me. In response to his raised eyebrows, I told him,
quite firmly, that I would stay with him no matter what happened. He looked at
me for a moment, smiled and said, ‘If you’re looking for the big show, this could
well be it. It will be really turbulent. For God’s sake, do not loosen your grip on
the railings when the storm begins.’
The change in the seascape as the storm approached was very dramatic. The
wind blew sharply and howled around us. The ocean heaved with giant swells.
The bright day turned into a looming dark sky. As I watched the changing scene,
a strong gust of wind hit us. I lost my balance and dropped down to a nearby
railing. The ship started to roll and pitch, as 50-foot tall waves lashed the sides,
making it almost impossible for the captain to keep the wheel steady.
As advised, I held on to the rails as tightly as I could as I stood there next to
the captain. It was hard to believe that I was actually experiencing a raging storm
in the Indian Ocean, just 100 kilometres off the coast of Mauritius. It was
strangely invigorating, and though I was excited, I was mindful of the danger.
The captain kept telling me to be careful.
An hour later the storm had worsened. The ship was being mercilessly tossed
on the waves, rolling and pitching helplessly, like a tiny cork adrift on an angry
ocean. The captain had to abandon the first deck. As I started to follow him to
the second deck he warned, ‘For God’s sake, be careful! You can still go down
below deck, you know!’ But I persisted.
Even from the second deck we could not see a thing. The sky was pitch-dark
and enormous waves crashed over the deck amidst screaming, raging winds. It
was a truly terrifying sight and I have to admit that for a moment I felt the end
could well be near; it took all my spirits to stay optimistic about pulling through.
The captain abandoned the second deck and I followed him right to the top on
the third deck. He looked grim. We were standing very close to each other—I
was hanging on tightly to the rails while he steadied the wheel, doing his best to
control the ship. We exchanged a worried look. I could see the fear in his eyes
even though he was putting up a brave front. He really looked like he could use
some positivity and encouragement, so I congratulated him on the great job he
was doing and added that I was sure the storm was going to end soon. He
seemed grateful for my words, even though it took a while longer for the storm
to die down.
The storm disappeared as fast as it had appeared. As the waters settled, my
fellow actors and crew came up from below deck with relief on all their faces. I
praised them all for the courage they had displayed. I don’t think any of us will
ever forget that experience; I certainly won’t.

The Qashqai Khan

In 1976, I landed in Tehran, Iran, and was amazed to see the opulence and
modernity of the sprawling metropolis—endless wide avenues lined with chinar
trees, five-star hotels, bars and restaurants, good-looking men in flashy cars and
beautiful women in miniskirts. It was rightly called the Paris of the East. The
atmosphere was cosmopolitan and electric.
I had gone at the invitation of my friend, American film director George
Marzbetuny. He had invited me to play the leading role in a film that he was
planning to shoot in Iran. My co-stars were an American actor and a top Iranian
actress, Pouri Banayi. Unfortunately, due to some differences with the then
government, the film had to be shelved. I lost the film but gained a friend in
George Marzbetuny. Some years later, I bought the rights from George and made
the same film in Hindi, titled Abdullah.
While I was in Tehran, George and I received an invitation from someone
known as the Qashqai Khan. Since I did not know any such person, I made
discreet enquiries and was told that he was a fan of mine and also the well-
respected chieftain of the Qashqai tribes in a province of Iran called Bam. I
accepted the invitation, and George and I set out to meet him.
After flying to Bam, we drove down to the Qashqai camp. It was dark by the
time we reached the camp and I could see a number of shimmering lights in the
distance. As we came closer, I was stunned by the impact of the huge makeshift
city in the middle of the desert, made entirely of beautifully designed tents, in
the middle of which was a huge terracotta tent with blue hues.
 With George Marzbetuny in the Qashqai Khan’s tent

