The Emotional Life of an Actor

----- .
 The Emotional Life of an Actor

K BIR BEDI
First published by Westland Publications
Private Limited in 2021
1st Floor, A Block, East Wing, Plot No.
40, SP Infocity, Dr MGR Salai, Perungudi,
Kandanchavadi,Chennai 600096
Westland and the Westland logo are
the trademarks of Westland Publications
Private Limited, or its affiliates.
Copyright © Kabir Bedi, 2021
ISBN:9789390679409
The views and opinions expressed in
this work are the author's own and the
facts are as reported by him, and the
publisher is in no way liable for the
same.
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced,
or stored in a retrieval system, or trans­
mitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the publisher.
 Dedicated to all young techies,
like my son Siddharth,
and all the young people
who want to change the world for the better,
hoping you fulfil your dreams.
 CONTENTS

BEFORE I BEGIN
STORIES I MUST TELL
1 LEAVING HOME WITH THE BEATLES
BOLDNESS AND BETRAYAL
2 CHANCES AND CHOICES KABIR AND
KISHMISH
3 DAYS OF LOVE AND GLORY
SANDOKAN AND PARVEEN BABI
4 REVOLUTION TO RELIGION BABA AND
FREDA
5 RAMBLINGS ON A BEACH BEACHES
AND BELIEFS
6 SAVING MY SON THE WOUNDED
SOUL
7 AGONY AND ECSTASY RUIN AND
RESURRECTION
ICONIC PHOTOGRAPHS AND MAGAZINE
COVERS
FOR THIS BOOK, I THANK
These are stories I must tell. Most
are told, perhaps unusually, through the
prism of people and places I have known
and loved. I tell them as truthfully as I
can, fallible as I am, as interestingly as I
can. They are emotional stories of turbu­
lent times. Together, they are the story
of my tumultuous journey as an actor.
It's not easy to write of my life. I have
seen great glory and I tell you how I
got there. I've also made mistakes which
you'd do well to avoid. But remembering
stirs up some memories I had hoped to
leave behind. Yet, the pain and the joy,
the agony and the ecstasy, are insepa­
rably woven in my life. So I share them
with you.
I write of the people and events only
related to the stories in this book. I seek
the forgiveness of friends, family and
colleagues not mentioned. I have other
stories that traverse the same eventful
years. You may yet appear in some of
them, for I have more to tell. For now,
forgive me. You are in my heart. But
some I must thank here, even if not in
my stories, for they have enriched my
writing. I thank many more at the end
for making this book a reality.
I must thank my guru from my adver­
tising days, Gerson da Cunha; journal­
ist, historian and author Andrew White­
head; and Italian journalist, author and
friend Carlo Pizzati, for their invaluable
advice on this book.
I must thank my friend Mickey Nivelli,
his wonderful wife Chand, and his guid­
ing spirit Lotte, for having helped me in
my time of greatest need. I will never
forget their humanity, nor let it be for­
gotten.
I must thank Giampaolo Cutillo, once
Consul General of Italy in Mumbai, for
nominating me for 'Cavaliere', Italy's
highest civilian honour. Also, his beau­
tiful wife, Elisabetta Salvatori, a vibrant
part of his life.
I must thank my wife Parveen Dusanj­
Bedi for her abiding love. She motivated
me to finish this book after years of frus­
trating starts. Her advice is no less than
others. To her, my eternal gratitude.
Bless all of you who wished me success.
Your wishes made much come true.
 1
LEAVING HOME
WITH THE BEATLES
BOLDNESS AND BETRAYAL

I left my hometown Delhi, India's cap­

ital, because of The Beatles, the world's
most popular rock band in the 1960s.
It all began the day I interviewed
them, 7 July 1966. An exclusive face­
to-face, Beatle-by-Beatle interview, for
thirty minutes. A thrilling achievement
for a twenty-year-old freelance reporter
with All India Radio, then a govern­
ment monopoly. When I first told my
bosses I wanted to interview the Beatles,
they had laughed it away as impossible.
Every journalist in town had been trying
to reach them. I persisted. All they had
to do was give me a tape recorder; what
did they have to lose? They agreed with
the air of a parent indulging a nagging
child and I set off on mission impossible.
Police barriers on Mathura Road kept
swarming fans out of the Oberoi Inter­
continental, Delhi's first modern five­
star hotel, where The Beatles were
camped. I got past the barriers with my
press badge. Journalists and photogra­
phers crowded the hotel's sleek marble
and glass lobby, all looking for The Bea­
tles. No one had caught a whiff of them.
Someone whispered they were being
smuggled out of the hotel through the
kitchen entrance. Photographers rushed
off to catch them. I doggedly watched
the doors of the elevators with a tape
recorder slung over my shoulder, the All
India Radio logo pinned on its strap. As
an avid Beatles fan, I knew I first had to
get to their manager, Brian Epstein. Two
hours later, he descended into the lobby,
followed by a well-suited hotel manager.
No one recognised him as he strode to­
wards the hotel entrance. I accosted him
as he waited for his car. I had a plan.
''Mr Epstein?'' I said breathlessly, every
cell in my body tingling.
''Yes," he replied curtly, irritated at hav­
ing been recognised.
''I'm from All India Radio, sir," I gushed.
''India's national radio."
He ignored me pointedly. I put my plan
to work. I pulled a fast one.
''The government has scheduled an in­
terview with The Beatles at ten o'clock
tonight, sir.''
That got his attention. He pivoted to­
wards me and exploded.
''How DARE they! The boys will NOT give
an interview to ANYBODY."
Epstein's car arrived and he moved to­
wards it. I followed him, insistent.
''The interview has already been an­
nounced by the government, sir," I
pleaded. ''It will cause big problems if
they refuse. It's a government matter,
sir."
That stopped him in his tracks. He
fidgeted uncomfortably, conflicted. My
hopes rose. I had guessed Epstein's vul­
nerability correctly.
I kept emphasising ''government'' for a
good reason. It had been reported the
Beatles had faced great embarrassment
in the Philippines before they came to
Delhi. It was reported that after their
performance in Manila, Imelda Marcos,
wife of the dictatorial President Marcos,
had asked The Beatles to perform at her
children's birthday party. They refused,
and the wrath of the Marcos descended
on them. They had been forced to leave
the country and manhandled at Manila
airport. New Delhi was a last-minute pit
stop on their way back to London.
''I'm a fan of The Beatles, sir ... I don't
want them to get into any trouble with
the Indian government, sir ...''
He looked at me belligerently. I was on
tenterhooks. It was a make-or-break mo­
ment.
''The boys will NOT give any interviews,''
he said angrily. ''I will do the bloody in­
terview.''
My heart jumped. An interview with
Brian Epstein was good enough for me.
''Mr Epstein, I can't thank you enough.
I'm sure my bosses will be happy."
He turned his back on me abruptly and
got into his car. I needed to clinch it.
''It's already five o'clock, sir. When can I
meet you and where?''
''Seven o'clock," he said dismissively,
gesturing to the hotel manager beside
me. I quickly worked out the modalities
of being allowed into Epstein's room.
The Beatles had dominated the world­
wide music scene since 1964, the year
they conquered America. They thrilled
us all at St. Stephen's College in Delhi
University, where I'd studied. They
eclipsed icons of the 1950s-Frank Sina­
tra, Nat King Cole and Elvis Presley­
by creating radically different pop music:
guitar rock combined with soul and folk
music, amazingly creative orchestra­
tions, and lyrics that moved beyond the
rhyming compositions of earlier singers.
They were symbols of a New Age that in­
fluenced my generation even in faraway
India. The Beatles reflected the counter­
culture movement sweeping across the
West in the 1960s. Hippies were herald­
ing the age of flower power. Protesters
on streets were opposing the Vietnam
War. Crowds in London's Carnaby Street
made psychedelic clothes fashionable.
All were fans of The Beatles. I could
barely contain the excitement of meet­
ing them.
Precisely at 7.00 p.m., I knocked on the
door of Epstein's suite at the far end of a
high floor in the hotel. No answer. A long
minute passed. I knocked again. No an­
swer. I knocked yet once again, loud and
insistent. Still no answer. I was losing
hope when the door was yanked open.
Epstein stood there sweating, his face
pale, draped in a white towel bathrobe.
''Kabir Bedi of All India Radio, sir. You
promised me an interview, sir." I smiled.
His eyes rolled skywards. ''Oh, God!'' he
cried out. ''I can't do this now ..."
I was too shattered to speak. Looking at
his bedraggled state, I wondered if he
was on drugs. Whatever the case, he
was clearly unwell. He died a year later,
in August 1967, at the age of thirty-two. I
wasn't willing to walk away. I pleaded in
desperation.
''It's been repeatedly announced by the
government ... for 10 o'clock tonight, sir."
''Just a minute," he said irritably, slam­
ming the door in my face.
I broke into a sweat, not knowing what
would happen. A few minutes later, he
emerged again, somewhat tidied, wear­
ing trousers under his bathrobe. He took
me by the arm and walked me across
the length of the floor to a suite at the
opposite end. He knocked on the door
and Paul McCartney opened it. I saw the
other Beatles in the room. I was electri­
fied to see them in flesh and blood.
''Do me a favour, boys," Epstein rasped.
''Give this guy an interview."
Paul nodded and smiled. Epstein headed
back to his room.
''I'm very grateful," I mumbled in shock
as Paul led me into their lair. I felt I was
walking on air.
''Where are you from?'' Paul asked affa­
bly.
''All India Radio, the most important
radio station in India,'' I said auda­
ciously. I didn't tell him that was be­
cause it was a government monopoly.
''Everybody listens to it.''
That wasn't true either. Most tuned into
Radio Ceylon (from Sri Lanka), which
ruled the Indian airwaves by play­
ing popular Bollywood songs. Ameen
Sayani's Binaca Geetmala was their high­
est-rated show in India. All India Radio
only had half an hour of Western pop
music a week on A Date with You, hosted
by the legendary Preminda Premchand.
Paul McCartney led me to a sofa. George
Harrison was sitting on the floor pluck­
ing at a sitar. Ringo Starr lounged on a
sofa, reading newspapers. John Lennon
was talking to an Indian man in a dark
suit by the curtained windows. No one
seemed bothered by my presence. Blood
pounded in my temples as I looked at
them. I was in with The Beatles, man!
By 1966, the year I interviewed them,
The Beatles had become one of the most
successful groups in the history of pop
music. ''Beatlemania'' was raging around
the world. And here I was, a crazy fan
just out of college, interviewing them
in their hotel room, the only Indian re­
porter to get through to them.
I'd been a fan since 1963, the year I
joined college, after they blew me away
with I Want to Hold Your Hand and She
Loves You. In 1964, I loved their Hard
Day's Night. But Yesterday, on their 1965
album Help, converted me into a hard­
core fan. Their latest album was Rubber
Soul. I asked Paul about it.

''Is it true that Rubber Soul sold over a

million copies in its first ten days?''
''That's what I heard too," he smiled
through crinkling eyes. He had the air of
a friendly English boy. No wonder fans
called him ''the cute Beatle''.
''I just loved Michelle!'' I gushed. ''It's such
a tender song, almost like an English
ballad. What made you give it a French
name? Was it a girl you knew?''
''No, no, nothing like that." Paul shook
his head. ''I'd composed it a long time
ago. It's a love song ... Michelle sounded
. ''
romantic ...
''Do you see the softer tones of Rubber
Soul as a new direction in your music?''
''We've been trying a lot of new sounds,"
he said earnestly. ''Our next album
might push a couple of boundaries.''
He was talking of Reuoluer, one of their
most innovative albums, which came
out a month later. It had more radical
and path-breaking music with Eleanor
Rigby, I'm Only Sleeping and the playful
Yellow Submarine.
''Can you tell me what to expect?'' I
asked, hoping for a scoop of some sort.
''Not really," Paul shook his head affably.
''You'll just have to wait. But it's good."
He wasn't in the mood to talk to me
in great depth. He saw me as the raw
young reporter that I was. He answered
my other questions with practised ease,
nothing I didn't know already: Yes, he
and John studied music together in Liv­
erpool; yes, Epstein gave them a ''nice''
new look. Was he influenced by Indian
music?
''Hey, I listen to everything. But talk to
George," said Paul, gently pushing me
on with his irresistible smile. ''He knows
more about India than all of us put to­
gether."
I shook his hand, filled with gratitude.
He was a warm person.
George Harrison waved me towards him
as he plucked on a sitar. His love of the
sitar had made him ''the Indian'' among
The Beatles. I wanted to probe his rela­
tionship with India and Indian spiritual-
ism.
''You thrilled us all by playing the sitar in
Norwegian Wood," I began. He accepted
my compliment with a nod and a smile.
''Is that the first time a sitar has been
played in a Western song?''
''Can't think of any other," he replied
with the hint of a smile. ''I'd like to use it
more." Later, he used the sitar far more
creatively in Loue to You and Tomorrow
Never Knows, both in the Reuoluer album.
For the sitar-like sounds of Strawberry
Fields he actually used a swarmandal,
known as ''the Indian harp''. As lead gui­
tarist of The Beatles, he was always in
search of new sounds.
''Do you always carry your sitar with
you?''
''No," he said simply. ''I'm buying one
here."
''Here in Delhi?''
He nodded as he put it down gently. ''It's
a good one.''
That was a mini-scoop. I could picture
myself saying, ''And guess what? George
Harrison buys his sitars in Delhi!''
''Are you influenced by Ravi Shankar?''
''He's a great musician. I'm very im­
pressed by him. I met him just recently."
''Do you plan to spend more time with
him?''
''I've got a lot to learn from him.''
''I've read that you're very interested in
Indian philosophy ...''
''Hinduism is like an ocean ... I've read
Vivekananda.''
''Swami Vivekananda?'' I asked in sur­
prise. Vivekananda had been famous in
the West ever since he had spoken of
Hinduism at the World Parliament of Re­
ligions in Chicago. ''Is that why they call
you the Indian among The Beatles?''
He smiled softly. ''I'm no Indian ... If you
seek a way, all religions have it. You can
say I'm bit of a Hindu. I hope to come
back with the boys one day."
He meant what he said. The Beatles
came back two years later on a famous
visit to the Rishikesh ashram of Ma­
harishi Mahesh Yogi, who was instantly
dubbed ''The Beatles Guru''. It turned out
to be one of their most prolific periods as
• •
mus1c1ans.
I don't remember the rest of our con­
versation, but he sounded genuine. He
seemed like an old soul to me, a
man with great inner depth. He picked
up his sitar again, indicating he'd spo­
ken enough. He gestured towards Ringo
Starr, but I didn't move. I had one last
question.
''What's your favourite album?''
''Rubber Soul, I think," George said with
a wry smile. Good PR and publicity, I
thought. It turned out to be true.
I moved on to Ringo Starr, one of the
best drummers in the world. He'd been
engrossed in his newspapers, yet he
turned to me with friendliness. There
was a beguiling warmth in his eyes that
made me like him. He seemed an in-
nately decent man. I connected with him
on a human level. But he only had a one
liner, or one word, for every question I
asked.
Had he always wanted to be a drummer?
''Yep.''
Did he have a favourite song? ''Ballads."
What did he know of India? ''Not much."
Did he have a message for Peter Best,
whom he replaced as the drummer of
The Beatles? ''Nope.''
He looked at me quizzically and asked,
''How did you get here?''
I told him how hard it had been to get
around Epstein, but not how I did it. It
still amused him. Then, I complimented
his drumming in Day Tripper. He waved
me off with a smile of thanks.
I moved on to John Lennon. But he
wasn't quite ready for me.
''I'm still not done with this gentleman,"
John said, gesturing to the man in the
dark suit. ''He's the manager of BOAC
(known as British Airways today)." I nod­
ded pleasantly and waited impatiently.
John Lennon's song writing partnership
with Paul McCartney is legendary in the
history of music. John was the ''coolest''
Beatle with his rebellious streak, round
glasses and sharp wit. At the Queens
Royal Variety Performance in 1963, at­
tended by British Royalty, Lennon had
said, ''For our last number I'd like to
ask your help. Would the people in the
cheaper seats clap your hands? And the
rest of you, if you'll just rattle your jew­
ellery.''
I I;;I)

We loved Lennon's anti-establishment

irreverence, though we wondered why
he'd agreed to being made a Member of
the British Empire (MBE) by the Queen.
But John Lennon could do no wrong. For
me, he was the greatest musician ever.
The BOAC manager departed, and John
beckoned me over. I sat beside him on
a wide sofa, awed by the man and the
moment. John Lennon was a global icon.
And here he was, looking at me with
quizzical eyes, ready to answer my ques­
tions. It felt as surreal as Alice in Wonder­
land.
''I can't believe I'm talking to John
Lennon,'' I said nervously.
John smiled, and I melted. ''How old are
you?'' he asked.
''Twenty. I'm just out of college. Working
for All India Radio.''
''It's a good age. We formed The Beatles
around then.''
''Really?'' I didn't realise he was so young
at the time. ''Did you ever imagine you'd
be so famous?''
''Every musician wants to be famous."
I knew it would be cheeky, but I wanted
to talk to Lennon about drugs. I had a
bunch of friends at college who smoked
the occasional ''doobie''. ''Brother Vic'',
Vivek Adarkar, our resident sage, had a
fair full-moon face and dark curly hair
that fell on his crumpled white kurta.
No one would have guessed his father
was the deputy governor of the Reserve
Bank of India. He was our fountain of
trivia on The Beatles and my best friend
in college. He'd composed a silly verse
that made us laugh when he sang it to a
crescendo:
''Kundalini sing, kundalini dance,
And though you're very small,
When you climb up my spine,
You're n-i-n-e f-e-e-t t-a-l-l."
''They're all stoners, man,'' Vic said
definitively. ''Even LSD. I can tell, man.
It's in their music."
I didn' t believe him. I wanted to check
out the wisdom of our sage at the
source. I broached the topic gently.
''John,'' I said, knowing he liked infor­
mality, ''I think you're the greatest musi­
cian on the planet.''
''There are a lot of great musicians
around, all doing their thing.''
''How did you become a musician?''
''My mother gave me a guitar . . . that
started me off. I wasn't much good at
school anyway.''
He seemed relaxed enough. It was time
to broach my big questions.
''What does 'Day Tripper' mean?'' He
looked at me with some surprise. It was
a song they released as a single around
the time of Rubber Soul.
''Well ... " he began hesitantly, ''sort
of ... like a weekend philosopher.''
''Weekend philosopher?''
''You know . . . people who don't do
things regularly.''
Time for the big push. ''Can I ask you a
personal question?''
''If you must," he said, guarded.
''Do you smoke hash or grass?''
John's eyes narrowed in his round
glasses. ''Are you trying to get me into
trouble, fella? I don't know the laws
around here. Some musicians smoke,
some don't. Judge them by their music.''
''Judging by your music, you do,'' I said,
hoping for a confirmation.
He shook his head, but warmly. ''Next?''
he said, wanting to end the topic.
I persisted. ''What about LSD?''
I hadn't tried it, though I was curious.
''What about it?'' He now looked defen­
sive, all his warmth gone.
''Have you ever tried LSD?'' I asked softly.
''No, I haven't." John said sharply. ''And
let's be clear about one thing, shall we?
I don't like people spreading stories like
that. It can be dangerous.''
He was right. Over the years, I've seen
many fine minds warped by LSD, though
it had famous proponents like Timothy
Leary, Aldous Huxley and Alan Watts.
''Sorry," I mumbled. ''I'll cut it out of
the interview." I didn't want him think­
ing badly of me. He was my hero. But
Brother Vic was right. The influence of
LSD showed up in their next two al­
bums. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band had songs like Lucy in the Sky with
Diamonds:

''Picture yourself on a boat on a riuer,

With tangerine trees and marmalade
skies.
Somebody calls you, you answer quite
slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes ...''

John had flatly denied using LSD when

I asked him. Seeing my disappointment,
he leaned forward and spoke softly.
''I know you want a scoop, lad. I don't
blame you. But I can't help you here."
I was touched by the kindness of his
tone.
''What advice would you give to young
people today?''
''Question everything. Don't be afraid of
being a rebel.''
I wondered if he'd heard of Albert
Camus, so I spoke of him.
''Albert Camus says it's the rebels in so­
ciety that make it dynamic."
''He's good. I've read him. Nice thinker."
The BOAC manager returned and sig­
nalled vigorously with some papers.
''Sorry," John said as he rose from the
sofa. ''I've got to deal with this."
I stood rooted, unwilling to leave so
abruptly. I said what was in my heart.
''Can I give you a hug?'' He evaded it
gracefully. He put his arm around me
and guided me to the door. Paul waved
a goodbye from afar. George was still fo­
cused on his sitar. Ringo was reading his
papers. I was walking on clouds as I left
their room. I'd met my gods, The Beatles.
Later, I realised I'd missed asking a
great question. A few months earlier,
Uncle Charles, a cousin of my mother
who worked for the Criminal Investiga­
tion Department (CID) in London, had
mailed me an interview of Lennon in the
Evening Standard. Uncle Charles knew I
was an avid fan. John had spoken on
life, death and religion. One of his quotes
had jumped off the page at me: ''We're
more popular than Jesus now.''
''Wow!'' I'd marvelled to myself. ''That's
bold.'' Yet it hadn't seemed to upset any­
one, and I forgot about it. But I should
have brought it up with Lennon. Months
later, just before The Beatles began their
American tour, his statement on Jesus
was picked out by the American media.
It ignited a firestorm of criticism. The
Beatles records were burnt in bonfires,
radio stations boycotted them, and the
Ku Klux Klan threatened them. In 1980,
Lennon was assassinated by Mark David
Chapman, a born-again Christian, en­
raged by John saying he was more pop­
ular than Jesus. I was devastated by his
tragic death.
There's an interesting footnote to my
1966 interview of The Beatles. In 2018,
Reynold D'Silva of Silva Screen Records,
a famous music producer in Lon­
don, came to make a documentary on
The Beatles trip to Rishikesh in 1968.
Reynold heard through the grapevine of
friends, and my sister-in-law Suki, that
I'd interviewed The Beatles. He came to
see me in Mumbai. When I told him I'd
reached them through Brian Epstein, his
face fell.
''Brian Epstein wasn't with them when
they came to India," he said, solemnly
shaking his head.
''Yes, he was,'' I insisted. I had no doubt
who I met. ''He was definitely with them
when I met them.''
''Well, not as far as I know,'' he said in an
apologetic British way. He was an expert
on The Beatles and knew his onions.
''The only trip they ever made to India
was to meet Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in
Rishikesh. Epstein definitely wasn't with
them.''
''I met them around the time of their trip
to Manila."
He shook his head firmly. ''I really don't
think The Beatles made any other trip
to India," he said politely, ''but I'll check.
There are people in London who have
catalogued every single day in their life.''
Reynold checked. Bingo. The Beatles
had indeed made an unscheduled last­
minute stopover in Delhi, 6-8 July 1966,
on their way back to London after their
fiasco in Manila. Brian Epstein was with
them. I was vindicated. They filmed me
for their documentary to get my take.
Interviewing The Beatles was my biggest
scoop as a reporter. It was the only inter­
view they gave in India. All India Radio
put it on a few nights later. The pro­
grammers had no idea of what I'd given
them. They broadcast it without any
promotion or build-up. They announced
it just before it went on: ''And now, an
interview with The Beatles ..." It was
a scoop without glory. Preminda Premc­
hand, the anchor of A Date with You, con­
gratulated me effusively, knowing what
an achievement it was. Only one of the
top brass, S.K. Mallik, complimented me.
My biggest disappointment was yet to
come. When I asked radio staffers for a
copy of the interview, they couldn't find
the tape. I raised hell and enquiries were
made. It turned out they had recorded
other programmes over my taped inter­
view. ''We have no money for new tapes''
was their defiant response. How could
they erase an interview with the Beat­
les?!!! It was broadcasting gold. It could
have been played through the ages. It
sickened me to the core. They hadn't an­
nounced my exclusive interview as a big
event. And, utterly sacrilegious for me,
they had erased the tape of my historic
interview. It was the last straw in my
relationship with All India Radio. I raged
with the anger of the young against their
ignorance and bureaucratic mediocrity.
All India Radio had let me down badly.
Enough was enough. I was done with
them. It was time to move on.
Radio was my lifeline at the time. Read­
ing news bulletins on All India Radio's
External Services after midnight, attend­
ing classes by day. A voice-over here, a
commentary there, the odd educational
programme. That's how I paid for my
college and expenses. But I was tired
of their uninspiring culture. It was a
plodding bureaucracy where new ideas
were shot down, creative suggestions
dismissed and outsiders regarded with
suspicion. It wasn't much of a living
anyway. It wasn't where I saw my fu­
ture. I'd given them my best, and it
hadn't made a dent.
In my final year at college, I'd fractured
my spine while rehearsing for a play at
Miranda House. I lay on a plank for three
months and missed my final exams that
year. As I waited out the rest of the year
to sit for the exam again, I put more
time into radio and television. I'd hoped
it would give me an exciting career. But,
with this final blow, I came to the end of
that road.
As I waved goodbye to All India Radio,
I caught an autorickshaw to my rented
room on Ratendon Road (now Amrita
Shergill Marg). I passed the Houses of
Parliament wondering what I'd miss if I
left the city. I entered the square that
separates Rashtrapati Bhavan, the offi­
cial home of India's president, from the
distant India Gate, India's Arc de Tri­
omphe. These were the landmarks of
''Lutyen's Delhi'', designed by Edward
Lutyens and Herbert Baker when the
British moved India's capital from Cal­
cutta (now Kolkata). Earlier, when I had
lived in the dorms of St. Stephen's,
my homeward route went towards Old
Delhi, past the sprawling ramparts of
the Red Fort where the Mughal emperors
once ruled India for centuries. As I sped
through New Delhi's tree-lined streets,
my autorickshaw hit a deep pothole. My
head banged violently against the rod
that framed its canopy. The pain was
excruciating. I looked up and saw an air­
plane flying in the orange evening sky,
and my simmering rage exploded.
''One day," I swore to myself, ''corpora­
tions will fly me through the air.''
Many corporations would fly me through
the air in the years to come. But at
the time, I was broke and jobless. I
couldn't depend on my parents to sup­
port me financially. ................................................................................
My father was a
philosopher delving into the dynamics
................................................................................................................................................................................
of the universe and the transformation
................................................................................................................................................................................
of people. My mother ran a school on
. . . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

charity, teaching English to refugee Ti-

betan monks in Dalhousie. They had no
money at all. It took me many months to
figure out my road ahead. I still had to
sit for my final exams. In the end, I came
with a daring plan. It was a tough call,
but I knew I had to be bold. With seven
hundred rupees in my pocket, I caught a
puffing train out of Delhi to Mumbai, the
city of India's cinematic dreams.
As the train pulled out of Old Delhi
Station, past flocks of surly porters,
past chai-walas selling tea in kulhads
(earthen mugs), past strangers waving
tearful goodbyes, I felt a deep emo­
tional wrench. I was leaving the city I
called ''home'', a city where I'd never
had a home of my own. We'd lived in
many places, all rented, good, bad and
ugly: a grotty flat in Karol Bagh, a nice
house in Nizamuddin East, government
accommodation in Moti Bagh, once even
a luxury tent on the lawns of a Buddhist
Vihara on the outskirts of Mehrauli. It
had all depended on my idealistic fam­
ily's finances.
With little money being earned, my par­
ents made big sacrifices to give their
children a good education. I was sent
to an eclectic variety of schools: Tyn­
dale Biscoe School in Kashmir, Delhi
Public School (DPS) in New Delhi, Sher­
wood College in Nainital and, finally, to
St. Stephen's, India's Oxbridge, in Old
Delhi. Along the way, my parents also
sent me for a year to Tagore's Shan­
tiniketan in West Bengal.
I was sent to Sherwood, an elite board­
ing school in the mountains of Naini­
tal, as I hadn't been a diligent stu­
dent at DPS. It cost them much more,
but it turned my life around. Princi­
pal R.C. Llewelyn liked me and ensured
that I studied hard. Sherwood also gave
me lifelong friends: Pushpinder Singh,
Gurmeet Singh, Ian Atkinson, Yogiraj
Shitole, Ajitabh Bachchan, Sanjay Sri­
vastava, Ravi Tikeker, Kenneth Khan,
C.S. Gill, too many to name all. I often
skipped school at times to ride horses
around the lake. Whenever I was caught,
it earned me ''six of the best'' lashings
of a stinging cane on my bottom. But
I still scored a First in my final school
exams. Through all those years, no mat­
ter where I was, I'd always thought of
Delhi as home. Memories of the city I'd
known since I was seven came flooding
back as the train picked up speed.
My earliest memories were of Rajiv
and Sanjay Gandhi. We became friends
at ''Aunty Gauba's'', my first school in
Delhi. It was a small Montessori-style
school in a colonial mansion near Con­
naught Circus, run by a kind but mercu­
rial German lady, Elisabeth Gauba. I was
seven when I joined, Rajiv was two years
older, Sanjay a year younger. I bonded
easily with Rajiv, who laughed a lot,
less with Sanjay, who was more intro­
verted. We shared playful days together.
They were the grandchildren of Prime
Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, and the chil­
dren of Indira Gandhi, then her father's
assistant and official hostess. They often
invited me home.
The Prime Minister's residence, once the
colonial home of the British Comman­
der-in-Chief in India, looked like a vast
palace to me. It didn't seem that big
when I saw it as an adult. We played in a
room filled with toy trains, gifted to Rajiv
and Sanjay by a visiting head of state.
The trains raced on rails round huge cir­
cular tracks with red and green signals
that went up and down. We also built
little jeeps with wheels with sets of Mec­
cano. I learned to ride horses with them
on the lawns of Rashtrapati Bhavan. I
raced on them at Rajiv and Sanjay's
birthday parties. I never imagined that
my friends would shape India's history
so decisively in the decades ahead. We
were just a bunch of kids fooling around.
Aunty Gauba taught us to see beauty in
everything, but it had unintended con­
sequences. I remember Pandit Nehru
laughing aloud when he caught us ad­
miring the painting of a voluptuous
sculpture in their stately dining room.
Another heart-warming memory of the
time. Aunty Gauba inspired my creativ­
ity. I wrote a poem called When I Was
Small at the age of seven. She read it
through glasses perched on the end of
her nose and looked at me in surprise.
''You wrote this?''
I nodded, thrilled she'd liked it. She held
it up for the class.
''It's beautiful," she declared with a tri­
umphant wave. ''I'm going to enter it
into Shankar's Competition." My cheeks
blushed when she asked me to read it
aloud. It was the first time I was asked to
''perform''.
When I was small
I thought that the air was a soft thing
and it fell on us
and when it rained I thought it was
snow.
And I thought the mud was clean.
I thought the world was a ball
and that the houses big balls too.
When the evening comes
I think that the sun is blown away by
 the wind.
When the night comes

I think that the world is dirty

and when it was still with the moon
I thought that the moon was the
world's light.

Shankar was a cartoonist who had cre­

ated the most important award for chil­
dren's creativity in the world. Shankar
International Children's Competition
spanned writing, art and theatre. I won
the first prize in my age group, which
impressed Aunty Gauba and my pals.
I remained friends with Rajiv and San­
jay even after moving to a school closer
to our new home in Nizamuddin. ..Delhi .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Public School had been founded as a
school for the children of thousands of
refugees
'
who moved to Delhi after the
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..'

partition of India and Pakistan.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
It was
still housed in tents. In the blinding
monsoon rains, its low-lying grounds
became a swamp and our desks floated
on water. It got us unexpected holidays.
And I'd often go to the lawns of Hu­
mayun's Tomb, rumoured to be the in­
spiration of the Taj Mahal, to ponder the
mysteries of the universe. A spirit of en­
quiry has stayed with me for life. Or I'd
go see Rajiv and Sanjay.
 the wind.
When the night comes

I think that the world is dirty

and when it was still with the moon
I thought that the moon was the
world's light.

Shankar was a cartoonist who had cre­

ated the most important award for chil­
dren's creativity in the world. Shankar
International Children's Competition
spanned writing, art and theatre. I won
the first prize in my age group, which
impressed Aunty Gauba and my pals.
I remained friends with Rajiv and San­
jay even after moving to a school closer
to our new home in Nizamuddin. ..Delhi .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Public School had been founded as a
school for the children of thousands of
refugees
'
who moved to Delhi after the
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..'

partition of India and Pakistan.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
It was
still housed in tents. In the blinding
monsoon rains, its low-lying grounds
became a swamp and our desks floated
on water. It got us unexpected holidays.
And I'd often go to the lawns of Hu­
mayun's Tomb, rumoured to be the in­
spiration of the Taj Mahal, to ponder the
mysteries of the universe. A spirit of en­
quiry has stayed with me for life. Or I'd
go see Rajiv and Sanjay.
At home, Rajiv was easy-going and
gregarious. Sanjay was quieter, with a
fiercely stubborn streak. They adored
their golden retrievers, Madhu and
Peppy. My sister, Gulhima (''Guli''), three
and a half years younger, had the bad
habit of saying ''I also'' whenever she
wanted to go anywhere with me. It ir­
ritated me no end. Once, when I came
to see my pals, Peppy grew alarmed by
Guli's unfamiliar presence and bit her
bottom. It led to lots of laughs after
she was suitably bandaged. After that,
Guli only came to their birthday parties
where Madhu and Peppy were not to be
seen. We watched Delhi's magnificent
Republic Day parade sitting in the best
of seats with ''Aunty Indu''. Sitting in the
train to Mumbai, I remembered camels
marching in the parade with rifled sol­
diers astride; gliding tableaus from In­
dia's east, west, north and south; colour­
ful troupes dancing the Bhangra, Garba,
Manipuri, Kuchipudi; tanks rolling by,
turrets swivelling; martial regiments
saluting as they marched past us; jets
rising into the sky streaming the colours
of the flag, orange, white and green.
Rajiv liked the flypast the best. I loved
the camels.
The train taking me out of Delhi sped
past Nizamuddin Station, a little sta­
tion then where express trains never
stopped. It reminded me of my first per­
formance as an actor in a play based on
a Punjabi folk tale, Bandar Da Vyah (Mar­
riage of the Monkey). It was rehearsed
in the nearby home of B.C. Sanyal,
the doyen of modernism in Indian art,
and directed by his wife Sneh, a fiery
leftist who everyone called ''Amma''.
They were friends of my parents from
their days in Lahore. I played a lowly
woodcutter while their eight-year-old
daughter Amba starred as the Monkey. It
was a low-cost production, but Amma's
creativity was endless. She outclassed
bigger plays that paraded actors in fancy
costumes on ritzy sets. We won the first
prize in Shankar's International Compe­
tition for theatre. It was my second ''first
prize'' from Shankar's, albeit indirectly,
and my first success as an actor.
When I walked out of All India Radio, I
had faced an existential question: What
the hell was I to do with myself? I'd
wanted to be an architect once. But I
was told that working for a living while
studying architecture was impossible.
So I'd studied history at St. Stephen's
College. What were my choices now, re-
alistically? Indian Foreign Service or In­
dian Administrative Service? My college,
St. Stephen's, groomed its students for
them. But that path didn't excite me.
Writer or journalist? Perhaps, though
they paid badly. Politics? Why not? I
knew the Gandhis. But I had no money.
If I went into politics to make money,
what was the point of it? I couldn't
imagine being corrupt. It went against
everything my parents had instilled in
me. No, politics was not an option.
Tourist guide? As a student of history,
I'd made some money as a tourist guide
in winter when the regular guides ran
short. But it didn't feel right. Documen­
tary filmmaker? Rajbans Khanna, fa­
ther of Devieka Bhojwani and Malavika
Sangghvi, made documentaries. He was
a friend of the family who sometimes
came over to share Old Monk rum at
my digs. I could ask him for guidance.
All the same, I didn't want to be limited
to documentaries. ''Film producer'' was
too ambitious. Besides, I had nothing to
invest. ''Film director'' felt much better.
In television, I'd learnt the basics of film
and it excited me. I loved the films of
great directors: David Lean, Alfred Hitch­
cock, John Ford, Fellini, Jean Luc God­
dard, Luchino Visconti. I'd been blown
away by K. Asif's Mughal-e-Azam, Bimal
Roy's Do Bigha Zameen and Mehboob
Khan's Mother India. Yes, I thought, I'd
like to be a director! There were no film
schools back then. So I set off for Mum­
bai to learn my craft by making advertis­
ing films.
Becoming a professional actor had never
occurred to me. I'd won the Kendal Cup
for ''Best Actor'' at my boarding school.
At college, I was Secretary of the Shake­
speare Society. But acting was no more
than a hobby. I'd acted in plays at Lady
Irwin College, where Ritu Kumar, today
an illustrious Indian designer, starred
opposite me. At St. Stephen's, my pro­
duction of Julius Caesar had Kapil Sibal
as Caesar while I played the lowly Casca.
''Kooler Talk'', the irreverent student rag,
said Caesar had been murdered twice.
Once by Brutus, once by Kapil Sibal.
Kapil and I had a wonderfully jokey
friendship, though we didn't agree on
everything. He became President of the
College Union while I voted for his op­
ponent, Arun Maira. Kapil went on to
become a star Cabinet Minister in Con­
gress governments, Arun a respected
economic consultant. The best actors
in college were Roshan Seth and his
younger brother Aftab Seth. Miranda
House's Brinda Karat (then Das) was our
best actress, long before she became a
flaming communist.
Truth be told, I liked debating more than
acting. But it wasn't easy to break into
the A-Team: Montek Singh Ahluwalia,
Prabhat Patnaik, Ram Chopra, Arun
Maira. They were the stars of big de­
bates; I debated lesser colleges. My
biggest claim to fame in college was
winning the General Knowledge Prize. I
had listened well to my parents as they
discussed politics and economics, reli­
gions and wars, justice and injustice. I
devoured the newspapers and still do
today. The politics of the time was al­
ways of great interest to me.
When I set off on my journey to Mumbai
in 1967, Indira Gandhi had been Prime
Minister of India for little over a year.
Zakir Hussain had become India's first
Muslim President. A Communist upris­
ing in Naxalbari in Bengal began a guer­
rilla war against the state. The Vietnam
War was raging. Mohamed Ali refused
military service and was stripped of
his boxing Championship titles. Closer
home, many Stephanian friends joined
the Foreign and Administrative Services,
others got good corporate jobs. And I
was off to be a director in Mumbai.
By then, Rajiv and Sanjay moved on
from racing toy trains to racing Am­
bassadors, roomy Indian cars, at high
speeds around the traffic circles of New
Delhi. After a particularly hair-raising
drive, with Sanjay almost tilting onto
two wheels round a circle, I ducked their
invitations for more rides. Rajiv wanted
to train as a pilot. Sanjay was design­
ing a ''people's car''. In time, Rajiv got
his pilot's wings, but Sanjay's engineer­
ing didn't fly at first. I went to see him
at his faraway ''factory'', more a glorified
garage. He drove me around in the little
car he'd built. It was cramped and slow
and ran on four small wheels. He knew
it wasn't what he wanted, but the fire in
his eyes was undimmed.
''I'll give India a good car,'' he promised,
''just wait and see what I do."
In the end, Sanjay's Maruti partnered
with Suzuki and gave India a great peo­
ple's car. It opened the doors to other
foreign cars, far better than the few dull
ones on the roads. I didn't see much
of Rajiv and Sanjay in my college days.
I was busy working, commuting and
studying. They were on their way to
greater glories.
In the decades that followed, what
surprised me the most was Rajiv's as­
tonishing rise to power. From being an
airline pilot with no political ambitions,
he suddenly became India's prime min­
ister after his mother was assassinated
by her Sikh bodyguards in 1984. They
killed her in retaliation for the army's at­
tack on their holiest shrine, the Golden
Temple of Amritsar. Indira Gandhi had
ordered it to capture Sant Bhindranwale,
a separatist religious leader. The hor­
rific damage to the Golden temple in the
attack outraged Sikhs around the world
and turned her own bodyguards into
assassins. Rajiv, then forty years old,
had the worst of beginnings in power.
Well-known politicians of his party, the
Indian National Congress, avenged In­
dira's assassination by inciting murder­
ous mobs who killed over three thou­
sand Sikhs in Delhi. One of the most bar­
barous acts in independent India.
In time, Rajiv emerged as the hope of
a new generation. India was hungering
for change. I went to meet him at the
prime minister's office six months after
he was anointed. He ushered me in with
a friendly wave, ahead of waiting minis­
ters and politicians, and closed the door
behind us. He held out his arms to show
the expanse of his vast office and spoke
with a radiant smile.
''Kahan phus gaye, yaar? (How did I get
trapped here, buddy?)''
We laughed together like old times, but
it felt strangely unreal. I was aware that
my friend was now the most powerful
man in India.
''You'd better get serious. You're prime
minister now."
He waved it off with a dimpled smile.
''That's what everybody keeps telling
me."
''You represent our generation, Rajiv.
You can change the policies of India. We
all know things really need to change ...''
''Don't you get all serious on me,'' he
laughed again. ''I get enough of that all
day."
After talking of times old and new, I em­
braced him as I left. His body tensed and
I realised why. He was wearing a bullet­
proof vest under his clothes and didn't
want anyone to know. I looked him in
the eye and squeezed his shoulder.
''I know you've got to be careful after all
that's happened.''
His eyes misted over, stirred by painful
memories. He smiled sadly as he saw
me to the door.
''I'll be fine. Take care, Kabir."
Things didn't stay fine. A few years later,
Rajiv blotted his image with charges of
corruption over artillery guns from Bo­
fors, a Swedish arms company. It led to
his defeat in the 1989 elections. In 1991,
he was assassinated by Tamilian sepa­
ratists from Sri Lanka, infuriated by his
deployment of the Indian Army against
them. Sadly, things didn't fare well for
Sanjay either.
Before Rajiv's rise to power, Sanjay had
been ''the most powerful man in India''
when his mother was prime minister.
He died in 1980 when he lost control
of the stunt plane he was flying while
performing aerobatic manoeuvres over
Delhi. Beneath his quiet demeanour,
Sanjay had always been a daredevil. But,
like many things in his life, he took it a
step too far. I mourned his passing, re­
membering our shared childhood. Both
my childhood friends rose to spectacular
heights and suffered tragic ends.

As the train moved beyond the outer

reaches of Delhi, I wondered if I'd been
rash in walking away from All India
Radio. No, I hadn't, I told myself. They
had betrayed me once before. I had be­
lieved in the future of television, which
came under their jurisdiction. Doordar­
shan, India's first television network,
had been created in the early 1960s. It
was a badly run government monopoly
with limited broadcasts around Delhi. Its
skeletal staff was worked to the bone,
its programmes were malnourished. But
I wanted to be in TV: an interviewer, pre­
senter, director, producer, or wherever
that road led me. The prospect of being a
government servant, languishing in the
low-paid trenches, waiting for seniority
to snake me up the ladder, didn't thrill
me. All the same, I figured I could fast­
track it.
During my time in television, I had
made my mark with a programme
that cost them nothing. I painstakingly
culled interesting items from newsreels
sent to Doordarshan by international
broadcasters. Mirror of the World was
a montage of film clips of things for­
eign, cultural and fun. Junkyard artists
in Amsterdam, drag racing in Australia,
the songs of Francoise Hardy, the ani­
mations of Norman McLaren. I produced
it, edited it and presented it. I gave it
a new theme every week: faith, hope,
creativity or whatever. It soon became
Delhi's most popular TV show but they
kept paying me peanuts. Then, I took an
audacious step.
Lord Thompson of Fleet, a British-Scot­
tish media baron, was then what Ru­
pert Murdoch is today: the most pow­
erful media magnate in the world. He
had a facility in Scotland for advanced
training in television and wanted more
Indians there. I set out to be one of the
chosen. I was sure that the careers of
''foreign-returned'' staffers, certified by
the Lord himself, would be fast-tracked.
It seemed an omen from the gods when
he arrived in our studios as I was re­
hearsing to go on air. He shuffled his
way towards me, followed by a trail
of obsequious bureaucrats, looking more
like an overweight English ticket collec­
tor. The minute I was introduced, I told
him I wanted to be trained in Scotland.
His smile never wavered as he scanned
my face.
''Of course," Lord Thompson said cheer­
fully, ''I'm sure they'd love to have you.''
But Doordarshan's bureaucracy had its
devious ways. My friend Janki Gaur,
a harried bureaucrat in an ever-rum-
pled bush-shirt, knew its labyrinths
well. When speaking of his television
bosses, he always began with ''Those
blighters ..." A few months later, I heard
some staffers had been picked for Scot­
land. But my name wasn't on the list. I
asked Janki to check it out. He returned
looking like a thundercloud and waved
my application in my face.
''Those blighters never sent it ''' he
growled loudly.
''Why?'' I gasped. The ground shifted be­
neath my feet.
''You're a 'freelancer'. Not eligible to
apply."
''Lord Thompson said it was okay for me
to apply ...'' I protested.
Janki's look told me it was over.
''I'm not going to take this shit any­
more," I shouted. ''Bugger them all."
I was sick to the pit of my stom­
ach. Never sent my application! Why
hadn't my bosses told me months ago
that I couldn't apply as a freelancer?
I'd been sabotaged by envious people
who resented me. I didn't want to
work for these people anymore. (Un­
believably, Doodarshan let me down
again in the 1980s by broadcasting my
Sandokan series, which I gave to them
for free, without any build up or fan­
fare. Thankfully, millions still saw it.)
After walking away from Doordarshan,
I returned to All India Radio. But they
topped the shenanigans at Doordarshan
by botching my interview with The Bea­
tles. That's when I realised it was time
to move on. ........................................................................................................................
Crises are points of power,
though
.
it may not seem so at the time.
.. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - ..
.

When you shut a door behind

................................................................................................................................................................................
you, other
doors
.
appear before you, each with a dif-
.. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. - .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - ...

ferent destiny.
................................................................
I'd made the right deci-
sion, I assured myself, as the train sped
on to Mumbai. But there was a pain in
my heart as I thought of what I'd miss in
Delhi.
I'd miss the smell of the first monsoon
rains on Delhi's dry earth. I'd miss the
eateries discovered by my pal Jiggs Kalra
in the gullies of Jama Masjid. I'd miss
the red flowering Gulmohar trees; the
calm of Lodhi Gardens near my rented
digs; the friends with whom I cycled
seven miles to school, burning summer
or freezing winter. I'd miss my darling
sister Guli, now at Miranda House, and
my fun cousin Mala Lever (then Lall).
I'd miss the rasgullas of Bengali market
and the samosas of Sukhiya outside our
college canteen and my college friends:
S.Y. Quraishi, later India's chief election
commissioner; Shekhar Kapur, director
of Bandit Queen and Elizabeth; and Arjuna
Award winner Randhir Singh Patiala.
Other friends came to mind: Roshan
Seth, Aftab Seth, Wajahat Habibullah,
Shivshankar Menon, Kapil Sibal, Mike
Dalvi, Siddharth ''Chickoo'' Sriram, Ra­
jeev Sethi, Awadesh Sinha, Benjamin
Gilani, Siddharth Kak, Ketan Anand,
''Solly'' Solomon, Aroop Roy, Prakash
Mirchandani, and my closest buddies
''Bro'' Vic Adarkar, ''Daddy'' Lalit Sharma
and the brilliant Arif Hussain. I'd miss
my first girlfriend, who will remain
nameless. And I'd miss my philosopher
father, Baba Bedi. Saying farewell to
Delhi was emotional, but it had to be
done. My soul had whispered a very dif­
ferent destiny to me.
The Beatles led to my leaving Delhi, and
I chose where to go. But I never imag­
ined that the grim-looking city coming
towards me down the tracks would one
day become my springboard to fame as
an international actor.
 Kabir in Delhi

Baba and Freda Bedi, sister Guli and Kabir in Delhi

Rajiu and Sanjay Gandhi

 Kabir in Kashmir

Kabir and Sanjay Gandhi

Kabir with pet Great Dane Rufus

Protima and Kabir in the 1970s

 Protima Bedi

Vinod Khanna, Kabir, Mahesh Bhatt, Ixchel,

Johny Bakshi, Protima
Kabir bareback in Tughiaq

On stage as Tughlaq
 2
CHANCES AND
CHOICES
KABIRAND KISHMISH

A chance encounter can change your

life. More so, if it comes in the form of
a beautiful woman. Even more so, if you
try to resist her and then succumb. Most
of all, if you marry her after you have
decided not to marry. But how can you
resist a force of nature? A dusky beauty
with a dazzling white smile and a big
red bindi on her forehead. A girl driven
by her passions and her zest for life. A
woman with a razor-sharp mind and an
iron will. A girl with a compulsive need
to be noticed, admired and desired. An
entertainer whose peals of laughter were
infectious. A clever and ambitious girl
with an endearing presence. A woman
whose drive led her to becoming one of
India's most famous Odissi dancers and
the founder of Nrityagram, an iconic gu­
rukul of classical Indian dance. An extra­
ordinary transformation from the wild
life she had lived as a nineteen-year-old
model when I first met her in Bombay in
1968.

I tell this story as frankly as I can,

with my own fallibilities. It's a tale of
two young people loving each other,
making a lot of mistakes, hurting each
other, growing up together and, in the
end, discovering different destinies. But
it wasn't as simple as that. It was a non­
stop emotional rollercoaster that had my
heart racing. Remember, I wasn't the
man I am today. I was then a twenty­
two-year-old advertising executive, who
came from an idealistic middle-class
family in Delhi but strayed when he
came to Mumbai, India's ''Maximum
City''.
I first met Protima because I was burst­
ing to pee. I'd misplaced the coveted
''Golden Key'' to the executive toilet at
Bensons (now Ogilvy & Mather), a multi­
national advertising company. I rushed
into my friend Suresh Mullick's cabin
without knocking. (Suresh eventually
became a legend in Indian advertis­
ing like some others at Bensons: Frank
Simoes, Ranjan Kapur, Piyush Pandey.)
Suresh was talking to a girl in jeans with
dark hair cascading down her immacu­
lately shaped back, a knot in the middle
fastening her blouse. I was embarrassed
at interrupting them so rudely.
''Sorry Suresh ... I really need the golden
key ..." I mumbled.
Suresh looked up in surprise through his
trademark dark-rimmed glasses.
''Hey, Kabir, you must meet Protima
Gupta. She's a model."
Protima turned and faced me. I was
struck by her large dark eyes, the full­
ness of her lips, the cascading black hair
that framed her perfect Bengali face. She
must have got it from her mother; her fa­
ther was originally from Haryana.
''Hi," I muttered, my bladder pulsating.
''Hi," she smiled, flashing perfect white
teeth.
I found her dark beauty attractive, but
I checked my impulse. I had made a
strict rule for myself: no dating models.
I didn't want the pressure of girlfriends
asking to be cast in my commercials. Nor
did I want to be seen taking advantage of
them. No, this one wasn't even a possi­
bility.
''Nice to meet you," I smiled back awk­
wardly, ''I've really got to go."
Protima's eyes narrowed. It was obvious
she wasn't used to people walking out
on her. My bladder gave me no choice.
''Sorry," I shrugged as I raced off.
Protima recounts our meeting in her
memoir:
My back was towards the door, and
I heard it open and this deep, husky
voice said, ''May I have the golden
key to the executive toilet?'' I turned
around, and could hardly believe my
eyes! There stood before me the hand­
somest man I had ever seen - a
beautiful hunk of a man, tall, broad,
wearing a crumpled white shirt, black
trousers, and a devastating smile. He
nodded briefly at me and vanished
with the keys. With him went my
breath. I turned to Suresh, more than
a little dazed. ''Who was that thing?''
I asked. ''And why haven't I been told
about him?''
My spirits were soaring, and at the
same time I felt a tremendous dejec­
tion. He' d been in Bombay (now Mum­
bai) long enough, he must have count­
less girls throwing themselves at him,
he must be going steady already. Per-
 haps he was already in loue... Where
could I figure in all this?
Protima was never short of ideas. With
her ready laugh and easy-going banter,
she made friends with everyone at Ben­
sons. She breezed through the office as
if she owned it. As their Film and Radio
Chief, I was often out of the office,
shooting and editing film commercials
or recording radio spots. During my ab­
sences, she'd slip into my cabin and
check out my diary and schedules. To
my amazement, she started popping up
magically wherever I went outside the
office. She'd greet me with a cheery ''Oh,
hi'', as if surprised to see me. Naturally,
we started chatting. Despite my rules
about dating models, she fascinated
me. But my love life was complicated
enough. I was informally engaged to
my girlfriend in Delhi. There was an­
other stop sign too: I was secretly see­
ing Emmy, a married American. I had
justified it to myself as a ''no strings
attached'' affair, a way of ''experiencing
life'' before I got married. Indefensible
in hindsight, I admit. But Protima never
saw me dating other girls and it embold­
ened her even more. She was not a girl
easily deterred.
She made her move during the shoot of
a Liberty Shirts commercial. My script
had six girls dancing around a bon­
fire at night on Juhu Beach. Protima
was among the girls I cast, along with
Shobha De (then Rajyadhaksha) and Es­
ther Daswani, India's supermodels in
the 1970s. Sukhdev, a great documen­
tary filmmaker, was my cameraman.
The music I played was a thumping song
from the debut album of The Doors, Light
My Fire. Protima set out to light a fire of
her own and bet the girls on it.
I bet them, in a great show of bravado, that
I would soon have Kabir Bedi eating out of
my hand. All through the shooting, I played
silent eye games with Kabir. After the film­
ing some of the girls piled into his car, a red
Standard Herald, and he volunteered to drop
everyone home. I was full of cocky excite­
ment.

After I dropped the other girls, we were

alone in the car. But my inhibitions pre­
vented me from starting the bonfire she
wanted. I stopped the car outside her
family's Mahim flat. She came around to
my side and leaned her face towards me.
I kissed her on the forehead and said
an awkward ''Goodnight''. She looked at
me strangely for a moment before dis­
appearing into the building. I sensed she
was much more than a pretty girl with
loads of energy and humour. My resolve
not to date a model was wavering.
Quite by chance, I next saw Protima at
Shanmukhananda Hall, a popular venue
for concerts and events, in the gents'
toilet. She was standing in front of the
mirror, in a golden bikini, patting silver
glitter all over her body. Mumbai's best
rock bands were performing that night
and she was their ''go-go girl'', dancing
in a cage. I was shocked to see her there.
''Hi!'' she said brightly. ''How come
you're always looking for a loo?''
''Sorry!'' I gasped, embarrassed. ''I
thought this was the gents'."
''It is," she said naughtily, ''that's why
I'm here."
I laughed, a bit embarrassed, looking at
her desirable body.
''You're dancing like that?'' I asked. She
nodded gleefully. ''You look super!''
''Thanks,'' she said, flashing a dazzling
smile. ''What are you doing here?''
''I'm in charge of lighting," I said proudly.
''Don't forget to watch me dance," she
said, adding a final pat of silver glitter.
''Shine the lights on me!''
Every ounce of charm I could muster was
on my face. My eyes caught his and stayed
locked. He was uncomfortable. I enjoyed his
discomfort. He coughed nervously and ex­
cused himself. I was ecstatic. I danced su­
perbly that night.