We were met very warmly by the welcoming committee and escorted to a tent
that was equipped with a very modern washroom. After we had refreshed
ourselves, we were taken to the beautiful terracotta tent that I had admired. The
tent was appointed in the most opulent manner: fitted from end to end with
luxurious Persian carpets, illuminated by sparkling glass chandeliers, lamps, it
evoked an Arabian Nights-esque atmosphere. In the middle of the tent, there was
a designated Eastern-style seating area with bolsters and a large dastarkhan in
the centre, buckling under the weight of fruits and sweetmeats.
Each seating arrangement was equipped with large silver trays consisting of
the finest wines, the best whiskies, vodka, cognac, and any other alcohol that one
could desire. Each tray had a glass, an ice bucket, soda and water.
I was admiring the super luxurious tent, when in breezed a handsome young
man, around my age, wearing blue denim jeans and a black turtleneck pullover.
As I looked up, slightly taken aback at his sudden appearance, he came up to me
with outstretched hands and said, ‘Hi, I am the Khan.’ I got up and shook hands
with him. I had expected to meet an old mullah in long flowing robes and was
taken aback at the sight of this dynamic English-speaking young man.
‘Welcome! Mr Khan, I am a big fan of yours,’ he said, embracing me. ‘We are
both Khans; we are brothers.’
After the pleasantries were over, he asked us what we would like to drink.
‘Whatever you are having, Khan,’ I said politely.
‘Vodka,’ he informed us. And so vodka it was for all of us.
He beckoned to his attendants to invite his wives inside and a short while
later, as we were talking, four very beautiful ladies in traditional attire that
looked close to bridal finery entered the tent and greeted us with courteous
salaams. The Qashqai Khan introduced the women as his four wives and after
motioning them to sit across from us, he asked them to sing for the gathering.
Each lady carried a musical instrument, the name of which I do not recollect
now, and started singing for the guests in their melodious, lilting voices.
I was enjoying the lovely songs that the women were singing for us and,
maybe, my eyes lingered a tad longer than they should have because as I glanced
at the Khan, I found him looking straight at me with an amused look in his eyes.
He winked at me and said, ‘Sanjay Khan, you can look at the other three, but the
youngest is mine.’ I just smiled.
The magical evening went along nicely and we enjoyed the sumptuous spread
that the Qashqai Khan had laid out for us. After dinner, the Khan asked me if I
would like to smoke the hookah with him, but I politely declined and accepted a
small cognac instead. I didn’t know what the Khan was smoking; it was
probably opium, and I certainly didn’t want that, never having smoked it in my
life. Also, I wanted to make sure that I remained in my senses. George, too, was
happy that I had declined the Khan’s offer.
Suddenly, the Khan put his hookah down, pulled me up by my arm and said,
‘Let’s go meet my mother; she lives only a short distance away. She’s a big fan
of yours and will be thrilled to meet you.’
Before I could say anything, I found myself sitting with him in his open jeep
and speeding into the inky blackness of the dark desert night. Being at the mercy
of a young man who had consumed a good amount of alcohol and opium and
was now zipping at breakneck speed into the cold desert night should have
terrified me, but possessing an adventurous nature myself, I quite enjoyed it.
As the Khan swerved abruptly, my 300-dollar brand new Nikon camera flew
out of my lap and into the darkness of the desert.
 ‘Khan, my camera!!’ I said to him.
‘We’ll pick it up on the way back,’ he told me, laughing.
I looked up at the heavens but decided to keep quiet and write the camera off
as a total loss.
About ten minutes of speeding later, we reached an area that had some
apartment blocks. The Khan slowed down in front of one of the blocks and
called out, ‘Mama, Mama . . .’ I looked up and saw a charming elderly lady
standing in one of the first-floor balconies, waiving at the Khan.
‘Look, Mama. I had promised you that I will bring Sanjay Khan to meet you
and I have kept my promise. See, he’s here!’ the Khan yelled at his mother from
the jeep.
She greeted me warmly and said in perfect English, ‘Son, I am happy to see
you. How are you, joonam? I watch all your movies and am a big fan of yours.
God bless you.’
I thanked her and marvelled at the immense reach of Hindi films. It was a
sobering experience that made me feel more responsible about the kind of films
that I ought to do.
The Khan said a quick goodbye to his mother and we shot out once again into
the darkness of the desert like an arrow. About halfway to the camp, he brought
the jeep to an abrupt halt, jumped out, picked something up from the sand and
came to me.
‘Is this your camera?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said. We hadn’t even heard of GPS back then, but I am sure the
man had one fitted inside his head. I was amazed, thankful and relieved, all at
the same time.
He was a remarkable young man, with a lot of style, and I still remember him
fondly.