It's hard to imagine the courage it took

in the late 1960s for a girl from a conser­
vative Hindu Baniya family to dance as a
''go-go girl'' at a rock concert. When she
modelled for a bra, her father had gone
ballistic. He was a hard-working, tradi­
tional-minded businessman who owned
Norman's Guest House, a rudimentary
lodging on Marine Drive, Mumbai's most
famous avenue. To control his three at­
tractive daughters and younger son, he
ruled his family with an iron fist. Despite
his threats to throw her out of the house,
Protima was determined to break out of
the conventions into which she'd been
born. She enjoyed shocking people and
being a ''go-go girl'' was just the ticket.
Rebellion was in the air in those days.
It was the swinging 1960s-an excit­
ing time to be young. In the West, a
revolution was underway in art, music,
drugs, fashion and sexuality. It was
the time of The Doors, Rolling Stones,
Pink Floyd, Simon and Garfunkel and,
of course, The Beatles. Miniskirts were
all the rage. The post-War generation
was rebelling against the rigidity of their
parent's attitudes. ''The Pill'' had liber­
ated people from the fear of unwanted
children. It was a time of optimism,
hedonism and excitement. It influenced
everyone-from the young professionals
with whom I hung out to the students
in urban colleges. French New Wave
directors-Francoise Truffaut, Jean Luc
Goddard, Agnes Varda, Alain Resnais
-were rejecting traditional filmmaking
in favour of experimentation. The neo­
realistic films of Fellini, Vittorio de
Sica, Rossellini and Luchino Visconti
had given new meaning to cinema. I
watched them all to fulfil my dream of
being a director. Shyam Benegal, who
made ad films like me, began thinking
of feature films too. He worked for Ad­
vertising Sales and Promotion (ASP), a
floor beneath my office at Bensons. We
both used Govind Nihalani as our cam­
eraman, long before he became a well­
known director. Biddu Appaiah, later
world-famous for producing Kung Fu
Fighting, was performing all over town
with his band as The Lone Trojan. Born-
bay was starting to rock and Biddu was
India's first rockstar.
Protima wanted to blaze trails of her
own too. She invited me for her birth­
day party at ''Mumbai's first disco'', a
place she had recently opened. It was
a cramped little space with ragtag eth­
nic furnishings, nestled beside a flyover
on Marine Drive. I was ill at ease with
the smallness of the place and the odd
assortment of people who crowded it.
She introduced me to an older gentle­
man called Homji, whose name I have
changed. I had no idea he'd been her
lover for years. Later, she told me how
he'd seduced her in college with his
westernised charm and a shower of
compliments. The ''disco'' was one of his
gifts. I disliked him instantly. He was
equally uncomfortable shaking hands
with me. I left quickly with a mumbled
apology, disillusioned by her choice of
friends.
Protima wasn't deterred. She was the
hidden hand behind the dinner where I
saw her next. Kulbir Ghuman, an exec­
utive friend at Bensons, invited me to
his home. Once again, I was surprised
to find her there. After a subtle flirta­
tion over dinner, we went up to their
moonlit terrace for coffee. Kulbir and his
wife Nani soon made some excuses and
wandered away. Protima and I were sud­
denly alone. My resistance melted and
we kissed, first tenderly, then passion­
ately. We pulled apart quickly as our
hosts returned. Protima looked radiantly
happy as we thanked them goodnight.
Her plan had worked perfectly. By then,
my senses had been stirred.
I stopped my car outside her home and
looked her in the eye. ''Do you have to go
home tonight?'' I asked with a suggestive
smile.
''Yes," she replied uncertainly, ''my fa­
ther will kill me."
I pounced on the doubt I sensed. ''Tell
him you spent the night at Nani's."
A naughty evening seemed imminent.
It didn't quite work out that way. Pro­
tima slipped into a kurta of mine and
snuggled into my bed. I was excited,
yet something in me still didn't want to
make love. I knew it would change ev­
erything, and it scared me. As I brushed
my teeth in the bathroom, I heard my
soul whisper. What about the rules I'd
made for myself? Was she attracted to
me only because of my job? Would she
expect more work from me? Was I a fool
for being seduced so easily by a model
I hardly knew? The memory of my girl­
friend in Delhi, and my secret affair with
Emmy, came back. No rolls in the hay
tonight, I decided. Let's see how it goes. I
needed more time to be sure of her. And
of myself.
''Let's not make love tonight," I said gen­
tly as I got into bed. ''I just want to
hold you close and go to sleep, okay?''
I saw her surprise, but she nodded and
cuddled up to me. It was a strangely pla­
tonic beginning to a highly tumultuous
relationship.
I lived in a large high-ceilinged room as
a paying guest in ''White House'', a clus­
ter of buildings on Walkeshwar Road,
which climbed from Marine Drive to the
top of Malabar Hill. My landlady, Mrs
Delph, a kind widow, would give me a
cup of tea every morning with two Marie
biscuits on the saucer. Next morning, I
shared my spartan breakfast with Pro­
tima before we went our separate ways.
I was worried about the hell she'd face
on returning home, but she was lucky.
Her ''I spent the night at Nani's house''
story was believed. That's not what she
told me though. She concocted a story of
how she had been humiliated, how she
was dying to be free of her father's op-
pression, how she was seriously think­
ing of leaving home. I believed her and
felt sorry for her. I admired Protima's de­
sire to live an independent life.
I next invited her out to dinner at a
famous tree-top cafe on Malabar Hill. It
had a panoramic view of the city. As
we talked, streams of red and yellow
car lights flowed around Marine Drive,
known as the ''Queens Necklace''. The
lights that illuminated it sparkled like di­
amonds around the curving bay of the
Arabian Sea. Our conversation sparkled
with laughter and jokes before we talked
of serious matters. She said she was ter­
rified of being ''married off''. Her father
had already received proposals for her.
But she wanted to be free to do whatever
she wanted. It brought out the protector
in me. I asked her to make a decision.
''Why don't you leave home and be inde­
pendent if that's what you want?''
She looked at me with large expectant
eyes. I sensed she wanted me to invite
her to stay. But I said nothing. She sud­
denly laughed and said she'd find a flat
for herself soon. I didn't know how she'd
do it but she did. I found out later that
she got Homji to rent a flat for her in
Malabar Hill.
I met Homji the next day and sobbed uncon­
trollably. The great advantage I had in those
days was that I invariably always believed
my own lies very quickly, so that it was easy
for me to put up a tremendously natural
performanee .
She soon took me to see her new flat: a
snug bachelorette pad with a cute bed­
room and balcony. It was still occupied
by a South African couple who were
leaving by the end of January 1969, a
month away. Till then, she planned to
stay at home. It didn't quite work out
that way.
I invited her for a cosy dinner on Christ­
mas Eve to keep the fires of our relation­
ship burning. But her father refused to
let her out and she called me in tears.
''If I go out with you tonight," she cried,
''I won't be able to return home."
''Then don't return," I said in anger,
pissed off by her father's bullying ways.
''You're getting your house in a month,
right?''
''Where will I stay till then?'' she whim­
pered. I fell for it.
''Stay with me," I said gallantly. ''It's only
for a month.''
 In that instant, without realising it, I had
opened the door to a full-blown rela­
tionship. ...............................................................................................
There's an Arab saying: "'
''Three
.................................... ..
things can never be taken back:
................................................................................................................................................................................
the sped
arrow,
.
the lost opportunity, the spoken
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
.

word."
..............................
I couldn't imagine taking back
what I'd said to Protima. It was not my
nature. I believed she deserved to have
a life of her own. She stormed out of
her home after an easily provoked row
with her father. He informed the police
his daughter was ''missing''. In a twist of
fate, he caught her the next day walk­
ing along Marine Drive, ordered her into
his car and told her all was forgiven. But
when she told him about me, they had
the mother of all fights. He drove away
swearing at her. Frankly, she didn't give
a damn.
In a tragic twist of fate, Protima's father
was killed in a car crash a few days later.
It unleashed a tsunami of emotions
in her. She wept for days thinking of
their terrible parting. Her grief was com­
pounded by her mother, who blamed
her for his death. I felt guilty too; they
had fought about me. But the trauma
of her father's death cemented our rela­
tionship. I couldn't think of asking her
to move out in such a fragile emotional
state. I felt duty-bound to shelter her.
She gave up her new flat and moved in
with me. I had a brand-new relationship
on my hands. Unsought and unwanted,
but not entirely unwelcome.
My new relationship created an emo­
tional dilemma for me. I had enjoyed
being with Emmy, my American girl­
friend, and wasn't ready to give her up
so abruptly. We both knew it was a no­
strings affair. Our worlds were too far
apart. She planned to go back to Amer­
ica in a year or so, and I was going
to be a filmmaker in India. But we had
grown to be good friends and the sex
was terrific. She was an intelligent and
sensitive soul. I didn't want to lose her. I
wrestled with my conflicting desires for
days. Emmy had shown me an exciting
new world and I didn't want it to dis­
appear. Our relationship began through
a chain of events that culminated in
the strangest circumstances. It's a some­
what convoluted tale but well worth a
listen:
I began my career in Mumbai at Lin­
tas, a multinational advertising agency,
to learn filmmaking and hone my craft
as a director. That's why I'd come to
the city. Janki Gaur, my friend from All
India Radio in Delhi, had recommended
me to his ''good chap'' friend, Gerson
da Cunha, at Lintas. Gerson was a bril­
liantly creative ad man, committed to
human and social causes. An intellec­
tual giant with a compassionate heart.
I've seen him as an inspirational figure
ever since. He was the creative head of
Lintas and hired me to make ad films. I
must have made a big impression when
we met. He recently told me, perhaps
in jest, ''Three ladies from creative, two
copy writers and an art director, walked
into my room after I saw you. They
said that if Lintas did not hire you, they
would resign.''
I reported to the brilliant and charis­
matic Alyque Padamsee, a tall and wiry
man who stood like a question mark. He
had a trademark goatee and loved open
waistcoats. Some of his ad campaigns
had become legendary. But his real pas­
sion was theatre. He was a founding
member of Mumbai's famous ''Theatre
Group''. He was delighted to know I had
won the Kendal Cup for Dramatics at
Sherwood, my school in Nainital, acted
in my college years at St. Stephen's,
and performed for theatre doyenne Joy
Michael's Yatrik in Delhi.
Alyque became my guru in the theatre.
He gave me a small role in Peter Weiss'
Marat/Sade (Fully, its title is the longest
in the history of theatre: The Persecu­
tion and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat
as Performed by the Inmates of the Asy­
lum of Charenton Under the Direction of the
Marquis de Sade). It was set in a lunatic
asylum during the French Revolution.
Gerson played the sadistic Marquis de
Sade; Alyque played the revolutionary
Jean-Paul Marat. I was a madman who
went on a rampage at the end of the
play, scaling the nets and terrifying au­
diences in the balconies of St. Xavier's
college. My brief outburst impressed
Alyque enough to cast me in as the lead
in his next play.
During the rehearsals of Marat/Sade, I
got to know Mumbai's theatre elite. The
Padamsee family were theatre royalty.
Alyque was married to Pearl, another
great theatre director. Raell, their daugh­
ter, went on to become a famous pro­
ducer and director too; Ranjit Chowdhry,
Pearl's son, was a well-known actor.
During the rehearsals, I introduced
Alyque to Dolly Thakore, a talented ac­
tress I'd known from my Delhi days. He
fell in love with her and eventually mar­
ried her. Quasar Padamsee, their son, is
a brilliant and innovative theatre direc­
tor today. In jest I say, ''he has a lot to
thank me for''. But let me get on with the
real story.
Sabira Merchant, a star actress of the
Theatre Group, invited me home for a
party. I was introduced to Karishma,
an attractive jazz singer, whose name
I have changed. We got talking and
danced into the early hours. I don't
know what bravado propelled me to
drink more than I could handle. I've
never been a heavy drinker-if anything,
I'm bit of a lightweight. I soon passed
out cold. I awoke the next morning with
a pounding head, on an unfamiliar bed
in an unknown house, wondering how I
got there. I looked down to check if my
jeans were still zipped. They were. Still
mystified, I opened the door and walked
into an old-fashioned sitting room.
Karishma appeared from nowhere with
a cheery, ''Oh hi! Are you okay?''
She was beautiful in an Indian way. A
brownish complexion, dark eyes, a face
with soft cheekbones. Her lips had a
naughty twist at the ends.
''Why am I here?'' I asked, happy to see
her again.
''You drank too much. Nobody knew
where you lived, so I brought you home.''
I was mortified. How would I face
Sabira? And Alyque? And Gerson? Oh
God! I'd made a real tit of myself.
''I'm so sorry,'' I mumbled, embarrassed.
''Oh, don't worry," she said with a
laugh. ''I'll get you some breakfast. But
you'll have to leave right after that. My
boyfriend is coming.''
Boyfriend? Who was he? Why wasn't he
at the party?
Over breakfast, Karishma told me of
her affair with Brad, an American diplo­
mat in his thirties, whose name I have
changed. He was also acting as an
''extra'' in the Merchant-Ivory film, The
Guru, being shot in the city at the time. A
strange role for a diplomat, I pointed out.
''Brad wants to experience his creative
side," Karishma explained admiringly.
She wanted to go to his next shooting
location. But Brad's wife was going to
be there. A married man, I realised. Kar­
ishma suddenly came up with an idea.
''Why don't you come along to the shoot­
ing as my 'boyfriend'?''
''Great idea!'' I said enthusiastically. All
film buffs knew the films made by
producer Ismail Merchant and director
James Ivory. The Householder and Shake­
speare-Wallah, starring the stunningly
handsome Shashi Kapoor, had wowed
the art-film world in the 1960s. The Guru
also starred Shashi, along with Michael
York, Rita Tushingham, Saeed Jaffrey,
Utpal Dutt and Aparna Sen. It would be a
treat to watch those great actors at work.
Films shot in exotic settings are notori­
ous for the romances they breed. The lo­
cation of the film that night was the tow­
ering Mahalaxmi Temple. It had a wide­
angle view of the Arabian Sea glittering
in the moonlight. The Haji Ali mosque
looked like a surreal island in the bay. It
was a breath-taking setting.
Karishma spotted Brad the moment we
walked onto ''the set''.
''That's him," she squealed excitedly.
He was sitting cross-legged among a
group of westerners in Indian kurtas.
James Ivory was rearranging the for­
eign ''extras'', as Junior Artists were then
called, in front of the Guru, played by
Nana Palsiker. A blaze of arc lights shone
down on them. Karishma had eyes only
for Brad. I looked around but none of the
actors I'd hoped to see were there. I no­
ticed a foreign girl chatting with the film
crew in the distance. She had the air of
an actress. Her laugh was louder than
suggested by her slender figure. She was
perched on a folding chair in a dress
as yellow as daffodils, oblivious of the
spectators held back by the ropes behind
her.
James Ivory called ''Cut'' and Brad came
to meet us. He was a good-looking man
with a pale face, wavy brown hair and
round glasses. Karishma shook his hand
a bit too formally and introduced me.
''This is my lovely Kabir," she said with
a naughty smile, loud enough for Brad's
wife to hear as he turned to welcome
her.
''Please meet my wife, Emmy," said Brad
cheerfully. It was the girl in the yellow
dress.
''Emmy, this is Kabir, and his girlfriend,
Karishma.''
Emmy shook my hand with a warmth
that felt sexy. I was puzzled: Why would
Brad be having affairs when he had
a wife as attractive as her? Between
Karishma's excited banter and Emmy's
laughter, the evening passed like the
warm breeze of the Arabian Sea. I could
see Emmy was more than curious about
me, a glance too many told me so. I was
sure she'd clocked my interest too. It
was the portent of things to come.
Brad took me to meet Ismail Merchant.
His films were directed by James Ivory,
known as ''his domestic as well as
professional partner'', and scripted by
Ruth Prawar Jhabwala, a German-born
British American. They were an interna­
tionally respected team of filmmakers.
They made the best ''cross-over'' films
of the 1960s, taking Indian stories in
English to the West. Shakespeare-Wallah
had been inspired by the life of Geoffrey
Kendal, an Englishman who had trav­
elled to schools across India perform­
ing Shakespeare. It was a story close to
their hearts. Shashi Kapoor had been a
member of Kendal's troupe and married
Kendal's daughter, Jennifer. His other
daughter, Felicity Kendal, was now the
heroine of The Guru.
Ismail greeted me warmly, but his mind
was on the problems of director James
Ivory. I watched them in action for a
while before drifting away. It was the
first of my many meetings with Ismail
across the world.
A few days later, Brad invited Karishma
to a party at Gorai, a palm-fringed beach
on the northern reaches of Mumbai.
Emmy was going to be there, so Kar­
ishma asked me to come. I couldn't wait.
The party overflowed with drunken Brits
and Americans ambling around a huge
''shack'' on the beach. Brad and Kar­
ishma wandered off to the beach in the
darkness of the night. I found Emmy
at the edge of the garden, sitting on
a mat by herself, lost in thought. Her
curly brown hair was pulled into a pony­
tail over her floral sarong. Her blue eyes
sparkled to life as she saw me coming. I
greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and
settled down beside her.
An unmistakable chemistry buzzed in
the air as we got to know each other. She
was ''an average New York Jewish girl''
who graduated from an elite American
college. She'd known Brad since their
college days and married soon after. She
was seven years older than me.
''We had a great honeymoon and a few
good years," she said casually. ''Then ev­
erything went downhill.'' I was stunned.
Was she giving me permission to make a
move? With barely a pause, she dropped
another bomb.
''You're not really Karishma's boyfriend,
are you?''
''What makes you say that?''
''Brad and I had a talk. He told me every­
thing.''
''What's everything?''
Emmy suppressed a giggle. ''Do I have
to tell you he's having a scene with Kar­
ishma?''
''And ... you're okay with that?''
''I'm fine with it. It sets me free too."
Whoa! Another invitation? She looked at
me directly and asked. ''Are you mar­
ried?''
The thought of an affair with her excited
me.
''No, I'm single. And ready to mingle." I
wished I'd said something more original.
Ad men like to be creative. But it's all
that came to mind.
''You can think of me as single too,'' she
said with a twinkle in her eye.
We began our affair beneath the palms
of Gorai beach. We met a couple of
times a week at her home. At first,
when Brad was at work. Soon, even that
veil was lifted. There were times when
Brad and Karishma, Emmy and I would
be together in their drawing room, chat­
ting and drinking happily, then go off
to different bedrooms. It wasn't always
peaceful. When Brad had to leave with
Emmy for official functions, Karishma
would throw a high-decibel tantrum.
She once threatened to trash the house.
I was asked to stay back to keep her
in check. But she locked herself in the
bathroom and defaced it with her lip­
stick. It was a whole new world for a
middle-class boy from Delhi.
Now, I had Protima in my life. I decided I
wanted an honest relationship with her.
I ended the relationship with Emmy re­
luctantly. Saying goodbye wasn't easy.
She ''understood'' why I wanted to begin
a new life though not without tears. Our
affair had to end one day. And, for me,
the time had come. But it saddened me
for a while.
Then, I fell completely in love with
Protima. I started calling her ''Kish­
mish'' (raisins), ''Kish'' for short, as she
was ''sweet, dark and juicy''. ''Kish''
sometimes became ''Kidoo''. When she
was exuberant, I called her ''tiger''. She
would dance around, singing ''Kiddoo
ti-ger, Kidoo ti-ger'', stretching out the
''tiger''. She was a boisterous extrovert; I
was a shy introvert. It made her all the
more attractive for me. Not many peo­
ple realise how shy I am. I' m not afraid
of acting on stage or speaking to a sta­
dium of 5,000 people. But at times I'm
tongue-tied in a room full of people. If
I find someone interesting, I won't go
explore the others. I'm never sure that
what I'm thinking will interest them and
vice-versa. Some call me the ''strong and
silent type'', though there's an ocean of
thoughts swirling in my head. Protima
was my saviour. She was always the
life of the party and saved me from the
small talk I disliked. She remembered,
or invented, a joke for every moment. I
loved her effervescent aplomb.
Things were going well professionally
too. At Bensons, I was at my creative
best. My Liberty Shirts ad, with Pro­
tima and the supermodels in Juhu, had
been loved. Clients loved my launch film
for Bru Instant Coffee. All praised my
sparkling film for Yera Glass. My radio
spot for Trinca Rubia Voile, with music
by the then unknown Jagjit Singh, won
an Asian Award. Though I was work­
ing at Bensons, I was picked by other
agencies as a model for big advertising
campaigns. I was the ubiquitous face of
ITC's newest cigarette brand, Wills Fil­
ter Kings, with a risque slogan, ''Start a
long affair''. Liberty Shirts put me on bill­
boards across India. I became the man
in Thackersey Suiting, a big brand at the
time. Zeenat Aman and I did a beautiful
ad film for Cinthol. I was soon hailed as
India's most famous male model. (Years
later, Dhirubhai Ambani made me the
ubiquitous face of his Vimal Shirting
campaign for Reliance.) Protima and I
became well-known in Mumbai ''soci­
ety''. We moved from my ''paying guest''
digs into a stylish one-bedroom flat in
''Bayview'' on Malabar Hill with an ex­
pansive view of the city.
Protima's vivacious nature lit up my
life. Getting used to each other's pecu­
liarities, tics and rhythms, moods and
temperaments wasn't as hard as I'd
imagined. But living together was rare in
India of the 1960s. People started gossip­
ing about us. Protima was thrilled when
society magazines headlined our ''Living
Together without Being Married''. She
loved publicity with a passion. I was
also carried away by the excitement of it
all. It felt deliciously rebellious. We felt
we were heralding a new era of permis­
siveness. When people talked to Protima
about security, she'd say, ''Security is for
fearful people, for the old-fashioned and
conventional." We loved the unconven­
tionality of our unmarried coexistence.
And I was madly in love.
My joy started unravelling two months
after we moved into ''Bayview'' with the
''Homji Drama''. I worked long hours at
Bensons while Protima planned to open
a boutique of Gujarati mirror-work fab­
rics. She wore them on her blouses and
Indian ghagra skirts, even decorated the
house with them. Early one morning,
she announced she was going to Bhav­
nagar in Gujarat to buy mirror-work for
her planned boutique. The suddenness
of her announcement surprised me, but
I didn't say anything. Something didn't
feel right as she left for the airport that
afternoon. Instinctively, I called Homji's
office. By then, she'd told me all about
their past affair. He was out of town.
When did he leave? Yesterday. It was
too much of a coincidence, and I saw
red. Cancelling my appointments for the
day, I raced to the airport and caught the
afternoon flight to Bhavnagar. I had no
idea where Protima was staying, or how
I'd find her. I didn't care. I was on fire. I'd
find a way.
As the plane came to a halt at Bhavna­
gar airport, I looked out the window. It
was a small airport, very basic in those
days. Arriving passengers had to walk
past the departing ones who stood at
the end of the tarmac. I looked a little
more closely and got a massive shock.
Protima was standing alongside the pas­
sengers waiting to board. Homji stood
arm in arm with her, his silver hair ruf­
fling in the wind. My stomach turned
and my anger flared. She had cheated
on me! She'd gone back to her old lover!
I waited till the last passenger got off
and emerged suddenly from the plane. I
charged across the tarmac towards Pro­
tima. Her eyes widened in horror as
she saw me coming towards her. She
scuttled back towards the airport tower
while Homji scooted sideways. I ran
after her through the airport to the road
outside. She scrambled into an autorick­
shaw, but I pulled her out. She looked
at me with the bulbous eyes of a caught
rabbit, breathing hard.
''What the hell are you doing?'' I yelled
as she quaked.
A crowd started to gather, curious to see
what was happening. It was time to get
away. I hadn't checked-in any bags. I
grabbed a taxi to her hotel which looked
like an old haveli. She kept saying she
had only gone to see off Homji but I
didn't buy it. We went up to her room,
ignoring the bewildered receptionist.
She collapsed onto a carved four-poster
bed and began to cry. My anger reached
boiling point.
''Stop this bullshit," I yelled. ''Enough of
your bloody drama!''
Tears flowed down her cheeks, smudg­
ing her face with mascara. Her crying
grew louder, her chest started heaving
and she started wailing. It reached such
a crescendo I feared the hotel would
call the police. I found myself calming
her down, even though I was seething.
By the end, I was utterly drained. I was
deeply wounded in my soul. I wanted to
cry but my macho pride prevented me.
I didn't want to show weakness. I was
going to end our relationship. But first, I
wanted to know why she'd done it.
''You won't understand' '' she said in a
faint voice.
''Of course not! Make me understand
why you sleep with a wrinkled old prune
when you have me in your life?''
She shook her head and sighed. ''I
can't ..."
''Give it a try," I said. ''I'd really like to
know.''
''Homji is an old friend. There's no sex
really.''
''No sex?!'' I sneered. ''Not even on a cosy
four-poster bed?''
''That was in the past. He's too old for
that. He's a sweet old man.''
''What a consolation!'' I snapped sarcas­
tically. ''You come to Bhavnagar with a
man who has been humping you for
years because he's a sweet old man."
Protima's watery eyes fixed on me. ''Do
you know what Homji did for me?''
''He seduced you and banged you. That's
what you told me."
She winced but stood her ground. ''He
gave me self-respect."
''And I didn't? What the hell is that sup­
posed to mean?''
She looked defiant, took a deep breath
and spoke haltingly through her tears.
She told me how she'd been mocked for
being the ''ugly duckling'' in her family,
''fat lips, bug eyes, wide nose, dark skin''.
They said no one would marry her. Then
she went to college, grew boobs and
boys suddenly liked her. She told me of
her many boyfriends.
''But boys were, you know ... boys. Homji
flattered me and made me feel impor-
tant. I liked being wanted by a gentle­
man. He was kind. I slept with him be­
cause I liked him. He taught me many
th.1ngs ...''
''Cut all that crap," I said angrily. ''That
was long ago. Why are you still seeing
him? Is it for money?''
She shook her head, but the air went
out of her body. ''I don't know why I did
it ... I was a fool ... I'm sorry."
''Oh, you will be," I growled. ''Very bloody
sorry!''
''I know I made a big mistake. But ... I
love you."
''You have a bloody funny way of show­
ing it. I've had enough of you.''
I told her what I thought of her in
unprintable language. Copious tears of
remorse flowed down her face. I was ex­
hausted by the time I lay down to sleep,
emotionally drained, still fully dressed.
I rose at dawn the next morning. Trees
were radiating the chirping of birds as I
walked down to the garden below me.
''What's it all about, man?'' I asked
myself. ''Is loving someone so difficult?
Why would she throw everything out
the window for a clown like Homji?''
I calmed my mind as I communed with
the trees. In times of trouble, nature
is always my refuge. As I collected my
thoughts, I sensed a feeling I tried to
resist. But it persisted. I still loved her.
Could we begin afresh? No, that was im­
possible!
The songs of birds sounded like di­
vine melodies in the dawn that fil­
tered through the trees. I thought more
deeply about my conflicting feeling. It
was a painful process. Though reluctant
at first, I finally made a decision. I would
forgive Protima, because I still loved her.
In retrospect, perhaps it was naive of
me. But I didn't want to lose the joy
she had brought into my life. I wasn't
going to allow an old fart to ruin our
happiness. It was my first live-in rela­
tionship, and I didn't want it to end so
ingloriously. Protima broke into tears of
joy when I told her. She'd feared it was
over. She told me she loved me more
than ever. I was filled with silent joy.
On her return to Mumbai, innovative as
ever, she sold her consignment of mir­
ror-work by stringing them up outside
the Jehangir Art Gallery, the centre of art
in Mumbai.
Our relationship found its boisterous
groove again. I remember the day I re­
turned from work and found I'd lost my
wallet. It upset me greatly, I'd just made
a big cash withdrawal. I didn't realise I'd
dropped it as I stepped out of my car.
A watchman had found it, took all the
money and threw the wallet down the
hill. It landed on the roof of a building
below us. A good Samaritan picked it up,
saw my card and called me. I picked up
the wallet, all the money gone, and fig­
ured out what had happened.
''Leave the rest to me," yelled Protima.
''I'll get back your money too!''
She called all the watchmen, seated
them in a circle and unwrapped the wal­
let from a hanky with care.
''Whoever took our money," she said
sternly, ''is almost as good as dead. Your
fingerprints are all over this butwa. If
the money isn't returned by tomorrow,
we're going to the police with THIS.''
She waved the wallet in front of their
awed faces. Next morning, my money
came back in an envelope stuck to the
door. Protima couldn't stop singing and
dancing at having been so clever.
''Kidoo ti-ger! Kidoo ti-ger!! Kidoo ti­
ger!!!''
I joined in the dance as she sang on with
abandon.
My joy was soon to be shattered. I re­
turned exhausted from work one day
and made myself a cup of tea. Protima
came out of the bedroom, dressed im­
maculately, with perfect make-up, and
gave me a big kiss.
''Where are you going?'' I asked.
''Nowhere," she replied smiling. ''Unless
you want to take me somewhere.''
''Not today, Kish. I'm whacked."
''Let's sit and chat then," she laughed as
she led me to the sitting room.
I sat down beside her, wondering what
she had in mind. I sensed something
strange was afoot. But the announce­
ment she made knocked the wind out of
me.
''I'm pregnant," she said, watching my
reaction closely.
Was she serious? How could it have
happened? I reacted angrily, raising my
voice sharply. ''Didn't you say you were
taking the Pill?''
She flatly denied it. Had I imagined it?
No, I knew she was lying. But it wasn't
the time to fight over who was to blame.
We were in a crisis that had to be
resolved. We were far too young to be
having children. I was twenty-three, she
was just nineteen. There were things to
do, places to go, adventures to be ex­
perienced. We'd be losing the freedoms
of youth while there were worlds to dis­
cover.
''Guess we'll have to have an abortion," I
suggested gently.
She looked at me as if I was an alien. Her
reaction unsettled me.
''I'm having the baby," she said firmly.
Another blow to the solar plexus.
''You can't decide just like that for both
of us,'' I protested.
''Well, I'm having the baby. I won't kill a
child of mine.''
''What if I don't want a child now?'' I said
indignantly. ''We can always have one
later, can't we?''
''No," she said stubbornly. ''I'm going to
have the baby." She saw how upset I was
and softened her tone. ''Don't worry. I'll
take care of the child. You don't have to
marry me."
She was forcing me to accept her deci­
sion. It infuriated me.
''What if I leave you?'' I said, raising my
voice in threat.
''That's for you to decide,'' she said, un­
moved. ''I know what I'm going to do.
I'm having the baby."
I stormed off and drove aimlessly
around Marine Drive. It was her bloody
mistake! She'd said she'd take care of
birth control. Didn't I have the right
to decide whether I wanted a child or
not? Then it struck me: maybe it wasn't
a mistake. Perhaps it was deliberate. I
knew she could be devious as hell. Was
this her way of forcing me into mar­
riage? She'd said she didn't want to be
married but, despite her bravado, I knew
she did. I raged against her as I drove
through the welter of traffic, cursing the
day I met her. What was I to do? Ac­
cept the baby or walk away? Leave her
or stay? How would it look to my bosses
and colleagues at work if I abandoned a
girl who I'd made pregnant? Wouldn't it
be manna for the magazines that gos­
siped about us? What would our friends
say? Whose side would they take? And
what did I really want? Did I still love
her?
My feelings were in turmoil for days. If
I wanted Protima in my life, I'd have to
accept the child. And if we had a child,
we'd have to get married. For all our
bohemian beliefs, I knew that a child
born to unmarried parents would have
a tough time growing up in India of the
1960s. At the heart of it was the same
question I'd asked myself in Bhavnagar.
Did I love Protima enough to accept what
she had done? It came more reluctantly
this time, but the answer was still yes.
I loved her. With the wisdom of today,
I would have walked away then. I was
being manipulated by a clever woman,
as I had been from the beginning. But I
wanted to do the right thing. It's what
my parents had taught me.
I hadn't always done the right thing
though. I finally told my girlfriend in
Delhi the truth. I was marrying Protima
because she was pregnant. I'm sure she
suspected our relationship was fraying.
My calls and letters had been few and far
between. I was her first love, as she was
mine, and it must have hurt her deeply. I
felt terrible. But my life was in emotional
upheaval, and I had to put it in order. My
guilt haunted me for months. My first
love was a wonderful, creative, loving
soul who deserved more devotion from
me. Perhaps she would have been better
for me. Yet I failed her in every way.
Protima and I married when she was
two months pregnant. I couldn't afford
a big wedding, so we kept it simple. No­
body got an invitation. Friends received
a small ''intimation card'', designed by
me, on handmade ochre paper:
We married this day, October 14,
1969. It was a simple Buddhist cer­
emony; just chanting and incense.
There will be no reception, no
presents, no damn dowry. Just register
your shock/disapproval/ joy the next
time you see us.

Everyone loved it and we saved a bun­

dle. Our wedding was attended by Pro­
tima's forgiving family and my mother,
who was now a Buddhist nun. I'll speak
of her in another story. She would have
been horrified if she knew all that led to
our marriage. She sanctified our union
in her maroon robes as Buddhist monks
chanted sutras. She'd thought I would
marry my girlfriend in Delhi whom she
liked. But she saw the good in all and
embraced Protima as my wife.
Protima and I had some of our most
intimate and beautiful experiences after
marriage. When she embraced me with
passion and words of love, I'd melt with
joy. We talked of the spiritual thoughts
and paths. We came up with outrageous
ideas and laughed like maniacs. Beneath
her brash exterior, she had a tender
heart. She once made me stop and pick
up a puppy shivering in the rain as we
drove back from a dinner. She warmed
my life with her humour and welcomed
me back from work like a hero. She filled
my world with delight.
Pooja was born seven months later on
11 May 1970. I wanted to soothe the
pain of Protima's delivery with beautiful
music. The fancy Breach Candy Hospital
wouldn't allow me to play it while she
was in labour. So we chose Northcote, a
nursing home near the iconic Taj Mahal
Hotel, with a view of the Gateway of
India. It was a beautiful setting for the
birth of our first child. My misgivings on
having a child at a young age were ban­
ished by the love I felt for Pooja. She was
a beautiful child with large brown eyes
in a perfectly oval face. I adored her with
a passion. Every gurgle of hers made me
melt. I was surprised by her boundless
energy, a hallmark throughout her life.
Love, as Mahatma Gandhi said, is the
subtlest force in the world. It eventually
overcomes all barriers. My resentment
at being forced into marriage and father­
hood ebbed away. Protima was a good
mother, playing with Pooja, answering
every cry, smothering her with love. It
was a comfort for me while I was busy at
work. All the while, theatre remained a
burning passion and my next play was a
turning point.
Alyque Padamsee cast me as Tughlaq,
a controversial Muslim emperor of four­
teenth-century India. Historians often
called him ''the mad king'' for introduc­
ing coins as currency and moving India's
capital down to the south. His reasons
made sense at the time. But his ''mad
king'' description stuck for centuries.
The play was theatre at its best. The
poster was painted by M.F. Hussain, the
sets designed by Piloo Pochkhanawala,
the cast was the cream of Bombay the­
atre: Gerson da Cunha, Sabira Merchant,
Farokh Mehta, Bomi Kapadia, Kersy and
Usha Katrak, Zafar Hai. But it was the
opening scene that knocked the socks
off everyone.
As the curtains parted I stood with
my back to the audience, arms out­
stretched, stark naked. Or so it seemed.
Lights from above concealed the string
that held the loincloth which covered
me in front. From the back, every mus­
cle defined, I looked as naked as a
Roman statue. People gasped on seeing
me ''naked'' as royal attendants came on
and dressed me in the emperor's robes.
''The mad king'' then turned to the audi­
ence and began addressing the crowds.
The play's success made me famous in
Mumbai's high society. Cynics claimed
my butt made Tughlaq a record-break­
ing hit. But it was a great play, the first
by Girish Karnad, one of India's most
honoured playwrights. Its success came
from the great characters he created and
the mesmerising story he crafted. My
performance got terrific reviews. Film
producers came calling, and I began my
journey in Bollywood. ..Alyque Padamsee
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
launched me as a professional actor and
.. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. - .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - ..
. .

I've always thanked him for it.

Juhu Beach was the centre of my new
life. In those days, Juhu felt like Goa.
I didn't want Pooja to grow up on the
cemented sidewalks of Malabar Hill and
moved to Beach House in Juhu. Our flat
looked onto green palm tops that encir­
cled its gardens. It was a perfect place
to raise kids. Many Bollywood producers
and film stars also lived in Juhu. A popu-
lar joke of the time went: ''Juhu is where
you can lie on the beach and look at the
stars. Or you can lie on the stars and
look at the beach.''
Protima loved our friends of the ''Juhu
Gang'', a far cry from her ''disco friends''.
It was a fluid group of creative film
people: Shekhar Kapur, Mahesh Bhatt,
Danny Denzongpa, Parveen Babi, Sha­
bana Azmi, Parikshit Sahni (son of Bal­
raj Sahni), Neelam and Anil Johar (I.S.
Johar's children), Jalal Agha, Johny Bak­
shi, Gunnu and Ketan Anand (sons of
Chetan Anand) and many others. The
dashing Khan Brothers (Feroz, Sanjay,
Akbar and Sameer), friends we met with
great warmth, were not really a part of
our bohemian ''gang''. But they were a
terrific bunch to hang out with. San­
jay and his wonderful wife Zarine have
remained close friends till today. Like
Roy Patrao and Tasneem Mehta, who
would often swing by. Satyadev Dubey,
the Hindi playwright and director, didn't
live in Juhu but became an honorary
member of our gang. He called Protima
''Mata ji'', much to her delight, as he al­
ways turned up hungry and she fed him
lavishly. Dubey went on to win India's
highest theatre award and the presti­
gious Padma Bhushan national award.
We were a happy bunch of creative
.fi.lmis.
My first film Hulchul was a rude intro­
duction to Bollywood. O.P. Ralhan, its
producer and director, looked like Wal­
ter Mathau and walked with a limp. His
last film Phool Aur Pathar had catapulted
Dharmendra to stardom. He had a loud
voice and a huge ego. When he asked me
to sign on for the film, I asked him about
its story. He flew into a towering rage.
''You are asking ME for a story? ME?''
''Just give me an idea, sir ...'' I mumbled,
taken aback.
''Do you know WHO I am?'' he thun­
dered. ''I made Dharmendra a STAR. And
you, a rank newcomer, are asking ME for
a story? ME?''
''I'm sorry, sir ..." I began sheepishly.
''If you want to do my film," he cut me
off, ''don't talk so foolishly. I'll make you
a STAR."
I signed Hulchul believing I was the hero.
I wasn't. I was one of three support­
ing actors. The same fate befell Zeenat
Aman, a popular model at the time, who
was lured by Ralhan into playing a sup­
porting role in her first film. He cast him-
self as the hero, with Helen, legendary
for her dance numbers, as his leading
lady.
In the end, Ralhan's tactics worked in
our favour. Hulchul flopped at the box
office, but neither Zeenat nor I got the
blame. All said and done, Ralhan was
a man with a big heart and generous
spirit. He guided my transition from
theatre to film acting with patience. He
didn't mock me as I struggled to de­
liver the dialogues exactly as he'd writ­
ten them. And he helped me in times of
trouble. A wayward driver once rammed
into my car in Bandra and the police
tried to pin the blame on me. I called
Ralhan and he rushed to my rescue. He
fought with the police for an hour before
they backed off. I was saddened to hear
that he fell on hard times in his final
days. Despite our rocky start, I'll always
be grateful to him for producing my first
film.
My working in Bollywood led to troubles
at home. Protima was fiercely competi­
tive. She loved the publicity we got, but
viewed my success with mixed emo­
tions. As a talked-about newcomer in
Bollywood, people naturally gravitated
to me, sometimes ignoring her. It pissed
her off intensely. She hated it when ac-
tresses made eyes at me, but she spoke
to them grandly. ''You can have him.
He'd be a fool for refusing something for
free." For all of her bravado, it roiled her
insides. She'd give me hell at home. She
always wanted to be the centre of atten­
tion.
Protima's need for attention led to our
biggest crisis. I was disappointed by the
failure of Hulchul but not disillusioned. I
had more arrows in my quiver. In the
spring of 1971, I went to the mountains
of Manali for my next film, Seema. My
leading lady was Simi Garewal, a ter­
rific actress, who had been brilliant in
Raj Kapoor's Mera Naam Joker a year
earlier. Rakesh Roshan appeared in the
second half of the film as my grown son.
Years later, Rakesh became a success­
ful producer-director and paired me with
Rekha in Khoon Bhari Maang, my biggest
Bollywood hit.
It was a dangerous time for me to be
away from home. While I was pretend­
ing to sing songs to Simi in the Hi­
malayas, Protima began a roaring affair
with our German neighbour in Beach
House. Fritz Kaiser, whose name I have
changed, was a well-built German en­
gineer, recently posted to Mumbai. He
took her to discotheques to dance the
night away. She took him to parties as
her escort. He endeared himself to one­
year-old Pooja by taking her for camel
rides and carried her on his back pre­
tending to be ''her horse''. Protima was
madly in love with him by the time I
got back from Manali. I had hoped for
a warm welcome after my exhausting
journey, but Protima was strangely with­
drawn. I thought she was just having a
low day. I was unprepared for the scene
that burst on me a few moments later.
The doorbell rang and Protima opened
the door. Before she could warn him, a
European man charged into the living
room, yelling for Pooja. He saw me and
froze. I looked at him in surprise. Some­
thing was clearly amiss.
He smiled unsurely and said, ''Hello, I'm
Fritz Kaiser. I stay next door. I bought
some sweets for your daughter. She's a
beautiful girl and I love her."
We shook hands as I tried to make sense
of the situation. Pooja waddled in and
rushed to him with shrieks of joy. She
clung to his neck and yelled, ''Chalo,
Ghoda." Fritz turned away with Pooja
clinging to him.
''Chalo, memsaab," he said happily.
''Bye, Kabir, nice meeting you."
What the hell was happening? Who the
hell was this guy? Why was Pooja so
happy to see him? She hadn't even
looked at me before she left. The earth
seemed to move under my feet. I went
into my study in a daze and pretended to
read a book. I wanted to go to the beach
but I didn't want to bump into Fritz and
Pooja. What would I do? Confront Fritz?
Snatch Pooja away? Create a scene and
upset Pooja? I was bone-tired after my
journey. I didn't have the stomach to
create a scene.
Pooja returned from the beach, Fritz
nowhere in sight, and I played with
her until dinner. Protima didn't talk all
evening. I drifted into a restless sleep,
tormented by thoughts of Protima with
Fritz. I spent the next morning looking
for the best time to speak to her as she
busied herself with a bustle of domes­
tic matters. In the afternoon, Pooja went
down to play and I finally confronted
Protima.
''So, what's with Fritz?'' I began
brusquely.
''I'm in love with him," she said calmly.
''Then leave me," I replied, equally calm,
trying to sound unruffled.
''I plan to,'' she said. That shocked me. I
didn't realise she felt so strongly. She'd
obviously thought it through. ''He's re­
turning to Germany in a month and
wants me to go with him."
''Are you serious?'' My head spun. This
was a whole new reality.
''I am. I love him and want to be with
him. I've made my decision.''
An impulse in me wanted to say, ''So get
the hell away from me." I stifled it. It
wasn't just about Protima.
''What about Pooja?'' I asked.
She raised her voice sharply in reply.
''She comes with me. How can you look
after her?''
My blood pressure shot up. I walked out
of the house, slamming the door behind
me hard. She'd hit me where it hurt
most.
Nothing was resolved that night, or in
the tense days that followed. I wanted to
be clear what I wanted before we talked
again. I knew I could live without Pro­
tima if she chose to go. But the thought
of losing Pooja was a knife in my heart.
Not seeing her for months on end, cud­
dling her and baby talking her, was too
painful to imagine. She was my flesh
and blood; my heart beat for her. Should
I let Protima go and fight to keep Pooja?
It didn't feel right. It wouldn't have been
good for Pooja either. She'd hate to be
separated from her mother. And, as Pro­
tima had reminded me, how would I
look after her with my work taking me
away constantly? Would it be right to
raise her with nannies and staff? What
was I to do?
I knew Protima could fall out of love
as easily as she fell in love. If Protima
and Pooja were inseparable, and I didn't
want to lose Pooja, I'd have to change
Protima's mind. I just had to play for
time. When we sat down to talk, I pulled
every emotional string. I evoked memo­
ries of our fun times. Our baby girl was
the most beautiful child in the world.
What would she want most? That struck
a chord. We may have been a trailblaz­
ing bohemian couple, the talk of the
town, but we were still caring parents.
I then targeted her love of publicity. We
were both well known. Did she really
want to give that up and be an anony­
mous housewife in Germany? Another
resonant chord was struck. I begged her
to give our marriage another chance. In
the end, it worked. She melted and re-
lented. Fritz returned to Germany with­
out her.
I saved my marriage and kept the fam­
ily intact. Pooja remained with me. But
it fundamentally changed something in
our relationship. I could live with Pro­
tima's infidelity with Fritz. I had my own
guilt, a dalliance with a girl she knew,
which I'd justified by thinking of Homji.
I saw her affair with Fritz as the severest
karmic punishment for my misdeeds.
Still, her willingness to go to Germany
with my daughter wounded me to the
core. I never trusted her again. Some­
thing broke within me.
A month and or so after my return,
Protima decided to visit my mother in
Sikkim, where she lived as a Buddhist
nun at the remote Rumtek Monastery.
''It was there,'' Protima says in her book,
''that I realised I was pregnant." I suspect
she knew earlier. She told my mother
she was pregnant, but she didn't tell me.
She let me know after she returned to
Juhu, a month later, in the first week of
July 1971.
''I'm pregnant,'' she said on arrival, not
in her usually boisterous manner.
''Great!'' I said happily, expecting her to
break out in a ''Kidoo t-i-g-e-r'' dance
jig. But, seeing her strangely subdued, I
asked, ''Everything okay with you?''
''Fine," she replied guardedly.
''How long have you been pregnant?''
''About three months," she mumbled ab­
sently.
''Three months!'' I exclaimed. She nod­
ded absently. Suddenly, the penny
dropped, and my heart missed a beat.
''About three months'' could mean just
after I returned from the mountains,
or while she was cavorting with Fritz.
Whose child was it?
''I don't know,'' she said, not looking me
in the eye. ''I think it's yours.''
Thinking didn't make it mine. I walked
out of the house in confusion. Why did
Protima always create such pain? What
was I to do? What if it wasn't mine?
Once the child was born, perhaps a pa­
ternity test could be done. If it was mine,
great. But if it turned out to be Fritz's, I'd
be saddled with raising another man's
child. If we told him, I'd have him in
my life forever. If I walked out on Pro­
tima, everyone would know the reasons.
It would become a huge scandal. And,
most unbearable of all, I'd lose Pooja too.
No matter what I did, I was screwed. Per-
haps it was best not to know and pray
the child was mine. What was the right
thing to do? What would my parents
have said?
The answer came in the post a day later.
It was a letter from my mother, dated
27 June 1971, which took time to arrive
from her remote monastery. My mother
wrote:
Protima is Matta ji (Mother), and the
new baby was already there when she
arrived in Rumtek . . . I feel sure a son,
and a blessed one, is on the way. Pro­
tima has been telling me of your men­
tal conflicts, and the wish to stop too
many children the modern way. Kabir
dear, that's not the Buddhist way, or
the Bedi way, or the Guru way, or the
spontaneous way. By the blessing of
the Gurus, you have a body of extraor­
dinary sensitivity and beauty: it is the
root of your way in life . . . A child, or
children, as many as come, should be
welcome.

I knew my mother revered life and I

revered her. Her message was an omen
for me. I made my decision that day.
Siddharth was born on 10 January 1972.
Protima knew I had conflicted feelings
before his birth:
 I could understand how Kabir felt
looking at Siddharth and wondering
whether he was his child or Fritz's. As
far as I was concerned, Siddharth was
my child, and that was all that mat­
tered. It was only when he reached
puberty that we could be hundred per­
cent certain he was Kabir's son.

Whatever my earlier doubts, I never let

uncertainty haunt me. From the day he
was born, I embraced Siddharth as my
son and loved him like a father. He was a
sensitive, soft-spoken boy, fascinated by
computers. He grew up to be kind, loyal
and loving.
Protima told him of our doubts during
his college years at Carnegie Mellon:
When I told Siddharth about the exact
circumstances of his birth, it did cause
misunderstandings and tensions be­
tween mother and son.

It must have been traumatic for him. I

don't know why she told him; he didn't
need to know. It came at a dangerous
time, which I speak of in another story.
Singing and dancing in the mountains
had other dangerous consequences. I re­
alised that I didn't enjoy lip-synching
songs while performing choreographed
dances. I had refused to lip-synch my
second song in Seema, Mohd Rafi's Jab
Bhi Ye Dil Udaas Hota Hai. It was shot as
if it was in my mind. It turned out to
be very popular. It confirmed my belief
that I could be a leading man without
performing song and dance routines. It
turned out to be a colossal mistake. Pro­
ducers expected stars to perform these
''numbers''. Music is a big source of
revenue for Bollywood. All the big he­
roes of the time-Rajesh Khanna, Jee­
tendra, Dev Anand, Dharmendra, Shashi
Kapoor, Feroz Khan-sang and danced
their way through films. Songs were an
integral part of their films, as uniquely
Indian as opera for the Italians. Nobody
in the world does them better. But I had
two left feet. I believed being a dramatic
actor was enough for me to succeed.
Protima thought so too. We were both
wrong. So was my choice of roles. My
next three releases: Anokha Daan di­
rected by Asit Sen; Raakhi Aur Hathkari
with Asha Parekh; and Sazaa with Yo­
geeta Bali, all flopped at the box office.
Money was running out. Producers were
no longer coming to my door. I was los­
ing hope.
There was another reason for their
absence. I've never been any good at
ingratiating myself for work. Unlike the
structured studio system of the West,
Bollywood had groups of individual pro­
ducers, each with favourites of their
own. Sadly, I'm not skilled in the art
of small talk, essential to building re­
lationships in our industry. I was an
outsider who naively believed his work
would speak for itself. Whenever I met
producers, I'd talk of the burning politi­
cal issues of the day. Or social injustice.
Or India's problems. Never about the lat­
est hit, box office numbers, or the gossip
among the stars. It made me the odd
one out. Bollywood also had intellectual
filmmakers then, but I wasn't working
with many. I was an outsider who didn't
know how to become an insider. So
when my films failed, I had no friends
among the producers.
I sank into a dark emotional whirlpool.
Financial pressures were mounting. Pro­
tima hadn't worked since our marriage
and couldn't help. She tried to lift
my spirits with her vivacious optimism.
Sadly, it didn't work. My marriage was
fraying. Protima often went off to Goa,
Udaipur or Manali, leaving me with the
kids. I distracted myself by having af­
fairs for which I felt no guilt. But it only
compounded my misery. I was gnawed
by a growing fear that my career as an
actor was ending.
But all was not lost. My hopes rose again
in late 1972. Raj Khosla, one of India's
most successful filmmakers, picked me
for the lead, along with Vinod Khanna,
for his next film Kuchhe Dhaage (Slen­
der Threads). His last two films Do
Raaste and Mera Gaon, Mera Desh had
been super hits. Before that, he'd di­
rected five blockbusters for Dev Anand.
Kchche Dhaage was a story of dacoits
(bandits) who are mortal enemies before
finally becoming friends and sacrificing
their lives together. Vinod Khanna and
I were enemies on-screen but became
good friends in real life. We both rode
horses brilliantly and gave Raj Khosla
spectacular shots. Kuchche Dhaage gave
me the box office success I desperately
needed. Protima revelled in the public­
ity that accompanied my glory. Life felt
great again. An actor's life in films is
often a swinging pendulum.
A new film came my way which re­
ally excited me. Mahesh Bhatt cast me
as the hero of his first film as a di­
rector, Manzilein Aur Bhi Hain. It was
produced by Johny Bakshi, a penniless
refugee from India's Partition who had
worked his way up the slippery ladder of
the film industry. He became my most
loyal friend and passed away recently in
his eighties. The story of Manzilein was
daring and different for Bollywood. Two
criminals and a prostitute, on the run
from the police, are trying to cross a bor­
der. Both make love to her, and she gets
pregnant, creating the same dilemma I
had faced in my life: Whose child is it?
Many of the ''script sessions'' took place
in Beach House while Protima made sure
we were well fed. Johny Bakshi and
Satyadev Dubey almost came to blows
when arguing over Hindi dialogues. In
a memorable fight, Johny threatened to
knock out Dubey's teeth. Dubey pulled
out his false teeth and dared Johny to do
his worst. We all collapsed with laugh­
ter!
Mahesh Bhatt was a soul brother, a
good friend with a creative mind. He
asked profound questions and looked for
deeper answers. He's been a teetotaller
for decades. In those days, he drank
heavily and often passed out on the
floor. Sometimes we would drift down
to the beach and sit cross-legged on
the sand, facing each other, exchanging
thoughts on the universe amid the gen­
tle roar of waves. ''It was those question­
ing days," he told me recently, ''that sent
me into the spiritual supermarket." It led
him first to Osho, the controversial New
Age guru, and then to the ''Anti-Guru''
U.G. Krishnamurti, a brilliant man who
negated conventional beliefs. Mahesh
was destined to be a prolific director,
nominated for many Filmfare Awards,
but he never stopped talking philosophy.
T he first cut of Manzilein Aur Bhi Hain
bowled over everyone. I'd done a Zorba­
the-Greek-style dance in the film as I
didn't see it as a typical Bollywood ''song
and dance'' routine. Protima said it was
the most beautiful film she'd seen. Ev­
eryone expected great things from it, but
I wondered if audiences would accept
such a controversial theme. In August
1973, before its release, it was banned by
the Censor Board. I organised screenings
for the national press and the ''culture
crowd'' to drum up support. But it wasn't
artistic enough for their refined tastes.
Most of them weren't willing to support
a low-budget ''commercial'' Hindi film.
Only Vijay Tendulkar, the Marathi play­
wright, offered to protest with us at the
Censor office. For him, it was a matter of
principle. Eventually, the Censor Board
passed Manzilein after mangling it with
thousand cuts. It crashed at the box of­
fice. It was a crippling blow to Johny
and didn't help Mahesh either. As the
leading man, I took it on the chin. My
future became more uncertain than ever
and it worried me sick. I brooded alone
in my gloom. My brooding made Pro­
tima go out of the house more often. I
suspected she was having another affair.
She returned late one night with sand on
her clothes. I asked her what she'd been
doing.
''I was lying on the beach, watching the
stars,'' she replied, brushing me off.
I knew she was lying. I really didn't care
anymore and decided to sleep it off. But
my thoughts wouldn't let me. I realised
if we wanted to stay together it was time
for a radical new deal. These cat and
mouse games had to stop.
''Look,'' I told her over breakfast, ''it
doesn't matter to me whether you're
seeing somebody or not. I know you're
going to have affairs, sooner or later.
You just can't help yourself. Why don't
we just have an open marriage and be
done with it?'' I'd seen it work brilliantly
for Brad and Emmy. I didn't see why it
wouldn't for us.
Protima looked at me in surprise. ''You
mean that?''
I nodded emphatically. A range of con­
flicting emotions flickered across her
face.
''I'm afraid you'll leave me if you find
someone better. I don't want to break up
the family."
''I won't do that," I said. ''I love the kids.
I love our home. I love the joy you bring
into all our lives. I wouldn't throw all
that away. But this constant deception
must stop."
''Well, if you think you can handle it ...''
she began tentatively.
Looking at her intently, I asked, ''Do we
have a deal?''
She nodded and squeezed my arm to
seal the deal. In her book, she said:
''I wanted to be Kabir's friend more than
anything else in the world. I wanted to be
free, and I wanted him to be free too."
But I was still curious about the night
before.
''So, who did you see last night?''
She burst into her characteristic peals of
laughter. ''If this is a trick, I'll kill you."
''No," I said, reassuring her. ''We don't
have to tell each other everything. But
I'd like to know this time."
She hesitated briefly before replying.
''He's French, just visiting India, nice­
looking.''
I winced within but I didn't let it show.
We'd made a deal. I'd have to get used to
it. ''What's his name?''
''Jules. Jules Lafave, he's from Paris." I've
changed his name too.
''Okay," I said, relieved it wasn't Fritz.
''We have a deal. But don't go advertising
it, okay?''
She nodded with ripples of laughter
which made me suspect she may have
thought of it. I didn't put it beyond her.
Then I noticed something else was going
on. She lapsed into a moody silence.
I wondered if she was having second
thoughts.
''I'm so fickle," Protima said suddenly. ''I
don't scheme or plan affairs. I don't even
want them, but I can't resist. It's like
there's some awful magnet somewhere
within me. I know that I can stop it,
I should stop it, but everything always
gets the better of me and I don't see any­
thing wrong, intrinsically wrong, with
whatever I'm doing. The important thing
I want you to know is that it is never
meant to hurt you ..."
I was glad she was being honest. ''I know
you mean every single word of what you
say. I know you feel genuinely sorry. But
tomorrow you will see or meet another
man and start all over again."
''Yes, you're right," she said, holding
back tears. ''I wish it wasn't so. Can't I
stop it somehow?''
''Kish, you're the only one who can do
something about it, if you want,'' I said
sincerely. ''Channel your energies. Do
something constructive. Your problem is
that you have nothing to do, and affairs
become your single most important pas­
time."
I was right. Years later, she put her end­
less energy into building Nrityagram, a
great gurukul of Indian classical dance
in Bangalore. But at that time, she was a
rebel without a cause, an experimenter
without a discovery, a wife with no
boundaries.
I I;;I)

Soon after that unconventional conver­

sation, the pendulum of my career
seemed to take an upward swing. In
1973, Dev Anand cast me in Ishk, Ishk,
Ishk which was being shot in Nepal. I
was disappointed he offered me only a
small supporting role. But I couldn't re­
sist the temptation of working with such
a legend. I wanted to see what made him
tick. Zeenat Aman was his leading lady.
Great actors were playing supporting
roles: Shabana Azmi, Premnath, Nadira,
Jeevan, A.K. Hangal, Iftekhar. Shekhar
Kapoor, Dev Anand's nephew, had a
small role like mine. He was in love with
Shabana and desperately wanted to im­
press her.
I have a funny story to tell of the shoot.
Our hotel in Pokhara was on a little is­
land in a lake with a panoramic view of
Himalayan snow peaks. Its rooms were
shaped like slices of a cake. From wide
glass windows in front, the roof rose up­
wards like a tent, while the walls nar­
rowed inwards towards the back. Dev
Anand decided to shoot a scene with me,
in front of my room, on a night that was
freezing cold. As the scene was being lit,
a shivering hippie knocked on my front
window.
''I came to see the shooting, brother,''
said the hippie. ''It's bloody cold out
here, bro. Do you mind if I come into
your room?'' I waved him in with a mag-
nanimous smile. He entered and pulled
out the fattest joint I'd ever seen.
''Do you mind if I have a smoke, bro?''
How could I say no to a shivering hippie?
''Sure," I replied as I concentrated on
learning my lines.
His joint filled my room with pungent
smoke. Suddenly, my lines made no
sense. Fali, the director of photography,
finished lighting up. I realised I was in
trouble, deep trouble. Learning my lines
had become impossible. I walked out of
the room hoping the cold might shock
me back to reality. It only made things
worse. Lights took on different colours
and everything looked fuzzy. God knows
what he was smoking. I found my way to
Dev Anand's room and told him I wasn't
feeling well.
''It's your scene!'' he protested, upset.
''We are ready to shoot!''
''I can't do it, Dev saab," I apologised.
''I have terrible nausea. I can't stand
straight.''
He saw something wasn't right with me
and softened.
''Achcha," he said with his characteristic
nod. ''Go back to your room. I'll do some­
thing else.''
I went back to my room, threw the hip­
pie out and lay down with my head spin­
ning. Minutes later, a doctor appeared
and listened to my ''symptoms''. He
turned me over and gave me a bunch of
injections in the butt. It was a real ''bum
trip''. I was mortified. Protima couldn't
stop laughing when she heard the story.
And much greater joy was coming my
way.
In early 1974, ''the Italians'' landed in
Mumbai. They were looking for an actor
to play the role of Sandokan, a fictional
Asian pirate who fought the British for
the freedom of his people. Mumbai was
their first port of call in the six-nation
tour they'd planned. They called me to
Rome for the audition and I bagged the
role, which I talk of in my next story.
It was to be filmed later in the year.
I hoped it would be successful enough
for me to have a career abroad, where I
wouldn't have to sing and dance to be a
leading actor. Returning from the audi­
tion, I told Protima of Rome's splendour.
It fired her imagination and she went on
a trip of her own.
''Achcha," he said with his characteristic
nod. ''Go back to your room. I'll do some­
thing else.''
I went back to my room, threw the hip­
pie out and lay down with my head spin­
ning. Minutes later, a doctor appeared
and listened to my ''symptoms''. He
turned me over and gave me a bunch of
injections in the butt. It was a real ''bum
trip''. I was mortified. Protima couldn't
stop laughing when she heard the story.
And much greater joy was coming my
way.
In early 1974, ''the Italians'' landed in
Mumbai. They were looking for an actor
to play the role of Sandokan, a fictional
Asian pirate who fought the British for
the freedom of his people. Mumbai was
their first port of call in the six-nation
tour they'd planned. They called me to
Rome for the audition and I bagged the
role, which I talk of in my next story.
It was to be filmed later in the year.
I hoped it would be successful enough
for me to have a career abroad, where I
wouldn't have to sing and dance to be a
leading actor. Returning from the audi­
tion, I told Protima of Rome's splendour.
It fired her imagination and she went on
a trip of her own.
Protima had many ''adventures'' in
Rome. Among them, she gatecrashed a
party of the gay Austrian actor, Helmut
Berger, famous for his roles in the films
of Lucina Visconti. She recounted it in
her memoir: ''What a fabulous creature,
this Helmut. So delicate and white, with a
blond wig, and those hot pants-half of his
beautiful bum was on display. No model I
had seen in the flesh or in photographs had
more beautiful legs than his. I was joined by
some men in women's clothing who oohed
and aahed over my jewellery and tikka. In
the center of the floor, a most magical-look­
ing man in drag was singing a sad, sad
song."

From Rome, she wanted to fly to Paris

to see her French boyfriend Jules Lafave.
I sent her a ticket to Paris and wrote to
her there on 5 June 1974: ''Got this letter
from 'xyz' and am sending it on to you. Had
to open it to decide whether to forward it or
not. Anyway, as far as I know, there are no
secrets between us ... I do hope you're not
too hassled for bread. If you're really down
send me an SOS.'' It may sound bizarre
to many, but our open marriage seemed
to work for us. Meanwhile, I looked after
the kids.
I put the tumultuous dramas of my emo­
tional life behind me as I began shooting
for Sandokan in Malaysia. It was the op­
portunity of a lifetime and I wanted to
excel. I had to focus body, mind and soul
to create an unforgettable character. But
I also wanted my children to see me in
action. So I flew them to Malaysia on
their first trip abroad. Pooja was a beau­
tiful, bouncing five year old. Siddharth,
two years younger, a shy and sensitive
boy. Sergio Sollima, my humorous direc­
tor, joked a lot with them. The stars of
the film adored them. Carol Andre, my
leading lady; Philip Leroy, a French actor
who played my buddy Yanez; Adolfo
Celi, the villain of the film, Lord Brooke.
I fired the imagination of the kids with
tales of my battles on ships, sword
fights on land, and horse rides through
rough jungles. Their eyes were round
as saucers. They returned to India bub­
bling with stories of ''Papa as a pirate'' in
Malaysia.
Surprisingly, Protima said she also
wanted to come. I had mixed feelings. I
didn't want her to have affairs on the set
or create dramas. My life was extremely
disciplined. Rise at 5.00 a.m., swim in
the sea, meditate, breakfast, then shoot.
At the end of the day, swim, exercise,
dine, watch some news, sleep. But she
was insistent on coming with a strident
urgency in her voice. What's the rush?
I wondered, but I called her over any­
way. We had barely driven out of Kuala
Lumpur's airport when she broke the
news.
''I've streaked," she said with a naughty
smile.
''What do you mean 'I streaked'?'' I
asked, puzzled.
''Streaking'' meant running naked in a
public gathering, generally by hippies,
to protest against something. It became
well-known after the 1974 Oscars, when
a gay activist flashing a peace sign
ran across the stage completely naked
while the Best Picture Award was being
announced by Elizabeth Taylor. What
made it memorable was actor-presen­
ter David Niven's immediate response:
''Isn't it fascinating to think that proba­
bly the only laugh that man will ever get
in life is by stripping off and showing his
shortcomings?''
I knew the term, but I wasn't sure what
Protima meant by ''streaking''.
''I ran naked outside the Jehangir Art
Gallery," she announced. I was shaken.
It was Mumbai's best-known art gallery.
We'd often go to Samovar, a restaurant
on its open-air veranda which served
home-style Punjabi food, run by Usha
Khanna, the wife of my filmmaker friend
Rajbans Khanna. Why would Protima
streak there?
''My steaking got printed in a magazine,"
she added sheepishly.
''You mean you had a photographer
there to photograph you?''
She squirmed uncomfortably. ''No.
Someone just took a picture of me and
printed it." I knew she was lying.
In her autobiography, Protima said she'd
been photographed by ''someone'' at a
hippie commune in Goa where she'd
stayed as a nudist. I learnt the truth
only years later. Rita Mehta, the editor of
a film magazine, told me that featuring
''a streaker'' had been a publicity stunt
for the launch of her new magazine
Cine Blitz. The ''streak'' was a shot on
Juhu Beach by their photographer Tyeb
Badshah. Four decades later, I learned
that my friend Ketan Anand had held
the towel that covered her before and
after the shots. I think Protima came to
Malaysia to see whether she had an­
gered me by taking a risk too far. I
didn't berate her for it. What was the
point? The deed had been done. She
returned to Mumbai soon enough. The
Indian press went berserk over ''India's
first streaker''. Pictures of her running
naked were printed everywhere. It made
her nationally famous, years before she
excelled as a classical dancer. She was
thrilled. Publicity was the oxygen of her
existence; it made her feel alive. Mission
accomplished.
Early in 1975, Alyque Padamsee cast
me as the lead in Vultures, a play by
the great Marathi dramatist Vijay Ten­
dulkar. A play filled with the raw emo­
tions of a family falling on hard times
and turning against each other. Pheroza
Godrej, known for her philanthropic
causes today, and the great theatre actor
Farrokh Mehta gave outstanding perfor­
mances. But after Tughlaq audiences ex­
pected to see me in another grand role,
not an ungrateful, ill-tempered man who
savages all around him. I was deeply dis­
appointed it wasn't the runaway hit I'd
hoped it would be. I was proud of my
performance, it expanded my versatil­
ity as an actor. Soon after that, Protima
found her calling as a performer.
In August 1975, Protima returned home
one night, effervescent as popped cham­
pagne. By chance, she had stepped into
the Bhulabhai Memorial Institute to es-
cape the rain. She had been blown
away by a troupe of dancers performing
Odissi, one of the six styles of Indian
classical dance. It had been banned by
the British in colonial times at the insti­
gation of Christian missionaries.
It was a transformative moment for Pro­
tima, of which she wrote:
The beauty, grace, sensuousness and
lyricism of the dance overpowered my
senses. It had a tremendous aesthetic
and spiritual quality, and the exquis­
ite music was like nectar to my rav­
aged heart. I was consumed by it, as
a piece of wood is consumed by fire.
It filled me with the kind of passion I
have never known before. It was as if
I was in a trance.

She told their guru, Kelucharan Mahapa­

tra, the greatest living teacher of Odissi,
that she was willing to give up every­
thing if he agreed to become her teacher.
He put her to the test immediately. Was
she willing to leave with him that night
on a train to Odisha, a state on the
eastern coast of India, a thousand miles
away? Impossible, she protested, she
couldn't just leave her children without
saying goodbye. In that case, the guru
said, she would have to reach Odisha
before he got there himself. The only
way she could do that was by catch­
ing a flight the following morning. Pro­
tima implored me with a fevered rush of
words.
''Kabir, I'll die if I don't go. I must learn
this dance. Please, I have to go. Look
after the children until I return. Please.
It's very important to me. It's something
that makes me feel alive ... gives me
meaning ...'' She sounded like a bubbling
brook. I tried to wrap my head around
what she was asking; it was all so sud­
den!
''How long will you be gone?'' I'd imag­
ined a couple of weeks perhaps.
''Three months," she blurted out, looking
at me imploringly. I was taken aback.
''That's a long time. How will the kids
feel? Think about it."
''I've already decided. I need you to
look after the children. This is going to
change my whole life. Please help me,
I'm begging you!''
I had always wanted her to focus her en­
ergies in a positive way. I knew how de­
termined she could be when she set her
sights on what she wanted. Her intensity
made me happy. I remembered what my
father had said the first time he ever met
her.
''You're a dancer," he'd told her, but she
hadn't believed him.
''Me?'' she exclaimed in surprise. ''I've
only danced in discos.''
He shook his head emphatically. He had
powerful psychic abilities.
''Every cell in your body is of a dancer,''
he had insisted.
She hadn't done anything about it, until
now. But chance had led her to a life­
changing choice. It could only do her
good.
''Okay," I said with a smile. ''If that's
what you really want to do, do it."
I put her on the nine o'clock flight out
of Mumbai the next morning. It was
the beginning of her incredible journey
into the world of Indian classical dance.
Most dancers start training when they
are six years old. Protima was twenty­
six. Dancing for rock bands was her
only qualification, yet her dedication to
Odissi was awesome. She threw herself
into the ancient gurukul system with
a passion: rising before dawn, dancing
twelve to fourteen hours a day, her
feet blistering, skin peeling off. It was
a huge transformation for a Mumbai
girl used to a life of comfort and ser­
vants. There were ''millions'' of mosqui­
toes and lizards on the walls. She drew
her bathwater from the well, washed her
clothes and slept on a mat in a hall. She
cooked food and pressed Guruji's feet at
night. In those months of rigorous train­
ing, the Guruji must have seen Protima
would blossom into a great dancer. She
had found her calling, and nothing was
going to stop her. But as she discov­
ered her passion in life, another entered
mine.
Protima's absence gave me time to
think. Had I been kidding myself? Our
open marriage may have seemed like a
good idea at first. In the end, it only
caused me greater anxiety. It might have
worked for Brad and Emmy, but it wasn't
working for me. It had led to a lack of in­
timacy between us. I didn't feel the love
that I wanted, the caring and sharing I
needed. Nor was I able to give it. The old
magic had gone. I had felt alone, empty
and dejected.
Parveen Babi filled that void. She was
a ravishingly beautiful actress with fair
skin, long black hair and dark, mes­
merising eyes. Until then, I'd always
thought of her as ''the girlfriend of
Danny Denzongpa''. He was a good-look­
ing Sikkimese actor, two years younger
than me, a year older than Parveen.
In the years ahead, he would become
a highly successful villain in Bollywood
and be nominated for many Filmfare
Awards. Parveen began her rapid rise
to stardom during their four years to­
gether. Her living openly with Danny,
wearing jeans and smoking in public,
had given her a bohemian image in
India. But, morally, she was a conserva­
tive Gujarati girl. While the rest of the
Juhu gang talked about the ''free sex''
preaching of Guru Osho, she believed in
sexual fidelity. It's what I was looking for
when I fell in love with her.
Our relationship began, when I least ex­
pected it, with an uncanny coincidence.
Every Sunday was an ''open house'' at
our Beach House flat whenever Protima
or I were in town. Anyone could drop
in any time. It created many unexpected
groupings and lead to exciting discus­
sions. Parveen dropped in on a Sunday
afternoon when I was alone. No one
else was there that day. My children,
Pooja (now five) and Siddharth (three),
had gone for a birthday party. Anthony,
our Christian cook, had left for Sunday
church. She settled onto the floor cush­
ions that lined our sitting room and
propped herself on a bolster. She told me
her relationship with Danny was over.
She had moved back to her own flat in
the same building in Juhu.
''What happened?'' I asked in surprise.
Nothing, she said with a smile. They
both needed to move on. I realised this
wasn't just a lover's spat. Strangely,
it didn't seem to bother her. When I
probed further, I saw her indifference
was a mask. She was wounded and
angry. I offered to make her a cup of tea,
my solace in times of trouble. She nod­
ded absently and I set off to make it.
When I returned, she was staring at the
sun filtering through the green palms of
the garden. Tears were streaming down
her face. I put down the tea, sat down
beside her and held her gently. A light
breeze fluttered through the windows.
She pulled away from me slowly.
''Did you feel that?'' she asked, looking at
me intensely.
''You mean the wind?'' I wasn't sure
what she meant.
''It's not wind," she said softly. ''It's spir­
its who came to comfort me."
Maybe she had picked up something
I hadn't. I wasn't going to argue. She
needed to be consoled, not questioned.
''Are you feeling better now?'' I asked.
She nodded slowly. ''I know they'll look
after me," she said, wiping her tears.
Without tasting her tea, she got up shak­
ily. ''I must go now." I stood up with her.
She put her arms around me and rested
her head on my chest. I held her softly.
She looked up at me, eyes wide open. It
felt like an invitation to be kissed. I knew
she was in a fragile state and didn't want
to hurt her. I kissed her on the forehead.
She gave me a strange look and turned
to go. I sensed her disappointment.
Months after our relationship began, she
said she'd fallen in love with me that day
because I didn't ''grab her''.
Actresses have been ''grabbed'' from Bol­
lywood to Hollywood since motion pic­
tures began. The majority are preyed on
by people who use their power to allure
or force them using threats to cast them
aside. It damages the name of the indus­
try, and it damages the girls much more.
It's better today, I'm told, but hasn't
quite gone away.
''I'll see you down to your car," I said as I
walked with her out of the flat.
''Don't bother," she said testily. ''I can
take care of myself."
What the hell is going on here? I asked
myself as she went down alone. Did
I do something wrong? Should I have
gone down the path she seemed to in­
dicate? My mind buzzed with confused
thoughts as I went to sleep that night.
A week later, she called to invite me for
dinner. I thought she was having a small
party and agreed. But it was just the two
of us. Her sitting room had thick floor
cushions and bolsters with traditional
Indian patterns. It was designed by
Zarine Khan, the wife of my star friend,
Sanjay Khan. Beautiful ashtrays lay on
an elegant glass coffee table. Soft music
was playing and the lights were low.
I knew what she wanted the minute I
walked in. By then I was as ready for her
as she was for me. It wasn't long before
we disappeared into her bedroom, all
dinner plans abandoned. It was the most
sensuous experience I'd had in a long
time. It was more than the excitement
of having sex with a woman for the first
time. We clung to each other with an in­
tensity that was electric. The first sleep
we shared together felt sublime. I woke
the next morning feeling renewed. She
showed me a tenderness that I'd never
expected. I missed being loved like that.
I didn't want it to stop. By the end of a
few weeks, I wanted to love her forever. I
was in heaven. The troubles of my world
seemed far away.
I knew trouble lay ahead when Protima
told me she was returning from Odisha.
I planned to receive her at the airport.
Parveen didn't like that at all. She feared
Protima with a passion. I argued I should
go. She finally relented, but angrily drew
the line on my staying the night at Beach
House.
''Are you saying I should move in with
you?'' I asked.
''My heart is open to you, so is my home.
Don't you want to stay with me, my
love?''
I was more than willing to stay with
her, but I had to think of the children.
They needed to be told gently. I couldn't
hold onto my marriage for their sake any
longer. I'd done that for far too long. See­
ing Parveen's agitated state, I feared I'd
lose her if I stayed at Beach House any
longer. All the same, I insisted on going
to the airport.
My filming ran late next day. I asked for
a break, promising to return. I thought
I'd have time from the airport to tell
Protima about Parveen. I didn't stand a
chance. From the moment she arrived,
she gushed about the joys of Odissi. I
knew how much it meant to her and
I listened. She spoke non-stop till I
dropped her back to Beach House. I re­
turned from the shoot and joined her
and the children for dinner. As she put
them to sleep, I waited at my desk in the
bedroom, pretending to work, dreading
the impending moment. There was no
easy way to break the news.
''I'm going over to Parveen's tonight," I
said softly when she came in.
''Parveen's!'' she repeated in surprise.
I could see her computing what must
have happened. ''But I've only just ar­
rived. Can't you stay tonight at least?''
I shook my head. ''No, I have to be with
her tonight ... and every night.''
In that moment, she realised that our re­
lationship had changed forever.
She let out a deep breath and looked at
me. ''Do you love her?''
I nodded, not without sadness.
''Does she love you?'' she asked, her
voice a notch higher.
''Yes," I said gruffly, wanting to cry. I
knew I was ending a relationship where
we'd shared life-changing experiences
together, happy and unhappy, moral
and immoral, for six tumultuous years.
But I didn't want to show vulnerability.
I had to be strong to end it. I held her
by the shoulders to embrace her good­
bye. She clung to me and burst out cry­
ing. Then she sat down on the bed and
sighed deeply before she spoke.
''Please leave me alone now,'' she said in
a firm voice as tears welled in her eyes.
''Leave me alone. Please go!''
Our ''open marriage'' was over. Our part­
ing had become inevitable. An unspeak­
able sorrow came over me. It felt I'd lost
my oldest friend.
The break-up of a relationship is always
painful and messy. Mine was compli­
cated by my desire to see the children.
I had to keep returning to Beach House,
an intruder in my old home, for clothes
and meetings and to spend time with
the kids. Protima gave me a three-day
ultimatum to decide where I wanted to
be. That was it. I made my decision and
walked away.
A few days later, Protima surprised me
by coming to my new home. Parveen
came out of the bedroom, tense as a
coiled spring. Perhaps Protima had come
to create a relationship where we lived
like one happy family. Or she came to
size up our scene. Whatever her rea­
sons, the room crackled with tension.
''Kabir is yours," she told Parveen with
bravado. ''I don't want him back ever;
you are absolutely made for each other.
In these months you have managed to
give him what I couldn't in six years."
''Yes," Parveen said coldly. ''He's mine
now."
Parveen's bluntness unsettled her. I
think she expected Parveen to be more
gracious.
''Please respect our relationship,"
Parveen said, staring daggers.
Protima saw it was the end of the mat­
ter. ''I hope you'll be happy,'' she said
as she rose to go, wiping away sudden
tears.
The truth was that Protima thought I
was making the biggest mistake of my
life: ''The bloody fool. He had it so good with
me. I gave him everything, plus his freedom.
He could have had his affairs, he could have
done anything. I wouldn't have objected."
Even so, I had chosen intimacy, love and
fidelity. At the time, it was what I needed
the most. Parveen symbolised it.
She knew Protima wanted me back in
her life, no matter what she said. I over­
compensated for Parveen's insecurity. I
saw Pooja and Siddharth whenever I
could. I kept my distance from Protima,
though I'd have liked to stay friends. My
manager, Harbance Kumar (now known
as Mickey Nivelli), was a terrific go­
between. In later years, he became a
pioneering producer and filmmaker in
the West Indies, and remains a dear
friend. We agreed on the money Pro­
tima needed for running the house. I
promised to pay the children's expenses
and see them through college. I bought
the Beach House flat and put it in the
name of the Pooja Bedi Benefit Trust. I
wanted Pooja to always feel secure. Pro­
tima was a willing trustee, along with
my sister and me. All financials were re­
solved, but her emotional expectations
remained.
Two months after our break-up, Protima
invited us to her first Odissi performance
in Mumbai. I had enabled Protima's jour-
ney into dance. I wanted to go and ap­
plaud her. I told Parveen what I thought
but she didn't agree at all. I tried to argue
with her, but she walked into the bed­
room and slammed the door behind her.
I could hear her crying bitterly. I realised
the consequences of my going would
be severe. In the end, I didn't go. Pro­
tima was upset and disappointed. She
never knew the anguish I felt at missing
her debut as a classical dancer. When
she became one of India's most famous
Odissi dancers, no one was happier than
me. But, at that time, Parveen was the
centre of my existence.
I divorced Protima but never my chil­
dren. Yet they suffered the emotional
pain of our break up. When there's a
divorce, many parents talk of ''quality
time'', but it's the quantity that counts.
When I moved abroad for work, the chil­
dren saw even less of me. I missed them
as much as they missed me. I always
flew them to wherever I was in the world
during their vacations. I shot countless
pictures of their childhood they treasure
till today. But it was never the same as
before. Sadly, children suffer the most in
divorces.
Divorcing Protima was a psychological
necessity for me. Legally, it was a com-
plicated process in the 1970s. She didn't
make it easy either. Cases could go on
for years, even if there were no financial
issues. My lawyer said citing infidelity
was the fastest way forward. One of us
would have to blame the other. Protima
refused to do it because she wanted to
delay our divorce. She thought I was
making a mistake. Parveen sent her
manager Ved Sharma to persuade her.
But, secretly, Sharma ji didn't like the
idea of Parveen marrying me either. He
thought it would end her career and ruin
his livelihood. Most heroines who got
married didn't last long in those days.
So, he became Protima's secret ally in
thwarting my plans. She signed the di- . . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. .

vorce papers only a year later, after my

................................................................................................................................................................................
mother spoke to her.
In a tragic twist of fate, my relationship
with Parveen ended in 1977, which I
speak of in the next story. Protima and I
became friends again when I was shoot­
ing the sequel of Sandokan. I wrote her
a letter, asking her to bring Pooja and
Siddharth to Sri Lanka: ''There is abso­
lutely no reason on earth why we can't
be good friends, fellow travellers who
have shared much together, and in our
own special ways see the beauty of our
existence. How many people are there
with whom correspondence is a joy? So,
as a friend, if you wish to come down
to Ceylon with the children I would be
delighted."
There was warm laughter in our togeth­
erness as we met again in the verdant
green of the island, on the sets of La
Tigre e"Ancora Viua: Sandokan Alla Riscossa
(The Tiger Is Still Alive: Sandokan to the
Rescue). The children had a fabulous va­
cation with us. It felt good to talk to Pro­
tima without all the emotional baggage.
Two years later, Protima's letter to me
had a far deeper emotion:
''I feel a great and true love for
you. A love that comes from a life­
time of being together. Not a love
that a woman feels for a man. No,
not that at all. Anyone can fall in
love with anyone. Everyone does it
all the time. This one is different.
It's something ageless and solid
and comfortable and non-depen­
dent on how you choose to feel. If
you should ever in the future need
a friend, a true and loyal friend, a
solid heart, a mother's heart, re­
member me, for I am and will al­
ways be there. There, for the father
 of my children, for I am the eternal
Mother.''
I was touched and moved by her letter.
We remained friends divided by conti­
nents, exchanging letters, talking about
the children.
In 1982, I returned to India for the James
Bond film Octopussy. I was the first In­
dian actor to play a major role in a Bond
film. I invited Protima to perform Odissi
for the Bond team in Udaipur. They were
always looking for new acts in their films
and I thought it might open new doors
for her. We were filming some spectacu­
lar action on location. My autorickshaw
pursuit of Roger Moore in Udaipur's nar­
row streets; chasing James Bond in the
jungle on elephants; dramatic scenes at
the famous Lake Palace Hotel, shown as
the lair of Octopussy, played by Maude
Adams, and the villains, Louis Jourdan
and me. Cubby Broccoli, the legendary
producer of James Bond films, wasn't
there. But his brilliant daughter Barbara
Broccoli was supervising the film while
her half-brother Michael Wilson ran the
show. Most of the big names, including
director John Glen, stayed alongside me
at the Shiv Niwas Palace Hotel which
overlooked Udaipur's famous Pichola
Lake. In that dreamlike setting, Protima
wowed them all with a spectacular per­
formance of Odissi.
At dinner around the Shiv Niwas pool,
Roger's Italian wife Luisa smiled at us
and said, ''You two are so happy to­
gether, laughing all the time. Why don't
you live together?''
Protima laughed. ''It's because we don't
live together that we laugh. Once we
stay together the laughter goes. I prefer
it this way."
''I see," said Luisa, not seeing. ''After see­
ing you both so happy, I won't let Roger
visit his first wife anymore.'' Roger rolled
his eyes skyward.
That night, after a slew of drinks, I made
love to Protima again. It wasn't just sex
with the ex. For me, it was closure. I'd
never felt good about the way I left her
so abruptly. At the time, I was married to
my American wife Ixchel, then known as
Susan. She was in the London house we
had rented for the filming of Octopussy in
England. I didn't know it then, but Ixchel
had flown off to Rome for an affair of her
own. Poetic justice, I guess.
Three years later, my friendship with
Protima was seriously endangered when
she told me she was writing a book.
In the years that followed our parting,
she'd had many relationships with fa­
mous men. She wanted to write about
all her relationships, even ours. Know­
ing her as I did, it upset me greatly. I
wrote to her in anger on 17 January 1984
from Los Angeles: ''I am fundamentally
opposed to your writing the book you
have in mind because it will do nobody
any good, least of all yourself. I have
said it in the past and I will say it again:
you have the most self-serving memory
in the history of memories. Even worse,
over time you so embellish your selected
facts with fictional adornments that
even you cannot distinguish between
the two. I've seen this happen countless
times in my own case." This blast from
the past must have shaken her resolve.
The idea of the book was banished at the
time and we became friends once more.
But it was published decades later. As I
feared, her book was a mix of enormous
honesty, countless half-truths and omis­
sions, and many self-serving inventions.
Protima came to Los Angeles soon after
I wrote to her with an old desire in her
heart. She asked me to marry her again.
It was a hope too far. By then, I was
making a career in Hollywood and com­
mitted to my marriage with Ixchel. I told
Protima that marrying her again wasn't
possible. But she always let me know
there was a special place for me in her
heart. So had I for her in mine, though
not as a lover or husband. Beyond the
anger and pain we caused each other,
there remains an abiding love.
Before ending, let me tell you an in­
teresting story. In 1991, I was shooting
for Feroz Khan's Yalgaar at his farm­
house in Bangalore. He was fond of
Adam, my son from my wife Ixchel, ten
years old then, who was with me on
his vacation. One day, Feroz's favourite
Alsatian dog disappeared and he went
ballistic. Feroz's rages were legendary
and he always carried a gun. Everyone
was on edge. Search parties scampered
round the countryside and searched for
days. Not an Alsatian in sight. A week
later, Adam went to visit Protima at
Nrityagram, the iconic gurukul of Indian
classical dance she had built over the
years. It was twelve miles away, across
the national highway amid vast fields.
Inexplicably, Feroz's dog turned up there
as Protima and Adam were walking in
the open grounds. It crept up to them,
whimpering and starving. The dog had
never been there before, nor had Feroz.
Adam recognised him instantly, and the
dog started wagging his tail vigorously.
Protima fed him and Adam returned him
to Feroz triumphantly. It was a real mys­
tery. How did the dog find its way all the
way to Nrityagram? And, on the very day
that Adam happened to be there? No one
else would have recognised him. The
universe is full of inexplicable mysteries.
The universe gave me many opportuni­
ties to walk away from Protima: Homji;
forced marriage; Fritz; doubts about pa­
ternity; streaking; Jules Lafave. Many
other times. Had I then the wisdom
of today, I would have left her at any
of those points. In the end, we di­
vorced anyway. But without each other,
she might never have found her call­
ing, no one can know for sure. And I
might never have found Parveen Babi,
who gave me the most intense love
I'd known. Did Protima manipulate me?
Certainly. Was she deceptive? At times.
Should I have walked away earlier? Per­
haps it would have been wise. Do I have
resentments? Of course. But I wasn't a
saint myself. What we do, or don't do,
has greater consequences than we imag­
ine. Whatever I did in the past has got
me to where I am today.
What comes to mind when I look back
on my years with Protima? I remember
her dazzling smile, her large red bindi
and her ever-dancing eyes. We grew
up together, from youngsters to adults,
with joy and laughter, pain and tears.
She was my girlfriend, my wife, the
mother of my children, my partner in an
unconventional marriage, my yaar long
after our marriage ended. I remember
her irrepressible spirit and hard-earned
success as a dancer. The driving ambi­
tion that made Nrityagram an iconic in­
stitution. And the beautiful children she
gave me, Pooja and Siddharth. She was
a good mother too. I'll never forget her
zest for life, bubbling humour and waves
of infectious laugter. There's a warm
glow in my heart when I think of her
today. The rest just doesn't matter.
On one of my visits to India, Protima
had told me of her greatest desire. She,
Ixchel and I, together with Pooja, Sid­
dharth and Adam, living in a large
house, where she was the Mother. In
1997, there was an unusual gathering
around the Christmas tree in my Santa
Monica home in Los Angeles. Protima
had come with Pooja, Pooja's husband
Farhan and their one-month-old Alaya;
Ixchel, her husband Ken and our six­
teen-year-old son Adam; and my British­
Indian wife Nikki, whom I speak of later.
It was wonderful to have my both my ex­
wives celebrating Christmas with Nikki
and me. I was proud we were all still
friends. As any divorced person will tell
you, it's a rare achievement.
Pooja was a radiant twenty-seven-year­
old, as beautiful as the promise of her
childhood. Protima turned to her and
said: ''Remember the vision I always
had? It's happened, even if not exactly
as I wanted it ... all of us eating and
drinking around the fireplace. So much
love and laughter and good cheer!'' It
was the friendship she'd wanted all
along. In a deeper sense, our roller­
coaster relationship came full circle.
I was in India when she passed away
a year later in 1998. She died in an
avalanche that struck her camp on a
pilgrimage to Mount Kailash, sacred to
all Hindus. By then, she had moved be­
yond Indian classical dance, even be­
yond her proudest creation Nrityagram,
to begin a new journey of spiritualism.
She'd shaved off her thick long hair; it
had grown back into short grey frizz. She
wore the robes of a Hindu sannyasin.
She'd given all her jewellery and land to
Pooja before making her peace with the
universe. They never found her body,
only her passport. What remained were
the memories she gave us all, the lives
she'd touched, the unique gurukul of
dance she'd created, the dancers she'd
launched, and all the ones with whom
she shared her joie de uiure on earth.
In the end, I'm left holding an old let­
ter, reading what Protima said of life,
decades before her last pilgrimage:
''The importance of one's life dawns
on one, and with it a sense of purpose
and direction and an incredible feeling
of awe, when one realises what truly
is the wisdom of the ancients, and
how deep and true the real meaning
of religion. I know how destiny works
and how the karmic cycle is endless,
and I also know that it doesn't end
with death, for it's just a sheer ueil
between this and the other birth, the
other, the next life, and we shall all
. ,,
meet again . . .

Wherever you are, Kish, whenever you

return, I know you'll always be dancing.
 Parveen Babi, Kabir, Protima

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Kabir and Ixchel's wedding

With Pooja at the Sandokan shoot

 With Siddharth

With Adam

Protima performing Odissi

Kabir and Parveen Babi

Parveen Babi TIME cover

 Parveen and Kabir

RAFAGAS DE AME--·
TRAUADORA Al IIU·
COPTERO DE SIRIKIT

Kabir as the Black Pirate

 3
DAYS OF LOVE
AND GLORY
SANDOKAN AND PARVEEN BABI

Film stars are the objects of a million

fantasies. But they are not objects. They
are people with the strengths and frail­
ties of the human race. For all their
glory, film stars are insecure as the rest.
They quietly fear they will lose their
stardom. It gnaws their insides at the
release of every film, no matter how suc­
cessful they are. Fame can be a moment
in the sun or a lifetime of adulation.
There's no way to tell when it begins.
Nor when it all will end. I've seen many
stars rise and fall across three conti­
nents. Names change, but the games re­
main the same, in every film industry.
It's hard to remain the favourite star
for decades. A few may have done it,
most have tried and failed. Some have
been felled by changing tastes. Others
by inner demons. Some came for fame
and glory, others for simpler reasons.
Parveen Babi came to Bollywood from a
small town in Gujarat to buy ''a house
and a car'' and fell in love with her pro­
fession. But even as she became the fan­
tasy of millions, radically different from
the Bollywood heroines of her time, her
mind was fragmenting in slow motion.
''Parveen's small but crucial role in Yash
Chopra's Deewar - which was largely re­
sponsible for formulating her image as
the sleek, chic, Western woman with
long, open tresses, flying wildly in the
wind - became an unspoken expres­
sion of her desire to be unshackled by
convention, both on and off screen,''
wrote Jitesh Pillai, now editor of Film­
fare. Parveen had a bindaas devil-may­
care image, distinct from her more con­
ventional contemporaries of the 1970s:
Sharmila Tagore, Rekha, Jaya Bachchan,
Hema Malini and Mumtaz. Only Zeenat
Aman had played a westernised hero­
ine in Hare Krishna Hare Ram. Ironically,
Parveen was called ''the poor man's
Zeenat'' at first, but she soon eclipsed
her richly.
When I fell in love with her, Parveen's
greatest glory still lay ahead. She was a
fast-rising star with successes in films
like Majboor and Deewar. I'd only had
one hit film, Raj Khosla's Kuchche Dhaage.
Yet, the love we felt for each other was
so intense that all else became back­
ground music. She had a tender heart
and a sensitive soul. I loved her desire to
evolve. We talked of Jiddu Krishnamurti,
Osho and Indian philosophy. We shared
a love of poetry and all things creative.
We disliked the gossiping crowd and
preferred each other's company. She
loved to make sketches of me, notepads
full. But she complained with a laugh
that she could never get my lips ''right''.
She'd kiss me sometimes ''only to get
them right'' then laugh like a shy little
girl. It was a game we played with child­
like delight. She smoked Dunhills but
drank lightly, which suited me fine. I've
never been much of a drinker. Nothing
gave her greater joy than a Gujarati meal
with a dollop of mutton on the side. For
all her glamorous image, she was a con­
servative Gujarati girl at heart. She be­
lieved in fidelity with a passion. She was
a balm for my wounded soul after 1 left
my ''open marriage''.
And, my god, she was beautiful: haunt­
ing dark eyes in a perfect oval face, black
hair cascading down her shoulders, lips
as luscious as peaches. Her skin was
silky and fair. A slightly prominent tooth
made her smile all the more alluring.
Her body was every man's dream. She
was eight years younger than me, but far
wiser than her twenty-two years. I was
so smitten by her that in Stardust mag­
azine's feature, ''My Favourite Things'',
I once answered every question with
Parveen's name. In the interview, I said:
''With Parveen and me, I think it's a case
of two very lonely, very beautiful people
finding each other at the right time in
their lives."
We were certainly having the time of
our lives. Bollywood in the 1970s was a
terrific place to be. It was a thrill to rub
shoulders at premieres with the triumvi­
rate of acting legends, Raj Kapoor, Dilip
Kumar and Dev Anand, though their
best years were behind them. Dharmen­
dra, Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan,
Jeetendra and Shashi Kapoor ruled the
roost. Vinod Khanna and Shatrughan
Sinha were rising up the ladder fast.
Kishore Kumar was at the height of his
singing excellence, but drove producers
crazy with his moods. Parveen also had
her moods, as most people do. But the
extreme mood swings I saw told me her
problems ran deeper. All those problems
were far from my mind as we took off
for Italy on my thirtieth birthday, on 16
January 1976. It was to be the journey of
a lifetime.
Parveen was touching up her makeup
as the flight from Mumbai landed at
Rome's Fiumicino International Airport.
I was hoping that my Sandokan TV se­
ries, which had started broadcasting in
Italy ten days earlier, would take me up
the ladder of stardom. But I wasn't sure
how it had fared. In fact, I was seri­
ously worried. No one in Italy had called
me, nor was anyone reachable. Even my
agent, Emi di Sica, daughter of the leg­
endary director Vittorio de Sica, hadn't
called, nor was she picking up my calls
(later, she spoke of a ''personal crisis'').
In the 1970s, communicating abroad
wasn't easy. No internet, no email, no
mobiles. Long-distance calls had to be
booked on landlines through telephone
operators who called back after hours.
Director Sergio Sollima was perpetually
unreachable, his phone ''still engaged,
sir''. Producer Elio Scardamaglia hadn't
called either, nor had anyone else from
RAI, the Italian broadcasting network.
Their collective silence seemed like an
omen of bad tidings. However, a solitary
call from an Italian journalist, Corrado
Corradi, had given me a sliver of hope.
He had my number from the time he
came to India, three months earlier, for
a story in Italy's most popular magazine
TV Sorrissi e Canzoni to be released before
the broadcast. Parveen and I looked like
an Indian prince and princess in the pic­
tures his photographer had shot at the
Lake Palace in Udaipur.
''Your series is big success,'' Corrado had
said in broken English over a tenuous
line. ''You must come ...'' His encourage­
ment was enough for me to book our
tickets to Rome. As the plane taxied to a
halt, I saw a hint of a smile on Parveen's
lips. It reassured me. I trusted her in­
stincts as an actress.
As we stepped out of the plane, a blind­
ing array of paparazzi flashbulbs ex­
ploded from the edge of the tarmac. I
didn't believe they were photographing
me. I turned to look over my shoulder to
see which celebrity was behind us. A jab
in the ribs from Parveen jolted me back
to reality.
''Smile," she whispered. ''They're for
you."
It was a life-changing moment. As I
looked at the throng of photographers
below me, I felt a rush of adrenaline.
Was I a star in Italy? I asked myself,
wondering if it could be true. Parveen
led the way as I waved like an emperor
just crowned. We were a picture-perfect
couple: exotic, young and glamorous.
Photographers fell over each other in the
rush to capture our arrival. The scene
at the airport became the pattern of
my appearances in Italy. Crowds of peo­
ple, old and young, crying ''Sandokan!
Sandokan!'' crushed against us as we
walked through the airport to a wait­
ing Mercedes. People milled around me,
pushing and jostling, asking for my au­
tograph. No ''selfies'' in those days. Fans
shook my hand, kissed me, pulled at my
clothes, all wanting a piece of me. A few
overeager ones shoved Parveen aside as
we tried to get in our car. I put my arm
around her and apologised. But she was
furious and ignored me.
Parveen's frosty silence marred my tri­
umphal ride into Rome, despite the
over-excited chatter of the driver. I was
still dazed by the flashing paparazzi, and
I was too annoyed to speak. Something
extraordinary was happening in my life
and she was sulking over a bunch of
overexcited fans? Film stars are nothing
without their fans. She'd seen their adu­
lation in India. Was she resenting my
sudden success? I knew I had to change
her mood to feel any joy.
I held Parveen's hand and pointed out
the landmarks as we drove into the
heart of the Eternal City. Our car sped
past the Colosseum, where gladiators
once fought; past the Forum, where
chariots once raced; past Piazza Venezia,
where Mussolini once spoke to crowds.
This was the city where Caesar once
ruled the Roman Empire. I'd studied him
in college and played Mark Anthony at
school. Parveen remained unmoved. I
figured she was still hurting.
As we entered the Excelsior Hotel on Via
Veneta, Rome's most famous avenue,
the guests in the lobby went berserk,
flocking around us, pleading for auto­
graphs, pushing against each other. I
kept a firm arm around Parveen to shield
her. Doormen in embroidered caps and
bottle green uniforms fought fans to
get us safely to the elevators. Concierge
Carlo, cap knocked askew, turned to me
as the doors closed behind us.
''Autograph, please," he gasped. ''My
wife is crazy about you!''
The welcome at the hotel confirmed it: I
was now a star in Italy! It was the best
birthday present for an actor who had
struggled so hard to succeed.
We were ushered into a spacious suite
of classical Italian design. A sitting room
with ornate sofas and an antique desk,
a large bedroom with a carved king­
size bed. I'd asked Corrado, the jour­
nalist who urged me to come, to find
me ''a nice'' hotel. He had booked me
into Rome's most expensive. How the
hell was I going to pay for it? I hadn't
made a fortune in Sandokan, nor in my
few Indian films. And the biggest hassle
in those days was getting money out of
India; it was severely restricted. It was
strange that stardom was looming and
I was worrying about bills. But the re­
wards were in the future, the bills in
the present. Credit and debit cards didn't
exist at the time. I knew it would be a
big problem, but I pushed it aside to deal
with a more pressing problem.
Parveen's dark mood worried me,
though I understood her reasons. She
was a star and didn't like being side­
lined. She was always the centre of
attention in India. I knew she was a sim­
mering volcano when she couldn't ex­
press her feelings. It took a lot of coaxing
to break her silence.
''I'm sorry you were pushed around by
those fans at the airport," I apologised
softly.
''Why did you let them?'' she snapped as
she unpacked.
''I'm sorry, I just got carried away in all
the excitement," I sighed.
''You forgot about me, didn't you?''
''Listen to me, Jojo." It's what I called
her affectionately, she called me ''Bobo''.
''Can we move beyond what happened at
the airport? Sandokan is a big hit in Italy.
Doesn' t that make you happy?''
''Of course it makes me happy,'' she
replied testily. ''But I refuse to be pushed
around. I'm not just a pretty doll on your
arm."
I suppressed a smile. ''Pretty doll'' was
how she described herself in Bollywood
films. ''All that my heroes want is a
pretty doll on their arm,'' she said after
we started living together. ''They don't
want competition." Like Marilyn Monroe
who crafted her way to fame by playing
''the dumb blonde'', Parveen was will­
ing to play ''the pretty doll'' for success.
She had impressed the industry as an
actress in her first film, B.R. Ishara's
Charitra. He was known as a direc-
tor who inspired good performances in
his low-budget films. He had discovered
Parveen when she was still at college
at Ahmedabad, close to her hometown.
After she signed bigger films, she took
on her ''pretty doll'' avatar. It made her
a fast rising star. But she didn't want to
be seen as a ''doll'' in Italy. She wanted
respect.
''My darling,'' I assured her, ''I'll make
sure everyone knows what a big star
you are in India.'' Her smile was a ray
of sunshine. My heart leapt. I held her
close and kissed her. She always stirred
a storm of emotions in me when she was
upset.
Sandokan appeared in Italy as suddenly
as a thunderstorm. No one knew when it
was going to be broadcast. Titanus, the
studio that produced it, had been locked
in a legal battle with RAI, the broad­
caster who commissioned it, as produc­
tion costs had gone over budget. Legal
cases in Italy, as in India, can take
decades. In December 1975, a few weeks
before its broadcast, a wise Roman judge
decreed that the disputed amount (300
million Lira) be put in escrow by RAI
pending judgement, but Titanus had to
hand the series to RAI immediately.
They broadcast Sandokan the minute
they got hold of it, fearing appeals and
more delays, surprising everyone, even
me in faraway India.
Sandokan exploded across Europe, break­
ing all viewership records; records which
lasted for decades. The Sandokan title
song played on every radio station,
blared in bars, rocked every discotheque
and rose to the top of the charts. Peo­
ple sang it wherever we went. Fans soon
figured out where we were staying and
swarmed around the Excelsior. Police­
men battled screaming fans for days to
keep traffic moving in front of our hotel
on Via Veneta. Ironically, before I came
to Rome, I'd asked Corrado Corradi to
find public relations people ''to get some
interviews for me''. He picked the ultra­
big Mario Natale and the ultra-thin Si­
mona Barabesi, who reminded me of
Laurel and Hardy. It turned out to be
a smart move. Every television channel,
every radio station, every publication in
Italy wanted to interview, film or pho­
tograph us. I couldn't have handled it
all on my own. Mario and Simona were
master strategists who knew how to
milk success. They decided the order of
interviews, the look of our photo shoots
and the time and venue of our ap­
pearances. Journalists were given half-
hour slots, morning to evening. It was a
media carnival!
The Italian media showered me with
unprecedented accolades. Corriere della
Sera, a highly respected newspaper, ran
a front-page story saying I'd ''brought
back the star craze to Italy''. People
had ''not seen such fan frenzy in liv­
ing memory''. Others said I was the
''new'' Rudolph Valentino, Tyrone Power
or Errol Flynn. Screen International called
the series ''the biggest success in the
network 's history. Twenty-seven and a
half million people were glued to the
television sets. Hardly a soul could be
found on the streets of the nation. Howl­
ing teenagers stormed the TV station to
get a glance of the new idol when he ap­
peared at the fortress for a press confer­
ence. The police had to be called to hold
them back ...''
Merchandise of Sandokan dolls flooded
the market. Comic books, which had to
be completed with stickers bought in the
market, were the rage across Italy. Ships
were named Sandokan. Many people
wanting to name their children ''Kabir''
were rebuffed at the Registry office; the
letter ''K'' doesn't exist in Italian. In
memorable moment, Parveen and I met
Liza Minelli on the sets of a film being di-
rected by her father, Vincent. She called
us ''the world's most beautiful couple''.
In our final days in Rome, we looked
down at the news stand opposite the
Excelsior Hotel. We were on the cover
of almost every paper and magazine.
Kabir Bedi and Parveen Babi had become
household names in Italy. Parveen's
eyes shone with joy while I had tears in
mine. The boy from Delhi had done well.
It was the success that actors dream
of but rarely achieve. It all happened
thanks to one man's vision.
Sergio Sollima was, as I always called
him, ''the father of Sandokan''. He imag­
ined Salgari's classic novel as a series.
He wrote the screenplay, albeit with
others, and fought to have it made.
The popularity of the original Sandokan
books didn't guarantee its success. Luigi
Pavese played him in a 1941 film that
made no waves. In 1962, two films
with world-champion bodybuilder Steve
Reeves as Sandokan also sank without a
trace. Sergio's insistence on Oscar-win­
ning art director Nino Novarese gave the
series its spectacular visual elegance.
So did Marcello Masciocchi's photogra­
phy. Most remarkable of all was Sergio's
choice of musicians. Although he had
done five film scores with Ennio Morri-
cone, world-famous even then, he didn't
return to him. He had the courage to
pick the exciting new creativity of the
young Guido and Maurizio de Angeles
for the score. Choosing Phillipe Leroy as
Sandokan's buddy was a masterstroke.
In casting Adolfo Celi, the villain of the
James Bond film Thunderball, Sergio ele­
vated the show with an internationally
famous antagonist. Carole Andre was
the perfect choice for Marianna. She
gave her role a gentle vulnerability that
contrasted beautifully with Sandokan's
manly strength. But Sergio's boldest
choice was casting me, an unknown
actor from India, as his hero.
Sergio had asked me to join him for
lunch after I arrived for the shooting in
Kuala Terengganu, a town on the east
coast of Malaysia, the main location for
the series. He was in his early fifties,
balding on top, a bit overweight, tough
as nails, with a wry sense of humour. He
was famous for his Italian Westerns: Re­
quiem per un Agent Segreto with Stewart
Granger; Violent City with Charles Bron­
son; Reuoluer with Oliver Reed and Fabio
Testi. But he loved being in the East. He
was lunching on Nasi Goreng, a popu­
lar local dish, in the dining hall of the
Pantai Inn (Hotel). It looked out to the
soft sands of a vast palm-fringed beach.
Sergio was heavily tanned despite the
safari hat he wore over his dark glasses.
I ordered ''Malaysian Fried Chicken'' to
sample the local cuisine.
''Sergio," I confessed, ''I haven't read Sal­
gari's books on Sandokan.''
I had tried, but there weren't any English
translations. I'd read the script, repeat­
edly. And I'd asked every Italian I met
what Sandokan meant to them. It was
my way of understanding the role.
''Perfect!'' said Sergio with his trademark
abrupt laugh. ''Not to know is good. I will
tell you what you must know."
Franco Fantasia, ''master of arms'', the
stunt coordinator, joined us at the table.
He was a strong, sunburned man with
a distinctive goatee. He had to train me
for the stunts and action. After introduc­
ing us, Sergio told him to show me no
mercy. I agreed cheerfully; I loved action.
''What must I know, Sergio?'' I asked,
looking for insight.
''Certo! I will tell you,'' Sergio announced.
''Sandokan is a hero. But ... you must
not act like a hero. Because heroes are
ordinary people ... who do extraordinary
things. But they do not think of them­
selves as heroes ...''
''But Sandokan was a prince before he
became a pirate ...'' I pointed out. It mat­
tered to me; it would affect my manner.
''And yet,'' laughed Sergio, ''he was an
ordinary prince! He only started to fight
after his family was destroyed. Then,
Sandokan understood imperialism. He
fought against the British to save his
country after he lost his family.''
''So why did he fall in love with an Eng­
lish girl?'' I asked cheekily.
''Ah! Now you ask the right question!''
Sergio exulted. ''This is very important
for you as an actor. Sandokan was a man
of the heart. Not like ... an intellectual.
He did not think, he acted. Whatever his
heart told him, he did ... So don't think
too much."
Franco laughed with him, saying, ''Love
has no logic.''
My chicken arrived sooner than I ex­
pected. It looked like any other
chicken, lightly fried. Dismayed with
its plainness, I asked the ever-hovering
waiter. ''What's so Malaysian about this
chicken? It could be any chicken.''
''The chicken was born in Malaysia, sir.
So we call it 'Malaysian Fried Chicken.'''
''Cretino!'' Franco guffawed as we all
laughed together.
Sergio told me that James Brooke, the
white Rajah of Sarawak, played by
Adolfo Celi in the series, was an English­
man who had actually ruled Sarawak a
century ago. Emiglio Salgari, who wrote
the Sandokan books at the turn of the
century, put him in his stories. A few
months later, I happened to meet one of
Brooke's descendants at the bar of the
Raffles Hotel in Singapore. I'd never have
guessed it by his washed-out look. All
the same, it was fascinating to meet the
bloodline of my legendary antagonist.
''Any other wisdom?'' I asked Sergio.
''Not wisdom," he replied, in his typically
contrarian way. ''Only my personal stu­
pidity."
What he said was profound. ''You have
acted in theatre. Also, Indian films. So,
you must be careful. There is no need to
exaggerate your thoughts and emotions.
You have a very powerful face. If you
think it, it will be enough.''
''Good stupidity!'' I thanked him.
After lunch, Sergio suggested I go for my
first session with Franco immediately.
''One more stupidity,'' he added as we
rose to leave. ''Sandokan is a character
of the shoulders. Everything comes from
his heart ... but he moves with his shoul­
ders."
I made it the core of my performance.
Sergio guided me through emotional
love scenes, dramatic confrontations
and the art of waltzing in British ball­
rooms, never once losing his temper.
Franco choreographed complex sword
fights on ships and daring horseback
duels in muggy tropical climes. The con­
tinuous work schedule took a slow but
heavy toll on me. I'd forge ahead with
passion, day after day, thinking every­
thing was fine. Then, one day, I'd realise
I had no energy left. Even lifting my
arm felt unbearable. At times, I'd fall on
my back, exhausted by Sergio's single
shots of long and continuous action. I
choked on smoke while walking through
a burning village. I cried in pain when
I twisted my ankle after jumping off
a running horse. Sergio comforted me
like a father. He never lost his humour.
Even when elephants carrying the actors
threw them off their backs in the jungle,
he had the crew in splits. Most of all,
he showed me how to make Sandokan
deeply human. Over the years, I saw
Sergio in Rome often and never stopped
thanking him. When he passed away, I
came from India for his funeral to share
my grief with his children. Stefano Sol­
lima, his son, is one of Italy's best di­
rectors today; Samanta, his daughter, is
a brilliant photographer. They gave him
his greatest joy.
During the shooting in Malaysia, de­
signer Nino Novarese told me interesting
stories. He was a thickset man in an
immaculate tweed jacket with glasses
thick as Coke bottles. He'd won an Oscar
as the art director of Cleopatra star­
ring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Tay­
lor. Nino was a cornucopia of knowledge
when he spoke of historical times, but
I loved this one the most: ''In ancient
Rome, actors were given the greatest
honour, toasted by high society, wined
and dined by the richest aristocrats and
senators. But they were not allowed to
get married or testify in court. They were
forbidden to do anything that required
them to take an oath. Because Romans
regarded actors as professional liars.''
I did not want my performance to be a
lie. I wanted it to come from the centre
of my being. I spoke of it in a letter to my
family two days before shooting began
on 31 July 1974:
No sweat, no tension. There is noth­
ing to prepare. I am Sandokan in my
spirit: free, untamed, noble, a leader
among men. I say this without ego,
I know it to be so. I am many other
things too: less noble, more selfish.
But not in my spirit. All I seek is the
freedom to be. Which is all that San­
dokan sought. So I am playing this
straight from the heart.
I prepared hard physically too:
A divine week: windblown, sun­
kissed, a celebration of health and
youth. Yoga in the morning be­
fore breakfast. Then swimming and
browning by the pool. Light protein
lunches. Then fencing in the gym
with Franco. After the sweat-drenched
fencing session, a run on the beach till
the stamina holds out. Then collapse,
recover, and swim in the sea. It's
warm and beautiful and, to the tired
body, the sea seems like a universal
womb enfolding all. It's exhilarating
and tiring.