The Godfather of Turkey

Little did I know when we went to Istanbul for the premiere of Abdullah that it
would lead to one of the most interesting adventures of my life.
From the start, the scene was almost surreal, even in the context of the
showmanship associated with the promotion of films. Ilmas Duru, an Iranian
actor I had met at the Moscow Film Festival, had invited us to Turkey, and we
were delighted to see him at the airport, with his wife and a huge bouquet of red
roses. What was eerie was the line-up outside of six black Mercedes-Benz
luxury sedans, with over a dozen six-foot-plus bouncer-type men in black suits,
ties and sunglasses, who hovered around us like bodyguards. Zarine said to me,
under her breath, that Ilmas was obviously doing very well, perhaps even better
than me. It certainly was puzzling and it made me resolve to find out more.
When we entered our large suite at the Hilton Hotel, we were swamped by the
leading stars of the Turkish film industry. Amidst hugs and kisses, however, the
excitement was cut short by a loud and clear announcement by Ilmas that
someone important was about to enter.
A hush descended on the room and in walked a middle-aged man wearing an
expensive brown Moir jacket and a black turtleneck, accompanied by a very
handsome couple. This was the godfather of Turkey. It was clear that he was an
extraordinarily charismatic man, with a soft husky voice. He greeted me warmly
with a kiss on both my cheeks and introduced Zarine and me to his daughter and
son-in-law.
The entire city of Istanbul was decorated with gigantic banners of Abdullah
showing Raj Kapoor and me, and as we drove through the city Zarine
commented that they had spent a lot on publicity. I wondered if that could be the
work of the godfather. Later that afternoon, at lunch with Ilmas and his wife, we
were informed that the man we met earlier was the most powerful man in
Turkey. He was a huge philanthropist who helped the poor but also wielded
enough clout to make or break a government. He was a power to be reckoned
with.
At the premiere of Abdullah, the same man sat beside me, watching the film
intently and during poignant moments of the film, he would turn away from the
screen, look at me and clutch my hand. I kept my gaze fixed on the screen as I
did not want to draw attention to his emotional response. However, I was very
touched that the mighty godfather could shed a tear at images on a screen and it
filled me with pride to know that the power of cinema was so overwhelming.
 With Zarine, Ilmas Duru and his wife, the godfather of Turkey and his wife, and Abdul Rahim Khan

That evening, a lavish banquet was arranged at one of the most famous
restaurants overlooking the River Bosporus which divided European Turkey
from Asian Turkey. I noticed many luminaries and important people who would
walk in, go straight to the charismatic man, kiss his hand and move on. I’d never
seen anything quite like that before, except in the movies!
At our table were his wife, his daughter, and son-in-law, Ilmas’s wife, a friend
of mine, Abdul Rahim Karam from the UAE, Zarine, a few other friends. Some
time into the party the godfather stood up and raised a toast welcoming Zarine
and me, and praising the film for its quality. Then he added, ‘I am taking a drink
of vodka, even though I had stopped drinking for seven years, in honour of my
good friend Sanjay Khan, and his wife.’
After he sat down, Ilmas whispered that I should say a few words. I got up and
thanked our gracious host for the warm and lavish hospitality which had been
extended to us. I said I didn’t have words to describe the moment but said that
we had an avenue in New Delhi named after Mustafa Kemal Ataturk as a tribute
to the founding father of modern Turkey. I then described our host as Mustafa
Kemal Ataturk the Second. As soon as I said this, there was a thunder of gunfire
and at least thirty-odd bullets were fired into the air so fast that tiny pieces of
plaster from the ceiling fell around us. The gunfire was accompanied by a round
of clapping and loud cheers from the people in the restaurant. Ilmas Duru kept
repeating softly to me under his breath to keep talking as the gunfire was a salute
offered to me.
My friend, Abdul Rahim, looked quite irritated at all this and kept whispering
to me, ‘I told you these Turks are crazy!’ Of course that might have been just a
reflection of the traditional rivalry between the Arabs and the Turks from the
time of the Ottoman Empire that had colonized the proud Arab world.
It was soon time to return to Bombay but as we were preparing to take the
flight that night, I received a message from Ilmas Duru saying that the godfather
had invited me to have tea with him in his office. When I reached, I was
impressed with the huge building and on entering the reception area of his office
I noticed a neat photodrama of framed pictures of ships going to ocean. I
inferred that he was in the shipping business like the Greek tycoon Aristotle
Onassis. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, he again expressed his
appreciation for Abdullah and praised my work. I thanked him for his kindness.
Then the room fell silent and I saw him look away, deep in thought. The silence
was pregnant.
After a while, he turned and looked back at me for quite a long moment, still
without saying a word. Then, he asked me how much money I made in a year in
my work. My intuition alerted me that this might be important so I replied
simply, ‘I make enough money each year to also give to charity.’
He said he had something to offer me by which I could own several
apartments in New York, London, Paris, a private jet, a yacht, and of course, as
many cars as I liked. I was quite intrigued by this offer and asked myself what
kind of a business this could be; maybe a slice of his shipping business? I asked
him to describe the nature of his offer. There was a moment of silence after
which he looked at me, smiled and said, ‘I will make you the head of my
business in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka.’
I was now sure that he was talking about his shipping business, so I asked him
to elaborate. In reply, he simply said, ‘You will head my cocaine empire in these
regions.’
 I was stunned and my bones turned to rubber but I quickly recovered my
composure; I needed to give him an answer which would neither insult his
intelligence nor offend him. I replied, ‘I am most grateful to you for your kind
offer, but I am an actor and a film-maker. I am not a businessman, so I cannot
accept this generous offer—it would lose you money.’
For a brief and incredible moment, he looked at me intensely. I wondered
what was going on in his mind. He was obviously bewildered as to how anyone
could refuse such an offer. After a minute or so, however, he got up and
embraced me. Then he whispered in my ear that any time, anywhere, if I needed
him, he would be there for me.
In 2001, many years later, I was staying at the London Hilton when my good
friend Farrukh Dhondy dropped in with Shekhar Kapoor to have tea with me.
We were sitting in the lounge when I felt a slight headache and asked Farrukh if
I could get a Panadol. A lady sitting nearby heard me and walked up to me. She
opened her purse, took out a Panadol and offered it to me.
Farrukh interjected and told me in Hindi, ‘Mat lena. Pata nahi kaun hai.’
(Don’t take it. You don’t know who she is.)
She said immediately, ‘Sanjay Khan, the godfather of Turkey had introduced
my husband and me to you.’
I accepted the Panadol and asked her how he was. I told her it had been a long
time since I had met him. She was surprised. ‘I am sorry to tell you that he was
killed, along with his whole family, by his rivals.’
It was perhaps not surprising, given the nature of his business, but I still felt a
stab of pain on hearing this news, especially for his family.