I called Malaysia ''the country of

Jonathan Livingston Seagull'' for the
birds that wafted in its bluest skies over
an endless sea. I had become Sandokan.
Now I was seeing its explosive impact.
In Rome, the frenzy of fans and
media reached a dizzying pitch. Jour­
nalists asked for stories beyond my
praise of Sergio. They were surprised
by how many ''languages'' were spoken
when we shot. Carol Andre, my French­
American leading lady, spoke with an
American accent; French actor Phillipe
Leroy, Sandokan's Portuguese friend,
spoke English that sounded French;
Hans Kaninenberg performed only Ger­
man; Andrea Giordano acted in Italian;
Iwao, a Fifth Dan in karate, acted only in
Japanese. Malay and Tamil actors spoke
their own languages too. Only Adolfo
Celi, who played James Brooke, and I
spoke ''international'' English. The many
languages spoken complicated my per­
formance. In the end, it didn't matter.
We were all dubbed into Italian, French,
German, Dutch, or Spanish, all the lan­
guages spoken across Europe and South
America. But the media wanted masala
gossip.
They asked me about Carole Andre: Had
Sandokan's love for Marianna entered
our lives as well? They tried everything
to wheedle it out of me. I understood
their intense curiosity. Sandokan's love
for Marianna was the heart of the epic
story. Every girl in Italy wanted to be
Carol Andre. Sergio had chosen her with
care. He'd known her since she was
fourteen, when she'd played a role in his
Face to Face. She honed her skills in small
roles with big directors: Luchino Vis­
conti, Duccio Tessari and Dino Risi. Our
chemistry on screen as Sandokan and
Marianna was palpable. It lit up millions
of hearts. So, everyone assumed we'd
had an affair during the shooting. Alas,
to their great disappointment, it never
happened. I was focused on my perfor­
mance, and Carole was struck by a ter­
rible personal tragedy: her father passed
away during the shooting. Yet she gave
a memorable performance even as she
mourned him deeply. Her professional­
ism was central in making Sandokan an
epic success.
My adventure with Sandokan began the
day I met ''the Italians'' in 1974. Producer
Elio Scardamaglia, Production Designer
Nino Novarese and Sergio were tour­
ing Asia to find a tall, athletic, prefer­
ably bearded actor to play the role of
Sandokan. Mumbai was their first port
of call. My name came up when they
asked around. It helped that I'd grown
a beard for my first Bollywood hit. After
its success, all my producers asked me
not to shave. My beard was deemed
''lucky'' and became my trademark. Pro­
ducers in Bollywood are superstitious.
Every shooting always begins with the
breaking of a coconut for blessings of
the gods. My beard wasn't the only thing
which had impressed the Italians. When
I had done Tughlaq, directed by Alyque
Padamsee, the play opened with me
standing with my chiselled back to the
audience, looking totally naked. It was
an illusion that had worked brilliantly.
Mumbai couldn't stop talking about my
butt.
''The Italians'' heard tales of my beard
and butt. They tracked me down
through Luciano Cattania, their intrepid
production assistant, through Didi Con­
tractor, an architect friend who designed
exquisite Indian homes. They asked to
meet at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,
an iconic hotel built by Jamsetji Tata
in 1903. It was his answer to Watsons,
a British hotel where Indians were not
allowed. It was a perfect place for East
to meet West. The Italians were waiting
for me on the lawns of the Taj with its
Saracenic arches. When they saw me,
another coincidence kicked in. I resem­
bled the sketches that illustrated Sal-
gari's original books of Sandokan. They
watched me closely as I talked before
turning to look at each other. I was on
tenterhooks.
''We have found our Sandokan," said
Nino Novarese, sipping Coke with a slice
of orange.
I was ecstatic. I thought I'd landed the
role.
''So can we all go home now?'' asked
producer Scardamaglia half in jest, his
hands caressing each other. He liked
to save money, as every good producer
does. Elio had made over twenty films
and television series. Now he was pro­
ducing Sandokan for the legendary Gof­
fredo Lomabardo of Titanus Film, who
had been commissioned by RAI. France's
ORTF and Germany's Bavaria TV were
its co-producers. Sergio dashed Elia's
hopes.
''Calm down, ragazzi," commanded Ser­
gio Sollima. He liked to take charge by
calling people children, even if they were
older than him. He spoke in Italian but
I caught the drift. ''We have six more
cities to go. Six. We'll test him in Rome.
The tour must go on.''
He was determined to find the best actor
for Sandokan in Asia.
Scardamaglia cleared his throat, took me
aside and fired the opening salvo. He
was a pleasant-looking man with a re­
ceding hairline in a light blue shirt and a
darker blue suit.
''Can you come to Rome for an audition,
at your cost?''
At first, my ego bristled. I thought: How
dare he ask me to pay my own way to Rome?
I'm not a struggling actor to do his bidding!
But my soul whispered to me: do not to
miss this opportunity. It could be the so­
lution to my dilemma. To be a success­
ful star in Bollywood you had to excel
in ''song and dance numbers''. Alas, I
wasn't comfortable performing them. If
I wanted acting to be a lifelong career, I
would have to go abroad. So, I agreed to
Scardamaglia's offer without a fuss and
sealed my audition in Rome.
The auditions in Rome were my first
experience of Italy. Sergio put me to
the test in locations around the city:
horse riding, fencing, swimming, dra­
matic scenes, love scenes, makeup and
photography tests. I saw Italy's creativ­
ity in the people who worked behind
the scenes. Historic palazzos with peel-
ing paint filled with deft seamstresses
stitching historical costumes, shoemak­
ers crafting boots from the softest
leathers, wig-makers weaving hairstyles
of every era, craftsmen proud of their
skills. I saw how Italians valued their de­
signers, whether famous fashion brands,
tailors with unique regional styles or
crafters of film costumes. That's why
Italy has always excelled in the world of
design.
I've never forgotten Nino Novarese's
kindness during my audition. Coming
from warm Mumbai, I hadn't realised
it would be so cold in Rome. I didn't
have money to buy warm clothes. In­
dira Gandhi's government had imposed
a draconian limit on foreign exchange
Indians could take abroad. Seeing me
shiver, Nino invited me for a coffee. In­
stead, he took me to Cenci, a store with
elegant Italian clothes, near Rome's his­
toric Pantheon.
''Buy what you like," Nino said, gesturing
to the racks.
''I don't have any money, Nino,'' I con­
fessed, embarrassed.
''Pay me back when you can," he said
with his characteristic twinkle. ''You will
have a lot of money one day.''
I bought a thick coat. He added a beau­
tiful scarf and gloves. His kindness still
brings tears to my eyes. The world bends
before you when you're famous. But this
was two years before Italy knew I ex­
isted. I always remember Nino with love
and gratitude.
Now, in Rome, the media was insatiable
for interviews and photographs. Parveen
looked gorgeous in all the interviews,
not easy for an actress in a non-stop
schedule. Her wardrobe had only casual
jeans and tops or ultra-formal wear; not
much in-between. After a week of smil­
ing incessantly for cameras, the strain
began wearing her down. In Mumbai,
she spaced out her interactions with the
outside world, venturing out only for big
occasions or small parties. Not many
were allowed into her home. It was her
sanctuary, her womb of protection. She
was an intensely private person and pro­
tected herself psychologically. In Rome,
her space was being overrun by the glare
of the media, and it unsettled her. I
didn't blame her.
To escape the media, Parveen took time
out to explore Rome. She slipped out
of the hotel, well-disguised, to see what
I'd seen in my auditions. She returned
in awe of the Trevi Fountain, where
tourists threw coins into the water for
wishes to be granted, the splendour of
St. Peter's in the Vatican, and the ma­
jestic simplicity of the Pantheon, once
a Roman temple long before Christian­
ity came to Italy. She gushed the most
about the Fountain of the Four Rivers in
Piazza Navona. It's one of my favourites
too. It has an Egyptian obelisk at its
centre, surrounded by Bernini's breath­
taking sculptures of the gods of the four
great rivers on four continents: the Nile
in Africa, the Danube in Europe, the
Ganges in Asia and the Rio de la Plata
in the Americas. Whenever Parveen's
creativity was touched, it brought out
the best in her. She made impression­
istic sketches of all she saw. We both
had an artistic streak, but our temper­
aments were quite different. At times,
that tested our tempers.
One morning, we received news that put
our tempers to the test. Cecil De Mello,
the manager of Air India in Rome, con­
veyed an invitation to dinner from Gina
Lollobrigida. It was a huge honour. De­
lighted, I thanked him profusely. In the
mid-1970s, Sophia Loren and Gina Lollo­
brigida were the most famous Italian ac­
tresses in the world. Gina had won many
prestigious awards: David di Donatellos,
Nastro d'Argentos, Golden Globes. She
became world-famous by acting with
legendary American actors: Humphrey
Bogart in Beat the Deuil; Errol Flynn in
Crossed Swords; Burt Lancaster in Trapeze;
Anthony Quinn in The Hunchback of Notre
Dame; Sean Connery in Woman of Straw.
At the time of Sandokan, Gina was a
certified global diva. Parveen and I were
thrilled to be invited by such a big star.
''All roads lead to Rome'' is a popular
saying of old. That night, the roads of
Rome led to Gina's exquisite villa. It
lay on the Appian Way (Via Appia An­
tica), the most important road in histor­
ical Rome. We were to meet a gathering
of her friends at home before she took
us for a private dinner at an exclusive
restaurant in the city.
The evening with Gina started badly.
From the moment Parveen and I were
ushered into her sitting room, deco­
rated lavishly with sculptures and ori­
ental paintings, she ignored Parveen. As
she steered us from one group of friends
to another, she spoke only to me. I
tried to include Parveen, but it didn't
quite work. Gina talked of her love of
all things Asian. Sandokan's Malaysia,
she gushed, reminded her so much
of the Philippines which she adored. I
could feel Parveen's anger rising, but I
didn't want to be rude to the legendary
Lollobrigida in her own home. Every­
one was raving about Sandokan. So I
accepted their compliments graciously
while keeping a wary eye on Parveen.
Things didn't get any better. After the
cocktails at Gina's home, we headed into
Rome, along with Cecil De Mello, to a
restaurant whose name I forget. It had
a classy ambience with small alcoves of
private tables and chairs. A band played
ballroom music near a dimly lit dance
floor. Parveen and I were ushered to
our table and seated in front of Gina
and Cecil. The dishes were suggested
by Gina, and the wine proposed by the
maitre d'. Gina surprised me by say­
ing that photography and sculpture were
her real passions. She had photographed
Paul Newman, Salvador Dali and Ella
Fitzgerald. But I wanted to talk about her
profession.
''People always compare you with
Sophia Loren, don't they?''
''It's like comparing a vulture to a dove!''
Gina exclaimed with a laugh.
Cecil laughed aloud and said, ''You must
see Gina's 'India Room' in her house."
Gina agreed with an instant smile. ''We
go there after dinner.''
Parveen squeezed my thigh under the
table to make sure I didn't reply.
Cecil urged us on, ''It's the best adver­
tisement for India.''
I smiled enigmatically.
''Let's dance!'' said Gina, taking my hand
as she rose from the table. I followed her
onto the dance floor as Parveen looked
on annoyed. We danced a gentle foxtrot
and talked of her American films. She
was delighted I'd seen them all. I was
elated to be holding her in my arms,
wrapped in her perfume, guiding her
on the polished dance floor. A voice in­
side me yelled, ''Hey, I'm dancing with
Gina Lollobrigida!'' I felt her warmth but
didn't get too close. I sensed a woman
who loved life and enjoyed it, certainly
ambitious, yet a woman who had suf­
fered much along the way.
She looked over at Parveen and said,
''She is very beautiful."
I smiled in appreciation and the song
came to an end. The band began another
number as we drifted back to our table.
Gina settled in and finally turned to
speak with Parveen.
''And you, my dear! What are you doing
here?'' she asked with the air of a queen.
''Following the star?''
I was too surprised to react. It was
an undisguised attack by a star I ad­
mired on the woman I loved. How was
I to respond? I was being dined by the
legendary Gina Lollobrigida and she'd
pissed off my woman.
Parveen replied, sharp as a razor, quick
as a rapier, before I could think of any­
thing. ''No, my dear'' she said with a
deadly gleam in her eye, ''I'm with my
man ... Because I haue a man."
''Oh!'' Gina gasped in surprise. ''She's
clever. This one is very clever."
Parveen turned to me with a look I
recognised as lethal.
''Let's dance," she said, rising. It was an
order not to be refused.
We were the only ones on the floor. As
we did a gentle foxtrot, I felt the ten­
sion in her body. Every muscle was taut
as a bow. Her dancing was mechanical.
How could I make peace between the
women? Both were stars, both had sen-
sitive egos. I tried to hold her closer,
hoping the music would calm her. It
didn't work for long.
Parveen nuzzled closer and dropped a
bombshell.
''I'm leaving,'' she whispered into my
ear.
''Leaving?'' I repeated, not sure I heard
right. ''Leaving the dance floor?''
''No, I'm going back to the hotel."
I pulled back and looked at her in disbe­
lief.
''You can't do that ..." I protested. ''If you
leave, I also have to leave. You know
that, right?''
''Do what you like," she said firmly. ''I'm
.
1eav1ng ...''

She had put me in an impossible situa­

tion. I tried to defuse it.
''Look, I'm sorry Gina was rude to you.
She shouldn't have done that. But you
gave it right back to her. Did you see her
.
expression ....�''
''I don't give a shit about her. I'm leav­
ing.''
''We can't just walk out of a dinner with
Gina Lollobrigida!''
''I can. You do whatever you want.''
I could see she'd made up her mind. I
made a last, desperate appeal.
''Please don't do this to me," I pleaded.
''Look, Gina is jealous of you because
you're young and beautiful. She wants
what you have. Cut her some slack. She
feels threatened. Think of it as a compli-
ment ...''
''Don't even try, baby," Parveen replied
with a thin smile. ''She may be impor­
tant to your career, not to mine. I've had
enough, I'm leaving.''
As Parveen headed back to our table, I
followed her wondering what I should
do. I knew very little about Italy's
movers and shakers, even though I'd be­
come a star. If I stayed back with Gina,
I'd probably learn more about the Italian
film industry, maybe of Hollywood too.
But she had, unquestionably, been rude
to Parveen. I made my decision. I would
go with my woman.
''Aaah," Gina gushed as we reached her.
''Did you enjoy your little dance?''
Parveen was reaching for her bag as I
bent down to give Gina the news.
''I'm sorry, Gina, we've got to go."
''But why?'' she protested loudly. ''We
have not eaten yet ...''
I spoke to her politely as Parveen walked
away.
''Forgive me, Gina. I have to leave. I hope
you understand why.''
''No, no! This is not right ...'' she objected
loudly. ''Dinner is coming just now ...''
Diners on other tables developed a sud­
den interest in us. Cecil looked aghast.
''Goodnight, Gina," I said apologetically.
''Thank you for your hospitality.''
I walked out in Parveen's wake as Gina
continued protesting.
Our dinner with the international diva
came to a sudden and inglorious end.
There were no fireworks as we returned
to the Excelsior. Not a word was ex­
changed on the way. She was angry and
restless as she tried to sleep. It worried
me. I'd seen her reaction to women by
whom she felt threatened. It made me
wary of what she could do when jealous.
I didn't want her raging against Gina in
the media. I was having nightmares with
my eyes wide open.
Next morning, Mario Natale arrived with
news that swept away my biggest worry.
He had persuaded RAI, the channel
which broadcast Sandokan, to pay my
hotel bills, as well as his own expenses.
I let out an audible sigh of relief. Even
better, said Mario, they were willing to
underwrite my onward journey to towns
in the north of Italy: Florence, Bologna,
Milan, Torino. The national press and
media had been saturated. Mario felt it
was time to campaign at local levels.
''The Tiger of Malaysia'', as Sandokan
was called, should keep roaring across
Italy.
But Parveen had decided to go back
to India. Gina's jibe had hit her hard.
Perhaps she was tired of living in my
shadow. Whatever her reasons, she was
done with Italy. Mario and Simona in­
sisted I go on the tour. I was torn be­
tween what was good for me and what
Parveen wanted. I told Mario I'd let him
know soon. I realised every day of my
stay was costing the network and he
wanted a quick decision. I took Parveen
into the bedroom and told her I wanted
to stay on. Still smouldering from the
night before, she lashed out against me
angrily.
''You just want all those Italian women
who are drooling over you! Maybe you
want Gina too. Who knows what goes
on in your head? All you think about is
yourself!''
She was being unfair, and it hurt me. I
lashed back.
''Don't dictate to me!'' I shouted. ''Why
the hell should I go back to India in the
middle of my greatest success just be­
cause you say so?''
''Don't you shout at me!'' she yelled
back. ''Nobody shouts at me."
This was dangerous territory. I didn't
want it spiralling out of control. I low­
ered my voice, calmed her down and
said we'd talk later. I told Mario he had
to wait another day. I brought it up next
morning over a breakfast of croissants
and coffee. She must have thought it
over and replied calmly. She would ac­
company me to Milan, where I wanted
her to meet my philosopher father, Baba
Bedi. Then she would return to India
alone. It was a happy compromise. The
exquisite Italian lunch that followed was
filled with laughter and joy. The Parveen
I loved most was back. After that, we en­
joyed some fun days together.
One day, we were invited out by Sheila,
an Indian princess married to an Ital­
ian businessman, to Dal Bolognese, a fa­
mous restaurant near Piazza del Popolo.
We lunched at a table full of serious
men in dark suits. Parveen charmed
them all with her graciousness. As
we were leaving, the maitre d' asked
Mario Natale, ''What is Sandokan doing
with these guappi (gangsters)?'' Later, I
learned they were from the Camorra,
the mafia of Naples. I didn't know then
that the Camorra were more powerful
and wealthy than the Sicilian Mafia. But
I was morbidly thrilled to have lunched
with real gangsters.
As we stepped onto the street, my car
couldn't reach me through the crowds
that had gathered outside. Amid the
bedlam, an unlikely saviour emerged.
The ''King of Paparazzi'', Rina Barrilla,
whisked us away to safety in his rough
little car. Parveen was tickled pink to
have been rescued by a paparazzo. From
then on, I always made sure Rina got the
best pictures. I never forget people who
helped me.
I'll never forget Adolfo Celi for his friend­
ship. He wasn't anything like the villain
he played in Sandokan. He was a warm
and generous soul who was constantly
on the lookout for great Italian dishes.
He invited Parveen and me for mem­
orable dinners at Tuscan and Sicilian
restaurants where we drank great wines
and he regaled us with his stories. He
told me how he went to Brazil for an
Italian film, fell in love and decided to
stay on. Over the next seventeen years,
he became a major figure in the Brazilian
theatre. Equally suddenly, he came back
to Italy and returned to international
cinema as ''Emiglio Largo'', the villain of
the James Bond film Thunderball. We al­
ways kept in touch. In the early 1980s,
I met Adolfo in the middle of St. Mark's
square in Venice at midnight. He'd just
finished a performance in the theatre.
We embraced each other with cries of
''Brooke!'' and ''Sandokan!'' and talked of
our great times together. It was the last
time I saw him before he passed away in
1986. I'm still friends with his filmmaker
son Leonardo and daughter Alessandra.
I went to Palermo to honour his memory
when they named an avenue after him
in the heart of the great city.
Something truly amazing happened
when Parveen and I were in Rome. Fed­
erico Fellini, one of the greatest filmmak­
ers of all time, asked to meet Parveen
and me. I was too thrilled for words.
I'd been a fan of his from the time I
saw a pirated copy of his iconic La Dolce
Vita as a student at St. Stephen's Col­
lege. Many in Italy called it ''an immoral
movie'' but it broke all box office records.
Film censorship in India was heavy in
those days. The only films that escaped
the censor's scissors were screened at
India's International Film Festival. I'd
stood in lines all night to get tickets
for Fellini's 8½. So being invited by the
great man himself was a big deal. Natu­
rally, there was an unstated expectation:
Would he cast us in one of his great
films?
Fellini welcomed us at Rome's baroque
Grand Hotel. He was a handsome man
with a high forehead and short brown
hair, white on the sides, comfortable in
his plumpness. He was full of laugh­
ter and put us at ease. Giulietta Masina,
his wife and star of some of his great­
est films, had a porcelain delicateness.
We all showered compliments on each
other, then headed to a traditional
Roman cafe for an exquisite Italian
lunch.
''How you have captured the imagina­
tion of Italy!'' Fellini marvelled in his
heavy Italian accent, looking at the wait­
ers and diners reacting to me. Coming
from a director for whose films I'd stood
in lines, it meant the world.
I smiled my thanks, and added, ''Some­
times actors get lucky too.''
''Luck matters, of course. But this kind
of success ...'' He waved his hand, indi­
cating it took so much more than luck.
Then he gestured towards Parveen with
a laugh. ''But you are lucky to have her in
your life.''
I told him Parveen was a big star in
India. ''I'm not surprised," he said effu­
sively. ''Her eyes are very expressive."
He looked at her intently before con­
tinuing. ''You are beautiful, of course,
but ... there is something hidden ... al­
ways interesting.'' Parveen flashed him a
dazzling smile.
Giulietta and Parveen talked of Indian
food as we feasted on a terrific Italian
lunch. Parveen explained how every re­
gion in India, north to south, east to
west had different cuisines. Fellini was
watching her more than listening to her,
observing her expressions, her gestures,
her ''expressive eyes''. She knew it too
and didn't miss a trick. I'm sure he had
sized me up too.
I'd heard strange stories about actors
who had worked in Fellini's masterpiece,
Amarcord. It was rumoured he asked ac­
tors to speak out numbers instead of
their words. Was it true?
He laughed expansively and replied dis­
missively. ''It's not important ... If they
give me what I want when they speak,
why not?''
I persisted. Did he cut actors short in the
middle of their lines?
He waved it away. ''Director's end a shot
when they want ...''
Is it true, I asked, that he asked actors to
imagine things unrelated to the scene?
He laughed it away. ''Whatever is neces-
sary ... that' s my JO
. b.''
In my enthusiasm of ''interviewing''
Fellini, I made a statement too far.
''Some people say you're not good for
actors ...''
Fellini looked me in the eye with a kindly
smile. ''Who are these people you talk
to?''
Giulietta looked amused. I instantly re­
gretted my stupidity. I was looking at
one of the greatest actor-director pairs
in the history of cinema. She'd won a
Best Actress Oscar for Fellini's iconic La
Strada and the Best Performance Award
at the Cannes Film Festival for his Nights
of Cabiria. And I was telling Fellini he
wasn't good for actors?
''Nobody important," I mumbled and
quickly changed the topic. ''Can I ask
you a more serious question?''
''Serious?'' Fellini raised his eyebrows in
mock horror. ''Ask me.''
''Today, you are a celebrated director
making highly acclaimed films, totally
different to the rest. You can do what­
ever you want. But how does a director
like you start his career? How did you
raise money for your first films?''
''You know' Kabir ''' Fellini replied
earnestly, ''it was easier in those days.
There was an excitement in the air.
People wanted to be more experimen­
tal. Filmmakers helped each other, with
ideas, discussions, meetings. I had no
problems then. Today, nobody wants to
risk anything. I spend more time trying
to raise money for my films than making
my films. It's my biggest problem ...''
I was shocked. Even the great Fellini was
struggling to find money for his films!
''Those were wonderful days," he
sighed. ''Even so, cinema always contin­
ues ... even in these difficult days ... Be­
cause filmmakers must make film­
s ... we all have dreams to make."
Fellini was also surprisingly aware of In­
dira Gandhi's declaration of Emergency
and the political situation in India. ''Italy
also has a complicated political situa­
tion'' he said as we rose from lunch.
''India is a great country. I'm sure it has
a great future."
Giulietta nodded her agreement. They
walked us to our car and waved us a
fond goodbye. We returned to our hotel
exhilarated by the graciousness shown
to us by one of the gods of cinema
and his legendary wife. From that sub­
lime experience, we travelled to Milan to
meet the man I adored the most in the
world.
My father, Baba Bedi, was a philoso­
pher, teacher and psychic. He looked
like a biblical figure in flowing robes of
handmade cloth, an emblem of a ra­
diating sun over his heart, and walked
with a long wooden staff. Many people
had been miraculously healed by him. I
hoped he could help Parveen too. There
were times when she shut the curtains
of her home and whimpered in the dark­
ness. Sometimes she lived in a zone of
brooding silence, well beyond my com­
prehension. She refused to see doctors
though I had tried hard. She disliked
them intensely. I hoped she'd be more
open to my father's psychic healing.
Baba's followers had a deep belief in
his power of healing and his visionary
philosophy. He had moved to Italy in
1972, four years before Sandokan made
me famous, at the urging of a spiritual
group of Italians in India. They called
him ''Baba'', a title granted to our fam­
ily as direct descendants of Guru Baba
Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion.
He saw his psychic abilities as ''gifts'' for
the benefit of humanity. But he was also
a down-to-earth man who savoured his
wine, enjoyed a pinch of paan masala
and smoked cigarettes. He was now with
an Italian woman, Antonia, who had
come to him to be healed soon after he
arrived in Italy. I never warmed to her
yet treated her with respect.
Over the years, my father had treated
many serious medical conditions.
There's a case I know personally. After
being diagnosed with Hodgkin's cancer
in San Francisco, Paola Barbieri returned
to Italy in the early 1970s. Dr Henry
Kaplan of Stanford Medical School, a pi­
oneer in its treatment, had given her
two to five years to live, even with
chemotherapy. Paola weighed just 31 kg
when Baba started healing her with ''vi­
brational therapy'' in Milan. She lived
for another forty years, passing away in
Rome in 2019. She chronicled her story
in an Italian book on oncology by Pro­
fessor Maurizio Grandi. Deepak Chopra
once called the spontaneous remission
of cancer ''a new level of consciousness
that prohibits the existence of cancer''. I
met many people Baba had cured with
his ''gift''.
Curious about my father's techniques, I
had once asked him how he healed peo­
ple.
''I don't heal anyone," Baba had replied
with his characteristic impishness.
''They heal themselves. I only put them
in touch with the root cause of their ill-
ness. Once they know that, their own
consciousness heals them.''
''How do you know the root cause?''
''It comes to me when they start talking
to me. That's the gift I have.''
What people took years to discover in
psychoanalysis, he seemed to divine in
the course of a conversation. As an
eight-year-old child in Delhi, I'd seen
him going through an extraordinary
''spiritual transformation'', of which I
talk in a later story. It gave him spiritual
insights and psychic abilities that trans­
formed his life. A revolutionary commu­
nist became a spiritual master.
Sadly, Parveen's meeting with Baba in
Milan didn't lead to the breakthroughs
I'd hoped. Mario's schedule permitted us
no more than a day with him. I had
urged her to stay longer with my father,
but she wasn't keen at all. A good part
of the day went in greeting his friends
and followers, another to photographers
recording the occasion. During our time
alone, Parveen was highly defensive.
Her face was a beautiful mask, revealing
nothing. I thought she feared what Baba
might see in her, or what he might say.
But he never said anything unless asked.
I was sorry she didn't reach out to him. It
was a tragic missed opportunity.
Parveen's traumas probably began in
childhood. She saw spirits in the Mughal
monuments connected to her family's
history near her ancestral home,-the
Babi Pashtun clan had once served Em­
peror Humayun. As a child, she felt dis­
connected from her family. In a letter
she wrote to me in Colombia, she said:
Kabir, my childhood has been one dark
fearful journey. As a child I was un­
able to get or may be receive the kind
of love I needed. I never felt at home
in my home. I was unable to com­
municate with people around me, and
people around me were too ignorant to
understand my kind of child. I felt in­
secure at every step . . .
That insecurity haunted her all her life.
For all her beauty, talent and fame, it
was ruining her life. There could have
been deeper reasons. Director Mahesh
Bhatt, my friend from the Juhu gang, told
me what her mother said when Parveen
broke down once: ''Her father used to
be like that." Could genetics have been
the cause? Mahesh told me another
story. When riots engulfed Ahmedabad
in 1969, the matron of St. Xavier's Col-
lege, where Parveen studied, had hidden
Muslims girls in the back of a van and
covered them with mattresses. Parveen,
a teenager then, was one of them. That's
when she had her first panic attack. I
knew she needed to be treated soon, but
it wasn't to be in Milan.
Baba must have sensed my disappoint­
ment, yet he remained jovial, laughing
at his own jokes. He loved the paral­
lels I saw between the story of Sandokan
and his own. Both had fought for their
country's freedom from the British, both
had married English girls while fighting
for their people's independence. I asked
a question, which got another laugh.
''What were the chances that a Bally­
wood actor and his Indian philosopher
father would be well-known in Italy at
the same time?''
''Divine mischief!'' he chuckled, ingest­
ing another pinch of paan masala.
Parveen returned to India while I contin­
ued my tour. I called to tell her of the
scenes that I saw. Workers abandoned
the assembly lines at the Fiat factory
in Torino to mob me. Printing presses
ground to a halt in Bologna as workers
came asking for autographs. Elevators
in the Martini headquarters broke down
as crowds jammed them to reach my
rooftop press conference. City after city
saw tumultuous Sandokan mania. ''The
Tiger of Malaysia'' was roaring across
Italy.
My most emotional experience was in
the house of Emiglio Salgari, the author
of Sandokan. Apart from Sandokan, he
had written adventure stories set across
the world: South Asia, the Middle East,
West Indies, Russia, Mexico, China, even
the North Pole. But he had never trav­
elled beyond the shores of Italy. He was
an immensely popular writer, knighted
by the Queen of Italy, read by every
Italian child, translated into many lan­
guages. Great Latin American writers­
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carlos Fuentes,
Jorge Luis Borges and Pablo Neruda­
had all read him in Spanish. Yet, tragi­
cally, a lack of money plagued his life. It
drove him to depression and eventually
to suicide in 1911. After his tragic death,
they found a letter he'd written to his
publishers:
To you that have grown rich from
the sweat of my brow, while keep­
ing myself and my family in misery,
I ask only that from those profits you
find the funds to pay for my funeral.
 I salute you while I break my pen.
Emilio Salgari
From the window of his house along the
River Po in Turin, I waved to swarming
fans. As I started thinking about Salgari,
tears welled in my eyes. What a tragic
life for such a great man! The iconic San­
dokan he created was the root of my suc­
cess. And I had no way to thank him. I
stepped back into the room to compose
myself. I bowed my head in gratitude
and embraced him in my heart. Then I
went to the window and waved back to
my adoring fans. If only they knew how
much I loved them too.
On the way back, I met my father again.
I asked him what he thought of Parveen.
He looked up at me sharply, as if caught
by surprise. The ash from the cigarette
that dangled on his lip, fell on his robe.
He brushed it off and stubbed out his
cigarette, introspecting before he spoke.
''There is a lot of energy trapped in her,''
he said gravely. ''Waiting to come out,
bursting to come out ... She is very deli­
cate ... her energy can go haywire if she
isn't careful.''
''How can she be healed?'' I asked,
alarmed.
''She must have a creative outlet. What
does she do well?''
''She writes well, she paints, she acts ..."
''Let her start writing, or painting, but
do it without thinking too much. She
should do whatever comes to her mind,
as much as possible ...''
''What do you think is wrong?'' Her con­
dition was an endless worry for me.
''Troubled souls have different ways of
expressing their energies. Simple labels
don't work ... It's hard to say without
going into it. She needs to take care of
herself. Or find someone. Or she will
have many problems.''
I told him she didn't think she had a
problem. I said Parveen's denial of her
troubles was probably a form of self­
preservation. She may have feared the
film industry would abandon her if word
got out. We live in a cruelly judgemental
world. But I knew she had to face her
reality before it overwhelmed her. My fa­
ther thought so too.
Parveen and I had experienced a glori­
ous time in Rome, but returning there
without her had its perils. A girl had
herself photographed with me at an
event and had the pictures doctored to
show us strolling alone in a park. In
those days, I couldn't step out any­
where without being mobbed. But the
doctored photos were printed in Novella
2000, a popular gossip magazine, where
she claimed a romantic relationship be­
tween us. Furniture-maker Rossetti of­
fered to gift me enough furniture to fill a
house. I declined politely saying I didn't
live in Rome. All the same, Rossetti
published big newspaper ads claiming
Sandokan bought their ''Bedroom of a
Thousand and One Nights''. I sued Ros­
setti for false advertising. It took seven
years to win the case. In the end, the
judge awarded me less than what I paid
my lawyers. Italy's courts, like those in
India, are slow, plodding and sometimes
unjust.
I discovered other dangers in Rome. In
the mid-1970s, Italy lived in fear of
the Red Brigades, an extremist guer­
rilla group. They were violently anti­
capitalist and wanted a ''concentrated
strike against the heart of the State ... an
imperialist collection of multinational
corporations''. In 1974, two years before
Sandokan, Renato Curcio and Alberto
Franceschini, two founders of the Red
Brigades, had been sentenced to eigh­
teen years. Even after they were behind
bars, the Red Brigades continued kid­
napping high-profile people. An attack
on producer Carlo Ponti, the year before,
made well-known filmmakers fearful.
When people advised me to get security,
I laughed them off. I was sure even the
Red Brigades were fans of Sandokan. I
may have been right. Che Guevara once
said he'd read sixty-two books of Emiglio
Salgari. But a meeting with the famous
Italian filmmaker Sergio Leone made me . . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. . .. .. .. .

think again. He was famous

................................................................................................................................................................................
for his
.
Spaghetti Westerns: A Fistful of Dollars,
.. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. .. .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - ..
.

For a Few Dollars More and The

................................................................................................................................................................................
Good, the
Bad and the Ugly. He had made Clint East-
wood an international star.
................................................................................................................................................................................
Getting to
know him was important.
Sergio's villa was like a fortress. A guard
with a machine gun stood outside the
house. Another armed guard patrolled
the inner courtyard. Sergio was effusive
in his praise for me. He advised me
to make sure I had good PR teams in
Spain and France. He was right. My team
was excellent in Spain, but not so good
in France. The impact of Sandokan was
dramatically different. Our conversation
paused when his children returned from
school, chaperoned by another guard
with a machine gun.
''All of us are in danger," Sergio said,
reading my astonished look. ''Italy is in
a big crisis. Some people have left the
country." Would he ever leave Italy?
''Never," he said emphatically. ''But I
have plans for a big American produc­
tion." He must have been talking about
his pet project, Once Upon a Time in Amer­
ica. We talked some more about his films
before I left his fortress. I saw the fear
the Red Brigades had created, but I dis­
missed the idea of bodyguards. I wasn't
going to stay for long in Italy.
Parveen soon called from Mumbai with
terrific news. My latest film Nagin was
a super hit. It had many big names:
Sunil Dutt, Reena Roy, Jeetendra, Feroz
Khan, Sanjay Khan, Vinod Mehra, Rekha
and Mumtaz. I looked terrific, she said,
and insisted I return immediately. I
was missing all the publicity. The oth­
ers were giving interviews galore. I also
wanted to make the most of Nagin's suc­
cess. Three of my films, including Basu
Bhattacharya's Daaku, hadn't done well.
I agreed to end my Italian campaign
after going to Sardinia for the party of a
ship owner. He had invited me through
my Italian actor friend Angelo Infanti,
and I didn't want to let him down. An­
gelo was the warmest, funniest Italian
friend I'd ever had, a ruggedly hand­
some man who attracted women like a
magnet.
The private beach of the ship-owner's
seaside villa sloped into an azure sea,
with yachts sailing in the distance. In
the soft winter light of the afternoon, it
looked like a seaside dream. The party
had a high-society crowd who didn't
want to seem obsequious and respected
my space. I wandered out onto the ve­
randa to think. I hadn't had much time
to reflect about all that had happened in
Italy. As I smoked a cigarette, looking at
passing boats in the sea, a petite woman
sat down beside me. It was Audrey Hep­
burn!
I was gobsmacked. I'd adored Audrey
from the time I saw her in Breakfast at
Tiffany's during my schooldays. I'd been
blown away by her performance as Eliza
Doolittle opposite Rex Harrison in My
Fair Lady. I was mesmerised by her role
as the blind woman in Wait until Dark.
She was one of the legendary actresses
of the Golden Age of Hollywood, winner
of the Oscar, Tony, BAFTA and Golden
Globe awards. And here she was, look­
ing at me with her famous doe-like eyes,
wanting to talk to me. I gushed about
her films. She smiled at me like a star
who had heard it all before. So I changed
the topic.
''What a surprise to meet you in Italy!'' I
marvelled.
''I live here now," she said. ''I'm married
to an Italian.''
The news was a surprise to me. ''I
thought you were married to Mel Ferrer.''
''Oh, that ended years ago. I married An­
drea in 1968."
I wondered why. ''What does he do?''
''He's a psychiatrist ... We live in Rome."
''How do you balance living in Rome and
working in Hollywood?''
''I don't think about Hollywood much
these days.''
Another surprise. I couldn't imagine her
as a housewife living in Rome.
''What do you think about?''
She looked at me to see if I was serious.
I was.
''I think about the world," Audrey said
earnestly. ''I think of all the people
around the world who don't get enough
to eat, the millions of malnourished chil-
dren, through no fault of their own. We
can feed everyone; we just don't do it."
''I know," I said, touched by her human­
ity. ''There are many malnourished chil­
dren in India too.''
''I feel so much for them," she said with
a sigh. ''I really want to do something for
them.''
A decade later, she became Goodwill
Ambassador for UNICEF. She helped
some of the poorest people in Africa,
Asia and South America. In 1992, she
was presented the Presidential Medal
of Freedom, America's highest civilian
award, for her humanitarian work.
''Do you know Rabindranath Tagore?''
she asked suddenly, surprising me.
''Well, not personally," I replied light­
heartedly, ''He died many years ago. But
I did go to the school he created in Shan­
tiniketan for a year of my life.''
She smiled and her eyes lit up, a look I
remembered from Breakfast at Tiffany's.
''Tagore was a great man. I love his
poems.''
I was tempted to ask Audrey more about
Tagore. We were interrupted by the ar-
rival of Angelo with an Italian actress
I recognised at once: Monica Vitti. She
had been the muse of Michelangelo An­
tonioni, one of Italy's great directors.
She'd starred in L'Auentura, which I'd
seen as a student at the Indian Film
Festival. It won her many Best Actress
awards. The sharp angular lines of a
face had softened with age, but she
was still as beautiful. I spoke little Ital­
ian; she, no English. Angelo translated
for us. I couldn't get over seeing two
of my favourite actresses together in
front of me. It didn't last for long. As I
started talking to Monica, Audrey bade
me farewell and drifted off. I was sorry
to see her go. My conversation with
Monica may have interested her. Monica
was shocked to know that Indian actors
were never given printed scripts, only
''narrations'' of the story by the writer or
director of the film. They are given the
pages of scenes only before they shoot
them. And yet, India produced the great­
est number of films in the world. It still
does.
Before I left the party in Sardinia, I had
a disturbing conversation with a bearded
Italian director whose name eludes me
alas. I asked him a question that had
been bothering me for days.
''Why is it that after all the success I've
had, I am not being inundated with of­
fers and enquiries from Italian produc­
ers and directors?''
''You are Sandokan, Kabir! We cannot
think of you as anything else," he said in
all seriousness. ''We make social and po­
litical films or typically Italian comedies.
We can't have Sandokan walking into
our stories. It would spoil the film.''
His words stunned me. I thanked him
for his honesty and thought about it
as I returned to Rome. If he was right,
would my success as Sandokan end my
new career in Italy? Was I destined to
be a one-hit wonder in the country of
my greatest success? It reminded me
of what Nino Novarese said to me in
Malaysia: If I was so good as Sandokan,
would people accept me as anything
else? I was feeling despondent as I pre­
pared to return to India. An unexpected
call quickly lifted my spirits. I was sum­
moned to meet one of the most powerful
media barons in Italy.
Andrea Rizzoli was the President of Riz­
zoli Publishing Group, which ran a film
production company, Rizzoli Film. Two
years earlier, in 1974, he had bought the
Corriere del la Sera, one of Italy's most
read newspapers, extending the reach
of his empire. I hoped that this was
more than just a ''let's meet Sandokan''
call. Angelo Infanti, who conveyed the
invitation, was sure that Andrea meant
business. I apologised to Parveen and
extended my stay in Italy.
Andrea Rizzoli flew us to his beautiful
home in Cap-Ferrat on the French Riv­
iera in his private plane. Angelo came
with the delightfully funny Tony Renis,
an Italian singer, composer and song­
writer, famous for his immortal song
Quando, Quando, Quando. Andrea and his
beautiful Slavian wife, Lyuba, toasted
us with champagne before he broached
his proposal. He wanted to produce II
Corsaro Nero (The Black Pirate), another
adventure by Emiglio Salgari. It was the
story of an Italian Lord, Emilio Roc­
canera, who avenges the killing of his
brothers by Duke van Gould in the Car­
ibbean. I loved it! Playing a European
would expand my image beyond being
Sandokan. And, finally, I'd be making
real money. It was the breakthrough I'd
hoped for. Now, I was ready to go home.
It was the perfect end of my triumphal
tour of Italy.
Parveen welcomed me back like a con­
quering hero. She never stopped talking
of Sandokan in Bollywood. An admiring
producer put up a congratulatory bill­
board near Juhu Beach. She had herself
photographed in front of it and sent it to
the media. Friends threw parties to hail
my success, and we danced many nights
away. When Parveen was happy, her ra­
diance shone through every pore. She
would call out from afar, ''How's it going,
bloody?'' which really meant ''buddy''.
She was full of laughter and light. I loved
her all the more.
After celebrating my success in Italy,
Parveen and I plunged into work. We
were both acting in Bullet, which starred
Dev Anand, directed by Vijay Anand.
She was the heroine, I the villain. It
was a bold decision for me. Actors as­
piring for leading roles in India didn't
play villains. Now, I was a hero in Italy
and villain in India. My other Bollywood
roles were more positive. Parveen's ca­
reer was somewhat stagnant then. Bullet
didn't hit the mark, nor did her three
films with Randhir Kapoor. A film with
Rishi Kapoor also failed. She now pinned
all her hopes on a star-studded film she
had signed, Amar Akbar Anthony. But it
would release only a year and a half
later, not unusual in Bollywood.
Parveen wanted to accompany me for
the shoot of II Corsaro Nero in Colombia
in June 1976. Alas, her schedules didn't
allow it. On my way to South Amer­
ica, I went to France for the launch
of Sandokan. I was presented the Tele
7 ]ours Award, France's most popular
showbiz award, won earlier by John Tra­
volta, Barbara Streisand and Tony Curtis.
I was mobbed near Paris in Nugent-sur­
Marne and appeared often on television,
though not with the resonance of Italy.
But Sandokan had enormous successes
in Germany and Holland, the northern
and Eastern European countries, even
South America. That's where I went for
my next adventure as a swashbuckling
pirate.
Cartagena, Columbia's most historic
city, was a spectacular location for II
Corsaro Nero (The Black Pirate). The film
was a sea-faring adventure like Holly­
wood's Pirates of the Caribbean, which
came decades later. Over the cen­
turies, Cartagena had been plundered
by pirates, attacked by Francis Drake,
and inhabited by slave traders. It had
the greatest fortress ever built by
the Spaniards in their South American
colonies, Castillo de San Felipe de Bara­
jas, with a panoramic view of the city.
Swarms of the film's ''extras'' dressed as
pirates stormed its ramparts in make­
believe battles. Sergio Sollima was di­
recting again; Carole Andre, my leading
lady again. My antagonist, Duke van
Gould, was played by Mel Ferrer, who
had been married to Audrey Hepburn.
We had lots to discuss when we weren't
duelling each other. Angelo Infanti and
Tony Renis, who had pivotal roles, en­
tertained us with risque jokes. Still, it
wasn't all fun and games. As Sandokan,
I had been solid and muscular. For Cor­
saro Nero, Sergio had wanted me to be
thin as a rapier. I trained with a passion
and lost eighteen kilograms. Franco Fan­
tasia made me fence like a pro. It was
brilliant, exhausting work. Five weeks
after shooting began, I heard of a news
that rocked Bollywood.
On 19 July 1976, Time magazine put
Parveen on the cover of its Asian edi­
tion. Its story was about ''Asia's Frenetic
Film Scene'', but India's Parveen Babi
was its face. It was a stunning picture of
Parveen in a low-cut black dress draped
with strings of pearls, her lustrous black
hair falling over bare shoulders. She
complained to me that Bollywood hero­
ines were ''bitching'' and wanted ''to
scratch her eyes out''. Even India Today,
a most respected magazine, was mean
and snooty: ''Parveen Babi, at most an
up-and-coming starlet, is made to sound
like a swadeshi Marilyn Monroe." Be that
as it may, it was a terrific achievement,
and I was proud of her. And I wanted her
to be proud of me too. I wished she could
see me on location as a hero of an Italian
film. My wish came true when a sched­
uled shooting was suddenly cancelled in
Mumbai.
The British Airways flight carrying
Parveen from London landed in Bogota,
Colombia's sprawling capital, on 1 Au­
gust 1976. It was a long flight and she
was exhausted. But she greeted me with
effervescence, complimenting me on the
weight I'd lost. By the time we got back
to Cartagena, with delayed flights, she'd
been travelling for forty hours. She slept
through the night and half the next day,
and woke up like a person reborn. The
bedroom of my Spanish villa looked out
to a sparkling sea. As we lay cuddling in
bed, Parveen showered me with love and
tenderness. The intensity of our love
was ethereal. We swam and frolicked
in the sea. We giggled like children,
baby-talked each other and laughed at
silly jokes. We danced for each other,
dined on the best food in Cartagena, fed
each other, and read each other poems.
Parveen was shining and my world was
full of light. It was a magical time of
togetherness.
Completing my joy, my mother arrived
two weeks later in the maroon robes of
a Tibetan Buddhist nun. I'd sent her a
ticket to come when she was touring
America. I speak of her extraordinary life
in another story. She was very fond of
Parveen, and they bonded closely. The
week of my mother's visit rippled with
laughter and remembrance. Seeing my
success as Sandokan had given her great
joy. I was glad she also saw me on the
sets of a big Italian film. After a week of
joy, I had tears in my eyes as I waved her
goodbye.
A few days later, Parveen suddenly re­
treated into her shell. At first, I wel­
comed the respite. Intense love can be
emotionally exhausting. But she started
to shiver at night, wept uncontrollably
and awoke with imaginary fears. When
I tried to soothe her, she turned on me.
She raged against me, accusing me of
destroying her, shaking me to my roots
for almost a week. But two days be­
fore she left, on 27 August, her mood
changed quickly when I was hit by a
colossal disaster.
The Black Pirate's ship capsized in the
open sea with all of us on board. The
Conquistador (Conqueror) wasn't a real
galleon; its sails were only for show. Its
towering superstructure had been built
on the hull of a smaller ship. It had to be
pulled by a pilot tugboat with powerful
engines. Unfortunately, the production
team had hired an inexperienced cap­
tain for the tugboat. He towed our fake
galleon into an underwater wall built by
Spaniards to sink real pirate ships. It
was an invisible wall of defence across
the outer boundary of the bay, studded
with spikes to rip through the hull of at­
tacking ships. We didn't stand a chance.
Our ship shuddered to a grinding halt
in the open sea as it crunched into the
wall. We heard water whooshing up­
wards and realised our ship was sinking.
We had no safety boats or floats. An
SOS was sent to the Coast Guard. Every­
one took off their boots and prepared to
swim, but the shore looked too distant
for most. I feared for the lives of all on
board.
The ship started listing as water rose
within it. An air of grim foreboding hung
over us all as the ship slowly came to
rest on its side. We scrambled onto the
side above the water, expecting to be
submerged any moment. Miraculously,
it didn't happen. The underwater wall
that ripped our ship also held it afloat
for a while. We soon saw what a pre­
carious balance it had been. As the
Coast Guard ferried us to the shore, the
galleon keeled over in the distance and
sank soundlessly beneath the waves.
They told us that even the strongest
swimmers would have drowned in the
vortex created by its sinking. I thanked
the universe profusely for keeping us
alive. Sadly, we lost all our cameras and
equipment.
Parveen saw the ship sinking from the
beach in front of my villa. The shock of
fearing I had drowned at sea changed
her mood completely. She became car­
ing, comforting and compassionate from
the moment I returned. The crew gath­
ered at my villa to talk of our near-death
experience and toast our miraculous es­
cape. Parveen was a loving and gracious
hostess. They needed comforting too.
The sinking of the ship became a big
story in Stardust in India.
Before she returned, I told Parveen how
thrilled I was to see her happy again.
When I waved her goodbye on 29 Au­
gust, I was relieved that she seemed
herself again. She lifted my spirits even
higher when she wrote to me from the
sets of Chalta Purza: ''I love you my man­
you have helped me to discover a lifetime full
of joy. Sublime is the state you make me live
in through your love.''

All seemed well in our world. But all was

not well with II Corsaro Nero. They had
to keep us months longer in Colombia
while they built another galleon. It was
too expensive to fly everyone all the way
back to Italy, then back to South Amer­
ica again. In that time, when I wasn't
shooting, I read a raft of books, wrote
essays and pondered the mysteries of
the universe. One of the actors, Nicolo
Piccolomini, who came from a family
where two Popes had been born, married
a Colombian girl, related to Salvatore
''Salvo'' Basile, our great Colombian co­
ordinator. For all the joys of Cartagena, I
had far more to worry about in Mumbai.
Protima and Parveen were at war. Pro­
tima used the children as pawns in the
games she played to provoke her. When
Parveen took the children out, it always
caused a backlash from their mother. I
wrote to Protima asking her to stop play­
ing games, with a copy to Parveen, who
wrote back on 13 September: ''I feel proud
to know that you cared to inform me. I feel
fulfilled to know that you care for my feel-
ings ... I just want to tell you one thing.
After living with her for so long you haven't
seen half of her faces that I have seen. And if
you trust my perception one bit, believe what
I have always been telling you about her,
and try to keep her out of our life.''
Parveen was convinced Protima was
casting spells on her, spying on her,
plotting to get me back. Yet she knew I
didn't want her to overreact. I was wor­
ried about the state of her mind. The
despair, angst and helplessness I sensed
in her letter of 18 September disturbed
me greatly. ''What am I doing? Making
films like Chalta Purza, relating to peo­
ple like Rajesh Khanna, going to parties at
Parmeshwar's, living a pattern of life that I
am beginning to detest, and that's exactly
what I'm doing." These weren't things
most people would complain of. Rajesh
Khanna was still a big star, Parmeshwar
Godrej threw the best parties in town. I
regarded her and her industrialist hus­
band Adi Godrej as good friends.
At the moment there is within me a tremen­
dous urge to reject all that I used to belong
to. The whole film scene with its sick people.
Whole society scene with its overwhelming
falseness, smoking, drinking. I know in all
honesty that I don't belong to it all anymore.
I have changed, so drastically that even I
myself am afraid of this change. I would
fight to give up my old habits but the fear
that I might be going nuts makes me cling
on to my old self with a vengeance . . . I am
going through the most difficult period of my
life. Either I am going through some sort of
spiritual experience or I am sick, physically
and mentally. I need you more than I have
ever needed you before and more than I will
ever need you again. I'm so helpless . . . I
sleep with your letters and photographs by
my side. I want to hug you and cuddle with
you so much. Sometimes I cry in bed, be­
cause I can't feel you. Good night."
I felt her fear and confusion. I wished
I could fly out and console her. The
demands of my shooting made it im­
possible. I asked my manager, Harbance
Kumar (now Mickey Nivelli) to keep a
watchful eye on her, to keep Protima at
bay and to keep the children happy. His
skills were masterful. My sister Guli, to
whom Parveen was close, was a great
comfort. She's the most wonderful sister
I could ever hope to have. The next letter
from Parveen cheered me up greatly. She
seemed happy and bubbling. I breathed
easier again. ''Good morning Bojo! It seems
mornings have more positive energy than
nights ... Your Buba, Bubina, Jojo, Jojina and
Jojinette have been behaving themselves.
Haven't made a noise since I came here.
Wonder why they were all making such a
fuss in Cartagena!? Hazar Kishas (Thou­
sand Kisses) and Thousand Loves."
Parveen had named her different moods
Jojo, Jojina and Jojinette (variations of
''Jojo'', which I called her) and Buba and
Bubina (a play on ''Bobo'', which she
called me).
Parveen's letters sent me on a roller
coaster of emotions: happy, anxious,
elated and dejected. I was glad she was
finally facing her demons and talking to
me about them. There was no solution if
she didn't admit the problem. Only then
could we deal with it together. Sadly, her
troubles came back a few days later. She
wrote to me on 22 September from the
Oberoi Palace Hotel in Kashmir. ''I feel I
am actually cracking up, because I have be­
come so ultra-sensitive. I cannot stand any
noise, so many million thoughts come to
mind that I lose track of myself But one
thing I am sure about is my perception,
which has become much finer, much deeper
than ever before. When I look at this side of
me, I feel I am evolving, growing, expand­
ing and not being mad. Alarmingly, she
added, I read Pandit Gopi Krishna's book on
kundalini, and I found out that if the flow of
energy goes into the wrong channel of one's
system, it can cause madness.''
It was what my father had told me in
Milan. It jolted me to the core. I recov­
ered with the letter she sent the next
day. ''My head is clear now, thanks to the
location shift in my spine. The few days be­
fore were torture; my brain was in a mess.
At times, I used to hear distinct noises in my
head, and when I say this, it is not meant
metaphysically. I could actually hear weird
sounds. I no longer feel I am going mad."

I sent her a shower of letters. Back and

forth, to and fro, the pendulum of her
emotional states worried me constantly
till it was time to leave Colombia.
By the end of filming, Sergio Sollima
was thrilled by the rushes shot by Al­
berto Spagnoli. They inspired ideas for
the music of Guido and Maurizio de An­
gelis. I complimented Mario Van Riel,
my makeup man, and my hairdresser
Iolanda Conti, veterans of Sandokan, for
giving me a brand-new look. We all ex­
pected the film to be a runaway success.
Every film unit becomes a family. When
a film ends, we move on to join other
film families. But lifelong bonds have
been formed when we say ''Arrivederci'',
till we meet again.
While preparing to leave, I asked Babu
Subramaniam, my brilliant assistant
from India, to check out America before
returning as it was so close. He went to
New York, then moved to California, and
made a great career as a first assistant
director in Hollywood. He even directed
episodes of the world famous ER televi­
sion series, which made George Clooney
a global star. (A casual suggestion can
change your life if you listen, even a
comment overheard at a bus stop.)
Let me tell you a story about my comi­
cal flight to London, where I finally met
Parveen again, on 15 November 1976.
Those were the days of the Concorde,
the fastest passenger plane that ever
flew, over twice the speed of sound.
It flew from Washington to London in
four hours, instead of the usual eight.
What the hell!, I said to myself, what's
the point of having money if I can't fly
the Concorde? It'll be an experience to
remember! It certainly was, though not
as I imagined. The Concorde was much
smaller than I expected, only a hundred
passengers in luxury seats. The thump
as it broke the sound barrier was ex­
hilarating. But as it approached London,
bad weather got in the way. The pilot in­
formed us the flight had been diverted to
Manchester. Every flight to London was
sent there. The airport was bursting with
crowds of angry passengers from every­
where. From being treated like royalty
on board, showered with champagne
and gifts, we were jammed into buses,
then packed into trains, with stale sand­
wiches thrown at our heads for dinner.
It took me sixteen hours, not four, to
reach London, exhausted and annoyed,
on a flight that cost four times more. So
much for my vanity. But, hey, I flew the
Concorde!
In London, I was delighted to find
Parveen positive and upbeat. She
seemed at peace with herself. We went
on to Rome for a few days before going
to Spain, where Sandokan was releasing
a week later. I wanted to meet Bernardo
Bertolucci, the Italian director who had
taken the world by storm with The Last
Tango in Paris. His explicit sex scenes had
stunned everyone. It was one of the best
films I'd ever seen. Bertolucci agreed
to meet us at a post-production studio
where he was working on his next film,
Nouecento (1900). On the morning of the
day, Parveen's mood darkened. She re­
treated into silence and refused to go de­
spite my entreaties, so I went to see him
on my own.
Bertolucci was a tallish man with clas­
sic Italian good looks: short dark hair,
a wide forehead, attractive clefts in his
cheeks, a strong chin. He talked of how
his family had loved Sandokan, I told
him how I loved The Last Tango in Paris.
I asked him about Brando, an idol of
mine.
He smiled nostalgically. ''Great actor,'' he
said, eyes crinkling.
I had a big question for him. ''Is it true
that Brando couldn't remember his lines
and wrote them on the walls of the set?''
It had been reported in many papers.
Bertolucci took a deep breath and
sighed. ''It's true, but not for the reasons
you think. Brando is at a point in his life
when he feels that having to remember
lines interferes with his acting. I didn't
mind, he gave me a great performance.''
''It was phenomenal!'' I agreed. ''What's
your new film about?''
''It's the about fascism and communism
in Italy."
''What a great idea!'' I gushed. ''It must
be fascinating.''
''A lot of work," he said with a grin before
changing the topic. ''I am very fascinated
by India. I hope to make a film on the
Buddha one day. But ... something dif­
ferent.''
''That's wonderful," I said excitedly. ''My
mother is a Buddhist nun.''
''Sandokan's mother is a Buddhist nun?''
he said in surprise.
''My family is full of surprises,'' I said.
''My father is a philosopher in Milano."
''Really!'' he said in surprise, eyebrows
raised. We chatted a bit, then he shook
my hand warmly. ''You have had a great
success in my country. Complimenti!''
Coming from Bertolucci, I was touched.
Parveen bubbled with excitement when
the famous producer Carlo Ponti, hus­
band of Sophia Loren, asked to meet her
through my agent Carol Levi. Alas, noth­
ing came of their meeting. She was lumi­
nous when Franco Zeffirelli invited us to
dine at his exquisite Roman villa. Films
like Romeo and Juliet, and Taming of the
Shrew with Richard Burton and Elisabeth
Taylor, had made him legendary. He
was a gracious host, elegantly dressed
in jacket and cravat, all in impeccable
taste. He lavished Parveen with praise.
I was surprised by the number of good­
looking young Indians who worked in
his house. They knew me well before
Sandokan. My fame with them impressed
him even more. We were thrilled to have
dined with the great Zeffirelli before we
set off for Spain.
Spain welcomed me like a conquer­
ing hero. Their biggest magazines, the
world-famous Hello (''Ola'' in Spain), Se­
mana and Lecturas, put Parveen and me
on their covers. The newspapers were
plastered with our pictures. Television
and radio shows scrambled to invite us.
It was like the Sandokan mania of Italy
all over again. Enrique ''Kike'' Herreras,
a veteran Spanish film publicist, said
he'd never seen anything like it. I'd con­
quered yet another country. This time,
Parveen enjoyed the media barrage and
we celebrated the heights of fame. For­
tunately, she didn't come for my most
hair-raising appearance.
El Corte Ingles, Madrid's biggest depart­
ment store, had invited me to sign the
photobooks of Sandokan and Corsaro Nero
published by Rizzoli. It was a sales pro­
motion that went terribly wrong. Thou­
sands of fans packed every one of its ten
floors as they whisked me to the top.
Guards muscled me through the jam­
packed floor to the table where I had
to sign the books. As I handed the first
signed books to an awestruck fan, the
management asked me to stop.
''Please leave,'' said the manager in
panic. ''The building will collapse.''
I laughed, thinking he was joking.
''No ' no ' '' he pleaded ' ''It's not designed
to hold so many people.''
I looked at him in disbelief.
''You must leave now," he repeated fran­
tically. ''The building will collapse, peo­
ple will die."
He was dead serious. I had no choice.
But leaving had dangers of its own.
Pushing and shoving through the crowd,
the guards got me to the elevators. As
the manager asked the crowd to leave, a
groan of disappointment filled the hall.
Screaming fans surged into the elevator
and pushed out my guards before the
doors closed. They hugged and kissed
me all the way down, brandishing books
they wanted signed. I was on my own
as I exited and battled my way to the
street. Waiting fans screamed as they
saw me emerge in the sunlight. They
ran towards me like an all-consuming
tsunami. People were falling and getting
trampled. The crowd was out of con­
trol. I realised I could be crushed. Cars
jammed to a standstill on the street as
fans ran wildly through them. The pres­
sure of people around me was getting
dangerous. A driver yelled as I jumped
onto the bonnet of his car. Grasping fans
reached for my legs, and I climbed onto
his roof. I looked around at the pande­
monium and realised I had to get away
fast. I leapt across the roofs of other
cars till I reached the end of the street.
I flagged down a moving car and begged
to be taken away. They got me back to
my hotel for the price of a few auto­
graphs. It was even reported in Variety,
the trade bible of the film business, in
Hollywood. Parveen was thrilled by the
story.
That wasn't the end of the tale. I soon
received an agitated call from the city's
chief of police. Countless complaints
had been filed by people whose cars had
been damaged by me. When I got to the
police station, they angrily demanded
compensation. The representatives of
El Corte Ingles, who had accompanied
me, called management for instructions.
Graciously, they agreed to settle all the
claims. Another memorable moment be­
fore leaving Spain: In the scramble of a
massive melee of fans, an attractive girl
shouted out to me, ''I want to have your
baby." Her evocative phrase was widely
reported in Spain, and repeated by the
media like a mantra for years.
The pendulum of an actor's life can
swing from one extreme to the other. On
returning to Italy for the premiere of II
Corsaro Nero (The Black Pirate), the drive
from Rome's Fiumicino Airport told me
something was seriously amiss. I didn't
see a single billboard for II Corsaro Nero
along the way. At the hotel, I didn't find
any ads in the papers. Only a hand­
ful of journalists were sent to interview
me. The premiere of the film was not in
Rome but Sicily. I was told the cream of
Palermo was invited, though I wouldn't
have guessed it on the day. Most of them
were shabbily dressed.
''The elite don't come to public events,"
the organisers apologised. ''They are
afraid of being kidnapped. So they
send their servants instead.'' Some of
the well-heeled came to the reception
after the premiere was over. Having
read about them in fiction, I asked if
there were any dons around. They told
me some capos were present, but no
one would tell me who. [Flash forward:
Francesco Schiavone, the most power­
ful leader in the Italian Camorra in the
1990s, was called ''Sandokan'' as he re-
sembled me. He was sentenced to life in
2008. His family remains one of the rich­
est in Italy.]
Il Corsaro Nero was not an instant suc­
cess. The sinking of the ship swelled
its budgets far beyond what it recovered
at the box office. It hurt me. It was a
beautiful film and remains one of my
favourites even today. Its failure was in­
explicable. It was my first film after the
mind-blowing success of Sandokan. Why
was there so little publicity or promo­
tion? Why was the premiere in Palermo?
Angelo Infanti believed that the bosses
at Rizzoli Film were unhappy that An­
drea Rizzoli had greenlit the film over
their heads. It wasn't their baby, and
they had thrown it out with the bath­
water. Whatever the truth of the matter,
it was a wounding disappointment. All
the same, over the years II Corsaro Nero
became one of the most watched films
on television and rewarded Rizzoli with
chests of treasure. Amazon/Koch Media
released a remastered version on DVD,
in Italian and German, early in 2021.
A firestorm of shootings awaited us
when we returned to India. My produc­
ers had prepared a punishing schedule
for me. I had told them to finish my films
in three months, by March 1977. After
that, I planned to leave India and explore
new frontiers as an actor abroad. It was
time to make the most of my success in
the West. Best of all, Parveen wanted to
come with me. She was keen to do for­
eign films too. She masterfully created a
portfolio of photographs inspired by pic­
tures she saw in Vogue. She had long
asked me to ''push'' my agents for roles.
Carol Levi actually got her a thrilling
offer while I was still in Colombia.
Parveen had written to me in October
1976: ''I have received my first real and good
offer from Hollywood, an offer to star oppo­
site Burt Lancaster in a three-million-dollar
project! The role is that of a South American
girl."

Parveen was extremely upset when

nothing came of it. In the end, I gave
her the best reason to leave India. Rizzoli
Film planned a sequel to Sandokan, to be
shot later in the summer. Carole Andre
couldn't be the leading lady as Marianna
had died in the original series. They
were looking for a new heroine for La
Tigre e"Ancora Viva: Sandokan alla Riscossa
(The Tiger is Still Alive: Sandokan to the
Rescue). I asked Sergio Sollima to cast
Parveen and he agreed. She was ecstatic.
She'd scored her first international film!
We worked around the clock to leave
India by the end of March 1977.
It was a painfully stressful three months
for me. I was torn apart by the ever­
changing moods of Parveen, long shoot­
ing days and wanting to see my children.
Parveen went ballistic when Protima
told people she had ''gifted'' me to her.
Protima claimed she knew about our
affair before she left for Odisha and had
encouraged it. It wasn't true. My rela­
tionship with Parveen began in Septem­
ber 1975, a month after Protima left for
Odisha. What she said in the press, and
later in her book, was nothing but blus­
ter. I understood Parveen's anger. What
Protima said had rankled her to the core.
Still, nothing prepared me for what I saw
one day when I returned from shooting.
Parveen was sitting on the carpet of
our living room, scissors in hand, sur­
rounded by remnants of my photo al­
bums. Every picture of Protima had been
shredded to bits. All the photographs of
our marriage, children and holidays de­
stroyed forever. Irreplaceable records of
my life obliterated by her raging jeal­
ousy. It was the first time I experienced
her paranoia so extremely. It led to a
big fight. She had no right to destroy
memories of my life. She hammered me
with her fists, saying I still loved Pro­
tima. I suffered her assault in silence
but was deeply distraught. I reminded
myself I was dealing with an irrational
mind desperately in need of help. She
needed compassion. I realised she had
to be treated when we moved abroad, or
it would destroy our happiness.
Moving abroad was an emotional
wrench. I had to say farewell to my
children, assuring them I was there for
them, no matter where in the world I
would be. Like I felt when I left Delhi,
it was no joy to walk away from all
my attachments in India. From the great
friends I'd made in the city to playing
with my children on the beach, from
the raucous parties of the Juhu Gang to
the din of Indian bazaars, from lashing
monsoon rains to bhelpuri on the street.
I loved India with a passion. My parents
had given their best years for its inde­
pendence. I'd studied its glorious past
in college and believed in its brilliant
future. I'd wanted to be a part of the de­
bate that shaped it. It's not that I lacked
options. I could have still had a career
in Bollywood or kept making advertising
films. But the West was luring me away
with siren songs of glory. Change is al­
ways painful, much as we like the idea.
But there comes a time when we must
decide: stick with the known or blaze
new trails? When I decided to leave
India, I knew I'd be back. I didn't plan to
live abroad forever.
Just before we left, I received the saddest
news of all. My mother passed away on
the eve of the World Buddhist Confer­
ence in Delhi on 26 March. I'd seen her
the week before in Mumbai when she
came for the birth of my sister Guli's
daughter. She sensed there would be
trouble. The baby was born with its um­
bilical cord wrapped three times around
its neck. It was a miracle she survived.
Blessing us all, my mother left for Delhi,
where she passed away suddenly. It was
an earth-shaking loss for me. I was
dazed and devastated. I was still griev­
ing when Parveen and I flew out of India
to seek greater international glory.
Living in the West was a life-changing
experience. We moved into the his­
toric Carlyle Mansions on Cheyne Walk
in London. Ian Fleming, T.S. Eliot and
Somerset Maugham had all lived there
once. It had Chelsea's best view of the
River Thames between the Albert and
Battersea bridges. For all its glorious his­
tory, the palatial apartment was bare as
a tomb when we arrived. All we had was
a functional kitchen, a king-size mat­
tress on the floor of its master bedroom
and a couple of blankets. An old tele­
phone lay on the floor in its vast drawing
room. It was the perfect place to make a
home together. Or so I thought.
A month after we arrived in London,
in April 1977, news from Bombay elated
Parveen. Bollywood biggies were raving
about her next film, Amar Akbar An­
thony, which they had seen in private
screenings. It had India's biggest stars:
Amitabh Bachchan, Vinod Khanna and
Rishi Kapoor. She had the best role
among the heroines. Everyone said it
would be a runaway success. Her man­
ager Ved Sharma begged her to return.
The biggest offers were coming her way,
but she had agreed to do the Sandokan
sequel and couldn't begin other films.
Parveen went into a dark depression.
Nothing I did or said made a difference.
I did the food shopping, took clothes to
the laundry, trying to ease her into a life
without the servants we had in India.
It didn't cheer her a bit. She continued
to brood in silence or weep. Whenever
we spoke, she picked a fight or lost her
temper.
She cheered up two weeks later when
we went to Yugoslavia (now Serbia,
Croatia and Slovenia) as Guests of the
State. Its communist rulers saw San­
dokan as an anti-colonial saga and rolled
out the red carpet for us. We were pi­
loted from the airport by cars with flash­
ing lights, toasted in their State Dining
Room by dignitaries around an enor­
mous table, serenaded with violins in
Belgrade's best tavern. Parveen waved at
swarming crowds and mesmerised the
photographers. Inexplicably, her good
mood started to fade again. As we were
taken to historic Dubrovnik, escorted to
Ljubljana and dropped off with bows in
Italy's Trieste, she relapsed into dark­
ness. By then, I'd had enough.
''Please tell me what's going on," I asked
testily. ''Why are you sulking?''
''I want to go to Venice," she said calmly,
confusing the hell out of me.
''Venice!'' I protested. ''What's that got to
do with anything?''
''I want to go to Venice," she repeated.
''I've always wanted to go to Venice."
Well, I thought, if Venice sorts out her
mood, Venice it is.

We chatted along the journey, a two­

hour drive down the Adriatic coast,
smatterings of small talk. She bright-
ened as we walked into St. Mark's
Square, protected by bodyguards,
amused by the overjoyed surprise of
fans. She admired the Byzantine beauty
of the Basilica and enjoyed the canapes
at the bars along the square. As we
meandered through the quaint streets,
she posed for fans who followed us in
bunches or sang the Sandokan song. My
spirits rose at each step of the way.
Venice seemed to have done the trick.
But it didn't last. Once again, she started
to sink. She yawned as our gondola
drifted past the painted palazzos on the
canals. So much for romance, I bris­
tled within myself. As we docked, she
lost her energy and fell into my arms. I
propped her up as we wound our way to
the hotel. She had nightmares that night
and called out to me in fear. Something
was seriously wrong, yet she wasn't
willing to talk. When we woke the next
morning, she insisted on getting back to
London immediately. I'd planned to see
my father in Milan before returning. I
lost my patience and lashed out.
''If living in the West depresses you so
much, why the hell are you here?''
She looked at me as though she'd seen
a ghost, her eyes wide open in fear.
She slowly rose and went to shower
as I packed the rest of our things. She
refused to have breakfast with me. As I
paid the bill on checkout, I noticed she'd
called someone in India while I was in
the shower. The tension between us re­
mained on the flight to Milan, where I'd
insisted on stopping on the way to Lon­
don. God knows what went on in her
mind. I only knew something had to
be done about it soon. Once again, no
breakthroughs happened in Milan, but
it was great to see my father again.
Parveen was jovial on the surface, but
simmered inside.
A few weeks later, Parveen perked up
on hearing that Steve Kenis, my agent
at the William Morris Agency in London,
had arranged a meeting for her with
Dino de Laurentis, a powerful producer.
I'd loved Dino's Serpico with Al Pacino
and Death Wish with Charles Bronson.
He'd also produced La Strada, the film
that made Fellini famous internation­
ally. I was excited for Parveen; meeting
Dino was a big deal! She wore a longish
black skirt and a jacket over a black polo
neck, revealing nothing. She smiled at
my surprise.
''He'll expect me to come in a sexy
dress,'' she explained as she left in a
trail of perfume. But she returned in the
foulest of moods.
''They all want the same thing, bloody,''
she grumbled. She meant ''buddy'',
which I normally found cute. But there
was nothing cute about her mood when
she returned that evening.
''What happened?'' I asked, alarmed.
''Did he misbehave?''
She shook her head.
''Did he touch you?''
She shook her head again.
''Did he proposition you?''
''No, he didn't," she said slowly. ''But I
know what they want. They all want the
same thing."
She believed she had a heightened sense
of perception. In a sense, she did, though
it didn't always help her. Paranoia was
increasingly becoming a part of her per­
sonality. She had to be treated immedi­
ately. It couldn't wait, and there was no
better time. I knew it would be rough
sailing, but she had to be saved from
drowning.
It was a rougher storm than I imag­
ined. I raised the matter with her over
breakfast a week later. I'd whipped up
two great omelettes, considering myself
an expert on eggs. Earl Grey tea, crisp
toast and butter, with a jam she loved,
lay on the counter in the kitchen as we
ate, carefully perched on high stools. She
pecked at my golden-brown omelette
with sounds of mumbled appreciation.
''Can we talk?'' I asked tentatively, gaug­
ing the temperature.
''Sure," she said listlessly as she took an­
other bite.
''Look, Jojo," I began earnestly. ''I love
you. We're starting a new life here. We
have a beautiful home. We have the best
of the West and all the resources we
could possibly need.''
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at
me, unknown fears flickering. I cut to
the chase.
''Jojo, you know and I know you have
problems ..."
She interrupted me swiftly, eyes burning
with anger. ''You think I'm MAD?''
''No, you're not mad," I said firmly. ''But
you do have problems, you know it too. I
love you, Jojo, I want you to get better. I
can get you the best doctors, psychoana­
lysts ... whatever it takes ..."
She pounced on my words with uncon­
trolled rage. ''The only problem I have is
YOU!'' she shouted. ''YOU are my prob­
lem!''
''Why am I your problem?'' I said, trying
to sound calm though she'd rattled me.
''You're going to LEAVE me!'' She rose
from the stool and pushed her plate
away. ''I know you're going to leave me.
Fame has changed you. You look at girls
differently.''
''That's nonsense! I love you, Jojo," I
pleaded.
''YOU'LL LEAVE ME!'' she yelled in harsh
deafening decibels. ''I know you will.''
I raised my voice to blunt hers. ''Sit
down, Jojo, and stop screaming. Don't
make me the problem. Let's face your
problems and sort them out together.
There are doctors who can-''
She didn't want to talk about doctors
and hit me below the belt.
''Why didn't you ask me to marry you?''
she shouted, confusing the hell out of
me.
Early in our relationship, she had told
me in tears that she couldn't marry. She
had been married by her family to a
man who had gone to Pakistan. She was
afraid if she married again, he would re­
turn and ruin her career.
''Hey," I reminded her, ''you said you
couldn't-''
''Did you ever ask?'' she shouted back.
''How could I ask," I protested, ''when
you told me you couldn't?''
Besides, my own divorce hadn't come
through either. I would have married
her in a heartbeat if we could. But at
that pivotal moment, I was incensed she
was evading what mattered the most by
making it all about me.
''Look, Jojo, we really need to talk," I said
calmly. ''You're not getting any better."
''You BASTARD!'' she screamed in voice
that resounded in the house, perhaps
the building too. ''You think I'm mad,
don't you? I am NOT mad, you bastard!
I'm. Not. MAD!''
With a sudden swing of her arm,
she swept the breakfast dishes off the
kitchen counter. T hey landed on the
floor with a noisy clatter as she stormed
off. She changed her clothes and rushed
out of the house. It was no use follow­
ing her. She was out of control when she
raged like that. I cleaned up the debris,
wondering what lay ahead for us. It was
a dark place to be.
It may surprise many to learn that
Parveen had been married already. I
only had her word for it and hesitated to
write about it. So, I sought confirmation.
I recently asked Mahesh Bhatt, who later
had a relationship with her, if she'd ever
told him of her marriage.
''Yes," he said, remembering. ''She
showed me his passport picture. Skinny
guy.''
Neither of us were told more about her
wedding. But, in 2003, Mahesh attended
the Lahore Literature Festival, where he
was told by Hameed Haroon, now CEO of
Dawn, Pakistan's most famous newspa­
per, ''A man wants to meet you. He says
he's the husband of Parveen Babi."
In the heat of the festival, Mahesh being
lionised by all, the meeting never hap­
pened. But what Mahesh told me is proof
enough of what she said to me.
Parveen returned to Carlyle Mansions
that evening with armloads of shop-
ping bags from London's biggest stores.
I wondered where she got the money.
I gave her what she asked for when
she needed more than expenses. But it
wasn't the time to question her. She
seemed a lot happier.
''I want to talk to you," she said, pleas­
antly ''Let's go out for dinner.''
I was relieved and delighted. She often
talked reasonably once the heat of a
fight had passed. I took her to an
Italian restaurant beyond the Battersea
Bridge, a perfect setting for lovers. As we
dined on pasta and sipped red wine, I
hoped for a breakthrough on getting her
treated. She had another agenda.
''I'm going back to Bombay for some
patchwork," she said, watching me care­
fully. ''They've sent me a ticket. I have to
leave tomorrow.''
I knew a few of her films were still
incomplete, but her sudden decision
made me uneasy. Was she leaving me? I
banished the thought. I couldn't imag­
ine her abandoning me, our home and
her starring role in the next Sandokan
series. She'd seen its success in Europe.
She was over the moon when she had
landed the lead in its sequel. No, I as­
sured myself, she'd be back again soon.
''How long will you be gone?'' I asked,
probing.
''I'll let you know when I get there,"
she replied disarmingly. ''You know how
shootings go." She laughed as if we'd
shared a joke but I didn't think it funny.
That night she made a long call to
India. I later learned she had spoken to
Danny and asked him to receive her.
She was tired and didn't want to cud­
dle as we slept. As I waved her good­
bye at Heathrow, I felt a quiver of fear.
Her eyes were moist, but she didn't cry.
On my way back to Carlyle Mansions,
my doubts returned. Bob Dylan's words
came to mind: ''Something is happening
here, but you don't know what it is. Do
you, Mr. Jones?'' I brushed it away as
impossible.
Parveen called to say she'd be back in a
few weeks. But she no longer wrote me
the letters of Cartagena. She no longer
called with words of love, only excuses
to stay back longer. She stretched it out,
a week at a time, till Amar Akbar An­
thony was a confirmed super success. In
the end, she told me she wasn't com­
ing back as clinically as a doctor before
hanging up. By then, I expected it, and
accepted it with calm. Yet my heart
still hurt. She said I would leave her,
but she was the one who left. I won­
dered whether she would have stayed if
I hadn't insisted on treatment. She hated
doctors with a passion. The deeper rea­
son, I think, was different. She chose
guaranteed success in Bollywood over
taking chances abroad in my shadow. I
lost a woman who I wanted for life, a
woman who I wanted to heal. All that re­
mained was my aching emptiness in an
equally empty home.
Parveen walked out of the Sandokan
sequel twenty days before the start of
shooting. The consequences were seis­
mic. I suffered professionally and San­
dokan alla Riscossa was badly affected.
No important actresses were free at such
short notice. Sergio was forced to set­
tle for a lesser-known lead, Teresa Ann
Savoy. I felt rotten, I knew I was to
blame. Sergio had cast Parveen because
I'd asked him and he'd trusted me.
This series was not produced by RAI,
the original broadcaster, but by Rizzoli
Film. I was wary of them since II Corsaro
Nero. While shooting in Malaysia, I wrote
to Andrea Rizzoli, on 1 September 1977,
warning of him of dangers I had seen
before:
If we are to avoid one of the mistakes made
at the time of 11 Corsaro Nero, I think it
would be a good idea if you let it be known to
the people concerned that you are personally
interested in the publicity and promotion of
the film ... Perhaps you have already noticed
a disturbing lack of news concerning this
project in newspapers and magazines ... I
know you understand better than me, the
forces beneath the surface.

Whatever their hidden reasons, Rizzoli

Film didn't promote it well. The absence
of Parveen also hurt. Despite all that,
the series was still a reasonable success.
Parveen did what she thought was best
for her career. At the time, perhaps she
was right. Amar Akbar Anthony became
one of Bollywood's greatest hits, and she
signed the biggest films.
In my days alone, I looked back on all we
had shared. I remembered our love and
passion. I felt for her suffering mind. But
my long-supressed resentments flared
as well. I rued the shadows Parveen had
cast on my most joyful years. I reminded
myself it wasn't her fault. Perhaps I was
equally to blame. Maybe I should have
walked away earlier. Yet I couldn't; she'd
needed me desperately. I'd seen myself
as her protector. By then, I was mentally
and emotionally exhausted. I'd gone
If we are to avoid one of the mistakes made
at the time of 11 Corsaro Nero, I think it
would be a good idea if you let it be known to
the people concerned that you are personally
interested in the publicity and promotion of
the film ... Perhaps you have already noticed
a disturbing lack of news concerning this
project in newspapers and magazines ... I
know you understand better than me, the
forces beneath the surface.

Whatever their hidden reasons, Rizzoli

Film didn't promote it well. The absence
of Parveen also hurt. Despite all that,
the series was still a reasonable success.
Parveen did what she thought was best
for her career. At the time, perhaps she
was right. Amar Akbar Anthony became
one of Bollywood's greatest hits, and she
signed the biggest films.
In my days alone, I looked back on all we
had shared. I remembered our love and
passion. I felt for her suffering mind. But
my long-supressed resentments flared
as well. I rued the shadows Parveen had
cast on my most joyful years. I reminded
myself it wasn't her fault. Perhaps I was
equally to blame. Maybe I should have
walked away earlier. Yet I couldn't; she'd
needed me desperately. I'd seen myself
as her protector. By then, I was mentally
and emotionally exhausted. I'd gone
 from one emotionally draining woman
to another, without a pause in between,
leaving me no time for myself. ............................ People
may think ''what a lucky guy''
................................................................................................................................................................................
for having
one
.
beautiful woman after another. Only
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. - ..
.

I................................................................................................................................................................................
know the price I paid for being an im-
pulsively emotional man.
Partings are always painful, no matter
what the reasons. Parveen returned to
Bollywood, and I set my sights on Holly­
wood. It was time to conquer the world. I
had freedom, money and European star­
dom. I needed an American film to get
into Hollywood. But in the 1970s, they
weren't writing roles for Indians. Since
my looks were not typically Indian, I told
my agent at William Morris to cast the
net wider. I was willing to play any na­
tionality that looked ''foreign'' to Holly­
wood eyes. I was soon cast in The Thief
of Baghdad, a film for American NBC
with Roddy McDowall as the ''Thief'' and
me as the ''Prince''. Ironically, I'd played
the same role in India with Shatrughan
Sinha as the ''Thief''. Sha tru is one of the
most charismatic people I know. I've al­
ways admired him immensely.
With that start, I moved from London to
Beverly Hills and bought myself a Mer­
cedes 280 SE. It didn't impress anyone
who mattered in the business. I hired
Rogers and Cowan, the most powerful
PR agency, paying a hefty fee. It got me
a mention and a half. ''Bachelor of the
Month'' in Cosmo magazine and the odd
gossip column. I remained a nobody in
Tinseltown. Hollywood is the most insu­
lar place in the world. It's three thou­
sand miles away from New York, the
nearest city they consider important. It's
a fortress of studio executives who guard
it behind impenetrable barriers. It has
a rigid caste system of meeting, din-
ing and socialising, with wannabe actors
being the lowest of the low. Except for
the biggest stars, actors have to audition
for every role, no matter how good their
past performances. Hollywood was of­
fering me peanuts while I was a king in
Italy. Luckily, I managed to land a bigger
American film through a Swiss producer
who had seen my success in Europe.
In 1978, I starred with Michael Caine
in Ashanti. It had a great interna­
tional cast: Peter Ustinov, Omar Sharif,
Rex Harrison, William Holden, Beverly
Johnson. But the story of Ashanti be­
longed to Michael, Beverly and me. It
could have been my breakthrough film
in Hollywood. Tragically, its launch was
subdued after Georges-Alain Vuille, its
mercurial producer, had a fight with
his distributors at Warners. The conse­
quences were terrible. Given a small US
theatrical release, it made no money. It
was a painful setback for me, though
it fared well around the world. Alas, it
didn't rate in Hollywood which mattered
the most.
After returning to Bollywood, Parveen
began a relationship with my friend Ma­
hesh Bhatt. He was the best man she
could have chosen. He was deeply in­
terested in philosophy and psychology.
He had been a follower of Guru Osho,
who taught dynamic meditation and
talked of awakening the energy centres
of the body. Then, he moved on to
U.G. Krishnamurti, a guru with a razor­
sharp nihilistic mind, who he adored.
Mahesh understood Parveen's condition
better than anyone around her. He was
with her when she was hit by the
worst of attacks. By the middle of 1979,
Parveen had signed over thirty films.
Her problems only grew worse as she
shot for them. In her biography, Parueen
Babi, Karishma Upadhayay said, ''One
of the first publications to write about
Parveen's mental illness was Stardust.
The 'Scoop of the Month' for its Decem­
ber 1979 issue declared that 'Parveen
Babi had cracked up'." The article said
our break-up had ''left Parveen in a
dizzying vacuum. She was like an ob­
ject hurtling aimlessly through space."
Parveen's world had fallen apart, and I
was portrayed as the villain. Karishma
described it well: ''The narrative spun by
the magazine portrayed Parveen as 'a
girl with a broken heart' and supported
the idea that 'being unlucky in love'
pushed her over the edge. This is, in
fact, what most people in Bollywood still
believe.''
Terrible things were written about me.
It wasn't a fair perception. Truth is, she
was the one who left me and refused to
let me help her. I chose to keep silent
at the time. What the Indian magazines
said didn't affect me, I was living abroad,
and I knew she needed the sympathy.
Parveen was rebuilding her career in
Bollywood. I finally spoke out five years
later in an interview with Uma Keni of
Stardust in 1982. I said what I'm saying
here: I didn't ditch Parveen and didn't
cause her breakdown. But I'm glad she
resurrected her career.
Tragically, Parveen was totally alone at
the height of her glory as a star. Pro­
ducers panicked as she cancelled shoot­
ings or suddenly left the sets. She had to
be taken out of Mumbai as she couldn't
cope. Mahesh took her for healing to his
guru in Bangalore. U.G. advised him to
leave Parveen.
''She needs to leave the film industry,"
he told him. ''You represent films."
Mahesh left Parveen with his trusted
guru. She listened to U.G. and finally
saw the best doctor in Bangalore, even
took her medicines. Then began a series
of travels with U.G. and his companion
Valentine. They took her to Kodaikanal,
where she recovered for a while. Then
she relapsed with a vengeance. It was
an ongoing see-saw of recoveries and
breakdowns.
After six months, in a period of clarity,
she returned to Mumbai in December
1979. She started shooting in Bollywood
once again. Mahesh started seeing her
again secretly. In the end, she gave him
an impossible choice: his guru or her.
That ended it for him. He knew he
couldn't do any more.
I must have called after she broke up
with Mahesh, though I don't remember
it. But she wrote to me on 25 November
1980 saying: ''After a long silence it was
nice to hear a uoice that touches. The worst
is ouer. Clarity reigns again. So much has
been added to that which is me and so nat-
urally. Fears and insecurities seem to have
vanished ... You might be happy to know
that there is still the joy of life throbbing
within me." I was glad she was sound­
ing normal again, though I knew it was
a slippery slope. I just wanted her to be
happy.
Happiness came into my life again when
I met Persis Khambatta in Hollywood.
I'd known her from our modelling days
in Mumbai. Her striking beauty had won
her the Femina Miss India contest when
she was just sixteen. She'd done two
small roles in English films before com­
ing to Hollywood. When I met her again,
a few months before Ashanti, she was
shooting for her most famous role: Lieu­
tenant Ilia in Star Trek: The Motion Picture.
She was bald as a Buddhist monk for the
part. Her baldness didn't diminish her
beauty. It made her even more stunning.
We bonded as two Indians in Hollywood,
comforted by the familiarity of Indian­
ness far from home. All the same, we
were very different people. Whenever I
am attracted to a woman, I see only
the good in her. I never see the tell-tale
signs, which are always there, that bring
it down in the end. She was a kind and
sweet girl but I soon realised we were
not meant for each other. Our relation-
ship ended on my return from Ashanti,
yet we stayed in touch. Twenty years
later, I attended her funeral at the Parsi
Tower of Silence in Mumbai when she
tragically passed away at fifty.
Once again, not learning from my past,
I lit a romantic fire amid the embers
of the old. On the day it ended with
Persis, I met the woman who became
my next wife. Ixchel Leigh, then called
Susan, was a down-to-earth person. I
was done with divas. Ixchel was an at­
tractive American girl with wavy brown
hair and blue eyes that creased when
she smiled. Ixchel's spiritual curiosity
grew with time and, after studying with
the best masters, she became an au­
thority on essential aromatic oils. Today,
she sells the best of them on artisanpar­
fums.com. Gossip mags in India said I'd
married her for a green card in America.
That wasn't true at all. It was a rumour
spread by someone envious. If I was
a man who calculated his marriages,
I would have found a rich American
girl. Ixchel wasn't a fancy Hollywood
babe; she was a policeman's daughter.
We married in 1979 at the Self Realisa­
tion Fellowship, founded by the Indian
Yogi Paramhansa Yogananda, on Sunset
Boulevard. We were wedded around its
lake of blossoming lotus in a ceremony
we wrote for ourselves. In 1981, our son
Adam was born, fair as his mother, with
the same wavy brown hair. His eyes
were so blue that strangers stopped us
in streets. I adored him madly. Ixchel
was a great mother, and I loved her for
it. She was also wonderful to Pooja and
Siddharth when they came for their va­
cations. But being married to an actor
couldn't have been easy for her. Films
are a very different world. Its insecurity
bites hard.
Hollywood finally cast me as an Indian
in the James Bond film Octopussy. A vil­
lainous role that had me fighting Roger
Moore all through the film. It was the
first time an Indian actor had been cast
in a major role in a Bond film. Bond
films are the oldest film franchise in
the world and one of the most success­
ful. Their classy mixture of guns, girls,
glamour and gadgets has billions of fans
worldwide. Producer Cubby Broccoli, his
daughter Barbara and stepson Michael
Wilson, spared no expense to keep Bond
flying high. My climax scene atop a
plane with Roger Moore was filmed on
three continents. The plane taking off
was shot in Udaipur, our fight on top of
it was in a studio in London, and me
plunging from the plane was a skydiver
in America. That's why Bond films are
always so slick.
Among the best perks of starring in
a Bond film, I met Prince Charles and
Princess Diana in 1983 at the premiere
of Octopussy in London. The stars of the
film stood, side by side, in line to greet
the royals in the foyer. I remember the
meeting with a wry smile. Prince Charles
shook my hand, and I told him I came
from India.
''Oh, India!'' he said in surprise. ''I have
fond memories of Jaipur ..."
I didn't hear what else he was saying.
I felt my left hand being pulled away
by Princess Diana, who dazzled me with
her smile. I was in a fix. Should I listen
to the Prince and ignore the Princess?
Or talk to the Princess and cut short
the Prince? Prince Charles saw my con­
fusion. He glanced sharply at Diana
and quickly walked past me, obliging
her to follow him closely. I later met
Prince Charles twice, but never again the
legendary Diana. I've always admired
Charles, yet Diana had a radiance I'll
never forget.
Another interesting footnote: The stars
of Bond films are dispatched to different
continents to promote it. Roger Moore
and Maud Adams toured America and
Europe, while I was sent to South Amer­
ica with two of the Bond girls. In Rio de
Janerio, I met Ronnie Biggs, legendary
for the Great Train Robbery of 1963 in
England. He'd been living as a fugitive
from British law in Rio for almost two
decades. Ronnie showed me a tourist T­
shirt emblazoned with the words ''Rio! A
Great Place to Escape to!'' with a naughty
smile. Then he pulled out a felt pen and
wrote below it, ''Even for The Thief of
Baghdad!'' my first Hollywood film, and
signed it with a grand flourish: ''Ronnie
Biggs''. I've kept the T-shirt safely since
1983.
That year I heard disturbing news of
Parveen. She had arrived in New York
and created a scene at Immigration.
They handcuffed her and sent her to
an institution for mental health. I'm
told doctors diagnosed her as a manic
depressive. Mahesh asked U.G. Krishna­
murti, who now lived in America, to
rescue her. Mahesh was determined to
help Parveen when she was in trou­
ble abroad. He was grateful to her for
being beside him when his career was
in shambles in India. After U.G. had her
released, I learnt later, she spent many
years with him and Valentine in Hous­
ton. At the time, I wondered how she
would fare in America with her fragile
mind. I had feared her journey would be
tough.
It wasn't an easy time for me either. For
all the glory of battling Bond on planes,
my career went into a tailspin for years
after 1984. I played a string of guest roles
in eleven American television series like
Dynasty with Joan Collins, Knight Rider
with David Hasselhoff and Murder She
Wrote with Angela Lansbury. Some had
substantial parts: the daytime series One
Life to Liue, the mini-series On Wings of
Eagles with Burt Lancaster and the comi­
cal The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd with
Blair Brown. But it didn't add up to a
hill of beans compared to the heights I'd
imagined.
By 1988, my marriage with Ixchel had
also fallen apart. She had many won­
derful traits. Yet, whatever the reasons,
the chemistry had gone. We couldn't
communicate anymore; we just weren't
happy as a couple any longer. And I was
unfaithful. But that's a story for another
time. In short, I went through the pain
of another divorce. We reached an agree­
ment on alimony for her and child sup­
port for Adam. I looked to other women
for solace. One was too clingy, one too
needy. One of them was deeply spiritual
and remains a friend even today. For all
the fleeting joys, nothing filled the void
within me or took away my fear of fail­
ure. Personally, and professionally, my
life was a mess. I asked the universe to
show me the way out.
The answer came soon enough. In Feb­
ruary 1988, I was shooting in Hawaii
with Tom Selleck for Magnum P.I. when
the phone trilled in my hotel room. The
sun was setting in Honolulu and the sea
was flecked with gold as I answered.
It was Rakesh Roshan, a.k.a. ''Guddu'',
calling me from India. We had acted to­
gether in Seema. Now, he was a suc­
cessful director and producer. After the
pleasantries, he got to the point.
''I want you to be the hero of my next
film,'' he announced grandly.
''Why me, Guddu?'' I said, surprised.
''Are all the Bollywood heroes on strike?''
He laughed aloud. ''You see, Kabir," he
explained, ''it's like this. In my film the
hero turns out to be the villain, so no
hero will do it. And if I put a villain in
the role, the surprise will be lost. You are
perfect. No one will suspect you. You can
play anything.''
''Who is the heroine?'' I asked, always an
important factor.
''Rekha," he said, blowing me away. An
iconic actress, unforgettable in Muzzafar
Ali's Umrao Jaan. I couldn't ask for more.
I thanked Rakesh Roshan for casting me
in his film, and still do.
Khoon Bhari Maang became my biggest
hit in Bollywood. Rekha was brilliant in
the role of an ever-forgiving wife who
becomes an avenging angel. I'd known
Rekha from the 1970s, when we both
lived in Beach House. Despite her early
success with Sawan Bhadon, the indus­
try thought of her as an ugly duck­
ling, a dark and plump South Indian
actress. But Rekha converted them with
a vengeance. Film by film, she trans­
formed herself into a swan. When I was
paired with Rekha in 1988, she was one
of the ruling queens of Bollywood, win­
ner of Filmfare and National Awards.
Her second Filmfare Award came from
Khoon Bhari Maang. She was shy and
reclusive on set. I tried to broker peace
between her and Shatrughan Sinha, who
was also in the film, over an old dis­
agreement they had but failed miser­
ably. She refused to talk to him, though
he was more than willing. She had the
air of a Garbo in recluse.
Allow me to digress. Bollywood has per­
fected the art of interspersing songs into
their stories, tragedy, comedy, horror,
drama or action. So, I'm cutting in a
humorous tale of how the wind blows
in Bollywood. After the success of Khoon
Bhari Maang, one of the films I did was
Kurbaan. A conflict between two power­
ful men in a village, friends turned en­
emies, and a lesser story of two young
lovers. It was, the producers told me, a
battle of ''two giants'', Sunil Dutt and me.
I was thrilled to be paired with a legend
I'd adored since I was eleven. I'd been
his fan since Mother India. He was a man
with a great soul. The producers asked
me to name ''newcomers'' for the young
roles. I suggested Salman Khan who had
just begun his career as a leading man.
While our filming plodded along in slow
''instalments'', Salman's first four films
became big hits. Instantly, extra scenes
and more songs for the young lovers
were added to our film. Sunil Dutt and
I became background music. Salman
wasn't to blame at all. Producers try to
make the most money, it's a part of the
job they do. Salman rocked the box of­
fice and went on to become Bollywood's
most popular star. Among the big he­
roes, Salman Khan has the biggest heart
of all. I've always loved him dearly.
People in the West find it hard to
understand how actors in India shoot
for many films at the same time. It
was how the system worked in those
days. Distributors who financed films
gave money to produces in instalments.
They wanted to see what they had
filmed before giving them more money.
So most films were shot in schedules
spread out over years. To fill the gaps,
actors signed other films, as did every­
one else, from directors to cameramen.
Every producer's biggest problem was
synchronizing the dates of everyone for
his shooting.
One day, on the sets of a Bollywood film
in 1989, I heard someone say, ''Parveen
Babi has come back to India." I was
happy to hear it. She'd been ''missing''
for six years. But when I read the
press reports, I was alarmed. She'd ac­
cused Amitabh Bachchan, with whom
she'd done twelve films, of being a CIA
agent, a drug smuggler and an interna­
tional gangster. The media ridiculed her
charges. The industry felt sorry for her,
yet she was totally on her own. I thought
of going to see her. But it happened, as
often in life, by accident.
I met Parveen at the Holiday Inn on
Juhu Beach as she lay in the sun by the
pool. She had changed beyond recogni­
tion. Her eyes still had the same dark
beauty, her hair was still as lustrous,
her skin still as beautiful. Tragically,
her body was much heavier, and her
face was almost round. I felt my heart
twinge. It was painful for me to see her
so changed. It was hard to believe she
was the same woman I'd loved so deeply
little over a decade ago.
''Hi Kabir," she smiled in surprise as I
greeted her, pleased to see me again.
She struggled to sit up and covered
herself with a towel. I could tell she
was embarrassed. I sensed her journey
hadn't been easy, and the taunts of the
press must have hurt.
''How are you?'' I asked, a question sin­
cerely meant.
''Everyone thinks I'm mad," she said bit­
terly. What was I to say?
''People are not always right," I replied
carefully, not wanting to upset her. ''Ev­
eryone has their opinion.''
She turned on me with dark blazing
eyes, a look I knew well.
''You also think I'm mad, don't you?'' she
hissed, keeping her voice low. ''You're
just like the rest of them," she contin-
ued, catching her breath. ''You're one of
them. I know. I don't want to talk to you
ever again. Leave me alone ... Just go."
''Parveen ...'' I began with a heavy heart,
unsure of what to say.
''Don't bother, Kabir," she snapped as
she slowly lay back in the sun. ''I can
take care of myself."
It's what she had said to me, many years
ago, on the day our romance began.
Through the grapevine of film friends, I
heard she was doing interior design for
some clients. I was glad she had a new
career. I knew she owned a flat in Juhu.
With her manager Ved Sharma still re­
porting to her, I guessed she wasn't lack­
ing for money. It mattered to me that
she was secure, though our romance
was now long over.
A year later, love entered my life again
in the form of forbidden love. In 1990,
I was playing Shakespeare's Othello, di­
rected by Alyque Padamsee, and Nikki
was my Desdemona. With her blue eyes,
fair skin and blonde hair, she was per­
fect for the role. She looked as English
as her mother Jean, though her father
Arvind was Indian. He was the son of
Sumant Moolgaoker, legendary for his
brilliance at Tata Motors. Othello and
Desdemona's love and passion on stage
soon entered our lives. But she was mar­
ried at the time. We tried hard to conceal
our feelings from the others as she was
married. Alyque screamed for more pas­
sion in rehearsals while we pretended
it didn't exist. Vijay Crishna's immacu­
late performance as the villainous Iago
was also greatly admired. In the end,
love has its ways. Almost three years
later, on 7 Januar y 1993, we were mar­
ried by my father Baba Bedi in Mumbai.
Thousands of earthen lamps flickered
on the banks of the Ban Ganga reservoir
surrounded by age-old temples. But riots
erupted in Mumbai that day, with conse­
quences I speak of in another story.
Nikki and I attracted each other like
magnets. She was intelligent, well-spo­
ken and well-read. She loved her Indian
roots though she was English as straw­
berries and cream. My English side may
have had something to do with the at­
traction. God, she was a barrel of laughs,
heard all the way down the street. Our
chemistr y was brilliant too. The intro­
vert in me loved the extrovert in her.
We were opposites in other ways too. I
was a tall 6'2', she a petite 5'4'. She was
the talkative one, I far more reserved.
Socially, we were a great team. And we
both loved being in showbiz.
The early 1990s was a time of profes­
sional rebirth. As Parveen found a new
calling in design, my own life was trans­
formed. Paola Bonelli, my famous Italian
agent, brought me loads of good fortune.
In 1991, the Italians came roaring back.
I played an Indian warrior in Mysteries
of the Dark Jungle, an adventure series
in British colonial times. Beyond Justice,
with Rutger Hauer, reunited me with
my friend Omar Sharif, who I'd known
since Ashanti. We came together again
the next year in Ken Follet's Red Eagle, a
miniseries with Timothy Dalton.
Omar Sharif and I became good friends
over the three films we shot together. He
was the first actor from the East to be­
come a big star in Hollywood and was
an inspiration for me. But he had his
quirks. While shooting films, he metic­
ulously organised a dinner every day
for ten people. He invited the people
he liked on set to dine with him. If
the conversation bored him, he'd pick a
fight. He was a highly intelligent man, a
champion bridge player, who didn't suf­
fer fools. There was a fight almost every
night. It always ended with someone in
tears, or Omar storming off in anger. He
messed with me once and left in a huff.
It never happened again. He called me
for many more dinners and we shared
many laughs on locations. He will al­
ways be a legend for me.
In 1993, more good roles came my way
in India. I gave a memorable perfor­
mance as Abraham in Bible ki Kahaniyan
(Stories of the Bible) for Door Dar­
shan, India's national television chan­
nel, where I'd once begun my career. But
it was banned by the Congress govern­
ment, because a Muslim group objected
to the Christian Biblical story of Abra­
ham, who they revere as well. Politicians
protect their vote banks. Luckily, greater
joys were on their way.
In India, I starred in an Italian mini­
series, The Maharaja's Daughter, with
Hunter Tylo. She was one of the biggest
stars of the American television series
The Bold and the Beautiful. People maga­
zine had rated her twice as one of the
fifty most beautiful women in America.
She was as talented as she was beau­
tiful. The Indian press thought I was
having an affair with Hunter. They were
wrong. She was smitten by an Indian
stuntman who'd saved her from being
bitten by a snake while filming. He fol­
lowed her to Hollywood and asked her to
marry him, but she wisely showed him
the door. Brad Bell, the dynamic pro­
ducer of her American series, liked what
he saw of me in The Maharaja's Daughter
and cast me opposite Hunter in The Bold
and the Beautiful. It was one of the most
watched TV shows in the world. Only
Baywatch had more eyeballs at the time.
Over a 350 million people a day saw me
as the Moroccan Prince Omar for almost
a year. Another milestone achievement.
My mailbox overflowed with requests
from fans, my fame reached interna­
tional heights and Hollywood tempted
me once again. I stayed on in Los Ange­
les to see what Tinseltown had in store
for an actor with proven worldwide suc­
cess.
Alas, as my idol John Lennon said, ''Life
................................................................................................................................................................................
is
'
what happens when you're making
..............................................................................................................................................................................'

other plans." As stories of Parveen's

............................................................

bizarre behaviour reached me from afar,

I feared for her greatly. I should have
feared for myself. Starting in 1995, I
was hit by a relentless series of profes­
sional, financial and emotional disasters
that ended my dreams of Hollywood.
Traumatic experiences that ruined me
and left me shattered. I left Hollywood
and rebuilt my career from the ashes of
my stunning misfortunes. I tell it all in
my final story. As I recovered from my
reverses in Hollywood, Italy and Bally­
wood called on me again. Among the
films that followed, I played the iconic
role of Emperor Shah Jahan in Akbar
Khan's Taj Mahal: An Eternal Love Story.
Icons are created over time. Marilyn
Monroe isn't remembered as a great ac­
tress, nor for breaking box office records.
But she had that elusive quality which
creates a legendary name: mystique. So
it was with Parveen. She created an
image, a sexy image, radically different
to the heroines of her time. Changing
times helped her even more. When we
set out together in Bollywood of the
1970s, even superhits would soon be­
come history, rarely seen after their first
run. The coming of the information age
in the 1990s and early 2000s changed
all that radically. Old hits were suddenly
seen again on television, DVDs and ev­
erywhere on the internet. As new gener­
ations discovered her, Parveen Babi be­
came an enduring symbol.
Sandokan was iconic from the start. It
was repeated endlessly on Italian tele­
vision and magnified by the new tech­
nologies. Its legacy was reinforced by
its sequels: Sandokan Alla Riscossa (San­
dokan Rises Again), II Ritorno di Sandokan
(The Return of Sandokan) and II Figlio di
Sandokan (The Son of Sandokan). Older
generations were reminded of the series,
new generations discovered it. From
grandmothers to grandchildren, every­
one in Italy knows and loves Sandokan.
Shooting for a Bollywood film in January
2005, I heard news that hit me with the
force of an electric shock: Parveen had
passed away. Sorrow overwhelms me
even now when I think of that moment.
I remembered our days of love and glory
in Europe. I remembered how deeply
we had loved, how greatly she suf­
fered, how desperately she'd struggled
for sanity. I remembered the star who lit
up the screen and graced the cover of
Time. Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal to
immortalise his love for centuries. Ours
hadn't survived the storms of a few tur­
bulent years. But it wasn't for lack of try­
ing. I've kept her letters all these years.
Once we wanted to love forever but the
winds were stronger than our wings.
In the end, I learned how Parveen had
died. Her body was found in her Juhu
flat four days after she died, a leg rotted
by gangrene, a wheelchair by her bed. A
lonely and tragic end of a star who had
once been the fantasy of millions. Three
men who had known and loved her-
Mahesh, Danny and I-came for her fu­
neral at the Muslim cemetery in Juhu. It
was a solemn burial with Islamic rites
and chants. We carried her body with
relatives to a dimly lit grave. I felt for
all she had suffered with a sorrow that
came from my depths. Each of us had
known her in ways not many knew.
Each of us had loved her as only each
one knew.