A Helicopter Crash
I have always been fascinated by helicopters and at one time even owned a
company for spraying insecticides on crop fields. I have also had more than a
few close shaves in them, but the story which follows is the one that stands out.
In 2003, I travelled by helicopter to Balkhot in Karnataka, where I was going
to address an election rally for a new political party created by Vijay Mallya.
Before taking off, there was a thirty-minute delay, and I wondered if there was
a snag. We took off eventually, however, and started on our journey. As we
approached Balkhot, the weather deteriorated and I heard the pilot and co-pilot
talking about it on the earphones that I was wearing. I didn’t think much about it,
though, because we were very near the airport and I could see a large number of
people on the ground waiting to receive us.
We were flying at about 800 feet when the pilot turned the chopper to the
right. It shuddered, at which Mallya started giving instructions to the pilot. ‘Left
rudder! Left rudder!’ I realized that there was something seriously wrong
because it was clear that the helicopter was not responding to the pilot’s
manoeuvring. There was a horrific sound and the helicopter nosedived towards
the ground. The last thing I heard was Vijay shouting, ‘Sanjay bhai, we are going
down!’
I was quite calm; something told me that everything would be all right but at
that moment, both Mallya and I blacked out. When we came to our senses, we
realized that the helicopter had crashed in a muddy field; it was lying at an angle
on its left skeet. The pilot and the co-pilot were unconscious and Chikita,
Mallya’s secretary, was crying out loudly from the rear, ‘Please help me, Sanjay.
Please help.’
When I looked towards the rear end of the helicopter, I saw the NDTV
cameraman sitting with blood flowing profusely from his head, and an obviously
broken arm. Mallya was also groaning in pain, saying, ‘Sanjay Bhai, my leg, my
leg. Please help me!’
I realized then that I was unhurt, miraculously without a scratch and was still
clutching my mobile in my left hand.
The imminent danger was that the engine was still running and the rotor with
the broken blades was still spinning. It looked like a deadly weapon and was
hardly a foot or two from Vijay’s head, so, thinking quickly, I pulled his head
away. Fortunately, Vijay had the sense to shout out, ‘Cut the engine!’ and I saw
the co-pilot feebly lift his hand and press a red button to stop the engine.
 Surveying the wreckage after the helicopter crash

During this drama, thousands of people had circled us, watching the spectacle
from a distance, in spite of me urging them in Kannada to come forward to help
us. I realized later that they hadn’t moved because of the fear of the chopper’s
full tank exploding.
I pushed Vijay out of the helicopter first, then his secretary. Then I took
charge of the NDTV cameraman, pulling him out of the debris. By the time I got
out of the helicopter, people had arrived to help. As I surveyed the damage,
people told me that they had seen the tail breaking and going into a spin just as it
hit the ground.
I tried to call Zarine so I could let her know I was all right before she saw the
news of the accident on TV, but there was no answer. My daughters didn’t
answer either, so I called Zayed. Fortunately, he picked up the phone and I was
able to speak with him. He, of course, expressed alarm and asked if I was all
right. I assured him that I was fine. He retorted, ‘Oh come on, Dad. You said the
same thing after the fire accident!’ I repeated that this time I really was
unharmed and asked him to convey the message to his mother and sisters.
 That was the season of chopper crashes. Prior to that crash there had been
fatal accidents—at Vaishno Devi, Hyderabad and the Bombay High oil drilling
rig. I felt lucky that the hand of destiny continued to rest on my shoulder.
 17
A Phoenix from the Fire

Just before I relocated to the US for the next phase of my treatment after the
fire, Nurse Roxanne was given a daunting task: breaking the news to me that the
fire had resulted in the death of all but four individuals. With every syllable she
uttered, I went further into shock. I had just automatically assumed that everyone
else was recovering too, guided by the specialists and regimented by the
medications, just as I was. At Roxanne’s words, however, reality hit me. That
night I wept inconsolably in my hospital room, the faces of my crew streaming
through my mind and obliterating my consciousness. The magnitude of that
tragedy persisted within me for several months and I carry the scars of that
wound with me even today.
I was transferred to Georgetown University Hospital in the US for intense
grafting and rehabilitation under the supervision of Dr Scott Spear and chief
orthopaedist Dr Bogomal. One of the first steps was examining my completely
mangled left hand. I was given two choices: either be fixed with a perfectly
configured artificial hand with extremely limited functionality, essentially a
glorified showpiece, or be subjected to surgery attempting to unlock and declaw
my real hand for actual use. The hand wouldn’t look ideal but if the surgery was
performed successfully, it would allow me to drive, write and play golf. After
careful pondering and despite the risk, I opted for the latter with serious
trepidation but implicit faith in God.
My surgery was scheduled for a cold and cloudy February morning in 1990,
and my anxiety had evolved into acute depression. As I was being rolled into the
lift en route to the operation theatre, I was grindingly and wearily fighting
memories of my lost splendour. But as I entered the lift, I unequivocally believe
that I received a sign from God. At that moment, to my right was an African
American woman with both her arms and legs amputated. I saw the dark rings
under her eyes which had a surrendered, inward look, as if trapped in the past. I
remember being struck forcibly by the realization that I still had my hands and
feet, that I wasn’t in that dire a condition and that things could have been so
much worse. It was an epiphany and armed with this renewed vigour, I entered
the operation theatre with a full heart and thirteen hours later had the successful
outcome Allah had destined for me.
Today, whenever I play golf, drive, write or even pick up a bag with my left
hand, I always think of Dr Spear and Dr Bogomal. Their skills, warmth, and
explicit factual explanations gave me immeasurable comfort. I will forever be
grateful to the US for their ingenuity and will always remember the kindness and
concern of the American medical community. I do think, though, that it was my
belief in that sign from God that rekindled in me the resolve to get well and
ultimately be called ‘miracle man’ by Dr Spear and Dr Bogomal. I never lost my
faith in my Allah, and it was this faith which, along with the courage in my heart
and the passion to complete The Sword of Tipu Sultan, kept me alive to strive, to
seek, to find, and not to yield.
However, despite my single-minded determination to go on, I was, inevitably,
susceptible to the natural ebbs and flows of apprehension and uncertainty that
plagued all my surgeries. I was devastated to see my face after many months and
wondered, in moments of intense pensiveness, if I could ever face the cameras
again. My wife urged me to fulfil my promise to my people and my fans of
playing the role of Tipu, as the initial nineteen episodes brought a plethora of
expectations from millions of fans whom I simply could not disappoint.
When I was finally discharged from the hospital after the long battle for my
survival, I wanted, in the best interests of the serial, to set up a face and dialogue
test for Shabaaz Khan, who was playing the role of Hyder Ali, in order to
determine if he would be a more compelling Tipu. Yet, on screen, it was evident
that I was personifying the tragic character of Tipu quite seamlessly and I took
that as another sign from God—I was destined to complete the series by playing
the role. Even so, when I returned on set, I was so frail that I couldn’t even sit on
the horse by myself. Everyone wondered whether I had the stamina and ability to
do justice to the role which was so inexplicably intertwined with my destiny.
 The true test presented itself on a hot June afternoon. Zarine was sitting by my
side as my stunt double prepared to act out a scene involving a battle between
Tipu Sultan’s army and the British cavalry. All eyes were fixed on Tipu’s
favourite white horse, and as the scene was about to commence, a burning
thought refused to leave my mind: ‘Today, if I don’t take the shot myself, I’ll be
running like a white rabbit . . . helter-skelter, destination unknown.’
My wife was very reluctant to allow me to do this but she understood that I
needed to exorcize my fears and conquer my demons. We exchanged looks, and
with a tone of loving resignation, she only said, ‘Please be careful.’
The crew carefully helped me mount the horse. Even Though my left hand
was mostly incapacitated, I held the reins of the horse with that very hand and
tightly squeezed the sword with my right. I couldn’t feel my left leg in the stirrup
as it had lost nearly 50 per cent of sensation. Still, I went to the point of the
charge with terrified exhilaration coursing through my entire body. Behind me
were 200 horses with riders from the 61st Cavalry of Rajasthan, carrying drawn
swords and lances. I kept telling myself, ‘There’s no way I can fall. If I do, I’ll
get pierced by a sword or a lancer.’
As the cue for action was only a few precious moments away, I surrendered
myself to Allah’s will. It was His blessing that allowed me to complete the
charge, but my personal tour de force was only beginning. The horse ran even
faster after passing the camera, and unable to control the horse with my left
hand, I had to drop my sword on the ground. Fearing that a carelessly flung
sword could injure the riders following me, I leaned down in the saddle so that I
could drop the sword on the ground without endangering the riders behind me.
That done, I quickly regained my position and controlled the horse with both my
hands just in the nick of time, and prevented it from jumping into a thick thorny
bush. The crew erupted in a roaring standing ovation as I looked at my wife with
a proud and mischievous smile.
However, unknown to everyone, my left hand was bleeding profusely and the
blood was spilling down to my thighs, so I sneaked into the make-up room to
change my clothes and clean myself. I returned to the set, quietly sat down, took
a smooth reflective breath and smiled. That was the day I came back to life. My
unit and my crew were delirious with joy to see me take charge. Literally.
I experienced an exponential recovery in self-esteem after that day. I had
returned from the depths of despair, better than ever. The Sword of Tipu Sultan
was completed to rousing adulation.