OLE: KABIR BED

HA CONQUISTAm aAN

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.
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Kabir and Parveen in Italy

With fans in Spain

 As Corsaro Nero

Kabir in the news

Kabir and Parveen in Europe

Director Sergio Sollima during the Sandokan shoot

Kabir and Carol Andre

Kabir as Sandokan

Freda and Baba Bedi in Kashmir

 Baba and Sheikh Abdullah

Baba with Hafeez Jalandhari and

Sheikh Abdullah in Lahore

Freda Bedi in the 1930s

 Kabir and sister Guli

Baba Bedi in Oxford in 1933

Freda and Kabir

 4
REVOLUTION TO
RELIGION
BABA AND FREDA

emories of the parents who created

us, and the places that formed us, are
treasured the most by many. The in­
delible experiences that shape our most
impressionable years. The events that
make us the people we become-like
the young man who set off to face the
world with seven hundred rupees in his
pocket. They are the times we remember
with smiles and sorrow, laughter and
longing, reminiscence and regret.
I have lyrical memories of Kashmir, the
''paradise on earth'' of the Mughal em­
perors who once ruled India. They fell
in love with its snow-covered peaks and
lush green valleys. They built ''gardens
of delight'' around its fabled Dal Lake.
When I was a child, Darul Aman, ''the
abode of peace'', was my Shangri-La.
It was a spacious gabled home allotted
by the state to my parents in Srinagar,
its historic capital. I remember a drive­
way ringed with snowdrops and, to my
young eyes, an endless garden of Chinar
trees with five-pointed leaves. Their fil­
igreed branches sheltered me from the
sun and sky. On sleepy afternoons, I'd
curl into the hollow of a tree trunk and
enter the world of my dreams. I would
fly over mountains and clouds to mag­
ical places in faraway lands. My flights
of fancy continued even after I woke.
Budh Singh, our talkative and balding
cook, told me I was the Commander-in­
Chief of the Indian Army. Every time he
cycled me to school along the Dal Lake,
I would salute every soldier we passed,
and they would salute back, convincing
me all the more. Sitting on my toilet
seat, I'd look up at the morning sky
and salute every passing plane, believ­
ing they were saluting back. And when I
climbed to the top of Srinagar's famous
Shankaracharya Hill, red-faced and out
of breath, my chubby legs aching with
exertion, I would look down on the fes­
tooned houseboats on the lake, the sun
and wind in my face, feeling like the king
of the world. I had no idea that my illu-
sions of sovereignty rested on the turbu­
lent politics of Kashmir.
My parents moved to Kashmir in No­
vember 1947 when Sheikh Abdullah be­
came its political leader after overthrow­
ing the ruling Maharaja. My father, Baba
Bedi, was one of Sheikh sahib's most
trusted advisers. The Bedi family that
arrived in Srinagar must have looked
like a caravan of gypsies: Baba, gruff as
a mountain, a shawl swathed over his
broad shoulders, striking in his baggy
Afghan-style salwar-kameez; Freda, my
auburn-haired English mother, elegant
in her cotton saris with woven borders;
my thirteen-year-old brother Ranga with
his dimpled cheeks; Budh Singh, our
muscle-flexing cook with wisps of strag­
gly hair; Bhabo ji, my bedridden grand­
mother, round as a ball, who always
lived with us; our drooling Great Dane,
Rufus, big as a small pony, whose wag­
ging tail swept coffee tables clean, and I,
a dreamy, introverted, hazel-eyed child
with floppy brown hair, then barely two.
As I tottered around in the dappled
shade of Chinar trees, all I felt was the
bliss of the breeze.
I had no idea that my parents had been
part of the political struggle between the
feudal ruling Maharaja and Sheikh Ab-
dullah's anti-royalists in Kashmir since
the late 1930s, a decade before my birth.
An extra hut had been built in our
rustic home in Lahore for Sheikh Ab­
dullah and his loyalists: Bakshi Ghulam
Mohammed, G.M. Sadiq and Maulana
Masoodi. They came and stayed often.
My parents were then freedom fighters
for India's independence. My father was
a fiery Communist orator; my mother
hand-picked by Mahatma Gandhi for
satyagraha, non-violent resistance. In
1946, a year before India's indepen­
dence, Sheikh Abdullah had called my
mother to Kashmir, perhaps on an anti­
royal mission, to the mountains of Haji
Brar. She took me with her; I was only
nine months old. My mother wrote me
a letter, on my nineteenth birthday, de­
scribing the time: ''You were always with
me like my skin, tucked up in your lit­
tle Moses basket. I didn't leave you for a
minute, so wherever you and I had to go, we
went together.''

Just then, Sheikh Abdullah started an­

other wave of the Quit Kashmir move­
ment against Maharaja Hari Singh and,
as my mother put it, ''the storm burst''.
''Sheikh sahib was promptly jailed along
with all his followers. I felt I must do some­
thing. What, I didn't know. I came down
to Srinagar. How can I put into words that
painful summer? The police wanted me to
leave Kashmir as they knew Papa and I were
friends of the rebels. So they issued me a no­
tice to leave. I wrote on the back of the notice
that I didn't accept it, as I didn't recognize
the people who issued it."

It was an act of extraordinary courage

for a woman alone with a baby in Kash­
mir. She had no way of knowing how
she would be treated by the police if
they arrested her. They could have been
extremely brutal, as they had to many
she knew. Ironically, her being English
may have saved her. The British Res­
ident oversaw all matters in Kashmir.
Arresting an Englishwoman wasn't his
cup of tea. It wasn't the kind of publicity
he wanted. But the state police still fol­
lowed her everywhere. It didn't stop her
a whit.
In my mother's arms, I became a part
of the Resistance. Hiding me under her
full-length burqa, Freda would slip out of
the houses she visited by the back door
to carry messages to underground Kash­
miri nationalists. She ended her letter
with these words:
''During the summer, you and I were
as close as ever mother and baby
 could be . . . By October, the police re­
alised I wasn't to be bullied, so they
were not troubling me anymore. But
Sheikh sahib sent a message from jail
that I should go down to Lahore, and
thanked me for all I had done.''

It was a miracle she returned home to

Lahore, with me safely in her arms, un­
harmed by the Maharaja's goons. A year
later, Sheikh Abdullah overthrew him.
It was a victory fought bitterly to the
end. When India and Pakistan were par­
titioned by the ruling British, they had
given Kashmir's Hindu Maharaja the
choice of joining Pakistan or India. Pak­
istan didn't wait for his decision. They
saw Kashmir as a Muslim state and
launched an ill-disguised attack with
their so-called tribesmen to capture it.
Maharaja Hari Singh fled to Jammu,
Kashmir's winter capital, and promptly
signed the Treaty of Accession with
India. It was his last royal act. While he
was away in Jammu, Sheikh Abdullah
swept out the Maharaja's autocracy with
an irresistible uprising on the streets of
Srinagar. Historian Andrew Whitehead
quotes the Times of India saying: ''The
National Conference red flag decorates
every public building in the city''. Jawa­
harlal Nehru, India's first prime min-
ister, anointed Sheikh Abdullah as the
new ruler of Kashmir.
My family arrived in Kashmir when
India and Pakistan were still fighting
a savage war. Pakistan's raping, plun­
dering, pillaging ''tribesmen'' uprooted
thousands on their way. My mother
cared for 17,000 refugees of the war
in makeshift camps. In her inspiring
biography on my mother, The Spiri­
tual Odyssey of Freda Bedi, Naomi Levine
wrote: ''The priests and nuns of Bara­
mulla, the oldest Catholic Church in
Kashmir, were murdered and thrown
into an open well. Freda and a party
of volunteers cleaned up the church
where the holy icons had been beheaded
or mutilated.'' Despite her lifelong paci­
fism, my mother learnt to wield a rifle
in the women's militia, which trained
women to defend themselves from the
invaders. I remember my mother sitting
up nights correcting unfair marks given
by junior teachers when she was a pro­
fessor of English at Srinagar's Govern­
ment College for Women. Amid all her
work, she never stopped being a loving
mother.
As we settled into our new home along
the Dal Lake, the Indian Army began
pushing back the Pakistanis. It was a
mission they never completed. Bowing
to international pressure, Nehru de­
clared a ceasefire on 1 January 1949.
Kashmir still remains divided, with two­
thirds controlled by India. But the cease­
fire brought peace to the land. It was
time to create a new and progressive
State. Baba had written a landmark New
Kashmir Constitution while countering
Pakistani propaganda about their brutal
invasion. Sheikh Abdullah called Baba's
New Kashmir Constitution ''revolution­
ary''. Among its many socialist acts, it
took land from feudal landowners and
gave it to the landless. Historian Andrew
Whitehead calls Baba's Constitution
''one of the most radical and egalitar­
ian measures introduced in independent
India''. (I thank Andrew for his expertise
on Kashmir in his well-researched biog­
raphy of my mother, The Liues of Freda
Bedi.) Surprisingly, the Communist Party,
of which Baba was a member, expelled
him for writing it. The party wanted to
attain its ideals through violent revolu­
tion, as it had done in Telangana, not by
reform, as Baba had done in Kashmir.
In a tape left behind, my father recalled
telling them: ''I haue never come across a
more stupid approach than this ...'' It must
have hurt when they threw him out. But
he chose to remain an honest adviser to
his friend Sheikh Abdullah.
On 15 September 1949, my mother gave
birth to my sister Gulhima, ''Rose of
the Snows''. Faiz Didi, our hook-nosed
nanny, would sing us to sleep with lul­
labies in Kashmiri. ''Guli'', as we call
her, was an utterly adorable baby. As
a child, I described her as the ''face of
a full moon in a bonnet''. I was cre­
ative even then. But I resisted going to
school at Tyndale Biscoe for fear of the
unknown. They had to walk me around
the grounds on a pony for a week before
I agreed to go for classes. It gave me a
lifelong love of horses which served me
well in my career.
Kashmir introduced me to the world that
would become my profession. Pathan
was the first play I ever saw. It opened
the doors of my six-year-old mind to
the beauty of acting. The towering
performance of Prithviraj Kapoor blew
me away. He went on to play iconic
roles in Bollywood films, unforgettable
as Mughal Emperor Akbar in Mughal-e­
Azam. He sired a tribe of famous film
stars: sons Raj Kapoor, Shashi Kapoor
and Shammi Kapoor, grandson Rishi
Kapoor, great-grandson Ranbir Kapoor,
great-granddaughters Kareena and Kar-
ishma Kapoor. But in those days, theatre
paid almost nothing and the life of an
actor was hard. When the play ended,
my parents and I walked into the foyer.
Prithviraj Kapoor was standing there,
eyes firmly shut, holding out his hands
seeking alms, still dressed in the shawl­
draped salwar-kameez of the Pathan
tribesman. People were putting money
into his hands and bowing before him.
That image of Prithviraj Kapoor seeking
alms, eyes closed, has remained indeli­
ble in my memory.
Dreaming of faraway lands in the curv­
ing hollows of Chinar trees, I never
imagined that my Shangri-La was about
to disappear like a shimmering mirage
when I was just seven. Sheikh Abdul­
lah's political ambition ended Baba's re­
lationship with him. In 1952, he started
toying with the idea of an independent
Kashmir. India would never accept it,
Baba warned him, he would lose every­
thing. Sheikh Abdullah wouldn't change
his mind. My father walked away from
his friend of many struggles. He re­
fused to be associated with anything
that would divide India again. As he had
predicted, Sheikh Abdullah was arrested
and replaced by his pro-India deputy
Bakshi Ghulam Mohammad in 1953. By
then, my family had already made the
journey from the dreamland of my child­
hood to begin a rough, new life in Delhi,
India's sprawling capital.
When I was born, seven years before we
came to Delhi, India was on the cusp
of freedom. The national struggle had
reached a crescendo. Britain's blood­
soaked victory in World War II had de­
pleted its will to fight faraway battles.
Churchill, who led the British to victory,
but refused to ''preside over the decline
of the British Empire'', was voted out in
a landslide. India's independence never
looked more certain. But Mohammed
Ali Jinnah, the leader of India's Muslim
League Party, wanted a separate coun­
try carved out for Muslims. Mahatma
Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru, leaders
of the Congress Party, wanted to keep
India united. Tensions between Hindus
and Muslims were at flashpoint when I
entered the world, on 16 January 1946 in
Lahore, the capital of undivided Punjab.
My name was a sign of the times. As
my parents debated it, a book of Saint
Kabir's poems had caught their eye. It
had been translated into English by Ra­
bindranath Tagore, the first Asian to win
the Nobel Prize for Literature. Kabir Das
was a fifteenth-century Muslim saint,
revered both by Hindus and Muslims, ''at
once the child of Allah and of Ram''. His
earthy couplets blended Hindu bhakti
(devotion to God) with the mystic Sufi Ih­
saan (love of God and goodness). He epit­
omised my parents' belief in commu­
nal harmony. So they called me Kabir.
Ten years before I was born, they had
named their second son Tilak after the
nationalist Bal Gangadhar Tilak. Sadly,
the baby died before his first birthday
in a summer diarrhoea epidemic. It was,
my mother said in a letter: ''... really one
of the turning points in our life ... In the
life we dedicated ourselves to, it wasn't
fair to have children unless we could give
them our wholehearted attention." I was
brought into the world only when free­
dom seemed assured.
''The Huts'', our rustic home on the out­
skirts of Lahore, was not just a symbolic
name. Three kachcha thatched-roof vil­
lage huts, with mud-plastered walls, no
electricity or running water, sheltered
my eclectic family. My parents Baba
and Freda; my older brother Ranga; my
beloved grandmother Bhabo ji and her
adopted son Binder; two shepherd dogs,
Pug and Snug; and a friendly buffalo,
Miss Chambeli Clarabelle Cutty, teth­
ered nearby for milk. And now, joining
the menagerie, baby me, ''welcomed home
with garlands and a tikka on his forehead''
at the door of a hut.
Just after my first birthday, six months
before Independence in 1947, Jawaharlal
Nehru sent my mother a letter with a
remarkably concise address: ''The Huts,
Model Town, Lahore''. Our rural home
had become a landmark. It reflected
my parents' lack of money, but equally,
their solidarity with India's poor. It was
a gathering spot, an adda, where free­
dom fighters, leftists and communists
made their plans. They were watched,
harassed and sometimes beaten by the
police. After Independence, many of
them became famous politicians: Pres­
ident of India Giani Zail Singh; Prime
Minister Inder Kumar Gujral; ''Lion of
Kashmir'' Sheikh Abdullah; Communist
leader Harkrishan Singh Surjit; and
Pran Chopra, the first Indian editor of
Statesman newspaper. Some were cre­
ative people, destined to become fa­
mous: artist Satish Gujral; actor Balraj
Sahni; Poet Laureate of Pakistan Hafeez
Jullandhari; writer and historian Khush­
want Singh; artist B.C. Sanyal and his
fiery leftist wife Sneh, who cast me in
my first play many years later. Many,
like my parents, played their parts in the
freedom movement without expecting
great rewards. They all had their stories;
each had their glories. But the story of
Baba and Freda's controversial love and
marriage in Oxford, and their sacrifices
for India's independence, is as amaz­
ing as any I've heard. And, as I saw in
my childhood, their awe-inspiring trans­
formations, from revolution to religion,
were as radical as any I've seen.
Thirteen years before I was born, Baba
Bedi married my English mother, Freda
Marie Houlston, in the Registry Office of
Oxford University. The Registrar point­
edly refused to shake hands with them.
Racism was alive in Oxford in 1933. No­
tices outside boarding houses said, ''No
Dogs, Jews, or Coloureds''. Many British
students were outraged that an Indian
had stolen one of their prettiest girls.
Freda was a peaches-and-cream English
beauty, blue eyes and auburn hair, with
an intelligence that got her into Oxford
on a scholarship. The attempts of the
Brits to assault my father had ended in
grief. He was a well-built Punjabi ath­
lete, an All India Hammer-Throw Cham­
pion, with the charm of Omar Sharif and
a moustache to match. World champion,
Gama, had taught him wrestling. The
envious lads showed their displeasure
in less physical ways: deprecating looks,
snide comments and racist jokes. Baba
wasn't bothered by their snooty barbs.
As a sixteenth-generation descendant of
Guru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh re­
ligion, Baba Bedi had a pedigree of his
own.
East meets West love stories have pre­
dictable crises. My parents had a seri­
ous argument as they picnicked on the
sprawling lawns of Oxford. Baba asked
Freda to peel some oranges for him. She
refused, not wanting to seem servile to a
man. For Baba, a Punjabi to the core, it
was a most natural ask from his bride­
to-be. Those oranges almost ended their
loving relationship. Luckily for us, their
children, they compromised. She agreed
to peel the oranges, as long as he didn't
eat them until she had finished. They ate
them together and stayed together for
decades.
For all his rugged charm, my father
hadn't made the most alluring of pro­
posals: ''I have nothing to offer you
but love, and this companionship that I
think we both feel. I'm a member of the
Indian national movement . . . For all I
know, you might have to spend years of
our marriage waiting outside jail walls.
But I love you all with my heart ... Will
you please marry me?''
Freda had resolved her conflicting loy­
alties during their courtship. She loved
England, but she ''loathed colonialism''.
She replied to his proposal without hes­
itation: ''Yes, whatever the future brings,
we will share it together." Those simple
words sealed their engagement and her
commitment to India's freedom strug­
gle.
Baba and Freda's decision to marry
upset the Bedi family in India. Baba and
his elder brother ''T.D.'' Bedi, were like
characters in a Bollywood film: bonded
as brothers, yet on opposite sides of the
law. T.D. was a magistrate who'd hoped
Baba would follow him into the British
Indian Civil Service. So he wasn't happy
that his brother was not only returning
as a nationalistic revolutionary but, phi­
tay moo, with an English bride in tow.
He sent Baba a fervent letter to change
his mind on marrying her. That letter
has been lost. Fortunately, Freda's reply
to T.D., found by his son Inder Bedi,
tells us everything. It amazes me that
my mother wrote it when she was just
twenty-one years old. I quote what mat­
ters the most:
Dear Brother,

I know how it must seem to you when

your dearly loved brother makes a
decision to marry someone who is a
stranger to your land, to your family
and to your race.

As you love your brother, Baba, so I

love your brother. But you are man,
and I am woman. And while our love
in its strength must be the same at the
core, for me there is also another com­
plexion to it. I see in Baba the father of
my children, and I tremble to the pas­
sion of tenderness when I think I shall
one day suckle his son at my breast.
None but the Ji.nest children could be
born of the spirit which unites us and
the strength of our bodies.
I can never be an Indian woman
and cannot give him pure new chil­
dren. Would that alone prejudice you
against them? Baba and I are one
country in spirit, and colour is a union
beside that. When I loved Baba first,
it was not for the first time. We come
together out of space- we have loved
before·-and after this we shall love
again.

I was not brought up in an easy

school. I do not ask ease from the fu-
 ture. I want to serve and to serve as
best a woman can, by the side of her
husband and children.
I repeat - there is one thing I cannot
do; become an actual Indian woman.
And I know full well that some
women of his own race will miss a
perfect husband in Baba. But my spirit
is with India and not with England,
with Baba and not with a man of my
own country. My children will be an
even greater bond. Would you deny
me your perfect understanding for
something I cannot help? It just hap­
pened that my soul is not in my coun­
try but in another.
Your sister,
Freda
Her letter moved the Bedi family and
they blessed their wedding. It was rain­
ing on the day they married at the Ox­
ford Registry Office, 21 June 1933. Freda
was a porcelain beauty of twenty-two;
Baba was a ruggedly handsome twenty­
four. It was the first marriage between
an Indian and British fellow student at
Oxford. Neither could afford ''a big party
or any fuss''. Both were on scholarships.
Only three people were invited: Freda's
mother Nellie, stepfather Frank Swan,
and Baba's cousin, Kuldeep Bedi. Later,
Kuldeep also married an English girl,
Anne; their son is the journalist Rahul
Bedi. A well-worn newspaper photo­
graph shows my father chivalrously
holding an umbrella over my mother,
in a long white dress with a corsage of
flowers, as they emerged from the Reg­
istry. It was the last time my mother
wore western clothes. My mother re­
membered the day in Behind the Mud
Walls, a book she wrote in India:

''We came out into a drenching down­

pour of rain. I looked gloomy: there
was no sunshine for my wedding day.
'Don't worry!' said my husband. 'Rain
is auspicious for an Indian bride.' And
auspicious it proved to be. By all social
laws and canons, it was a marriage
doomed to failure. Two students in
love, refusing to recognise the barriers
of race and colour, united in their love
of justice and freedom for the least
and poorest. In the eyes of the world, a
wild marriage without financial foun­
dations, social foundations, or ortho­
dox religious foundations. In our eyes,
the only marriage either of us could
bear to think about, a marriage based
on everything that was good in us."
During my parents' Oxford years, India's
struggle for independence had been in
the headlines. Britain had ruled India
for almost two hundred years. Mahatma
Gandhi came to London for the Round
Table Conference to end it. When he met
King George Vin his simple peasant at­
tire, Winston Churchill had called him
a ''half-naked fakir''. Gandhi famously
replied, ''The King wore enough for both
of us.'' Beyond the humour, three Round
Table Conferences in the 1930s failed.
But Gandhi only grew stronger.
Baba met Gandhi when he came to
address leftist Indian students at the
Oxford Majlis on 24 October 1931. He de­
scribed the meeting in an inter view: ''My
heart was so overflowing with love and de­
votion that I just got out from the crowd and
went low and touched his feet. This demon­
stration by an Indian student, and that too a
communist student, absolutely shocked the
hall. Though our paths differed, our ideology
did not stand in the way of adoring him.''
In the years ahead, Baba would reject
Gandhi's way of civil disobedience and
join India's Communist Party. But Ma­
hatma Gandhi's story was a lifelong in­
spiration for Freda. In 1912, Gandhi had
an epiphany after being thrown out of a
''Whites Only'' railway compartment in
South Africa. It shaped his philosophy
of satyagraha, non-violent resistance,
against all oppressors. Eleven years later
in India, my mother would become one
of his ''handpicked satyagrahis'', more
suited to her peaceful nature. Andrew
Whitehead wrote: ''Freda's sense of so­
cial justice was outraged by the manner
in which Indian nationalism was sup­
pressed, and her sense of the spiritual
was intrigued by the culture and philos­
ophy of the East."
My mother was entranced when she
first saw Rabindranath Tagore in Oxford.
She remembered that magical moment
when he died in 1941, in an article dis­
covered by Whitehead, in Punjab's Tri­
bune:
''I first saw him at Oxford lecturing on
the highest philosophy before some of
the greatest savants and philosophers
in the West. He sat on a low platform
with the rare light of the late evening
falling on his face and making a com­
plete aureole around his white head.
I was very moued by his understand­
ing, his dignity, the way in which he
seemed to distil the essence of India in
the small hall, and with it the essence
of all that is highest and universal in
man. I believe that Tagore, more than
 any other Indian, has been able to in­
terpret the East, and her aspirations,
and make them understood in the
West ... Something in the uery radi­
ance of his presence did more than the
words of popular speakers. Tagore's
heart was one with both the old and
the renascent India."
Freda was also moved by the ''magnifi­
cent lectures on eastern philosophy'' by
Dr S. Radhakrishnan, who later became
the president of India. Her life was, in a
deeper sense, a spiritual quest.
Before returning to India, my parents
took the risk of going to Berlin. It was an
act of immense courage. Hitler was the
fascist Chancellor of Germany. It was a
dangerous place for a communist cou­
ple, one white, one brown. But Baba had
won a scholarship to the leftist Hum­
boldt University, so they tried to live an
unobtrusive life. But they unexpectedly
met one of India's great freedom fight­
ers, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. ''We
came to know Bose intimately, and a
deep friendship grew," Baba recalled. It
must have been a complicated friend­
ship for my leftist parents. Bose admired
Hitler and wanted his support against
the British, their common enemy. In
those days, Hitler was not the man we
remember today. All the horrors of Hitler
-World War II, the concentration camps
for Jews, the gas chambers of Auschwitz
-came many years later. But, even then,
being a communist in Germany was no
JOy.
Their deepest joy was the birth of my
eldest brother, Ranga Trilochan Bedi, on
13 May 1934. ''Ranga'' was in honour
of journalist Rangaswami Iyengar, a for­
mer editor of The Hindu; ''Trilochan'', the
one with the third eye, was the first
name of Baba's adored brother T.D. But
their joy was short-lived. On 2 August
1934, Germany's President Hindenburg
died, and Hitler became its all-powerful
Fuhrer. Baba soon realised that all left­
ists were now in mortal danger. My par­
ents fled Berlin the next day to join the
freedom struggle in India.
Baba took his English wife to meet the
Bedi family in Punjab. It was presided
over by his indomitable mother Bhabo
ji, Mata Phool Kaur. Baba's father had
passed away when he was a child.
Diwan Ramjas, her famous grandfather,
had been the ''Head of the Privy Coun­
cil'', effectively prime minister, under
the Maharaja of Kapurthala. To demon­
strate his belief in social equality, the
Diwan had married his only grand-
daughter to the son of an old Sikh family
in Dera Baba Nanak. Bhabo ji went from
being raised in a family that ruled to liv­
ing in a village, but she gave my mother
a royal welcome. Freda won everyone's
hearts by reverently touching Bhabo ji's
feet.
My grandmother chose to be a kind
mother-in-law for good reason. In
a legendary confrontation with her
own fiercely oppressive mother-in-law,
Bhabo ji had snatched away the keys of
the house from her hands to take control
of her home. She always treated Freda
with respect.
But living in an Indian ''joint family'', as
my mother discovered, had its problems.
Freda wrote in her memoir:
''When I left England, I carried one
gown of the West with me, because I
was already wearing the sari. It was
my wedding dress. It lay in my lug­
gage for six months, a glory of white
leafy lace, until one day I missed it. It
had been stolen.
''We were living in those days in a
'joint family'. There were odd servants
everywhere - cooks, cleaners, sweep­
ers, gardener, nurse. We suspected
who the culprit was but we never
 caught him. He had probably sold it
for a few rupees in the chor bazaar,
the thief market, and thought noth­
ing more of it. I was upset. It was
my wedding dress, part of me and
my happiness. It seemed somehow ill­
omened that it should be stolen away.
But then a new thought comforted
me. What would it haue done there,
lying among old clothes? Got dusty,
maybe, and lose its first freshness.
Now I would not see it decay as mor­
tal things decay. It would remain fresh
in my memory, always white, like the
untrodden snows of Nanga Parbat,
fragile as blossom-branches."

In 1935, eleven years before I was born,

my parents moved to Lahore. It was the
centre of the freedom movement in Pun­
jab. Bhagat Singh, India's most famous
revolutionary, had been hanged there
in 1931, when my parents were still at
Oxford. Lahore's architecture reflected
the empires that had ruled it: Hindu
and Muslim dynasties, the Mughals, the
Sikhs and now the British. It wasn't
an easy place for freedom fighters with
no money. My father was perhaps an
overly idealistic communist. He forsook
his share of the family's feudal wealth,
telling his brother T.D., ''We, husband
and wife, have taken a decision that we
shall live strictly on what we earn our­
selves.''
To earn a living, my mother be­
came a professor of English at La­
hore's Fateh Chand College for Women.
Teji Bachchan (then Suri) was a vi­
brantly beautiful friend and colleague.
She chose to marry an impoverished
Hindi poet, Harivansh Rai Bachchan,
over a dashing army major, Suresh Pan­
dit, who had been wooing her ardently.
Her kurta-pyjama wearing husband be­
came a giant of Hindi literature. In time,
they became the parents of Amitabh
Bachchan, India's most famous actor.
My father founded a quarterly journal
called Contemporary India. Netaji Sub­
hash Chandra, a friend from his Berlin
days, contributed articles. It was a jour­
nalistic coup for them. Whitehead called
it ''the most successful and rewarding
aspects of the intellectual partnership
between husband and wife." Sadly, it
hardly made any money. ''Journalism
in India,'' my mother wrote, speaking
of left-wing journals, ''is a tragic strug­
gle against advertisers and news agents
who sit on bills and never pay up."
Undeterred, Baba started a nationalistic
paper, Monday Morning, on a small hand
press in 1938. The British took Sundays
off, and no newspapers came out on
Mondays. So, he decided to fill the gap.
Balraj Sahni, later a famous actor, tried
to join him. Baba dissuaded him: My
dear Balraj, look here, this is politics. If this
were a literary magazine, I would gladly say
come. Running a political magazine without
any funds is a dog's job. We are dogs, we
are out to be whipped by our own choice. You
are an artist. Balraj Sahni left after three
months. He was among the first to wel­
come me when I began my career as an
actor in Bollywood. His son, actor Parik­
shit Sahni, became a good friend too.
Monday Morning had to close after eigh­
teen months, again for lack of money,
after the bigger papers began printing
on Monday. Undeterred, Baba contin­
ued his struggle against the British with
speeches, agitations and calls for strikes.
India's independence was expected in
1948, three years after World War II
ended. Baba urged Freda to visit her
mother. She hadn't seen her since
she left England fourteen years ear­
lier. ''There might be trouble during the
transfer of power,'' my father warned
her, ''and we should be together. So
go now." I was a dimpled one-year-old
when mother carried me to England. But
it was a bittersweet time for my mother
to visit her family.
My mother must have been deeply upset
that she wasn't in India on the day of its
Independence, 15 August 1947. She had
sacrificed so much for it. But Indepen­
dence came much sooner than anyone
expected. Ironically, her absence may
have saved her life. When the British
announced India's freedom, they carved
Pakistan out of India and gave Lahore
to Pakistan. The city was engulfed in a
frenzy of riots with Muslims fighting the
Hindus and Sikhs. The Partition of India
and Pakistan led to the biggest, bloodiest
cross-migration in modern history. Over
twelve million Punjabis alone were up­
rooted from their homes on both sides of
the new border. More than two million
people were killed in incredibly savage
bloodbaths. It had equally catastrophic
consequences in Bengal, on the other
side of the country. Baba moved to India
after our home in Lahore went up in
flames. But he showed amazing courage
in taking Anela, the wife of his friend
poet Hafeez Jullandhari, back from India
to Pakistan in the middle of the turmoil
to save their lives. But that's a story for
another time.
Freda never saw her beloved huts in
Lahore again. Fortunately, Dera Baba
Nanak, our ancestral hometown, re­
mained on the Indian side of the new
border by a whisker. It was the place
of her most historic act as a free­
dom fighter seven years before Indepen­
dence. It's my favourite story in our fam­
ily's fascinating folklore.
In 1941, Gandhi's civil disobedience
strategy was that a few people would
demonstrate on behalf of the many. In­
spector Price, a short Irishman with a
walrus moustache, was sent from Am­
ritsar to Dera Baba Nanak to arrest a
British woman in a handwoven khadi
sari who had declared she was going to
lead a non-violent demonstration, satya­
graha. She was the fifty-seventh person
in India to be handpicked by Mahatma
Gandhi for individual satyagraha. The
Tribune, Punjab's leading newspaper, put
it on their front page: ''Mrs Freda Bedi
left for Dera Baba Nanak where she will
offer Satyagraha on 21st February." The
British were determined to stop her. Po­
licemen watched her house. She sent
them tea and biscuits.
The night before her demonstration, as
she lay down to sleep, my mother felt
vulnerable. My father wasn't there to
comfort her. He had been imprisoned
by the British for yet another agitation.
Next to her slept Bhabo ji, nine-year-old
Binder and Ranga, two years younger.
But in the dark of the room, lit with
a spluttering oil lamp, Freda felt lonely:
Suddenly, I felt alone, agonizingly alone. I
could have wept for my sheer aloneness. I
wanted to talk to Bedi, to have his cheery
voice near me . . . I suppose in all the crises
of our life we get that feeling of isolation,
as though we are treading a path into the
future and are treading it, for all the love
that surrounds us, quite alone . . . And on the
borders of that aloneness, of that feeling of
smallness in the face of the immensity of the
unknown, there comes another feeling . . . of
being given the strength to carry on, of not
being alone anymore. Of being a part of
something greater than the mere individual
human body.

The dramatic scenes of Freda's arrest

the next morning is described by Vicki
Mackenzie in her pioneering biography
on my mother The Revolutionary Life of
Freda Bedi. Inspector Price came to ar­
rest Freda at 4.00 a.m., before she
could begin her satyagraha. He looked
everywhere: the homes of Bedi fami­
lies, rooms in the Sikh gurdwaras, all
the nearby farmhouses. He couldn't find
her anywhere. It must have upset him
greatly. He had been specifically sent by
the British for this operation. They didn't
want an Indian policeman to arrest an
English woman. Price posted his men
around a hastily erected stage in the yel­
low mustard fields where she was to ad­
dress the crowds. She had to be stopped
before she got there. But in the morning
Freda suddenly appeared on stage, ''as
if from nowhere'', to the welcoming roar
of 40,000 well-wishers. She had hidden
herself under the stage in the darkness
of the night. Before Price could reach her,
she spoke to the crowd, telling them not
to be violent, whatever the provocation.
Violence would defeat their cause. Then
she stepped back and gave my brother
Ranga a big hug.
Inspector Price reached her with an un­
wieldy toupee shading his pink face. A
bearded Indian policeman spoke on his
behalf: ''Regretting it is my duty, but
I must arrest you." My mother was
amused by the appearance of the ''sur­
prisingly small'' Irishman with a walrus
moustache. Suppressing a giggle, she
replied, ''I'm quite ready. Take me along
with you.''
It turned into a village carnival. ''It took
the policemen at least thirty minutes
to get through the throng, who were
all shouting 'Freedom for India. Long liue
Gandhiji. Long liue Jawaharlal Nehru..."'
Freda was driven through the narrow
brick-paved gulleys of the town to the
police station. My mother remembered
the scene vividly in her jail diary: ''The
shopkeepers came to the door of their shops,
with hands folded in greeting. The women
crowded on the flat roofs to see us go, and
sighed in the doorways." Under the De­
fence of India Act, trials could be held
immediately, without any legal formal­
ity. Her trial was conducted by a young
red-faced Englishman who: ''looked as
though he'd been to Oxford''.

''I find this as embarrassing as you do,''

he said in a typically British way.
''Don't worry," my mother replied, ''I
don't find it unpleasant at all. Treat me
as an Indian woman and I will be quite
content.''
The trial was over in fifteen minutes.
She was sentenced to six months of rig­
orous imprisonment. The Reuters news
agency picked up the story of the ''first
English woman to join Mr. Gandhi's
passive resistance movement''. It made
headlines in her hometown, ''Derby Wife
of Indian Sentenced'', much to the con­
sternation of her mother, Nellie.
As Convict No. 3613 in ''Lahore Female
Jail'', Freda found it revolting, crowded,
though not without joys. She was nau­
seated by the putrid latrines, harrowed
by the incessant presence of others but
found joy tending the gardens: ''It's still
delirious with young leaves and the scent
of orange blossom, the cooing of doves,
the screech of parrots, an early owl hoot­
ing." More joy came into her life when
Teji Bachchan brought Ranga to see
her. Mercifully, Freda's sentence was cut
short. An Indian judge ruled that the
''intention to commit a crime does not
constitute a crime''. Since my mother
had been arrested before she began her
march, the British had to let her out,
three months early, on 24 May 1941. Be­
fore leaving, she persuaded her jailers to
change the name of the ''Lahore Female
Jail'' to ''Lahore Women's Jail''. Jails, she
argued, had no gender.
On her release, Freda went to meet Baba.
He was imprisoned by the British at the
dreaded Deoli Prison Camp on the far
reaches of Thar Desert in Rajasthan. It
was the third time he had been jailed.
The first time for rousing peasant as­
semblies with his fiery oratory. The sec­
ond, for instigating trade unions against
the British. This time, for calling for
an all-India railway strike to protest the
British recruitment of Indian soldiers for
World War II. Baba shared a cell with
Rajni Patel, later a powerful political
leader in Mumbai, who had graduated
from Cambridge. Since my father had
been to Oxford, they hung curtains with
colours of their rival universities, light
blue and dark blue. Freda arrived when
my father had been on hunger strike
for ten days. He had just dislocated the
shoulder of a guard who tried to force
feed him. The Camp Commandant told
her he had been ''isolated''. She could
only meet him if he agreed to end his
hunger strike. It was an offer he couldn't
refuse. The freedom struggle could wait.
Meeting the woman he loved in the mid­
dle of their lonely struggles could not.
He was always a romantic at heart. Their
lives were, in the words of Whitehead,
''strengthened by the common causes
they championed and their intellectual
collaboration, but it was above all a love
story."
When our family came down from Kash­
mir to Delhi in 1953, Baba and Freda's
love story was on the verge of a radical
transformation. Both of them changed
in ways I never imagined. After twenty
years of marriage, companionship and
political struggles, spiritual dimensions
now entered their lives. It took them in
different directions but, defying all con­
ventional logic, they remained bonded.
Their spiritual transformations heralded
portentous changes for the family. I was
seven years old when it all started to
happen.
It began when Freda went to Burma
(now Myanmar) in 1953, the year we
came to Delhi. Walking through the
streets of Akyab, a small coastal town
in the north, my mother had a spiritual
illumination. She described it in a tape
recording for the family:
''Suddenly I experienced the first flash
of real understanding . . . the intercon­
nectedness of everything that changed
my whole life . . . I saw the flow of
things, the meaning, the connection."

My mother told me it was ''as if the earth

was illuminated from within''. Biogra­
pher Norma Levine quotes my mother
calling it ''an experience of mystical in-
tensity." It lasted for several hours and
she felt blissful. The experience changed
her life.
How did it happen? She had been
mediating ever since she came to Burma
with a United Nations Commission to or­
ganise its social services. On arrival, she
had met U Thittila, the chief abbot of the
magnificent Shwedagon Pagoda in Ran­
goon (now Yangon), then Burma's capi­
tal, and asked him to teach her Vipas­
sana meditation. It was not an impulsive
ask. She had meditated in her own way
since her childhood. After her father,
Frank Houlston, was killed in France
during the World War I, her mother
had forsaken Christianity. Young Freda
would go quietly into empty churches in
Derby to ponder the meaning of life and
death. It became part of her nature. In
later years, she wrote, ''I was a political
and social activist, but inwardly there was
always meditation. I don't think I could have
borne those years, with all the difficulties, all
the strains if I had not done so.'' She had
read the Gita and Quran, Vivekananda
and Guru Nanak in India. But Buddhism
had almost died out in the country of its
birth. In Burma, Whitehead says, ''She
found a teacher, a faith, a form of medi-
tation, and had a moment of awakening
which marked a personal turning point.''
The aftershock of her mystical experi­
ence led to a nervous breakdown. My fa­
ther brought her back from Burma to a
hospital in Delhi. When I saw Mummy,
she didn't recognise me. She ate her
food mechanically and didn't talk to
anyone. It went on for weeks. All of
us were frightened by it, except Baba.
Instinctively, he understood what was
happening. ''All will be fine," he assured
us. ''Everything is as it should be.''
In six weeks, she was home again. But
nothing was ever the same again for my
family. Freda informed Baba of two big
changes. The first, which I heard, that
she had become a Buddhist. The second,
which I didn't hear, that she had decided
to be celibate. Many years later, she ex­
plained her decision to me. ''I had come
to a point in my life when I just couldn't
play with my body." Whatever her rea­
sons, Baba seemed to have accepted it
with grace.
A year later, Baba experienced a spiri­
tual breakthrough of his own after we
moved to Nizamuddin in 1954. He sat
still for hours without moving. He bab­
bled in tongues we didn't understand.
He went up to the roof and stood with
his arms outstretched for hours. Doctors
came and tried to sedate him. ''What
I'm going through is beyond you,'' he
told them. ''You won't find a pulse." The
doctor checked, shook his head and left.
It was my mother's turn to comfort us,
telling us he was going to be alright. I
remember being mystified as an eight­
year-old by what I saw, though I wasn't
frightened by it. My father seemed to
know what he was doing. He went to
the nearby dargah of Hazrat Nizamud­
din Aulia to listen to the Sufi singers. He
walked me to unmarked Muslim graves
and told me who they were. It was a
morbidly fascinating world for me, mak­
ing me think of life, death and what lies
beyond. I've thought of that all my life.
My father's life entered another dimen­
sion. He started ''automatic writing''.
Reams of paper were inked with the
thoughts that came to him. He was tun­
ing in to forces I couldn't fathom. People
heard of his gifts and started coming to
him. He wrote of their problems on end­
less sheets of paper without them saying
a word. They went away with reverent
bows, sometimes with tears of gratitude.
More and more people came. He never
charged them money. At some point, he
stopped writing and started speaking. At
first, I could tell by his voice, and the
phrases he used, that he was ''chan­
nelling''. Soon, those differences blurred.
He now spoke with his own voice and
words. My father's transformation fasci­
nated me. What the hell was going on?
Baba's spiritual transformation made
him a reluctant guru. He didn't want
haloes and expectations of him to be
saintly. But he donned a long smock
and looked like Moses. In later years, he
completed the look by walking with a
staff in hand. It helped the back injury
he had suffered when he'd been beaten
brutally in British jails. He was a spir­
itual guide with unorthodox methods.
Once, I remember a government servant
coming to him in Moti Bagh. His wife
wasn't able to conceive a child. Baba
asked him to give her a rose every day
for six months. He came back on the
appointed day to say nothing had hap­
pened. My father told him the day was
not yet done. He came back the next day
and said his wife had morning sickness.
These things defy all logic, but I saw it
with my own eyes.
My own troubles were more earthbound.
We had moved from our beautiful house
in Kashmir to a grotty two-bedroom flat
with cemented floors in Delhi. It was
in Karol Bagh, then a locality of Pun­
jabi refugees displaced by India's parti­
tion. Mean kids roamed the streets in
packs and taunted me for my name.
It was a shattering comedown for me.
With money from my mother's Burma
assignment, we moved into the home
in Nizamuddin, where my father had
his epiphany. Our house in Nizamuddin,
near Humayun's tomb, was much nicer
and gave me many joyful memories. An
old cook of ours worked for Kwality's, a
restaurant that catered events. He told
us of all weddings in the area. Guli and
I would dress in our Sunday best, sneak
in and eat all the sweets. No one ever
questions children. We were partners as
siblings and remained closely bonded
throughout our lives.
Kwality also had an ''ice-cream man''
who cycled past our home each day. I
once palmed off a fake coin to buy an
icy chocolate bar. As he handed me the
bar, five-year-old Guli spoke out in won­
der, ''Haw bhai! He's taken the khota
money.'' In a flash, the ice-cream man
slapped me and snatched away my ice
cream. Angrily, I slapped Guli in turn
and left her wailing on the street. I have
never hit a woman ever since.
Our Nizamuddin house was meant as
a stopgap. My mother had been wait­
ing for an official flat as she was now
the editor of Social Welfare, a government
magazine. But the government took its
circuitous time, and money ran out for
the rent. Unsettling me once more, my
family had to move again, this time to
Mehrauli. In 1955, we moved into tents
on the grounds of an old Mughal plea­
sure garden, a mile beyond the tower­
ing Qutub Minar. But these were not the
tents of the homeless. They were the
colourful royal hunting tents of the kings
of Patiala, loaned to us by my mother's
friend, Maharani Mohinder Kaurji. Her
son Amrinder Singh is the current Chief
Minister of Punjab. His brother, the
Olympian Randhir Singh, has been a
good friend since college. The tents had
a big living-dining space, bedrooms on
either side, bathrooms, even a kitchen. It
was a happy place for me.
The grounds also housed Ashoka Vihar,
one of the few Buddhist temples in
Delhi. It wasn't a surprise when U Nu,
then Prime Minister of Burma, came to
see it. He was delighted to meet my
mother, a fellow Buddhist with a Burma
connection. He invited her to Rangoon to
learn more of Vipassana from Burma's
greatest living saint, Mahasi Sayadaw.
He offered to sponsor me too. It set the
stage for a transformation of my own at
the age of nine.
''CUT TO," as we say in film: I'm walk­
ing along the streets of Rangoon in the
early light of sunrise, wearing the golden
robes of a novice monk, my head shaved
bald, carrying a begging bowl of black
lacquer. Ahead of me, a file of monks is
receiving offerings of food from people
who have waited patiently since dawn.
Until the bowl of the most senior in front
is filled, the next doesn't get any. Trail­
ing them all, I thought my bowl would
go empty. In the end, it overflowed. In a
strange way, it became the theme of my
life.
I didn't have to become a monk in
Burma. I chose to. The Burmese revere
the Sangha, the clergy of monks, who
brought them the words of the Bud­
dha. When my mother and I arrived
at Thathana Yeikta Meditation centre in
Rangoon, I was told that Burmese boys
often become monks for a summer. I
volunteered immediately. I was curious.
More importantly, I knew it would make
Mummy happy. It gave me my most
treasured photograph-my mother in a
sari offering me food to put in my beg-
ging bowl. It wasn't an easy life. Rise
at five, ''begging'' at six, pray, learn
dharma, meditate, lunch before noon.
No more food all day, just tea with a bit
of jaggery. Meditate, meet my mother at
five, meditate again before sleeping at
nine. Mahasi Sayadaw was the world's
best teacher of Vipassana. He taught the
great Goenka ji, who popularised it in
India and abroad. Meditating taught me
more about myself than anything else.
Vipassana is a way of raising your con­
sciousness. It makes you more aware.
You focus on the ''rising'' and ''falling''
of your breath, eyes half-closed, like the
Buddha. As you do this, your thoughts
interrupt you. You don't hurl them out.
You note them, repeating to yourself
three times, ''thinking, thinking, think­
ing'', then back to ''rising, falling''. Then
your face itches, you don't scratch it,
you note ''itching'' the same way. Then
a dog barks, you note ''hearing'', and
then back again to breathing. You realise
how little control you have of your mind.
Slowly, the gap between your thoughts,
or sensations, increases. That is the pure
state you seek to extend. In time, you're
told meditation doesn't have to be prac­
tised cross-legged on the floor. You can
lie down or walk too. But you have to
be mindful of every action you do, feel
or think. Then you meditate with com­
passion for the suffering of every living
being. It's ethereal, elevating, energising.
I once fell asleep in the afternoon, got
up thinking it was morning, and rang
the bell that woke everyone at dawn.
Everyone came out of their rooms, won­
dering why the morning bell was rung
in the afternoon. The serious meditators
couldn't stop laughing when they heard
of my error. I was red-faced, embar­
rassed and ashamed.
My formally becoming a Buddhist
couldn't have been timed better. I was
soon to meet the most important Bud­
dhist in the world. The Dalai Lama
XIV, then the spiritual and titular ruler
of Tibet, was twenty-one when he first
came to India in 1956. India had in-
vited him for a conference on the 2500 th

anniversary of the Buddha. However,

the Tibetan government ruled in only
name. The Chinese had annexed Tibet
in 1951 and stationed their military in
Lhasa, its capital. I later learned that the
Dalai Lama wanted to remain in India,
but Nehru persuaded him to return. My
mother was deputed to show him the
Ashoka Vihar Buddhist temple.
As a ten-year-old, I was filled with
awe on seeing His Holiness. There's
newsreel footage, biographer Whitehead
points out, of me and seven-year-old
Guli ''peering out nervously between the
heavily garlanded Dalai Lama and their
sari clad mother''. He wasn't the first
lama my mother had seen. The first Ti­
betan lama she ever saw was in a dream
just before I was born. A Tibetan lama
was offering her a young boy. ''Take
him," he was saying with a smile. ''Take
care of him." Then he disappeared into
the ethers. Was I Tibetan in another life?
In Delhi, Baba's life had embraced an­
other relationship. He was seeing Raj
Narindra, a pleasant middle-aged Pun­
jabi woman who had adopted a daugh­
ter from her family, Seerat. Raj had
been the extra-marital ''companion'' of
his beloved brother T.D. before he died
prematurely in 1951. He had asked Baba
to take care of her on his deathbed.
She was a refugee from Lahore entitled
to compensation from the Indian gov­
ernment. With the money she got, Baba
helped her build a small but beautiful
house in Delhi's Jangpura. In time, their
relationship became closer. He would go
and see her while living at home with
us. My mother was aware of Raj yet
she never created a scene. She accepted
what my father chose to do as she fol­
lowed her celibate path.
In 1957, when I was eleven, my world
changed again. CUT TO: I'm sitting at
dawn under a cupola in a garden with
a gathering of people singing the songs
of Rabindranath Tagore. I'm a student
in Pathashala, his school for children in
the Shantiniketan University. Rabindra
Sangeet, the songs of Tagore, was a vol­
untary morning ritual in the green of
encircling trees. All the other schools
I'd attended-Tyndale Biscoe in Srina­
gar, Elisabeth Gauba's and Delhi Public
School-had been modelled on western
systems. My parents wanted to water
my Indian roots. Tagore had been my
parent's idol since their days in Oxford.
But there was a deeper reason for my
being sent to his school.
Bengal had been in my mother's heart
ever since she'd been sent by Punjab's
Tribune to cover its Great Famine in
1943. It was the greatest humanitarian
disaster in Indian history. Two to three
million people of Bengal's population of
sixty million died of starvation, mal­
nutrition and disease, caused by crop
failures, cyclone damage and inhuman
British indifference. Freda's reports in
the Tribune, were in her words ''more
than a cry of pain, a call to pity, a pic­
ture of another tidal wave of tears that
has wrenched itself up from the ocean
of human misery''. She was always a
deeply compassionate person.
But the schoolboys of Bengal weren't
kind to me. I was the outsider and
they ganged up on me. They sullied my
clothes in the lockers, defaced my books
and wouldn't pass to me when play­
ing football. Didi, our dormitory matron,
was kind to me. So was Babla, a pint­
sized scrapper with spiky hair, who al­
ways sided with me. One night, I got into
bed but couldn't stretch my legs. I had
been short-sheeted. The lower bedsheet
had been doubled back and folded over
the blanket to give the illusion of nor­
malcy. An old boarding school trick. The
boys attacked me as I leapt out of bed
red-faced and angry. Perhaps I should
have cowered before their numbers, but
I walloped the nearest jeering face. The
pack fell on me and pummelled me to
the floor. I grabbed every attacking arm
and leg and bit viciously. Howls of the
bitten pierced the dorms. Didi appeared
suddenly, Babla breathlessly beside her,
and sussed out the scene in a second.
She scattered the rabble like an enraged
Kali and wiped away my tears in her
arms. She saw I couldn't live on like
that. I was moved to the home of ''Eta­
di'' Ghosh, Shantiniketan's Hungarian li­
brarian, and began to love the place.
Shantiniketan had many avatars. It had
a school, a university, a centre for music
and dance, even an institute for Chi­
nese studies. But India was Shantinike­
tan's soul. Folk patterns in white chalk
decorated entrances. Dhotis and kurtas
were worn with pride by the scholars
who traversed its pathways of earth.
At meals, rows of students sat cross­
legged and ate from metal thalis on the
floor. Classes were held in the shade
of trees where teachers wrote in white
chalk on blackboards on stands. Only
the chemistry class, with its fragile test
tubes, pipettes and Bunsen burners, was
taught indoors. Most students wore no
shoes. I returned to Delhi barefoot, my
feet blackened by two days of travel on
changing trains, much to the horror of
my family.

In 1958, when I was twelve, my grand­

mother, Bhabo ji, passed away. It was
my first emotional experience of death.
By then, my mother had finally been
allotted a two-bedroom government flat
with a garden in Moti Bagh. Bhabo ji had
been an eternal presence in my child­
hood. She taught me Punjabi by ask­
ing me to translate the newspapers, as
she couldn't see well. She pampered me
with sweets and told me family stories.
When she knew she was dying, she
called the family to her bedside in the
early dawn. She asked Papa and Binder
to lower her onto a white sheet on the
floor. She wanted to be close to the
earth. Guli and I were woken quietly by
Mummy. We were sent to gather fra­
grant chameli flowers from the garden.
Bhabo ji asked Baba to place them on her
forehead, a sacred acceptance of death.
Tears welled in my eyes as I realised
what it meant. Binder started to cry. She
consoled him with a gentle touch. She
reached out for my father's hand and
clasped it. Then, with a whispered sigh
of prayer, she was gone. I was awed by
the peace of her passing and the sim­
plicity of her death. Around me was the
fragrance of chameli, the hushed light of
dawn and tears as plentiful as the dew­
drops in our garden.
Even as a politically aware thirteen­
year-old, I never imagined that a revolt
on the roof of the world would transform
my family's life yet again. On 17 March
1959, Chinese artillery started pounding
the terraces of the Norbulinka, the sum­
mer home of the Dalai Lama, beneath
Lhasa's fabled Potala Palace which rose
to the heavens. It was a naked power
grab by the Chinese who had ruled
Tibet indirectly since 1951. The Dalai
Lama escaped in disguise with the help
of the Tibetans who had surrounded
his home to protect him. Fourteen sus­
pense-laden days later, he appeared at
Tezpur in Assam to seek asylum in the
land of the Buddha. Countless thou­
sands tried to follow him out of Tibet.
Most of them died in the trackless
snows of the Himalayas, the world's
highest mountains, which divide India
and Tibet. The Chinese guarded all the
high passes and well-trodden routes. A
hundred thousand still managed to sur­
vive the killing journey. They arrived in
tatters, frost-bitten, starving, some on
the verge of death, without any worldly
possessions. The refugees were lodged
in hastily erected refugee camps at Buxa
and Misamari in Assam. They were
''insanitary, overcrowded and badly or­
ganised'', my mother recalled, bursting
with the once-titled Tibetan aristocracy,
lamas, peasants, soldiers, and their fam­
ilies. In October 1959, Jawaharlal Nehru
sent Freda to look after their welfare. He
knew of her work with refugees in Kash­
mir; even better, she was Buddhist.
It was my mother's introduction to Ma­
hayana, the Tibetan form of Buddhism.
She wrote to Olive Shapley, her friend
from Oxford, then a famous radio broad­
caster: 'The 5000 lamas we have inherited
contain some of the most remarkable spiri­
tually advanced monks and teachers it has
been my privilege to meet ... '
My mother was attracted by Mahayana's
wider vision. They believed the Buddha
was not just an enlightened human; he
represented a universe of gods and di­
vine energies. Even those who attained
enlightenment choose to be reborn for
the benefit of others. But Freda's work in
the camps dealt with more earthly prob­
lems.
Guli and I were stunned by what we saw
at Misamari. It was an encampment of
hundreds of bamboo shacks, my mother
in a small one, with no electricity.
Ragged refugees arrived from daybreak
seeking her help with endless problems.
She united families haphazardly housed
by officials, ensured high monks were
not drafted to build roads, and organised
glucose and barley to save babies whose
mother's milk had run dry. All of them
heard me calling her ''Mummy'', and all
began calling her ''Mummy-la''. Freda
became the mother of a generation of
Tibetans in India. Even the Dalai Lama
calls her ''Mummy-la''. Amid all the suf­
fering, there was great beauty too. My
mother wrote in a letter: 'Every morning
and night, the chanting of incredibly sooth­
ing and rhythmical prayers of the lamas
filled the air. Each home group had its pri­
vate shrine, and butter lamps were burned,
even if rations had to be sacrificed.'
The strain of being Florence Nightin­
gale to the Tibetans for months caused
her another nervous breakdown. It re­
minded me of her sudden return from
Burma. She was flown to Delhi and ad­
mitted to Willingdon Hospital. It was se­
rious enough for Guli to be called down
from All Saints, her wonderful boarding
school in the mountains of Nainital. My
mother recovered only after seeing us by
her bedside. Baba was beside her like
a rock of strength. He prophesied she
would recover for greater glory. And she
did.
A greater journey began when Freda
discovered her guru after she returned
to help the Tibetans. She'd never heard
of His Holiness Karmapa XVI before. He
wasn't among the refugees. He'd had
the foresight to leave Tibet, two weeks
before the 1959 uprising, before the
routes were blocked. The Karmapa was
the sixteenth incarnation of a lineage
that traced its roots to Milarepa, one of
Tibet's most revered masters. The Ti­
betans seem to have perfected the art of
finding reincarnations.
Apasaheb Pant, then India's Political Of­
ficer in Sikkim, insisted she meet him.
Rumtek, the Karmapa's monastery, was
a twenty-mile ride on horseback from
Gangtok, Sikkim's capital. My mother
wasn't deterred. Her new odyssey began
just as the new regime in Burma closed
the gates to her old teachers. What
my mother experienced in her time
with the Karmapa was extraordinary. In
her heartfelt biography, Norma Levine
quotes her: ''The amazing part of the
whole visit was the complete lack of
dependence on language, yet we man­
aged to understand one another, the
secret being of course that the transfer­
ence of teaching and ideas was on the
transcendental level, anuttara or beyond
the reach of words. It was an experience
too deep to be written but as natural as
sunlight.''
Sometime in 1960, two maroon-robed
incarnate lamas knocked on the door
of our flat in Moti Bagh. Trungpa and
Akong Rinpoche had been refugees in
Misamari. Only fifteen in their group of
three hundred had survived their bru­
tal escape from Tibet. My mother had
offered to teach them English and in­
vited them to stay with us in Delhi.
But our two-bedroom flat was crowded
enough with me, my father and mother,
and my sister when she came down
to Delhi for her vacations. Binder, who
I loved dearly, lived with us too. To
me, he always looked like an absent­
minded professor. He was now known
both as a political commentator, ''Dewan
Berindranath'', and as the Urdu writer,
''Zafar Payami''. Baba rolled up his
sleeves and built a hut for the incarnates
in the garden. He bought them shorts
and T-shirts to roam the local markets
unobtrusively. Binder and I pitched in
to teach Trungpa and Akong English. I
had no idea our efforts would have such
far-reaching consequences. It led my
mother to a landmark achievement.
Freda realised that English was the
key to giving the highest lamas of
Tibet a platform in the modern world.
In the autumn of 1961, she rented a
large colonial house in the mountains
of Dalhousie to teach English to the
lamas. The Young Lamas Home School
became the fountainhead of Buddhism
in the West. It began with Freda send­
ing Trungpa to Oxford on a Spaulding
scholarship, Akong in tow, to perfect
his English. Akong went on to build
Samyeling, the most beautiful Tibetan
monastery in Europe, in the wilds of
Scotland. His legacy is continued today
by the brilliant Lama Yeshe. Trungpa
blazed new trails in America, begin­
ning with centres in Colorado and Ver­
mont that spread across the country.
Cutting through Spiritual Materialism, his
brilliant exposition of Tibetan teachings
in very modern English, became an in­
ternational bestseller. Other great lamas
of the school spread Buddhism world­
wide: Lama Zopa, Ringu Tulku, Gelek
Rinpoche, Chime Rinpoche, Tharthang
Tulku, Ato Rinpoche-too many others
to name. Other great incarnate lamas,
like Situ Rinpoche and Ayang Rinpoche,
remained in India. They are all the su­
perstars of the Buddhist world.
I was seeing stars of a different kind. I
was felled by a serious illness while I
was teaching the lamas after finishing
my school at Sherwood in 1962. It se­
riously affected my plans of joining St.
Stephen's in Delhi, India's most presti-
gious college. Of course, I had no idea
of how I'd pay for it. My mother had
resigned as editor of Social Welfare so
the Moti Bagh flat had gone. Baba had
no money and moved in with ''Aunty
Raj''. He still refused to accept more
than token gifts from devotees. He was
an idealist for the causes in which he
believed but it put no cash in the till.
He wrote Prophet of the Full Moon about
his ancestor Guru Nanak, founder of
the Sikh religion. But it didn't make
much money. Nor did the Zafar Nama,
Guru Gobind Singh's epistle to Emperor
Aurangzeb, which Baba translated from
Persian to Urdu. Neither did his writ­
ings on Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. Some
commissioned works, like Harvest from
the Desert, the remarkable story of Sir
Ganga Ram, got him good money, which
he splurged on us. My mother was feed­
ing a houseful of lamas with a trickle of
donations. So, money was a real prob­
lem. All the same, I was thrilled when St.
Stephen's called me for an interview, the
final step before admission. But my de­
bilitating illness made it impossible for
me to go. Reverend Llewelyn, my Prin­
cipal at Sherwood, was my only hope.
I knew he liked me. I'd won the Spitz
Prize for Integrity and scored a First in
my finals. I begged him to intervene. He
was a devout Welshman with a Chris­
tian soul. I hoped he had God's ear.
My illness only grew worse as I waited
to hear back. For the next two weeks,
as Dalhousie doctors came and went, I
only got sicker and sicker, weaker and
weaker. I saw the worry on my mother's
face, rising by the day. It must have
brought back memories of my brother,
Tilak, who'd died of an illness as a baby
during the freedom struggle. She sat by
me for hours, helping me up, praying in
Tibetan, meditating. She was no longer
the slender auburn woman who came
down from Kashmir to Delhi. Her hair
was now grey, tied in a gentle bun, her
arms far rounder, and her saris were in
shades of maroon. She snapped out of
her prayers one day and looked at me
with alarm in her blue eyes.
''It's typhoid!'' she cried out as she rose
to call the doctor.
Typhoid it was. None of the doctors had
diagnosed it. With the right medication,
I started coming back to life. Whether
it was her intuition, or what she'd seen
in the refugee camps, my mother's in­
sight saved my life. Completing my joy,
Llewelyn's word had worked its magic.
St. Stephen's agreed to admit me with-
out an interview. To pay for my admis­
sion and first year of college, I asked
the Chogyal (King) of Sikkim for twenty
thousand rupees. He had contributed in
the past to my mother's work for the Ti­
betans. Ever so kindly, he agreed. For the
rest, I worked in radio and television, of
which I spoke of in my first story. Almost
five decades later, I thanked Reverend
Llewelyn again in England, long after
his retirement. I brought him down from
his spartan room in a Norfolk abbey to
see me perform in The Far Pavilions in
London's West End. Sherwoodians came
from far and near to cheer him at the
banquet that followed. He personified
the teachings of Christ by the way he
lived. I'll always be grateful to him for
the pivotal role he played in my life.
In the August of 1966, my mother
shocked me by becoming a fully or­
dained Buddhist nun. She stood before
me, head shaved bald, draped in maroon
robes, watching my reaction with appre­
hensive eyes. When Binder had called
me to his house in Nizamuddin to meet
her, I came from college expecting to
meet my mother with joy. But seeing her
in robes, I felt betrayed. How dare she
do this to me? Why didn't she talk to
me first? We had talked of Buddhism on
train-rides across the Indian countryside
and on string-beds as we lay beneath
the stars in the summers of Delhi. We
had looked many times into each other's
eyes, smiling with understanding. Didn't
we have a relationship of trust? I had
been part of her journey into Buddhism
more closely than anyone in the family.
How could she do this without telling
me? How could she have been so un­
speakably selfish? Didn't she think of
how this would affect Guli?
''Why didn't you wait for Guli to grow
up?'' I asked rudely. ''Why now?'' I could
see she how hurt she was.
''It was time," she said in a soft voice
as her fingers caressed a wood-beaded
rosary. ''Who decides when an apple
falls to the ground?''
I couldn't say anything more. I knew
she was right. We sat facing each other
for a long time, communing in silence,
every question inside me being given its
answer. I realised that if she'd told me
earlier, she'd have been compelled to tell
Ranga and Guli. She knew it would cre­
ate a storm she didn't want to face. But
the time had come.
''I only told Baba ji," she added. Baba
had wept but supported her with all his
heart. Guli was deeply upset, she felt
she'd lost a mother. I felt for her. My
mother didn't see it as a choice between
family and faith. She valued both deeply.
Responding to the anger I'd shown, she
wrote me a letter: 'I have been in a maze
of pain, feeling yours and Guli's. I thought
that, with the special understanding we all
have for one another, the birth could be pain­
less. But I had not realised the cutting of
the birth cord must cause pain. It heals. The
link between the baby and the mother does
not cease. It continues. Nothing ceases. In a
way, this time I am the baby. And I need all
y our love and protection ... To take an or­
dination in a direct line from the Buddha is
an inexpressibly sacred thing ... Guli is deep
inside me in an inner way. In her childhood I
gave her all the protection I could; now I am
giving it to her in the higher way. But she is
always with me ... You needed me then; you
need me now. I am still there. If Papa at any
time needs me in advancing age, I am also
still there ... You are both near, like the blood
in my veins. With love, Mummy.'

Her letter melted my heart and I cried.

I understood why she'd taken the final
leap of faith. The apple was ripe and
couldn't stay on the tree. A monastery in
Sikkim was now her home.
Six years later, in 1972, Baba's spiritual
journey entered another realm. During
the 1960s, he had called himself Master
of the Occult Circle of India and founded
The Institute for Inquiry into the Un­
known. Many believers flocked to him.
Then hippies on the ''dharma trail'' dis­
covered him. They came to Aunty Raj's
house in droves. She was a kind woman
and looked after him well, though she
complained of dharma bums sullying
the toilet. Her daughter Seerat loved
Baba like a father. But he was tired of
being seen as a fortune teller in India. He
wanted to talk of the cosmic dimensions
of our existence, the power of vibrational
therapy, the psychic evolution of peo­
ple, and conscience as the dynamics for
human well-being. It resonated with a
group of Italian believers who persuaded
him to move to Italy. He began his so­
journ at Paola Pacifico's Centre in the
bustling city of Milan. He then founded
his own ''Centro di Filosofia Acquariana''
to expound a new philosophy for the
Aquarian Age. His philosophical insights
touched innumerable souls, and his psy­
chic gifts healed countless bodies.
Baba believed that everything was con­
scious: every human being, every plant,
every rock, every particle of dust that
floated in air. All consciousness mani­
fested itself through the vibrations and
energies in the universe. The sun and
the planets, the wind and the rain,
sounds and colours, all had vibrations
that affected us in ways he described in
detail. We were all creative souls look­
ing for expression, unexpressed creativ­
ity created disease. He wanted to remove
the blocks within people that prevented
them from becoming their highest
selves. He helped people realise their
psychic potential. He talked of the im­
mense power of our conscience, which
he called ''the eye of the soul'', as a force
for change. He summarised his philoso­
phy in his Italian book, L'Uomo Totale and
gave hundreds of talks and seminars.
When I saw his summer retreats in Tus­
cany, I was amazed by the changes I saw
in people as they expressed themselves
through art, dance, music, creativity in
all forms. His psychic techniques gave
them new paths in their lives.
In 1972, the year Baba went to Italy,
Freda embarked on her most trail-blaz­
ing accomplishment. She received an
extraordinary ordination that made his­
tory in Tibetan Buddhism. The Karmapa
wanted Freda, now Sister Palmo, to re­
ceive the highest ordination for nuns.
But, supreme though he was in his
Order, he couldn't confer it himself. The
Buddhist Bhikshuni ordination could
only be transmitted in an unbroken line
from the Buddha. It had died out in
India in the eight century. The tradition
was alive in a Chinese monastery in
the hills of Hong Kong. After verifying
it, the Karmapa sent Freda for the cer­
emony, which lasted two days. Accord­
ing to Vicki Mackenzie, who I thank for
her expertise on Buddhism, Venerable
Ming Chi and Venerable Sek Sai Chung
anointed my mother Bhikshuni in July
1972. She was now Gelongma Palmo.

''The effect of the ceremony is some­

thing no words can express," my mother
said. ''Lightness and light, when one re­
alises that the unbroken line goes right
from the Buddha like a stream of his­
tory." Andrew Whitehead tells of its
significance: ''Sister Palmo was certainly
the first Western Tibetan nun to take the
higher, bhikshuni, ordination; she may
well have been the first nun in the Ti­
betan tradition ever to have received this
full ordination.''
A minor miracle occurred along the way.
''The climax of the ordination," writes
Vicki Mackenzie ''was an extraordinary
ritual dating back to the Song dynasty.
Small incense cones were placed on top
of the aspirant's bald head, lit and al­
lowed to burn down to the scalp." My
mother had a lifelong fear of fire. But
during this ritual, she went into a deep
meditation and didn't feel a thing. The
burn took over ten days to heal. As for
me, I couldn't have been more proud of
my mother. She had risen above race
with her marriage, nationalism by leav­
ing England, and now in her religion,
which earlier gave nuns a lesser status,
she had raised women to equality. She
went on to found Karma Drubgyu Dhar­
gay Ling, the first monastery for Tibetan
nuns in India at Trilokpur, near the
home of the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala.
Two years after her historic ordination,
Freda made plans to spread the message
of the Buddha across the world. She per­
suaded her reluctant guru, the Karmapa,
to go the West. Whitehead writes: ''His
first visit to the west became a world
tour on a scale more associated with
rock bands than religious leaders, tak­
ing in twelve countries in North America
and Europe and extending over four and
a half months." In a letter, Freda quoted
an eighth-century prophesy when she
began the tour on 15 September 1974: 'It
was predicted in Tibetan Scriptures that the
teachings would go to the land of the red­
faced ones when the iron bird appeared.'
The tour was a spectacular success. It
was bankrolled by the famous Nam­
gyal Rinpoche of the Dharma Centre of
Canada, and by Trungpa Rinpoche, my
mother's first incarnate protege, now a
big guru in America. Biographer Norma
Levine writes of Trungpa taking the fa­
mous poets of the Beat Generation
Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti
and Michael McClure,-to meet the
Karmapa in California. Ginsberg asked if
LSD could enlighten them. ''The use of
drugs creates an artificial sense of higher
consciousness," the Karmapa replied.
''Only the mind in its natural state, a
complete openness, and the practice of
Mahamudra, can achieve this.''
Freda encouraged Perna Chadron, an
inspiring Buddhist figure today, to take
the vows of a nun. At the end of their
tour, Freda organised a meeting between
the Karmapa and Pope Paul at the Vat­
ican in February 1975. She was, in the
words of Anderson Bakewell, ''the archi­
tect of Buddhism in the West.'' It was my
mother's crowning achievement.
Around that time, Protima discovered
Odissi, which gave her the greatest
glory. My open marriage with her had
broken down, and I fell in love with
Parveen. Sandokan made me a European
star early in 1976. Baba became more
than a guru, he was ''the father of San­
dokan'', the source of my autographed
photographs. But he never stopped
being a great philosopher. In 1981, he
presided over the International Congress
on Reincarnation in Assisi, the home­
town of St. Francis, whom he loved. And
I spent the best days with my mother
when I called her down to Colombia
while shooting II Corsaro Nero in 1976.
My greatest regret is that I didn't partake
in my parent's highest spiritual teach­
ings. From the time of my mother's high­
est ordination in Hong Kong to Baba's
first years in Italy, I was busy mak­
ing a living, first advertising and films
in Mumbai, then reaping the triumph of
Sandokan abroad. Whenever I saw my
parents, the joy of seeing them over­
whelmed any philosophical curiosity.
When Antonia entered my father's life,
she didn't allow me to stay in his home.
Even after she bought an adjoining flat
for herself, while Baba stayed on in his
rented apartment, I was firmly shut out.
The only good hotel near them in Milano
2 was expensive and stuffy. So my vis-
its had to be brief. I was only allowed to
phone him at times designated by her,
so talking wasn't easy either.
Meeting my mother meant trips across
the world. She lived in the Karmapa's
monastery at Rumtek and travelled to
lecture abroad. She went to Singapore,
Malaysia, Thailand and made a ''pio­
neering visit'' to South Africa. Whatever
the obstacles, I still wish I'd made more
time, and taken more trouble, to know
more of my parent's deep learnings. But
they shaped me with their wisdom in
the years that mattered the most.
What did I learn from parents as differ­
ent as mine? One an original philoso­
pher, the other a Buddhist nun. Toler­
ance, compassion and kindness. From
our days in Kashmir, we always cele­
brated Eid. We always had a Christmas
tree and an English trifle made by
Mummy. Most schools I went to were
Christian. The ethos at Shantiniketan
was Hindu. We always lit diyas for Di­
wali, the Hindu New Year and threw
colours at each other on Hali. Bud­
dha Jayanti, the day of his birth, en­
lightenment, meant prayers with lights
and sweets. Gurpurab, the birthday of
the Sikh gurus, took us to gurdwaras.
Beyond respecting all religions, I was
taught to always think of the less fortu­
nate and to be kind. ..''Kindness,'' as Mark
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..
Twain said, ''is a language the blind can
.. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - .. .. .. - ..
. .

see and the deaf can hear.''

The last time I saw my mother was the
spring of 1977. She came to Mumbai for
the birth of Guli's daughter. She sensed
there could be trouble. The doctors were
alerted, and she meditated outside the
delivery room. Brinda was born with her
birth cord wrapped three times around
her neck. It was a miracle she survived.
My mother took Brinda in her arms and
blessed her. The timing of her birth was
perfect, my mother said. It freed her to
attend the World Buddhist Conference in
Delhi. It's where she died of a heart at­
tack on the night of 26 March 1977 at the
age of sixty-six. But it was not a normal
death.
Her passing was extraordinary. My
mother was staying at the Oberoi In­
tercontinental as a guest of her friend
Goodie Oberoi, whose family ran the
hotel. Before sleeping she asked her Ti­
betan attendant, Anila Perna Zangmo, to
put on a recording of the Karmapa recit­
ing the devotional chant, Lama Chenno.
Anila awoke around ten that night when
my mother suffered a pain in her chest.
She ran out to get help and returned
with two hotel guests. They found her
sitting upright in a lotus position. Her
face was glowing, but she wasn't breath­
ing. Anila realised she was in a special
samadhi, a meditation in the state of
''clear light'' for transition away from the
world. She adamantly told the confused
guests that the body should not be dis­
turbed. A doctor arrived at 10.30 p.m.
and confirmed that Freda was dead.
Parveen and I flew in from Mumbai,
Ranga from Calcutta; Guli was unable
to travel. We saw her body at Binder's
house, draped in the robes of a Ge­
longma, garlanded with yellow flowers,
cooled by ice. There was a golden glow
in the room.
I felt the pain of the deepest sorrow as
she lay there. I couldn't believe she had
gone so suddenly. I didn't have time to
grieve, arrangements had to be made.
I informed the Buddhist Conference of
her passing. Buddhists from many conti­
nents came to her funeral at the Oberoi
Farm. The Buddhist world had lost one
of its most remarkable figures. And I had
lost a mother who had given me the
purest love in the world.
Growing up as a child I never realised
how utterly unique my mother was. In
time, I came to marvel at all that she had
done. I always felt her love, even when
she wasn't there. I still do. Her bless­
ings saw me through the worst of times,
and she blessed the best of them. She
taught me compassion through her end­
less acts of human kindness. She may
have mothered the world, but she never
stopped mothering me. Gelongma Palmo
will always be ''Mummy'' for me.
I saw Baba for the last time when he
came to Mumbai to marry Nikki and
me on 7 January 1993. I'd met Nikki
while performing Othello in the theatre.
My Othello had made Desdemona his
real-life wife, to the surprise of all in
the troupe. James Earl Jones had done
the same in America, twice! Some peo­
ple never learn. Baba married Nikki and
me, his robe emblazoned with a radi­
ating sun, sitting in a wheelchair. The
irretrievable damage to his spine from
the beatings in British jails had taken
a heavy toll. He blessed our wedding
on the banks of Ban Ganga temples
in Mumbai, lit by a thousand earthen
lamps.
Sadly, Hindu-Muslim riots, which had
started a month earlier, erupted again
that day. They interrupted Baba's on­
ward journey to Delhi. How we got him
from the Taj Mahal Hotel to the airport
at the other end of town is too long a
story to tell. I did it with the help of my
dearest friends in the industry, produc­
ers Vinay Sinha and Johny Bakshi. Unbe­
lievably, Baba's plane returned to Bom­
bay, as another had crashed in Delhi.
Vinay and Johny lodged him near the
airport as more flights were cancelled.
Nikki and I tried to reach him before he
left again. But the sight of rampaging
mobs looting shops on the way forced us
to turn back. Vinay ji and Johny got him
onto a train-at great personal risk, in
the middle of the riots-at an unsched­
uled stop they organised through friends
in the railways. Such selfless friendship
is the rarest of the rare, and I'll always be
grateful to them. Baba needed to get to
Delhi in time for a reunion of his friends
from Lahore, President Giani Zail Singh,
Khushwant Singh and more, before he
returned to Italy. They all met him and
celebrated again.
Baba passed away in Italy, his home for
over twenty years, on 31 March 1993,
two months after he married Nikki and
me. I never saw him in his final days.
By then, I'd returned to Los Angeles. The
news didn't surprise me. I had received
many desperate calls from his friends in
Torino, where he was staying, saying he
was refusing to eat. My pleading calls
to him hadn't changed his mind. Baba
decided to end his journey on earth at
a time of his choosing when he was
eighty-four. Nikki and I flew from Los
Angeles, picking up Guli on the way in
Boston. Seerat raced from India and ar­
rived just in time for his cremation. He'd
been a loving father to her and had seen
her through college in Italy. By then, his
wife Antonia had abandoned him, but I
invited her for his funeral. I knew Baba
would have wanted her to come. She
didn't show the same grace afterwards.
She claimed to have co-authored Baba's
teachings in Italy. Her case was rejected
by Italian courts after a long legal bat­
tle. Five years after he passed, Baba's
ashes were immersed in the waters of
the Ganges in India on 4 January 1998.
The Istituto di Pedagogica Acquariana in
Cittadella, near Venice, still carries the
torch of his teachings.
I rediscovered my father's greatness
after they shipped me trunk loads of
his teachings. The more I learned of his
teachings, the more they resonated with
me. Baba saw no contradiction between
his communist past and his spiritual
self. Both, he said, were for the benefit of
others. His instinctive rebellion against
the norm gave me the courage to be
different. He never worried about money
when he had none and spoilt us rotten
when he did. Papa used to wink at my
skipping school, Mummy was the disci­
plinarian. He was jovial in the hardest
of times, my rock of strength in the un­
certain years of my childhood. He never
questioned my decision to go to Mum­
bai with seven hundred rupees in my
pocket.
Baba and Freda loved each other in a
deep spiritual way. For decades, he hung
a large photograph of her in his sitting
room in Milan, facing his favourite chair.
My mother always visited him when in
Europe, even stayed with him at times.
She always called him ''Baba ji'' and ex­
pressed her love and respect. ''Love has
other meanings," she said then, ''than
the love of those beginning life." But my
father remained a romantic at heart. I
sensed it palpably when I rediscovered
his Three Wishes, a note he wrote four
years after my mother's highest ordina­
tion as a nun:
Three wishes will go with me when I
cross the border of the Great Beyond
- When I arrived in Rome in 1972, I
went to a garden, and I saw a very
 old couple walking arm in arm. Freda
having become a nun, I felt the pang
of it. Like that, I shall never walk arm
in arm with her in this life.

The second episode is again located

in Rome. In the beginning of 1975, I
again went to a garden. And just at
the entrance of the garden I saw a
uery old woman stopping her equally
old husband. And she took a comb out
of her bag and combed her husband's
hair and then walked into the gar­
den. This scene moued me deeply, and
again I thought of Freda, and said to
myself, this joy of someone caring for
me I am not destined for in this life.
The third and most intense wish I had
in this life is that when I take my last
breath my head should be resting on
the knee of My Beloved - and when
I close my eyes in death, she should
kiss my forehead, where she always
gave me the Ecstasy of Joy. Now, this
too, shall never happen. And I shall
go to the other side with my forehead
ablaze with the desire of the Kiss from
the Beloved.

It reminded me of what my mother had

written in her letter to Baba's brother be­
fore they married in Oxford: When I loved
Baba first, it was not for the first time. We
come together out of space - we have loved
before - and after this we shall love again.
Who knows what form that will take?
Each loved the other to the end in their
own ways. Each was more remarkable
than the other.
My parents are a story of lifelong com­
panionship even when divided by conti­
nents. Each found fulfilment in different
ways, each supported the other uncon­
ditionally. Beyond the desires of their
youth, the struggles of their causes, even
divergences in spiritual paths, Baba and
Freda remained soulmates to the end of
their amazing lives.

Kabir and Baba Bedi in Milan

HISTORIC PIC: Freda with Akong Rinpoche,
Trungpa Rinpoche, and the future Lama
Yeshe Losal Rinpoche (white shirt in front)
at Misamari refugee camp in 1959

Freda in meditation

Baba

Freda
 Kabir as monk in Burma

Kabir as monk with Freda

Gelongma Palmo (Freda Bedi) as the highest

Buddhist nun
Kabir in the 1990s

Son Adam
Daughter Pooja

Son Siddharth
 5
MBLINGS ON
A BEACH
BEACHES AND BELIEFS

''Ramblings on a Beach'' is a short story

I wrote of a long ago walk on Juhu Beach
when I was an idealistic twenty-nine­
year-old. It was included in Khushwant
Singh Selects Best Indian Short Stories - Vol­
ume 1. Many of my beliefs have changed
since then. I'll talk of them too. But first
let me recount the story ...
The sea has rolled back far today. The beach
is wider, flatter, more empty, more washed.
In the distance I see schoolchildren in brown
uniforms, standing in rows. Three teachers
are busy straightening out the lines. Most
of these children are five and six years old.
Some are older. All laugh and talk with the
excitement that belongs to children alone.
I'm closer to them now. Three teachers, a
woman and a man, are putting the last of
the children in position.

I walk up to the man.

''Why are you making these children stand
in lines?'' I ask.

''We are having a race,'' he explains.

''Will you let them run around after the race

is ouer?''

He seems a little surprised. ''Yes,'' he says,

with a touch of impatience. I smile apologet­
ically and moue on.

A while later, I return. The races are in

progress. I stand near the ''.finishing post''
and watch the girls being readied for the
race. On your marks, get set, go! Arms flail­
ing, the girls rush forward. The stronger of
the two wins. Naturally. The children clap
and cheer; the teachers smile their appreci­
ation. The girl who has won laughs happily
and runs back in triumph.
I look at the girl who has lost. In her eyes, I
see shame. I see fear. I see despair. Shame at
not being able to win, fear of what the others
are thinking, despair at not knowing what
to do next. I see the face of a child who has
been hurt and humiliated. I see a soul that is
slowly being bruised and brutalised by com-
parison, by being forced to compete with the
physically stronger on the beaches and play ­
grounds. In the classrooms, the same game
will continue. She will be compared to the
more intelligent, the ones with better memo­
ries and those who can write faster than her.

The girl is still confused. She looks up ner­

vously. Something within her has withered .
I want to tell her that she is beautiful and
sensitive, that this race does not matter, that
it's just a silly system that grown-ups in­
vented for their own reasons. I want to give
her something to make her feel better.

In my hand I have an orange. Impulsively,

I reach forward, take the hand of this child
and put the orange into it. ''Take this," I say.
''It's for coming second.''

At once I realise I have made a mistake. On

her face I see shock, disbelief and more hu­
miliation . She takes the orange, runs back
and is lost among the lines of children.

Perhaps I chose the wrong words to say.

Maybe the suddenness of my gesture star­
tled her. But even if I had never come that
way, the child would have wanted nothing
more than to become a faceless girl in a line,
not an object of ridicule, separate and alone.

The races continue . . . I leave.

The sea foams gently, still pulling away from
the land. A dog barks insanely at the froth
of receding waves. I walk towards Versova,
beyond the colourful Juhu shacks, the quiet
northern end of the beach.

I see a man and a woman, looking for

a place of privacy, self-consciously holding
hands, uncomfortable in their clothes, their
shoes sinking in the soft sand as they walk.

They will find a place, finally, among the

palm trees. They will talk, kiss, embrace
and share a moment of loving. But always
in fear: fear of being watched, of being dis­
turbed, of being molested; fear of being seen
by relatives, friends, parents, enemies; fear
of having done something wrong.

I want to reach out to them, touch them, run

my hand over their tired foreheads, rumple
their hair. I want to say: Take off your shoes,
feel the sand under your feet, feel the mellow
sun, forget about other people. This moment
belongs to you, to nobody else. What you feel
is sacred, it is not a sin.

But I say nothing. It would be unwelcome,

it would be misunderstood. But here lies
the emotional tragedy of Indian youth. Our
own minds prevent us from loving without
a sense of guilt, our people cannot bear the
sight of young people in love, and our cities
are devoid of sanctuaries.
Everywhere I see generations being brought
up in the fear of authority, living in fear of
society, dying in fear of the unknown. And I
wonder, what is the use of a life that is spent
in fear?

In an hour the sun will sink into the water­

lined distance in a sizzling blaze of orange
and red. Far away, sailing boats of the fish­
ermen are now headed for the coast. I pause,
turn back, making a fresh track of footprints.
The tide too has turned and, in time, will
erase all traces of my having walked this
shore. A flock of sandpipers, flying low, wing
their wanton way over the shifting edge of
the water, looking for pickings in freshly
washed patches of sand.

The schoolchildren have gone away, the

races are over. But others are filling the
beach. Elderly couples walking their dogs,
enjoying the twilight of their lives. Girls, in
secure clusters, preening themselves. Men
walking vigorously, boys strolling aimlessly
watching the girls in the distance.

I see Pooja, my daughter, and Siddharth,

my son, playing in the dry sand. They see
me, drop their pails, spades and red plastic
mugs and run up to me. I pick them up, kiss
them, share their excitement. They want me
to play with them. Together we start build­
ing sandcastles.
I watch them play: faces alive with laughter,
restless hands clutching the sand, putting it
into place. And there is so much I want to
say . . .

Pooja, my child, you're beautiful. You took

the best from both of us: my skin and hair,
Protima's eyes, nose and mouth. You took
her zest for life, her vivacity and left out my
brooding. We watched you grow with joy. In
your games and foibles, we discovered again
our early childhood.

When you were born, I had many visions,

many dreams. I thought this is my child, my
own, she must be a child free in her spirit.
Pooja, we really tried, little one. We kept
your ''don'ts'' down to survival level. We let
you discover for yourself how far into the
sea you could toddle or how fast you could
run around the house without banging into
furniture. We let you choose the dress you
wanted to wear each day. We wanted you
to flower, to discover the world in your own
special way.

Now, three and a half, you are a little lady.

You have your own friends, your own stub­
born opinions. All this is super. But I'm sad
because you now come and tell me about the
Buddhi mai coming to get you, and ghosts
in the dark, and you are afraid of the water
because you will doob in it and a hundred
other fears.
My darling girl, you grew up loving the dark,
enjoying the sea, and you reached out to peo­
ple. Now you withdraw from people looking
for the Buddhi mai in disguise. You cry in
the dark and you are afraid of this magnifi­
cent sea.

Who put all that garbage in your lovely

head, little lady? I shouldn't be asking. I
know the answer. It's the other children,
your friends, who tell you this. And how can
I be angry with them? I can only be angry
with the twisted minds of grown-ups who
put these fears into the minds of children
to make them ''behave''. Already you are
wounded in your mind, and the scars will re­
main a long, long time.

And I am sad because your mind will be

wounded even more over the years. Your
schools will use fear to make you ''behave'':
fear of ridicule, fear of humiliation. They
don't want you to behave, Pooja, they just
want you to conform. Bit by bit they will kill
what makes you different from others, the
difference is that made you so distinct as a
child.
They'll tell you . . . all good children go to
heaven. And all good children are children
who think like other good children. The best
children, of course, win races and come first
in class. Try to be like them. If you question
their stupidities, they'll throw you out.
And I'm sad because there is nothing I can
do about it. At least not now, when you need
to understand this but cannot. I can't isolate
you, my child. You have to live in the world,
and that's the way it is. Now your mind is
full of fear and I am sad. I must give up my
dreams.

Siddharth, golden boy, you're still as pure

as rainwater, warm as the sunsets you love
to watch, rich as the music you pester us
to hear. But, my son, you're only two years
old, and the Buddhi mai is coming to get
you too. You're sensitive, you're going to
have the toughest time. Pooja is more physi­
cal, more vivacious, more naughty. And that
may help her survive the System. I hope it
does. But what about you, my little boy?
Shall I keep you at home or send you to a
monastery? Isn't there any way in this coun­
try to preserve you as you are?
You know, Siddharth, whenever I look at
you, I think of something I read a long time
ago:

Children are Masters of Zen.

Curious about everything.
Adults are serious and boring.
What happened?
I know what happened. We all know what
happened. Only I don't want it to happen to
you, my son.

The sandcastle is complete now. We stick a

twig into it. That's the flag!

People have gathered around us now. They

have recognized Kabir Bedi, the film actor,
playing with his children. I wonder if they
are really looking at me or an image of me
in their minds. The crowd moue in closer, the
children are uneasy, uncomfortable. It's time
to go.

Perhaps I will return later, in the night,

when the beach is quiet and writhes with a
dark energy. Now, I must return home with
Pooja and Siddharth, away from the crowd.
Within me, I have fears too ... I am afraid
that one day I will begin to look at this
crowd as a faceless mass of people, not as
individuals who tumble through the cruelty
and comedy of life with hopes, fears, desires,
tears, laughter and love.

As I walk away, more people drift onto the

beach. In ones and twos, threes and fours.
On their faces, an expectancy, a search. Faces
seeking other faces. Within them the human
spirit that looks for excitement, for beauty,
for newness, for adventure. But the mind is
full of walls, endless walls.
As long as the spirit struggles to be free,
there is hope. If not for us, then for
our children. For the spirit always seeks a
mind without walls: open, windblown, care­
free . . . like the beaches we loue to walk.
I I;; I)

Perhaps my thoughts on that beach were

naive. Since then, I have walked on
many beaches and thought more about
life. I'd wanted Siddharth to stay ''pure
as rainwater'' and Pooja to be more
trusting. But the world doesn't always
work that way. Trusting everyone isn't
always wise. I've been betrayed the most
by people who I trusted the most. The
most painful of all, my brother Ranga.
An unexpected official letter in the post
led to my discovering what had hap­
pened. Eventually, I had to file a case of
fraud against him in Nelamangala Court
near Bengaluru in 2016. It was one of
the hardest things I've ever had to do. I
idolised him. But that's a story for an­
other time. Trust is a perishable com­
modity, it's gold only if it lasts.
Before I speak more of my changed be­
liefs, allow me a few words about my
family. Adam, my handsome son, flies
the Bedi flag in Hollywood. He's a loving
and caring human being who has made
me proud. An expert in on-set special
effects, he's even worked on Matrix 4.
Melissa, his beautiful wife, is a superb
make-up artiste who lights up the faces
of stars, as she did for my wife Parveen
Dusanj on our wedding day. I speak of
my wife in a later story. Guli, my dar­
ling sister, retired as a teacher in Amer­
ica. She gave new lives to generations
of children with learning disabilities in
New Hampshire. She's married to Sam
Scales who looks like Tony Bennett.
Mala, my favourite cousin, is an avid art
connoisseur. A mother of two success­
ful sons Michael and Raoul, she lives in
London with husband Alec Lever.
Pooja is a dynamic, vibrant and feisty
woman. She even picked a public fight
with me once, which hurt me greatly.
But all that's water under the bridge
now. We are a loving father and daugh­
ter once again. She is a successful
woman with beautiful homes in Mumbai
and Goa. She speaks on mind-body well­
ness and markets organic products on
HappySoul.com, being franchised across
India. I'm thrilled by her achievement.
Her soulmate is the charming boat­
builder Maneck Contractor. Omar, my
thoughtful grandson, is studying at the
University of Southern California (USC)
while exploring exciting possibilities as
an actor as well. Alaya, my beauti­
ful granddaughter, is Bollywood's most
promising young actress. She trained, in
America and India, with a passion and
intensity that amazed me. She's on her
way to major stardom. She was bril­
liant in her debut film, Jawaani Jaaneman,
where she starred with the charismatic
Saif Ali Khan. My son Siddharth has a
story of his own. End of my family re­
port.
I I;; I)

What happens to us with the passage of

time? All the people I love have evolved
in unique ways. So have I. Much has
changed since that long-ago walk on
Juhu Beach. Most of all, my spiritual be­
liefs. As Lewis Carroll said in The Wal­
rus and the Carpenter, it's time to talk of
many things:
''The time has come,'' the Walrus said,
''To talk of many things:
Of shoes-and ships-and sealing-wax­
Of cabbages-and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.''
Let me tell you what I now believe.
Our beliefs colour the way we see our
world. We imbibe them from our fam­
ily, religion and nation. They give us a
sense of belonging. We are tribal in na­
ture. Religion evokes the spiritual in us.
It gives us gods and enlightened beings
to worship. Beautiful ceremonies for the
rites of passage, blessings at birth, mar­
riage and death. Festivals to celebrate
together. It comforts us in times of pain,
receives our thanks in times of gain, and
listens when we complain. We beseech
our gods to empower our hopes and de­
sires. Not everyone needs more.
But then, there are seekers like me.
The ones who question everything, who
look for deeper answers, who want to
know ''the Truth''. The people who ask
how Christ, the Buddha, the Prophet and
Lord Krishna can all be right at once.
All religions give us great human values.
Yet they say very different things. Some
believe in reincarnation and karma, oth­
ers say you live once and go to heaven
or hell. Some believe in destiny, some
in free will. Some believe in one God,
others in many gods. Who knows best?
Which of them is right? Who is telling us
''the Truth''?
I guess my spiritual curiosity came from
my parents. An English mother who
found her answers in Buddhism in India
and an Indian father who expounded his
philosophy in Europe. Both found spiri-
tual fulfilment. My deeper questions re­
mained even after I learned of their be­
liefs. I wanted to dig deeper. The honey
of material achievement-money, fame,
success and beautiful women-didn't
give me the answers either. Throughout
all my worldwide travels, questions kept
haunting me. Which is the real truth?
Where do our beliefs come from? Why
are human beings evil if animals are
not? Who or what created the universe?
How did it all begin?
''Be a lamp unto yourself," said the Bud­
dha ''Seek out your salvation with dili­
gence." But which Buddhist path shows
the way? The yellow-robed Theravada
monks of South Asia don't believe in
God, yet the maroon-robed lamas of
the Mahayana worship many. Or is
Vajrayana, the Diamond Vehicle, the
fastest way to truth? Does Buddhism
have the key? I saw the aura of the Dalai
Lama when I met him in Dharamshala,
even of my mother's guru, the Karmapa.
They felt like enlightened beings. Bud­
dhism's emphasis on compassion and
meditation is unmatched by any. Vipas­
sana gave me lifelong insights after I
learned it as a monk in my childhood.
My problem with Buddhism was its
basic tenet: life is suffering. I didn't want
to make that my central belief. Beliefs, I
thought, shape your reality. But the Bud­
dha was far wiser than me, for I have
suffered much in life. Buddhism gave me
many answers, but not all the ones that
I sought.
I have never questioned the greatness
of Christ. My schools were mostly Chris­
tian and I sang hymns in church. I felt
the magnificent presence of Pope John
Paul II when I met him at the Vatican
in 1999. I felt powerful vibrations when
I shook his hand. I even kissed his ring
in gratitude. I salute the Prophet Mo­
hammed for creating a religion followed
by almost two billion people. I have an
affinity with its Sufi tradition. I love the
all-embracing worldview of Dara Shikoh
and I adore the mystic music of Nus­
rat Fateh Ali Khan. I don't know much
of the Jewish faith, but I admire the
achievements of the Jews. I played the
role of their patriarch Abraham and felt
his pain when asked to sacrifice his
son. I sensed his ancient wisdom. But
perhaps my Sikh and Buddhist roots
came in the way of my being drawn to
the Abrahamic faiths: Islam, Christianity
and Judaism. Yet I had a deeply moving
spiritual experience in Jerusalem, a city
sacred to all three.
During the shooting of Ashanti, my room
in the famous King David Hotel over­
looked the Old City. One night, I dreamt
I was walking in a field where the sky
was pink and green. Looking up at the
sky, I tripped and fell down. I awoke
with a start in my four-poster bed. Wisps
of pink and green trails were swirling
above me, each no longer than a hanky. I
watched in wonder as they chased each
other like children at play in a park.
''Hi guys," I called out gently, ''I hope
you're having fun.''
Bobbing and weaving, they moved to­
wards the curtained windows at the end
of the room. I rose and followed them
silently. As I watched, they disappeared
through the curtains. I pulled aside the
drapes to see where they had gone. I was
awestruck by the sight before me. In the
early light of dawn, a low fog had hid­
den all traces of the twentieth century:
cars, cables and electric lights. It was
Jerusalem as Christ would have seen it,
a timeless vista of ancient roofs rising
above the mist. It gave me goosebumps.
I felt the presence of the city around
me powerfully. I folded my hands and
bowed my head before it. I gazed at
the wondrous vision until sunlight de­
stroyed the illusion. It convinced me that
spirits exist. My pink and green friends
had proved it. They came to show me
their city and left me with an answer.
Even in Hollywood, I looked for answers.
The Human Potential Movement, born
in the ''counter-culture'' rebellion of the
1960s, was booming in California in the
1990s. I discovered the techniques of
EST (Erhard Training Seminars) in act­
ing workshops run by instructors they
had trained. They provoked personal
transformations by turning their ses­
sions into psychotherapy. They picked
on your vulnerabilities, broke you down
emotionally and made you use them
while performing. It increased my self­
awareness. I researched The Primal
Scream, which exorcised the traumas
of childhood through cathartic screams
and rages. I didn't go near them. I joined
the ceremonial rights of American In­
dians, sitting cross-legged around a fire
with naked groups in tepees. They re­
vere turquoise, as its changing colours
represent the hues of the earth. But they
didn't scratch the itch of my questions.
Roy Patrao, my best friend in Los Ange­
les, led me to the words of Seth in The
Seth Material. He's an ageless entity who
channelled his thoughts through Jane
Roberts, a medium who spoke his words
while her husband wrote them down. A
fascinating story, too long to tell here.
His central assertion, that each individ­
ual creates reality through their imagi­
nation, beliefs and expectations, became
the anthem of many New Age gurus.
Roy believes in his teachings completely.
Seth believes all reality is subjective. The
reality you have created is the only re­
ality. There isn't an ''objective reality''.
I found it hard to agree on that one.
The world doesn't die with me. And yet,
some quantum physicists have ''proved''
that all reality is subjective. Massimil­
iano Proietti at Heriot-Watt University in
Edinburgh is its leading proponent. Be
that as it may, the wisdom, consistency
and clarity of Seth's insights, dictated
over twenty-one long years, is aston­
ishing. It's a revolutionary vision that
should be explored by all ''seekers''. His
radical ''truths'' are profoundly thought­
provoking.
''Truth," said Jiddu Krishnamurti, the
ultimate anti-guru guru, ''is a pathless
land, and you cannot approach it by any
path whatsoever, by any religion, by any
sect. I am concerning myself with only
one essential thing: to set man free. I de­
sire to free him from all cages, from all
fears.''
Krishnamurti opposed allegiances to
any caste, religion or philosophy. His
mission was to purge people of their
old beliefs to enable them to find ''the
Truth'' by themselves. I'd listened to Kr­
ishnamurti in my college days in Delhi
when he spoke at the Constitution Club.
I heard him speak in Mumbai at the
].]. School of Arts and, privately, at the
home of my friend Asit Chandmal. His
teachings made me question my beliefs
at a highly impressionable age.
I met J. Krishnamurti again in California
in the early 1980s. I was honoured to
be invited to lunch at his home in Ojai,
a hundred miles from Los Angeles. His
life story is truly extraordinary. The ''il­
lumination'' he experienced in 1922 hap­
pened under a tree in the home where I
was lunching. We talked of the need to
record his life in ways he wouldn't find
intrusive. He couldn't stand bright lights
on his face. After lunch, I drove him to
a field where he was building a school
that applied his beliefs in its teaching. ''A
school is a place," he says, ''where one
learns about the totality, the wholeness
of life . . . not only the outer world, the
world of knowledge, but also their own
thinking, their own behaviour.'' Children
for him were the only hope, adults were
already ''corrupted''.
The Oak Grove School had a domed cir­
cular centre surrounded by wildflowers
and grass. He'd already built Rishi Valley
and five other schools in India, and an­
other at Brockwood Park in England. As
we walked through the flowers, I asked
him a seminal question:
''With all the schools you've opened,
with all the people you've spoken
to, have you created another Krishna­
murti?''
He looked down at the grass and pon­
dered the question.
''Yes," he said quietly, ''there are some."
I saw he didn't want to say more, and I
didn't push it. I knew he'd changed the
consciousness of many across the world.
I consider meeting him before he died in
1986 a lifelong blessing though he never
gave me the answers I sought. It wasn't
his style. He wiped the slate of your
mind clean and asked you to write your
own. The Awakening of Intelligence, one of
his many books, is also seminal for seek­
ers.
Deepak Chopra was making big waves
on the spiritual circuit when I lived in
California in the 1990s. His book Ageless
Body, Timeless Mind became a best-seller
after Oprah Winfrey interviewed him in
July 1993. I met them both a decade later
in Mumbai at the party of my friend
Parmeshwar Godrej, whose husband Adi
is one of India's greatest industrialists.
I never met Deepak Chopra in my Hol­
lywood days, but was impressed by his
thinking even then. I still am. He re­
cently spoke of consciousness in a book
with physicist Menas Kafatos, ''Even
to say that the universe is conscious
doesn't go far enough. The universe is
consciousness itself.''
Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the guru who
once inspired him, also spoke of the cen­
trality of consciousness. He'd given the
Beatles individual mantras for his ''Tran­
scendental Meditation''. But Deepak
Chopra was a class of his own. He
brought together Indian Ayurveda and
Western medicine and redefined mind­
body wellness in America. Celebrities
came to him in droves. Caught up with
other matters in life, I never made the
trip to his Center for Well-Being in Cali­
fornia. But I learned much from his writ­
ings, though other questions remained.
In 1999, Deepak was listed by Time mag-
azine among the hundred ''heroes and
icons of the 20th century''.
Osho was another great master. Once a
professor of philosophy, his knowledge
was second to none. He opposed static
belief systems and religious orthodoxy.
Osho was a spiritual ball-breaker who
outraged many traditionalists. I never
met Osho in the 1970s, because I didn't
like being told what to wear when I
wanted to meet him. I regret my ego, I
missed a great opportunity. But I read
his books and heard his recorded lec­
tures. They were extraordinary. Many
of my Bollywood friends-Mahesh Bhatt,
Vinod Khanna, Ketan and Vijay Anand­
were his disciples. Mahesh eventually
renounced him. On the other hand,
Vinod Khanna renounced Bollywood for
Osho. He stayed for years at his ashram
in America in the 1980s. Osho had gone
there after being hounded out of India
when he called Prime Minister Morarji
Desai a ''piss-drinker''. Vinod often came
down from his ashram in Oregon to see
me in Los Angeles. The scandals caused
by Osho's manager Ma Anand Sheela
are chronicled in a Netflix documentary.
Even Osho wasn't infallible; he predicted
the world would die of AIDS in fifteen
years. Yet I picked up great insights from
his chronicles of wisdom. In the end,
they didn't quench my deeper spiritual
thirst.
I've always believed you should shine
your torch on what matters the most
and leave the rest in darkness. So I
was fascinated to learn of Anita Moor­
jani's ''near-death'' experience, which
also cured her terminal cancer. It's a
great story. She described the insight
she had in that state with a metaphor
that I've often used. Imagine yourself in
a warehouse that is pitch black, she said,
as you navigate through the darkness
with a flashlight. Your reality is what
you see in that light. Then imagine a
brilliant floodlight coming on. Now you
see a cornucopia of goods in the ware­
house. That's what really exists around
you. Your flashlight is your awareness. It
creates the world you see. So, shine your
flashlight only on what you want in your
life, and doggedly ignore the rest.
There are things I can't explain. Why did
the spirits in Jerusalem come to show
me their city? In Cunoor, Yogi Vinod
Kumar guided me in ''candle mediation''.
He asked me to keep my eyes open while
staring at the candle. I looked at it for
eight minutes without blinking. How I
did I manage to do that? In Mumbai,
I took photographs of Guru Sri Sri Ravi
Shankar from the middle of the hall as
he spoke in Worli, all from the same
angle on my iPhone. After he meditated,
my camera showed him in a blaze of
light with his form only faintly visible.
How did that happen? It defies logic, but
I still have the picture. In the spiritual
world many such stories abound.
In 2011, I had a deeply spiritual experi­
ence at the Golden Temple in Amritsar,
the holiest shrine of the Sikhs. I am
a seventeenth-generation descendant of
Guru Nanak, who founded the religion.
I was seated close to the Guru Granth
Sahib, the holiest book of the Sikhs, my
wife ''Vee'' beside me. Sikhism doesn't
have a priesthood. Anyone can sing its
hymns from the sacred book in their
gurdwaras. A young Sikh from Canada
was singing with a voice of divine purity.
It touched my soul. I felt great affinity
with everything around me. I felt I'd
come home. Tears streamed down my
face as I sat in prayer. I felt the One­
ness of everything. It was what Guru
Nanak had preached. I bowed in rever­
ence, and more tears flowed. Vee held
my hand to comfort me. Guru Nanak
preached selfless service to others. I saw
it in the singer who flew in from Canada,
the servers who helped the elders and
the free meals they served in the langar.
Spiritual journeys aren't always intellec­
tual, they are often emotional too.
Hinduism is more than a religion, more
than a way of life, it's an ocean of
thought and philosophy. If you're look­
ing for big answers, you have to dig
deep. It's hard to read all the four
Vedas, the Puranas and Upnishads, and
the sayings of all its sages. Even the
Bhagavad Gita, the holiest book of the
Hindus, takes a long time to understand.
The Mahabharat and Ramayan are the
epic tales of India, like the Odyssey and
the Iliad in Europe. But Hinduism is far
more than a collection of scriptures. Its
gods represent everything in life: cre­
ation, preservation and destruction; ed­
ucation, prosperity and creativity; earth,
wind and fire; and countless more.
Thirty-three million gods, according to
legend. As far as I know, Hinduism is the
only religion in history whose timescales
and theories in astronomy correspond
with modern scientific cosmology. An­
cient sages had no way of measuring the
cosmos. They could only have had intu­
itive insights in their meditation, which
they handed down through the ages. I
don't like Hinduism's ancient caste sys-
tern, yet its philosophy gave me some
answers that resonated deeply.
What I believe today is a fruit salad
of many religious and philosophical be­
liefs. I come to you with open arms
ready to be crucified, or embraced, with
what I've found at the end of my quest.
I'll tell you how I see it, whether right or
wrong.
I believe in reincarnation. The Hindus
believe it, Tibetan Buddhism depends
on it, and there are many documented
cases around the world. How they found
the Dalai Lama, a faraway peasant boy
in Tibet, is an amazing example. Even
St. Francis of Assisi believed in reincar­
nation. But it may not be true for all.
Far more people are alive today than all
who died in the past. Yet I feel that the
essence of every living being, ''soul'' if
you like, remains in the universe, what­
ever the form it takes, be it spirits in
the dark, guides to humans or energies
in the ethers . . . like the ones I saw in
Jerusalem.
I'm not so sure about karma, though I
know that everything we do has conse­
quences. It doesn't explain all the suf­
fering in the world. Nor why the top
one per cent has more wealth than half
of humanity combined. Still, karma isn't
a bad belief, it makes people do more
good. I believe in kindness and compas­
sion. It's what my parents taught me.
But I don't hesitate to kill a mosquito. I
don't like bloodsuckers, whether insects
or people.
I don't believe in destiny; I believe in
free will. Of course, you can say Vincent
van Gogh was ''destined'' to be a painter.
There's nothing else he wanted to do.
But most of us have choices. I believe
psychically gifted people can sense the
near future and ''predict'' it. Some chan­
nel that gift through astrology, tarot, nu­
merology, etc. The message depends on
the messenger. I don't believe in heaven
or hell. Nor an old man in the sky. But
let me get to the heart of the matter. Do I
believe in God?
Only an atheist doesn't believe in God.
The rest of us have differing images
when we think of ''God''. Mine goes back
to the origin of the universe. Bear with
me as I explain it. Scientists tell us that
13.8 billion years ago, from a single point
''uery hot and very small'', exploded a
universe so large that all the grains of
sand, on all the beaches of the world,
don't equal the two hundred billion suns
in our galaxy the Milky Way, just one
among two trillion galaxies in the uni­
verse. A mind-boggling explosion that
created the incredible immensity of the
universe we know, originating from a
mini-mini-miniscule dot that some sci­
entists call ''the primaeval atom''. How
did it come into being? What caused it to
explode with such unimaginable force?
What existed before it? Something can't
come from nothing. So where did it come
from?
I believe there has always existed a Cos­
mic Consciousness, no space, no time,
no form. The Hindu Rig Veda speaks
of it too: ''That One Thing, breathless,
breathed by its own nature: apart from
it was nothing whatsoever." (Rig Veda
X.129.2). But how did that Conscious­
ness, aware of its infinite possibilities,
infinite realities, infinite forms of ex­
istence, become solid matter? ''Noth­
ing happens," said Einstein, ''unless
something moves''. I believe that the
endless dynamic interaction of all its
possibilities gave ''That One Thing'' the
immeasurable energy needed to create
''the primaeval atom''. It exploded with
a ginormous cosmic bang when that en­
ergy became uncontainable. As Einstein
affirmed, ''Energy and matter are mani­
festations of the same thing''.
That's how, I believe, Consciousness
became matter, breaking the barrier
of non-being, creating the universe we
know. God for me is that Cosmic Con­
sciousness. The Hindus call it Brah­
man, the supreme universal conscious­
ness, subtler than the atom, greater than
the greatest. Guru Nanak also had an
epiphany of ''The One'' from which all
things come. Christians can say that's
God too. Muslims may call it Allah. But
my God is not a judgemental god, mine
is more like Nature, existing in every­
thing around us. As Carl Jung said in
Memories, Dreams, Reflections: ''Like every
other being, I am a splinter of the Ul­
timate Deity." I believe that all things
created are the infinite manifestations
of that Cosmic Consciousness. The en­
lightened ones and the ignorant, health
and disease, power and poverty, glory
and greed, compassion and cruelty, the
deities and spirits, the animals and
plants, the fish and fowl and all that ex­
ists in the universe. It's all the tandav of
Shiva, the primal dance of existence. We
are all fragments of ''the Truth'' in a uni­
verse of endless possibilities. We are all
experiments in consciousness.
Kabir with HH Dalai Lama in Dharamsaia

Guru Baba Nanak

Parveen Dusanj and Kabir at Golden Temple

Kabir and HH Pope John Paul II

Siddharth Bedi
 6
SAVING MY SON
THE WOUNDED SOUL

The red flags of warning went up when

my son first talked to me of suicide as
we walked along Santa Monica Beach
in the warmth of a setting sun. Sid­
dharth was a beautiful young man, lean
and tanned, dark hair pulled back in a
ponytail, a goatee budding on his chin,
the look of a young Che Guevara from
India. He had entered the Information
Age as a graduate of Carnegie Mellon,
the mecca of infotech. He was the Ivy
League of technology, the techno-elite of
tomorrow, the brightest of the new mil­
lennium. An exciting life awaited him
in the digital world. Until the day he
''just couldn't think''. Something began
to warp his mind as relentlessly as the
coils of a python. It changed him in ways
that traumatised him. We struggled to
heal him for three years, but we were
wrestling unknown ghosts.
Three months earlier, in the spring of
1997, we had finally learned what was
wrong. The Canadian police had torn
him off the steel grills of the Molson
beer factory in Montreal and taken him
to the Albert Revaux Psychiatric Emer­
gency Wing at Sacre Coeur Hospital. Dr
Garant, Dr Fillion and Dr Dumont called
to give me the shattering news: Sid­
dharth was schizophrenic.
Now, he lived with me in my Victorian
home on a little street that led to the
beach. The best doctors at the Univer­
sity of California in Los Angeles (UCLA)
were treating him. He looked much bet­
ter than when he had landed. I thought
we were winning the war. Why was he
talking of suicide?
Siddharth had looked determinedly grim
from the time we began our evening
walk, not offering to talk, Walkman ear­
phones plugged in. I sensed his mood
and walked with him in silence. We
strolled towards the carnival rides of
Santa Monica Pier. Ferris wheels of red
and yellow rotated above the undulat­
ing sea. Cars swished along the Pa­
cific Coast Highway above the mud em-
bankment on our right. In silence, we
navigated the walkers, rollerbladers and
bikers past the pink and green turrets
of Loew's Hotel. We walked past the
evening crowds of the neon bars and
cafes until we reached the open spaces
where he'd once marvelled at the magic
of the Cirque du Soleil. On our way back,
as we neared Shutters on the Beach, one
of the sprawling hotels on the coastal
beachfront, Siddharth removed his ear­
phones and spoke.
'What do I do with myself all day?' he
said as he stopped, almost blurting it
out.
He was breathing more heavily than
usual as he stood in his well-worn
sweats and sneakers. I looked at him
with concern, he didn't normally speak
so abruptly. He was soft-spoken by na­
ture.
'What do you mean, Shonu?' The nick­
name that my ex-wife Protima and I
called him. We had separated before I
left India, twenty years ago, when he
was five.
'I can't think. I can't work. I can't read ...'
Siddharth said in an agitated voice. 'I try
to do something on the computer ...' He
shook his head. 'I just can't focus ... on
anything. What can I do all day?'
He'd often entered a zone where he felt
no purpose, no ability, no desire.
'Why don't you get physical. Work out.'
'I just can't do that. It's ... artificial,' he
replied, irritated.
'Artificial?' I asked, puzzled.
He started walking again. 'You can't
know what it's like, Pa ...' he said dis­
missively.
How could I know? 'Talk to me,' I urged.
'It's not that I don't know what to say,
or what to do,' he said as we ambled on.
'None of it has any meaning to me. It's
empty.'
I tried to imagine what that felt like.
A space where nothing matters. Empty.
He'd complained of losing his sense of
taste and smell. Even television seemed
monochrome. I struggled to find an an­
swer.
'I can't feel anything ...' he continued,
looking into the distance. 'I'm not here.'
I heard the frustration in his words. It
hadn't been easy for him.
'I try to sleep ...' he sighed. 'But how
much can I sleep?'
'TV?' I suggested. 'Or movies?'
He shook his head dismissively. 'An
action movie sometimes ...' he said,
adding with a small laugh, 'or cartoons.'
'How about going to the Promenade
more often?'
Santa Monica's Third Street promenade
was a carnival of shops, movie theatres,
book cafes and restaurants for pedestri­
ans, an easy walk from our house. It had
an Indian restaurant that reminded us of
our roots. He shook his head again.
'I can't take too many people around
'
me ...
'What's the fear?'
'I can't ... talk to people. I can't carry on
a conversation. I can't communicate ...'
'You don't have to,' I soothed. 'Don't talk
to them.'
'You don't understand,' he protested.
'They look at me ... I just can't ...'
I needed to ground him. His mind was
trapped in a web of its making.
'Listen, Shone, you can communicate,
you can think. You have perfectly good
conversations with me. You even pick
holes in my arguments.'
He shook his head stubbornly. 'I can't ...
'
I can t ... I Just
. '
can t ...'