Roxanne, My Florence Nightingale

Throughout my treatment in Bombay and in New York, Roxanne, my Parsi
Florence Nightingale, was more than my nurse. She was my constant companion
and literally my window to the world when I lost my eyesight. In my moments
of weakness and despair, she would talk to me and comfort me.
 With Nurse Roxanne in Washington DC

On our way back from Georgetown University Hospital, I asked her if I could
do something for her: open a trust, deposit a large sum in a fixed deposit, buy her
a flat, etc., for all that she had done for me so that she could be financially
comfortable. I still remember what that self-respecting and wonderful woman
told me.
‘Mr Khan, you hired me to do a job. I did my job and you paid me well. What
more do you want to do for me? You getting well and getting back on your feet
is my reward.’
I was overwhelmed by her beautiful response and felt a lump in my throat.
Roxanne and her daughter still visit our family from time to time to enquire
about our welfare. I wish her the best. God bless her.
I have realized that there are some people who are born to heal and comfort
others. Roxanne, my Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa rolled into one, is
one of them.
Dear Papa,
Much like the way the finest swords are forged in the hottest fires, the
courage and determination with which you have faced the trials and
tribulations in your life, constantly defying the odds and ruthlessly
following your passion, have led me to believe that you are nothing short of
the same ‘blue steel’ that comes out of these fires. You are the backbone of
our family and I know that you have always put us first.
Being a man of great ambition doesn’t come easy. Most of the time there
is a heavy price to pay, but that has never deterred you from achieving what
you set out to do. As your son, I always found your incredible willpower
hard to match, but it has nevertheless inspired me to do better, be better—
now and forever. As a father, you have always taught me to take the higher
ground and to never be distracted by small talk; I’ve tried to achieve this,
and pass on the same example to my own children.
In all honesty, I find it extremely hard to define you, and that is why I’m
glad that you are sharing your story in your own words, in this way.
Papa, you’re the man!

Love you loads now and always,

Zayed
 18
The Best Mistakes of My Life

I am extremely proud to be an Indian. I am proud of our culture, history and

civilization and I firmly believe that the present generation should be taught
about their roots. This will stimulate minds and spirits and lead people to aspire
to the greater good, both for their nation and for mankind.
It was with this objective in mind that I visualized the theme park called The
Seven Cities, an entertainment destination which will celebrate the glory of 5000
years of Indian history, culture and civilization and introduce it to present and
future generations of Indians and people from all over the world. The intention
of this park is to spread the message, in the form of entertainment, that India has
been glorious, and can once again be, if efforts are made in the right direction.
The theme park will provide an immersive experience built around seven
great historical and mythological cities: Mohenjo-Daro of the Indus Valley
civilization; Ayodhya and Lanka from the great epic Ramayana; Hastinapur and
Dwaraka from the Mahabharata; Pataliputra from the Mauryan Empire and Agra
from Akbar’s Mughal Empire. It will also bring alive the First War of
Independence and moments from India’s Freedom Struggle. New technology
like virtual reality will transport guests to each period of history, thus invoking
an understanding of the past and leading to better awareness of the present and
possibilities of the future.
Lessons from the past teach us that national integration and communal
harmony are the only civilized ways of living, and this has been a powerful tenet
of my life since childhood. In my personal and professional life I have always
decried all forms of discrimination and done everything I can to promote
harmony between people, no matter how different they may be.
In this context, knowing how strongly I feel about this, and how close I have
been to Indian politics throughout my adult life, many friends have asked me
why I did not enter politics fully and enjoy the immense power I could have had.
I tell them that I did not accept offers to fight elections for the Lok Sabha and
become a member of the Rajya Sabha, even though these were, at various times,
offered to me on a silver platter, because I felt I could serve my people and my
country better from the position God gave me in the field of my choosing. When
I look back, I feel satisfied that many of my films carried the messages about
which I feel very strongly—the importance of our history, social and ethical
responsibility, the absolute necessity of national integration and the need for
society to break down the barriers between the haves and have-nots.
Also, I have to say that my close contact with many political leaders through
the decades has not left me with a view of politics which would inspire me to
jump into the fray. I’d like to end as I began, appropriately I think, with David
Lean, and the last scene in Lawrence of Arabia, his masterpiece. The Arab army,
led by Lawrence, has taken Damascus from the Turks. Peter O’Toole, who plays
the title role, and Omar Sharif, who plays the Arab tribal leader, are seated at the
large circular conference table in the now deserted town hall. Peter O’Toole
looks at his friend and says, ‘Since the war is over, what are you going to do, my
friend?’
Omar Shariff, after a brief pause, looks intently at Peter and replies, ‘I think I
will take up politics.’
Peter retorts, ‘Don’t you think it’s a lowly profession?’
Perhaps this sums up why I think entering politics would have been one of my
biggest mistakes. The holy Koran tells us, ‘Even helping a blind man across the
street is an act of charity,’ and I have tried to follow this by supporting the
downtrodden and the poor whenever I can. I do not believe, I’m afraid, that our
political systems are at the moment designed to do this; if they were, we would
not have so much misery around us.
I do believe that the experience of overcoming adversity can teach us truths
which give us strength. It cannot be underestimated how pervasive the impact of
the fire was on my life. It was nothing short of transformational. When I was
lying in the lap of death in the hospital the prayers of millions of my countrymen
and of people all over the world brought me back to life. During that experience,
I’d often look up, exploring where the skies blended with space, searching for
God and for truth. It is at the edge of existence that we find out who we truly are.
I found that I had tenacity and vision, two qualities I had always admired,
intrinsically stitched to the fabric of my soul.
I titled this book The Best Mistakes of My Life because when the riches of the
world were within my grasp, I turned them down, but they were the right
decisions and the best decisions. I did not compromise my integrity and it fills
me with honour and a sense of joy and satisfaction that I am not carrying the
burden of any sins or the crises of conscience within me.
As the transcendent poet, philosopher and politician Iqbal has said, ‘When
truth has no passion, then it is philosophy; when it has passion, it becomes
poetry.’
I have, in the creative profession I embraced, tried to be philosophical.
Through my relationships with my family, friends and others, I have also,
inevitably, been subject to passion. Whether the recollection of these truths
amounts to something one can label ‘poetry’ is up to you, gentle reader, to judge.
On the sets of Ek Phool Do Mali with Sadhana
With Balraj Sahni on the sets of Ek Phool Do Mali

With Omprakash
 With Sanjeev Kumar in Mauritius

With Dilip Kumar and Prithviraj Kapoor

With Sunil Dutt and Shashi Kapoor at R.K. Studios

With Manoj Kumar and Dharmendra

With B.R. Chopra

With Hema Malini

With Ranjeet, Sunil Dutt and Reena Roy at the press meet of Nagin

With Parmeshwar Godrej

With Mayur Madhwani, Sanjeev Kumar and Haji Mastan

With Raj Kapoor and Zarine
In Mauritius during the shooting of Chandi Sona
With Dilip Kumar, Saira Banu and Zarine in Mumbai

With my first sports car at my newly built residence

 With the godfather of Turkey, Ilmas Duru and friends

With Sunil Dutt during the campaigning for the North-West Bandra constituency
At Pragati Maidan, New Delhi, as chief guest of the International Trade Fair sponsored by the
Government of India

With Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in New Delhi

 Receiving the National Citizen’s Award from Mother Teresa

With Rajiv Gandhi, Rahul Gandhi and Zarine

With Purushottam Swami and his colleague, of the Swami Narayan temple, at my residence in Mumbai
 With Prime Minister Narendra Modi

With Akhilesh Yadav, former chief minister of Uttar Pradesh

Feroz with Zarine and me on our wedding day

With my family at Sanjay House, Mumbai

 With Hrithik, Sameer, Ajay, Fardeen, Feroz and Zayed at Zayed’s wedding

With Sussanne, Gauri and Shah Rukh Khan, Rakesh Roshan, Zarine and Hrithik at the launch party of
Kaho Naa . . . Pyaar Hai
With Dharmendra and Amitabh Bachchan
With Bob Christo and Mukesh Khanna on the sets of The Great Maratha

With Michael Jackson and Zarine

With Imran Khan, former captain of the Pakistan cricket team in Delhi

With Sameer, Dilshad, Akbar and Zayed at Sanjay House

With Zarine, Farah, Simone, Sussanne and Zayed for Hello! magazine
With Malaika, Zayed, Zarine, Farah, Simone and Sussanne
The Khan family portrait
1http://www.world-history-education-resources.com/mughal-empire/gdp-
mughal-empire.html
 Acknowledgements

When I was asked by Milee Ashwarya of Penguin Random House India to

write my autobiography, there was an initial silence in my head, followed by a
flood of memories, not only of all the extraordinary events of my life, but of all
the people who have supported, inspired and loved me over the years. And as I
wrote, more and more of these memories came back to me, and the writing took
some time. I must therefore thank Milee not only for her wholehearted support
and advice as the book unfolded but for her patience.
I’m glad that I accepted the offer and settled down to write and I’m grateful to
Tirath Thakur, former chief justice of India, who encouraged me to do so before
I forgot the details!
Remembering a life is an emotional experience, and I am indebted to many
people, including my wife, Zarine, for her invaluable suggestions and her
memory; Anirban Dutta Gupta for his valuable assistance; Suhail Mathur and
Sanjeev Mathur of The Book Bakers for their advice; Preeti Chaturvedi of
Penguin Random House India for her assistance; Rajesh Rajput for his dedicated
help and Margaret Peacock for her tough comments and her gentle support.
I want to pay a final tribute here to those people who have been most
influential in my life. I start with those from the film and television world
because so much of my life has been devoted to it. I am most grateful to John
Guillerman, the American film director who so warmly embraced me as a young
man and taught me the technical aspects of film-making and the importance of a
good script; the late Satyen Bose and the late Chetan Anand, both of whom
paved my way to Bollywood; my make-up man Ranjeet Datta for his dedication;
and my friend and photographer the late Gurmeet Singh for the fabulous cover
photograph. From the days of The Sword of Tipu Sultan, I thank Pandit Ram
Kumar Sharma for his extraordinary contribution in visualizing the sets and
Bhagwaan S. Gidwani and Nawa Lucknowi for their spirited efforts in the
making of the series. I also want to acknowledge the work of Vijay Pandey, my
dedicated chief assistant director, and Ranjan Singh, the episode director. And of
course I pay tribute to all my colleagues in the film and television industry who
are too many to name: the producers, directors, distributors, actors and
technicians whom I have had the immense pleasure of working with throughout
my life.
In recent years, my passion has turned to the Seven Cities Theme Park to be
built in Agra, and I am very grateful to Akhilesh Yadav, the young and talented
former chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, for his unstinted support and sharing my
vision in this big and exciting enterprise.
I am very aware that I would not be writing this autobiography had not the
skills and care of a myriad of medical professionals saved my life after the fire
on the sets of The Sword of Tipu Sultan. I am deeply indebted to the late Dr
Narendra Pandya and the late Dr Buch and all the doctors and staff of Jaslok
Hospital who cared for me for eight months, and also Dr Bogomal, head of the
orthopaedic department and the late Dr Scott Spear, former head of the
department of plastics of the Georgetown University Hospital, Washington DC,
without whom I would not be able to enjoy the full life I live today.
In the ups and downs of any life, one of the most important things is to have
friends who are true and stand by you no matter what, and I have been truly
fortunate in this regard. I must therefore thank, deeply, Ghulam Nabi Azaad;
Abdul Elah Saleh, Saeed Shamshi, Abdul Rahim Karam, Vijaykaran, Peter Tobo
Hassan, S.N. Chaturvedi, Manjunath Hegde and Talat Aziz, who have all,
particularly though not exclusively, shown me true friendship over the years.
Another friend without whose help I may not have been alive today and who I
must pay tribute to is the dynamic and honourable Rajiv Gandhi, former prime
minister of India.
But finally, my thanks must go to my family, especially to my beloved wife,
Zarine, for her encouragement, support and love over the years.
 THE BEGINNING

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EBURY PRESS
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This collection published 2018

Copyright © Sanjay Khan 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Neeraj Nath
ISBN: 978-0-670-09072-3
This digital edition published in 2018.
e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05325-3
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired
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