I had to shake him out of his negativity,

out of his mental paralysis.
''Say to yourself 'I can't think about cer­
tain things in certain ways.' Don't put
yourself down. You're sending yourself
the wrong messages.''
''The medicines aren't making me better,
Pa,' he complained. 'The one I'm taking
makes me feel horrible."
He'd tried Respiradol twice, only to go
back to Olanzapine, the one he thought
''horrible''. I'm told medications today
are far more effective. His didn't seem to
be working for him.
''You want to try another medicine?'' I
asked.
''There's another. But it kills your white
blood cells. I checked on it. Not very
good."
''We can talk it over with Dr Leiter," I
said, not wanting to second-guess his
doctors. ''There must be better ways.''
I'd heard of one. My wife Nikki, who
I'd married seven years earlier, was in
London for her sister's wedding. She
was told of promising results with elec­
troconvulsive therapy (ECT) by Dr Cathy
Price, a neuroscientist friend at the Insti­
tute of Neurology in University College
London. I imagined the horrific images
from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. ''It's
not like that anymore, silly," Nikki as­
sured me. ''They know a lot more about
the brain now. It's completely painless.''
But Dr Fredda Leiter, Siddharth's doctor
at the Edelman Center, had called ECT
''the last resort''. It was ''too early'' to be
thinking of it. He'd only been treated for
three months.
We walked on in silence till we reached
Wadsworth Ave, the street that led to
our two-storey home. He stopped at the
corner and looked me in the eye.
''If I can't have a certain quality of life,"
he said, ''then I'm not interested."
Not interested? In life? Is that what he
was saying?
''What kind of quality, Shone?''
''Normal," he said simply. ''I just want to
be normal.''
''You'll get there in time," I said with a
smile, trying to cheer him.
''You know," he said with a self-effacing
laugh, ''I wouldn't jump from a building
or anything like that. I'm far too scared
of that."
In that heart-stopping moment, I re­
alised my son was talking of suicide.
''Shone ...'' I tried to get his attention. He
was looking down, sunk in his thoughts.
''Don't even think of it. We're going to
win this one.''
He looked up at me suddenly. ''Do you
believe in a person's right to die?''
It was not an easy question to answer at
the time. I believe in the right of a person
to die with dignity at a time and place of
their choosing if their reasons are sound.
His were not. I didn't want to encourage
the thought. Yet, I couldn't lie to him.
''Only in extreme cases," I said, ''if
the decision is made with clarity. You
haven't got that clarity right now, and
you know it ... Please stop thinking
about it."
I had to shake him out of his grim mood,
somehow make him laugh.
''Want to see a fun movie with me and
Adam?''
Siddharth looked at me, unsure. He was
fond of his fifteen-year-old half-brother
Adam, my son with my American ex­
wife, Ixchel. We'd married after I came
to Hollywood, twenty years earlier, in
the wake of my success in Europe. Adam
now lived with her in Colorado but spent
his vacations with me. He was thin and
energetic, his brown hair trimmed rad­
ically short, his fair skin tanned red by
surfing in the summer sea.
''I don't know," Siddharth mumbled, still
ambivalent. ''What kind of film?''
''We were thinking of going to Men in
Black tonight. Great action. Come on!''
''OK," he said with sudden interest, sur­
prising me. ''I'll come to Men in Black."
There was an ominous quietness in him
that evening. He didn't laugh with Adam
or me during the film. During our mid­
night snack at Van Go's Ear, the grubby­
chic Venice hangout of the Hollywood
Brat Pack, he didn't join our casual ban­
ter. He was listening to the buzz of
other tables, looking at the interactions
between people, sensing their relation­
ships. His warm brown eyes roamed
from dating couples to talkative little
clusters huddled over the mismatched
tables of the funky cafe.
''There's a lot going on out there," he
said with a wistful smile. ''So much is
happening.''
He made it sound like a destination he
wanted to reach. I wished it was true. On
the way back, I tried to perk him up by
joking with Adam. It didn't make a dent.
But he smiled at me as I hugged him
goodnight. It cheered me somewhat. I
hoped his dark thoughts would pass.
They didn't.
Late next morning, Siddharth came
down from his room and told us he
planned to starve himself to death. It
would take thirty days. Adam looked
amused, he was used to his brother's
random thoughts. I was taken aback,
but didn't believe him either. I knew he
wouldn't stick with it. As anyone who
has lived with a schizophrenic will tell
you, they often come up with outlandish
ideas that they drop equally quickly. It
was best to play for time. He asked
me to take him for his ''final meal'' to
the Omelette Parlour, a casual eatery in
Santa Monica. I was certain he'd change
his mind.
With schizophrenics, the person you see
is not the person you knew. Something
deep has changed within them, mak­
ing them unpredictable, unreliable, un­
knowable. I'd seen his moods change
often enough. Knowing time was on my
side, I took him for his ''final meal''. He
ordered pancakes with strawberries and
cream, Adam his blueberry waffles, I my
favourite omelette. There were no heavy
overtones in the banter of our coffee­
house brunch. In the afternoon, Adam
lured him to the sea. Siddharth once en­
joyed bodysurfing on the crashing blue­
white waves. That day he just swam qui­
etly.
By evening, he was hungry again. I
watched to see how he'd handle it. He
started wondering aloud how his med­
ications would interact with not eating
food. It didn't take long to convince him
that starvation wouldn't do him any
good. He was the first to laugh at himself
as he shovelled down Honey Nut Clus­
ters, his favourite snack. I was happy
he'd dropped the idea. I regaled him
with stories of my father's vast appetite
though I knew that dangers still lurked.
Hope was a slippery slope.
A few weeks later, Siddharth came down
to my study as I pecked at my computer.
He stood beside me in the morning light,
framed by the Victorian glass windows,
looking helpless as a child. There was
fear in his voice as he struggled to speak.
''The medicines aren't working, Pa.''
I was touched by the despair I saw in
him. He had the posture of a man de­
feated. He'd tried so hard to think his
way out of the fragmented maze of
his mind, but it wouldn't let him. He'd
raged under his docile manner, created
by drugs that dazed him. He'd endured
the effects of his medicines as he waited
for a breakthrough. Now, he was losing
hope again.
I stood up and embraced him, feeling his
bewilderment, holding him close.
''Shone, I'm so, so sorry you have this
illness.'' I felt his pain and my voice
cracked. ''I wish there was something I
could do to make it go away. I wish I
knew what, but I don't. The doctors do.
Please trust them.''
His breathing was irregular, his body
twitched. He didn't want to breakdown.
''It took a long time to set in, Shone,"
I reminded him gently. ''It's going to
take a while to go away ...'' I believed
that Siddharth would heal. His doctors
had told me of patients who'd recovered
their mathematical abilities, even held
regular jobs.
A shudder of emotions went through his
body. I felt him struggling not to cry.
''You are getting better, Shonu." I had to
make him believe it.
Another tremble ran through him. ''I
don't know what to do," he whimpered
as he pressed his face against my cheek.
I held him in silence for a long moment.

''Give it time, like your doctor says,"

I said, reassuring him. ''You'll get well
soon. Just give it some more time."
He backed away from me, a little awk­
ward, as if he'd had enough. He didn't
like to show vulnerability. He turned
away without a word, went out the back
door and slowly went up the stairs to his
room. As I heard him walking across the
sundeck, I wondered how long his tor­
ment would last.
When he stepped off the flight from
Montreal, almost four months ago, he
had the look of a hunted animal. Pale
skin, an overgrown beard, eyes darting
around suspiciously. His raggedness had
shocked me. He must have gone through
hell, I thought. It hurt to see him so
wrecked. I still carried the pain of learn­
ing that the brain of my brilliant son had
been damaged. Yet I was happy to em­
brace him again. Somewhere inside his
disordered mind he wanted to be with
me. He had come home for sanctuary.
His descent into schizophrenia had been
a slow but relentless nightmare.
It all began at Carnegie Mellon Univer­
sity in the year of his graduation when
he was twenty-two. The first diagnosis
had been depression. While doctors gave
him medications, he saw it as a prob­
lem to be fixed. He researched it well,
even setting up an internet page on
''depression'' with a picture of Salvador
Dali. But he still had the mental clar­
ity to graduate with flying colours. He
was thinking about Artificial Intelligence
even then; he knew it was the future.
At Chapel Hill North Carolina, where he
went for his master's degree, he was
sent for psychotherapy. He still man­
aged to conduct classes as a teaching
assistant. Practising tai chi on the ad­
vice of a natural healer gave him some
respite. ''It changes the way I walk, the
way I dance ... the intuitive movements
somehow embed themselves into your
consciousness ... Have started painting
again ... the Renaissance is truly upon
me," he'd once told me. Sadly, his judge­
ment began to cloud again. He knew he
was in trouble. He asked to go back for
psychotherapy to Mumbai. I knew Pooja
would take good care of him and agreed.
Pooja and Siddharth had been insepara­
ble as children. Their paths only forked
after their last years of high school in
Los Angeles, when they lived with me.
''Booie'', as he called Pooja fondly, had
returned to India to act in Bollywood
films before marrying Farhan Furniture­
walla, a handsome entrepreneur. Jo Jeeta
Wahi Sikander with Aamir Khan was
her most successful film. She lived with
Farhan in Versova. She let Siddharth
have his own space at Beach House,
where they had grown up together,
while he was being treated. But it didn't
help him get better. As Siddharth told
me later, he'd been ''abandoned'' by the
therapist he had chosen for himself. He
didn't want me to know her at all. Para­
noia was already setting in. Looking for
the cures of traditional Indian ways, he
left for the Yoga Centre in Kerala. There
he started to hallucinate ''vivid colours
of civilisations, cultures and people mor­
phing into each other''. ''Blue light'' em-
anated from him in ''waves''. The gurus
were alarmed by the visions he de­
scribed and asked his mother to take
him away. We realised his problem was
far more than depression. It needed to
be treated by the best.
Protima lived at Nrityagram, the gu­
rukul village of Indian dance she'd cre­
ated in Bangalore. The National Institute
for Mental Health, India's finest, was in
the city. Siddharth stubbornly refused
to go. His mind was filled with strange
fears. He wanted to go to Montreal to
be with his best friend, ''Chotu'', Arman
Mirchandani. We were terrified of letting
him out of our sight in Canada. Ap­
pealing to him as a family, me sending
impassioned messages from Los Ange­
les, we persuaded him to go to Italy
instead. The Istituto Pedagogia Acquar­
iana (Institute of Aquarian Pedagogy),
near Venice, was a famous centre of
healing. It was based on the teachings of
my late father, Baba Bedi XVI, a healer
and philosopher in Italy. Marilisa Mar­
chiorello now carried the torch of his
teachings.
''I'm crazy," Siddharth told her on ar­
rival, ''I need help."
It all began well but his mind soon
warped again. He became offensive, ag­
gressive and irrational. He fled after
three weeks, in March 1997, thinking
they were going to kill him. We lost track
of him for a week. Waking up every
morning not knowing where he was in
the world, unwell, alive or dead, had me
worried sick. We knew he'd left Italy, but
he wasn't in India, and he wasn't trace­
able in Canada. Yet a week later, that's
where it all exploded.
What had happened in Montreal was far
worse than what the police had seen.
Siddharth had left the townhouse of
his buddy Arman in an agitated state.
The flag posts of the Pare La Fontaine,
he recalled, ''began emitting frequen­
cies . . . poisoning everyone around''.
America seemed an oasis of safety to
him. Imagining the city was ''out to get
him'', he ran ''towards America'', clutch­
ing his passport, money and Walkman.
Still running breathlessly, he reached
the offices of the Cirque du Soleil, whose
spell-binding show Allegria we had once
marvelled at under red and yellow tents
in Santa Monica. Now, they looked like
''malevolent rulers of the world'' to him.
He ran on frantically till he reached the
grilled gates of the Molson Beer factory.
Voices from within, ''the higher com­
mand'', ordered him to climb them. It
took eight Canadian policemen to tear
him off the gates. That's when the Mon­
treal doctors had diagnosed him with
schizophrenia before I flew him to Los
Angeles. It had been a shattering revela­
tion. However, I was relieved he'd been
found. From the moment he landed, I
began his treatment at UCLA.
Now he was despairing again that his
medicines weren't working. I wondered
how to lift his spirits. He surprised me
a week later, looking the most cheerful
since return, when he came down to see
me with a smile. I'd arranged a large stu­
dio room for him above the ground floor
of the Victorian house that I rented. It
was his private space, reached only by
stairs at the end of the driveway. He'd
come down for meals or to chat and left
whenever he wanted. I waved him over
to a plump sofa that faced the classic
fireplace, but he wasn't in a mood to sit.
His joy was palpable.
''I woke up in the middle of the night
feeling fantastic," he gushed. ''For the
first time in a long time I felt ..." he
searched for the word, ''normal. It was
so nice."
''That's great!'' I joined in his joy. ''Fan­
tastic. The medicines are working at
last!''
A flicker of doubt crossed his face. He
took a deep breath before speaking.
''I haven't taken my medicines for the
last three days and I've never felt bet­
ter.''
My hackles went up. I'd been told to ex­
pect it. I'd been warned of the dangers
of ''non-compliance''. I couldn't permit it
or encourage it. I was filled with fear and
spoke more angrily than intended.
''That's exactly what your doctors
warned me about," I said, raising my
voice. ''You'll undo all the good that's
been done. You'll have another attack.
You know the score. Any relapse, and
you'll be back at the Harbor General.
And you won't enjoy it. Don't try any
new theories of yours now. Don't even
think about it. You're not over your ill­
ness. Just do what your doctors bloody
well tell you."
My tone was harsh. It hurt him more
than I realised. He had come to share
the joy of feeling ''normal'', but I couldn't
be there for him. I was his designated
caretaker. I had to make sure he took
his medicines. Siddharth's joy turned
swiftly to rage and I suffered the back­
lash of his anger.
''You don't care about me!'' he yelled
back. ''You don't know what I think or
feel, do you? These doctors don't know
shit. They are making me into a robot
who can't function. And you too. You
just do what they tell you to. You never
listen to me! You never care about me.
You are heartless. I hate you!''
My temper rose. How dare he say I
didn't care? I had done everything I
could for him. Had he forgotten how I
flew him around the world in search of
a cure? The hours I spent phoning doc­
tors, counsellors and specialists worry­
ing about him? Didn't he see how I put
my life on hold to deal with his affliction
and be there for him? Didn't he know
what it took to get him through college?
I'd kept a detailed log of his ups and
downs for his doctors. How could he be
so ungrateful? Then I realised it wasn't
about me. I had to keep him on track,
even if it hurt.
''From tomorrow," I said firmly, ''you're
going to take your medicines in front of
me."
He stormed off to his room in a rage,
leaving me distraught.
It was the worst blow-up since he'd
come from Montreal. But it marked a
turning point. The next day he started
taking his medicines again and I kept
cheering him on. He needed to believe in
his doctors, Dr Klompus at UCLA's Har­
bor General and Dr Leiter of the Edelman
Centre. I wanted him to see the possibil­
ities of life. It wasn't that easy. He'd re­
searched schizophrenia on the internet
and knew what lay in store.
Schizophrenia is a lifelong illness with
no known cause, no prevention and
no cure. There are only ''treatments to
manage it''. Doctors liken it to diabetes,
incurable but treatable. The treatments
were, Siddharth complained, ''like being
hit on the head with a rock''. They
stunned his brain and incapacitated
him. They controlled the hallucinations
that led to psychotic attacks by dehu­
manising him. His body felt like an
anesthetised shell, unable to feel the re­
ality around him. Like a permanent ''out­
of-body'' experience, he could see him­
self ''there'' without ''being there''. Unlike
such spiritual states, his was a joyless
existence. Everything seemed grey. Food
had no taste. He felt empty. Despite all,
I believed that we'd find a way. We
lived in a whole new age, surely a cure
would be found. A boy as brilliant as him
shouldn't have to live with a wounded
mind. Thinking had been his life.
Siddharth's clear thinking showed in his
letters from Carnegie Mellon.
''I don't want to find myself in America at
the age of 30, a wealthy man with a good
company under his feet, asking myself what
am I doing with my life, if I'm really happy,
if it's all been worth it ... It's like what Walt
W hitman said 'Let me live life, so when I die
I do not wonder if I have lived'.''
Even as he lost focus at Chapel Hill, he
never lost his sense of humour.
''I don't like to talk about therapy. I feel
like a cliche Woody Allen character if I do­
damn Woody Allen for producing this block
-If he's confused and cynical about ther­
apy, why did the little rodent have to make
the world laugh at it? The man looks ter­
ribly confused and bedraggled. It's all those
points of view from hundreds of therapists
that are eating into him. Now if he would
only find his own."
He also had premonitions of the traumas
that lay ahead.
''At times I enter into realities so different
from the standard ones that were I to get
stuck in them, I don't know what would
happen. All I can do is haue faith."

Now, Siddharth was caught in the reali­

ties he had feared. He was losing faith he
could overcome his malaise and started
talking of suicide again. Another set­
back, I thought grimly. But he had gone
far beyond just toying with the idea. A
few days later, he emailed Arman in
Montreal and said he was ''opting out''.
It was perfectly clear what he meant.
Arman was torn between his loyalty to
his friend and wanting him to stay alive.
Fearing the worst, he told me of Sid­
dharth's email. It was not a betrayal of
friendship; it was an act of love. He
wanted me to stop Siddharth before he
took his life. I panicked on hearing what
he said and called Nikki in London.
She was a doctor's daughter. She had
cared for him and downloaded reams of
medical studies. I needed her clarity of
thought and the comfort of her voice.
She was my emotional anchor. I listened
to her and called in the Los Angeles
County Suicide Prevention Team.
They raced over to the house that after­
noon. Siddharth was dismayed by their
presence, ''Oh, no!'' he blurted as they
arrived, but agreed to talk to them ''in
private''. After an hour, Counsellor Rene
Reali and her team came down and re­
assured me. I didn't need to worry.
She had ''negotiated'' an ''agreement''.
Siddharth promised to keep taking his
medicines and stick with the agreed
plan. A cloud of fear lifted from my
mind. I breathed easier. We had gained
more time for his medicines to work,
more time for recovery, more time for
other options. I checked on him regu­
larly to make sure he was keeping his
word. ''Normalcy'' seemed to have re­
turned. A week later, Adam went to call
him down for an Indian dinner we had
ordered. He had said he didn't feel like
it. At times, he preferred the snacks in
his room. But he always came down the
next morning to eat the ''leftovers'' we
saved him, always a nice helping.
Early next morning, I took Adam to play
Paintball, where teams shoot each other
with balls of colour to capture the enemy
flag. He was passionate about his hobby.
He'd asked Siddharth a few days ago
but he refused to join us. It was early
evening by the time we returned and
washed off the dirt. I noticed that the
food from the night before lay uneaten
in the fridge. I dismissed the alarming
thought. Siddharth pretty much made
his own schedules. I went to check on
him before going out with some friends
for the evening. Adam was staying back
to keep him company.
I climbed the steps to his room to wish
him goodnight in the falling light of
dusk. I knew he was dead the instant I
saw him. He lay slumped on a sofa in
the corner of the room, his head covered
by a grey plastic bag fastened around his
neck by a strong rubber band. I raced
to him but it was far too late. He had
no pulse. His finely boned hands rested
on his lap, almost meditative, fingertips
barely touching. There was relaxation in
his posture, a dignity in the way he
passed. He had been calm in his mo­
ment of deliverance. He must have felt
cold in his final moments. The floral
cotton quilt which partly covered him
seemed an afterthought. In his final ges­
ture, he had reached for an ''oroo'', the
comfort blanket that trailed him as a
child. A numbed consciousness blocked
my pain like a soundless blow to the
head.
''What have you done, Shonu?'' I whis­
pered, repeating it like a mantra as I des­
perately searched for his reasons.
My knees lost their will when I tried
to stand. As I steadied myself, I sensed
a movement beyond the door. Adam
was halfway up the steps at the back,
watching me through the railings of the
sun deck. He understood it all in the
look I gave him. His blue eyes widened
with alarm, seeking another confirma­
tion. I nodded again, fighting back tears.
Adam's knuckles bleached as he gripped
the railings. I needed to say my farewell
to Siddharth before the world descended
on me. I knew I'd have to deal with po­
lice and paramedics and coroners, fam­
ily and friends and relatives. I wanted a
quiet moment with him, alone.
''I'll be with you,'' I signalled to Adam
from the door of the room. When I
turned back to look, everything was
eerily different.
I don't know if it was the fading light, or
the ocean winds that ruffled the room,
or my own sense of unreality. A feeling
of peace pervaded in the room. I felt a
strange calmness in me. I didn't want to
disturb his body. The police would want
to see everything as I found it. The death
of a young man would be investigated as
a homicide. I picked up the far end of his
quilt, trying to feel what he had touched
in his last moments. I saw strips of
drugstore sleeping pills in the trash can
below his computer. They didn't bother
me. How could I feel such peace when
my son was dead? Was he trying to tell
me something from beyond? I looked for
a sign, an explanation, some miraculous
confirmation. A gust of wind fluttered
through the venetian blinds of the win­
dow. Was his consciousness still around
me? Or was it an illusion I was creating
for my own comfort? Or was I just in
denial?
''I hope you're happy, wherever you are,''
I whispered as I kissed him goodbye. ''I
love you, Shonu-boy. I wish you hadn't
done it." It was time for me to go down.
Adam was crying on the sofa in the
sitting room. I had to make sure that
he didn't think badly of his brother. ''It
wasn't Siddharth's fault," I said sooth­
ingly. ''The illness got him.'' As he nod­
ded through his tears, I whispered, ''We
lost. The beast won." It's what we some­
times called his illness.
I heard cars pulling into the driveway.
Friends had come to pick me up for
our evening out. Roy Patrao, my clos­
est buddy; Daniela Scaramuzza, an Ital­
ian photographer; and Kevin, an Amer­
ican designer, moved quickly to help.
Roy made sure I was functional. Daniela
took charge of Adam. Kevin called
the paramedics and police. Family and
friends had to be told immediately.
Nikki was horrified to hear of Sid­
dharth's suicide. She wanted to know
everything. How did he do it? How was
I holding up? Who was with me? How
was Adam? I was still in shock, she re­
minded me. Postpone all decisions until
she returned. We had a funeral to organ-
1se.
As I ended the call, grief hit me in waves
for the son I'd lost so suddenly. But my
sorrow had to wait. I had to make the
most important call of all, to his mother
Protima and sister Pooja, both then in
Mumbai. Pooja was in her fifth month
of pregnancy. She had miscarried before
and was on medication to prevent an­
other. I feared what might happen if the
news hit her hard, but there was no way
around it.
What would I say to Protima? I imag­
ined her at home, laughing as always,
her hair fashionably short, growing back
from the time she'd shaved it clean,
looking out to the sea with her dark
kohl-lined eyes. Most times, Siddharth
loved her; sometimes in his altered
state, he hated her. But her love for him
was endless. Deep down, he knew it and
felt it. They had spoken with love since
he came to Los Angeles. How would she
take the news?
Protima picked up the phone on the
third ring. I braced myself.
''Kish?'' I enquired softly, using my nick­
name for her.
''Shonu!'' she shouted excitedly, mistak­
ing my softer tone for Siddharth 's.
It threw me completely. It became hard
for me to speak.
''Shonu?'' she shouted again, waiting for
his answer.
''It 's me, Kabir ..." A lump choked my
throat and tears burned my eyes. I spoke
in a raspy voice. ''He's gone ... He's left
us ... ''

''What are you saying?'' she pleaded, her

voice rising in alarm.
My mind stopped thinking. I couldn't
find the words I 'd planned to say.
''Suicide ... '' I said in despair.
The wail of a mother who has lost her
child is the most heart-rending sound in
nature. A primeval cry of loss. I heard it
for an eternity until the phone fell from
her hands. I heard her cries in the dis­
tance, unable to comfort her, my tears
continents away.
Pooja's husband Farhan picked up the
dangling phone. He was distraught
by more than Siddharth's death. Like
me, he feared the news could endan­
ger Pooja's pregnancy. I prayed Farhan
would find the best way to tell her. Our
• •
worries were overcome 1n a way we
didn't expect. Pooja awoke that morning
with a premonition of Siddharth's death.
She guessed what had happened before
Farhan could tell her. Her bond with Sid­
dharth was deeper than blood.
Arman was distraught by the news. He
drove around aimlessly in the streets of
Montreal, thinking of his ''sensitive, kind
and loyal'' friend. He overwhelmed by
memories of happier times. Of a child­
hood spent laughing together amid the
palms of Beach House Park. Of teasing
his sister Pooja, of playing with their
dogs Taffy and Bobo, of enjoying the
meals of ''Uncle'', their loving Christian
cook. Of visiting each other's colleges
in America, speaking every weekend. It
had all come to a numbing end.
The Santa Monica Police did their job
with respectful efficiency, searching the
room for ''evidence''. The paramedics
came and went. The coroners wheeled
away Siddharth under a white sheet on
a stretcher. As the ambulance left the
house, Kevin came down and handed
me Siddharth's ''Farewell Note''. He'd
found it on the mantlepiece of Sid­
dharth's fireplace, folded into a book
called Final Exit, the bible of self-deliver­
ance. It was Siddharth's way of letting us
know he'd chosen a painless passing. I
read the note alone in my study late into
the night, trying to look into his mind as
he wrote his final words. It was a brief
print-out from his computer in his typi­
cal no-nonsense style:
''Well, this is it. Please don't feel any
'guilt' at this. It's my way of taking
control and opting out and, strange as
it may seem, I'm going happy, not sad .
I now get to explore the other side. If
there is a rebirth, I hope to come back
with the faculties to be a technical ge­
nius . . . the time we liue in is so ex­
citing. I'm sure there'll be some anger
on your sides ... I hope it passes soon.
Booie keep smiling ... huska huska
huska . . . good luck with the baby.
Mum I love you the most of all . . . big
 kisses on your fat cheeks . . . Please
don't be angry. Loue to all."
Signed in blue ink: ''Siddharth''.
It hurt that he hadn't written a single
line for me. Perhaps there were lin­
gering resentments. I knew I'd angered
him the day he told me of skipping
his medicines. It didn't matter, I con­
soled myself, he was not always himself.
Please don't feel any ''guilt'', he'd said. How
could I not feel guilty? I must have done
something wrong for him to die like this.
Why hadn't I been more vigilant? Why
hadn't I convinced him to live?
Guilt tore into me like the fangs of a
carnivore. I had been a neglectful father.
I had believed in the myth of ''quality
time''. It meant time shared between di­
vorced parents, summer vacations with
me, wherever I happened to be. Even
then, I was distracted by ''my work'' and
''my projects'' and never-ending ''finan­
cial hassles''. Did I write to him as often
as I could? Did I visit him whenever I
could? Did I surprise him with an un­
expected trip away? I'd been absent on
many occasions in his childhood. Had
he carried those resentments to the end?
Were those the reasons for his silence in
the note? Now, I would never know. His
sudden death felt like a limb ripped from
my body, a severance beyond healing. I
cried myself into an agitated sleep.
I woke up in a daze, disoriented. I
couldn't believe he was gone. Urgent
matters soon took over, leaving me no
time for myself. How was Adam? Who
else should I inform? What should I
tell the press? I was facing an age-old
dilemma: people's right to know versus
a celebrity's right to privacy. Truth is, no
celebrity can claim ''rights'' to complete
privacy. Neither can people claim the
''right'' to know everything about their
lives. There are only competing desires.
Balancing them is not easy at a time
of grief. Word of Siddharth's death was
bound to spread as fast as a gossipmon­
ger's tongue. I didn't want to lie about
his suicide or schizophrenia. I didn't
want it sensationalised either. I feared it
would open a Pandora's box of personal
questions. Siddharth would have hated
it. However, if I tried to cover it up,
''schizophrenia'' and ''suicide'' would be
fodder for tabloid media in India, per­
haps in Italy too. In the end, I decided
to tell the truth, whatever the conse­
quences.
''My son, Siddharth Bedi, died at the age of
twenty-five on Saturday, July 18, 1997. The
cause of death was suicide. He had bat­
tled schizophrenia for many years before his
death . . . "
I was exhausted by the time I faxed off
the last message. I was grateful the press
reported it in a dignified way, with the
exception of a few. I didn't tell them
the time and place of the funeral. It had
to be private. Siddharth wouldn't have
wanted a circus of photographers.
The funerals of people we love are often
as traumatic as their death. What should
it be for my son? There is great beauty
in the ceremonies of organised religions
for the rites of passage: birth, marriage
and death. A Christian baptism, a Hindu
wedding, a Muslim funeral or a Jew­
ish bar mitzvah are awe-inspiring ritu­
als, sanctified over centuries, majestic in
grandeur. Like great theatre, they touch
us deeply. My father, Baba Bedi XVI, had
been a philosopher with his own beliefs.
My mother had been a Buddhist nun.
Protima's family was Hindu, but her be­
liefs were an eclectic mix. I revered Guru
Nanak, Buddha and Saint Kabir. Did this
give us the freedom to choose any cere­
mony we wanted? Or did we have to re­
spect Siddharth's atheism?
Every atheist's funeral has to be scripted
afresh. ''Siddharth'' was the name of the
Buddha when he was still a prince. It
was the title of Herman Hesse's para­
ble on his life. Both were the reasons
we gave him his name. But Siddharth
had distanced himself from the ''mumbo
jumbo'' of all organised religions. He
didn't want to belong to any religion, or
even any nation. He made his choices
as an ''individual''. He wasn't a man
who liked fancy things. Beyond wanting
a ''nice'' sound system, his needs in col­
lege were as spartan as a monk's. His fu­
neral had to reflect his life with sanctity.
Nikki looked stressed as she came off
the British Airways flight. Leaving before
her sister's wedding hadn't been easy.
But coming back for the funeral of a
boy she'd cared for in his darkest hour
was far more important. Adam's mother
Ixchel came from Colorado. When we
were married, she had seen Siddharth
grow from a shy young boy into an ath­
letic teenager. She sanctified his room
with healing prayers like a religious rit­
ual. It was her farewell to him before she
returned to Colorado. The funeral was
delayed for a week for the family who
were coming from India.
Protima wanted to stay in Siddharth's
room, the room where he'd died. She
wanted to sense his closeness. His
clothes still smelled of him, his pres­
ence still seemed to be there. It triggered
wrenching emotions. Her cries were
heard down the street. His final words to
her had been: ''Mum I love you the most
of all ... big kisses on your fat cheeks ...
Please don't be angry'' Nothing could have
meant more to her. Pooja hid her grief
behind wellsprings of positivity, deter­
mined to shield her unborn baby from
''negative emotions''. It was a shattering
time for me, but I had to console the
family.
The old Victorian house came to life
with the gathering of mourners. ''Guli'',
my sister Gulhima, came from Boston to
mourn her ''second son''. He had been
very close to her son, Shiv. She'd been a
loving mother to Siddharth when he had
lived with them for a year. He had done
his last school year at Hollis High School,
NH, and been their valedictorian. Seher,
my brother's daughter, flew in from New
York with a friend. His friend Arman
came distraught from Montreal. All car­
ried the crosses of their individual guilt,
as if each of them could have saved him
somehow.
The Little Chapel of Flowers stood in the
green of pines in a secluded corner of
Forrest Lawn, the favoured cemetery of
Hollywood stars. It was small as an Eng­
lish village chapel, filled with perhaps
fifty mourners who came to say their
farewells. The California sun filtered
through the stained-glass windows to
the pews where we all sat. White orchids
lay across Siddharth's dark blue coffin,
sprays of white flowers on the sides. His
face had the peace of a dreamless sleep.
Organ music played softly in the back­
ground. We said our lingering goodbyes
and suffered our separate sorrows.
Memories of Siddharth came back in
waves. The child who clung to his ''oroo''
for comfort. The boy who ran around
on Juhu Beach laughing with abandon.
The young man who I'd hugged so tri­
umphantly on his graduation day in col­
lege. I would never see him laugh again,
never hear his voice, never smell his
young skin. Nikki sensed my emotions
and comforted me in silence till it was
time for me to speak.
''We all loved Siddharth for the wonder­
ful soul he was: gentle, caring, brilliant,''
I said in a wavering voice. ''We all feel
guilty at his passing, but we shouldn't. It
was a decision he chose to make for rea-
sons he believed. This is not a time for
regrets ... Let's think of the golden mo­
ments he gave us all ... His spirit lives on
in the ethers around us ... We will love
him for the rest of our lives.''
But I still felt the guilt of his passing.
I looked at his friends from Carnegie
Mellon sitting in the pews before me,
earnest young men in dark suits, hud­
dled in close camaraderie. Mat Adler,
Sean O'Mullan, Chris Stengal, Craig
Lovell, Gleb Klioner. I saw in their faces
what Siddharth could have been. Any­
one of these young men could have
been my son, anyone of them could
have had schizophrenia, anyone of them
could have died. Was it the luck of
the draw that it struck my son? Many
schizophrenics, when first diagnosed,
are bright young men. The only girl
among his college friends was Priya,
who I remembered from his graduation
day at Carnegie. I hadn't been able to
contact Sulaja, of whom he'd spoken
often. It was a requiem of remembrance
and I was touched by the presence of
those who came.
Protima and I looked at each other with
the primal sorrow of parents grieving for
a child. A recording of Tibetan monks
chanting prayers in deep voices played
on as we emerged from the Chapel of
Flowers. As we took the pathway to­
wards the electric crematorium, Nikki
and I looked back at the people who
had come. Pooja and Farhan walked
with Protima, along with friends who
had known Siddharth since childhood.
Arman looked shattered. Pushpinder
Singh and wife Asha from Washing­
ton D.C. Close friends from Los Angeles:
Dale and Judy Rozzen, Babu Subrama­
niam, Subhash Kundanmal, Suresh and
Jayshree Gupta, Harshad and Loretta
Gandhi, Michel Potts, Firoz Dordi and
Lucy Mack. Seher, his cousin, and Dr
Marwah, a Sikh leader. Joyce Imbesi,
who played the organ. Roy, Kevin and
Daniela, who had taken care of me that
tragic evening. Martika, whose songs we
had planned to hear. Sorrowing friends
from Carnegie Mellon.
We assembled in the cavernous hall of
the cremation vaults. Siddharth's coffin,
covered with white orchids, lay between
us and uniformed attendants. I nodded
my permission. They cranked it up­
wards with a squeal of hinges, aligning it
to the door of the furnace. Nikki was cry­
ing beside me. Protima let out a long and
piercing wail as Pooja and Farhan held
her. The attendants pushed the coffin
with unseemly force into the dark elec­
tric vault. I heard it crash against the far
inner wall. I felt a surge of raw anger at
their callousness. I remembered feeling
the same when I'd cremated my father
in Italy five years ago. I wondered why
cremations in the West couldn't be as
dignified as their burials. I remembered
in anger how ''counsellors'' at the Holly­
wood cemetery had tried to pressure me
into buying the most expensive coffin.
But now, as then, reverence for the dead
was more important than my anger.
The sanctity of my son's passing over­
shadowed their insensitivity. Siddharth
was beyond all such concerns. All that
remained of my son was a grey urn of
ash. Four years later, A Beautiful Mind,
the story of scientist John Nash's victory
over schizophrenia, was released. I won­
dered then if it would have given Sid­
dharth more belief in his future. It came
too late to know.
We immersed his ashes at sunset in
the blue waves of Santa Monica Beach,
where he'd felt the joy of living in his
youth. We all stood at the foaming edge
of the ocean, aching with the loss of a
son, a brother, a friend. He had vanished
so suddenly, so swiftly, so completely. I
remembered what he said on our walk:
''If I can't have a certain quality of life,
then I'm not interested." He believed re­
covery wasn't possible for his thinking
mind. For him, not being able to think
was no life at all. It would be the tortured
journey of a crippled mind, the hobble
of amputated emotions, the humiliating
crutches of an endless dependence. His
death would always be a smouldering
loss. His absence would always hurt. But
I bowed before his verdict as I said my
final goodbye. Now, I was the wounded
soul.
We watched in silence as Adam walked
into the swelling sea with his brother's
mortal remains. Siddharth's ashes dis­
appeared into the waters of a vast com­
forting ''oroo'' that stretched beyond the
horizon. Was it his spirit in the wind that
whirled around us? Who knows? He had
gone, he said in the farewell note, ''to ex­
plore the other side''.
Protima and Kabir at Siddharth's funeral

Pooja and Siddharth

Kabir and Adam on Santa Monica beach

Kabir with Siddharth on Graduation Day

Nikki Bedi and Kabir

Kabir with Omar Sharif, Michael Caine,

Peter Ustinov, Beverly Johnson
With Timothy Dalton and Omar Sharif

With Hunter Tylo

With Oprah Winfrey

 With Roger Moore

With Burt Lancaster

With Michael Caine

 7
AGONY AND ECSTASY
RUIN AND RESURRECTION

Hollywood devastated me, Italy and

India resurrected me. All gave me reams
to remember. What comes to mind
when I think of Hollywood? It's a famous
sign on a hill, a word for American films,
a symbol of fantasy for millions. But
it's a clever illusion. None of the major
studios are based in Hollywood. Para­
mount, Warner Bros. and Universal were
founded there, but moved out long ago.
Colombia, United Artists, Fox, MGM and
Disney were never there. No big films
are produced there anymore. Hollywood
was an unbelievably prudish municipal­
ity when it was founded in 1903. They
had banned alcohol and, ironically, even
movie theatres. But the ''HOLLYWOOD''
sign, originally a billboard to promote a
real estate development, went on to be-
come an iconic brand that defines Amer-
• •
1can cinema.
Hollywood reminds me of my films and
television series: Octopussy with Roger
Moore as James Bond, Ashanti with
Michael Caine, The Thief of Baghdad
with Roddy McDowall, and The Beast of
War directed by Kevin Reynolds. Long
roles in popular television series like
The Bold and the Beautiful, One Life to
Liue and General Hospital. World-famous
television series like Highlander, Murder
She Wrote, Magnum P.I. and Knight Rider.
Miniseries with actors like Burt Lancas­
ter, Aidan Quinn, Thomas Gibson and
Rutger Hauer. But they didn't make me a
star in America.
In my Hollywood years, all the foreign­
ers who became stars had one thing in
common: they had starred in films in
their own countries that made waves in
America. Brazil's Sonia Braga, Holland's
Rutger Hauer, Spain's Antonio Banderas
and Penelope Cruz, and Britain's Ben
Kingsley with Gandhi. I got to know Ben
quite well in my later London years,
visiting his Oxfordshire home, even at­
tending his ill-fated wedding to Alexan­
dra, a German girl. Ben's original name
was Krishna Pandit Bhanji. But, as he
admitted to me, he didn't get very far
with it. Even after graduating from the
Royal Shakespeare Company, he started
getting work in theatre and film only
after he changed to a more English
name. Indians were seen as stereotypes.
Sadly, Sandokan wasn't shown in Amer­
ica. It was considered a ''dubbed prod­
uct'', even though it was really shot in
English. I was trying to rise up the ranks
in Hollywood through American films
and television. But it was a rocky road.
In the wake of my success in The Bold
and the Beautiful in 1994, I stayed on in
Los Angeles. I thought it would matter
in Tinseltown. But, as in the 1980s, I ran
into the same wall: no roles were being
written for Indians like me. The few they
did often went to white actors painted
brown. They wouldn't dare paint a white
actor black, but brown wasn't a worry.
Diversity wasn't an issue then. If roles
aren't written for Indians, I protested in
an article for Screen International, how
can we ever be cast? It didn't make a
dent. Nobody cared about a whinging
actor who came from another tribe.
But there are many in Hollywood who
left me with an array of unforgettable
memories. I remember Michael Caine
drinking red wine with thick chunks of
ice in the blazing heat of the Israeli
desert as we rested in tents while shoot­
ing Ashanti.
''Red wine is drunk at room temperature,
Michael," I teased.
''Not at 120 degrees in the shade, mate,''
he laughed, taking another cold sip.
I'll never forget meeting Sean Con­
nery, the greatest Bond ever, at a din­
ner hosted by Shakira, Michael Caine's
beautiful West Indian wife. Unlike many
stars, Sean was most impressive even
in real life. I chatted with Jackie Collins,
who wrote worldwide bestsellers on ro­
mance and intrigue in Hollywood. Years
later, I acted with her sister Joan Collins
in Dynasty. Her portrayal of Alexis Car­
rington made her a star in America after
Sophia Loren turned down the part. I'd
known Joan since the late 1970s, when
we'd been on the jury of a music festi­
val in Spain. On the sets of Dynasty, Joan
bemoaned the faults of all men. ''What
do men want?'' she asked me, echo­
ing what men ask about women. But
it wasn't a question to be answered, it
was a statement of frustration. Months
later, she left her fourth husband, Peter
Holm, in a bitterly contested divorce. He
scandalised Hollywood by suing her for
alimony. Equality, he argued, isn't a one-
way street. More grist for Jackie Collins'
novels.
I remember meeting Rock Hudson, the
best-looking star in the world, at the
home of Roddy McDowall at Christmas.
The decorations on Roddy's tree were
the most beautiful I'd seen. England's
Princess Margaret was there too. Don't
speak to royalty, I was told, unless they
speak to you. So, we swam around in cir­
cles in the sunlit pool, just her and me,
without exchanging a word. Roddy had
suffered a terrible accident when we had
shot for The Thief of Baghdad in London.
A flying carpet, attached by wires on a
moving rig, lifted him and the Princess
Perizadah (French star Marina Vlady) to
the heights of Shepperton Studios. But
the wires broke, and both crashed down
hard to the floor. The giant metal rig
thumped down beside them, missing
them by a hair. I raced to pick them
out of the wreckage. Both were bleeding
and gasping aloud. It was a miracle they
didn't break a bone. When shooting re­
sumed a week or so later, they only shot
one side of Roddy's face. The other had
bumps and swellings that couldn't be
hidden, even with the best make-up. He
was the first of my friends in Hollywood.
Along with Peter Ustinov, Roddy recom-
mended me to the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences in 1982. Since
then I've voted for the Oscars.
I remember holding an Oscar in the
toilet during the Awards ceremony. A
British sound recordist handed it to me
as he desperately raced in to pee. So
this is what it feels like, I marvelled, to
have the golden knight in your hand.
The Oscar has been Hollywood's great­
est honour since Douglas Fairbanks first
presented it in 1929 at the Hollywood
Roosevelt Hotel. It felt cold as steel but it
warmed my heart. I'd won many popu­
lar awards in Europe,-Telegatto in Italy,
Tele-7-Jour in France, Golden Otto in
Germany-but the Oscar was the king of
them all. I was glad the soundman's pee
lasted for long.
I remember meeting Elizabeth Taylor at
a fundraiser in New York. She had the
radiance of a legendary star yet she
looked you in the eye when she spoke.
At the time, she'd been married six
times. ''I've only slept with seven men,"
she'd confided to Michael Caine. ''Who
was the seventh?'' he asked cheekily, but
she didn't tell. By the time she passed
away, she had been married eight times
to seven men. Richard Burton, she mar­
ried twice. I remember being welcomed
by Goldie Hawn, Stefanie Powers and
James Coburn to their lovely homes.
And meeting the legends John Huston,
John Badham and Leonard Nimoy when
I auditioned for Annie, Blue Thunder and
Star Trek III. I never got the films but
remember their respect and courtesy,
unusual in auditions. Hugh Hefner's
Playboy Mansion was a castle with bun­
nies galore, ogling guests and an artistic
pool which led to private alcoves. I also
met Arnold Schwarzenegger, then the
world's greatest bodybuilder, when he
first came to Hollywood.
''I'm investing in scripts," he told me in
his heavy Austrian accent, ''if the studios
don't like them, I'm sure they will give
me another.''
He was rich enough to commission the
best writers and his strategy worked. It
earned him a place in the Hollywood
sun. Later, he was elected the Gover­
nor of California, not once but twice. At
times, I met him at Schatzi, his Austrian
restaurant near my Victorian home in
Santa Monica.
Starting in 1995, a cascade of mis­
fortunes descended on me. It began,
strangely enough, in distant Mumbai.
Nikki was hosting Nikki Tonight, a show
for Star TV, Asia's biggest network.
It quickly became their most popular
show. A brilliant career lay ahead of
her. On a highly watched night, Ashok
Row Kavi, India's leading gay rights ac­
tivist, told Nikki he had called Mahatma
Gandhi ''a bastard'' twenty years ago. All
hell broke loose in media. ''Gandhi called
bastard'' screamed headlines, linking
Nikki's name to the deed. There were
demonstrations on the street, questions
in Parliament, howls for Nikki's blood.
Armed guards were posted outside her
door to protect her. Star TV instantly
yanked the show off the air. It ended
Nikki's brilliant prospects in India. She
came back to Los Angeles, jobless and
shattered. I was certain she'd rise again.
But Nikki's misfortune was only the
rumble of a landslide that was coming to
hit me hard.
I could have survived the vicissitudes
of Hollywood with the money I'd made
from The Bold and the Beautiful and two
successful Italian miniseries. The Return
of Sandokan (II ritorno di Sandokan) had
big Italian stars, Fabio Testi, Romina
Power and Franco Nero. The other was
The Son of Sandokan (II .fi.glio di Sandokan),
released much later due to fights in Ital­
ian courts. My money vanished into the
ethers for reasons that are a lesson to
all. Not because I lived generously. Not
because I was paying alimonies and sup­
porting two of my children. Not because
it cost a bomb to send Siddharth to the
best infotech colleges in America. All of
them had a price but I could have han­
dled it. My money disappeared because
I wanted to become a multimillionaire.
I wanted to buy a home which would
make me proud. A dream I had since
childhood when moving from house to
rented house in Delhi. But the price of
real estate in California had gone be­
yond the bounds of logic. I made big
investments to make that quantum leap.
I thought I was a financial genius with
every reason to be sure. I had researched
it down to the marrow. How could I pos­
sibly be wrong? Alas, the stock market is
a beast with a mind of its own.
In 1995, I made a huge investment
in Netscape, the world's first big web
browser. In today's terms, it would be
like investing in Google when it went
public in 2004 at $85. Today, Google
is $1500. That's what Netscape was
promising. The early 1990s was the
dawn of the information age. The World
Wide Web was made available to every­
one only in 1993. Netscape popularised
it by seizing 70 per cent of the mar­
ket before its initial public offering on
9 August 1995. It caught my attention
when its stock doubled on opening day.
I studied it for a while. The Silicon Val­
ley start-up seemed set to revolutionise
the world. You had to pay to install
it on your computer. What was there
not to like? Fortune magazine later re­
ported: ''Netscape mesmerized investors
and captured America's imagination.
More than any other company, it set the
technological, social, and financial tone
of the Internet age.'' I invested heavily,
believing Netscape would be massive. At
first, it all went brilliantly. Its founder
Marc Anderson was put on the cover
of Time magazine. Its revenue quadru­
pled that year. But, in August 1996, Mi­
crosoft launched Internet Explorer 3.0.
Its browser was bundled with every
new Windows PC. Worst of all, it was
free. I hated Microsoft with a passion.
They had already decimated my beloved
Apple. I didn't believe they would win
this one. Netscape was far too dominant.
It had an 80 per cent share of the market
now, growing by the day. But Microsoft
knocked the stuffing out of Netscape in
two years. When I finally sold my stock
in 1998, it was down by 50 per cent.
But I lost far, far more. Using options to
leverage my ''sure-shot'' stock, making
more bets as it went down, I multiplied
my losses. My biggest investment had,
as they say in Hollywood, gone with the
wind.
Gold was my insurance in case the mar­
kets took a dive. Black swans do happen.
If you ever invest in gold, never listen
to gold investment newsletters. Being
bullish is their bread and butter. They
predict the end of the dollar, quote the
Fed's printing of money, saying the end
of the world is nigh. But even the re­
puted market mavens were saying that
gold had been ''held down'' for too long.
It had reached the skies in the early
1980s, it was bound to rise again. I in­
vested in Barrick Gold, the biggest gold
mining company of all, a safe blue-chip
stock, I thought. Barrick was $31 when I
invested in 1996. Confounding all expec­
tations, the price of gold declined. In a
year and a half, the stock went down to
$18. Almost a 60 per cent loss. I pulled
out whatever I could, as I couldn't stand
the pain. There went a big chunk again.
Apple was an emotional investment. I
loved it with a passion. I was hurt when
Apple had fired Steve Jobs in 1985 and
replaced him with John Sculley, a man
from Pepsi-Cola. But Apple Macs were
so much better than the clunky world of
PCs. Apple's stock had already risen dra­
matically in less than two years, from 90
cents to $1.70. I was certain it would rise
far more. I invested big time in Apple in
1995. Even my son Siddharth, who stud­
ied at Carnegie Mellon, the Mecca of in­
fotech, predicted ''In the end, Apple will
win." He was right. Today, Apple is the
world's first two-trillion-dollar company,
the most valuable in history. Being right
in the long term doesn't always work in
the market. It's the short-term that kills
you dead. By the middle of 1997, the
stock was down to 50 cents. I couldn't
bear it anymore, and sold. I lost two­
thirds of what I invested betting that
Apple would win. These are symbolic of
the bad investments I made in the mar­
ket, overreaching for a home of my own.
It ended my childhood dream.
As I was gasping financially, the Italians
came to my rescue. I was offered a comic
role in We Are Angels, a miniseries, with
Bud Spencer, Philip Michael Thomas and
Erik Estrada. It was produced by Bud's
son, Giuseppe Pedersoli. Nikki played a
cameo in it too. We shot in the tropi­
cal jungles of Costa Rica. I got to know
Bud in the green plantations where we
stayed. He was a bear of a man with
a hearty laugh who loved to regale
us every evening. He sang Italian love
songs in a husky baritone strumming
on his old guitar. Nikki sang funny Eng­
lish ditties, and Bud sang songs back to
her. His real name was Carlo Pedersoli.
He'd changed it to Bud Spencer to act
in Italian westerns with Terrence Hill,
whose name is Mario Girotti. Both had
great success playing American cow­
boys. I met Terrence Hill, decades later,
at a concert of Guido and Maurizio de
Angelis in Hungary, organised by Gabor
Kovacs. He gave me a metal logo of the
Trinity films, a sleeping cowboy pulled by
a horse, that had made him famous.
My finances still weren't out of the
woods. They were helped along by For­
bidden Territory: Stanley's Search for Liv­
ingstone, an American miniseries with
Aidan Quin and Edward Fox. Then the
Italians came through once more. I
starred in Mashamal, a Moroccan-Italian
film, directed by Paolo Fondato. It had
Dalila de Lazzaro, an actress famous for
her extraordinary beauty. The film gave
me some respite. Matters were finally
moving in the right direction financially.
Just then I was devastated by the wreck­
ing ball of an emotional tragedy. As I told
you before, my son Siddharth commit-
ted suicide in my home on 18 July 1997.
The emotional pain was crippling. Nikki
comforted me through the worst. Pooja,
Farhan and Protima came to Los Ange­
les for his funeral. They stayed on for
the birth of Farhan and Pooja's daugh­
ter, Alaya, on 28 November 1997. Their
presence brought some joy into my life.
Protima and Nikki were a non-stop riot
of laughs. Alas, it was a passing moment
in the sun.
The next eighteen months were a dev­
astating time. I wasn't present. I was
sleepwalking through life. I failed all my
auditions. Nikki did her best to cheer me
but I went into a depression. The death
of my son was a wound that wouldn't
heal. Work dried up completely. Then
my investment mistakes came to a head
and wiped me out completely. When my
credit cards reached their limits, I came
to the end of the road. It broke my heart
when I had to sell my Bulgari gold neck­
lace, bought as a symbol of success in
Italy. It depressed me to my core. Had I
come down to this? No matter how I re­
pented and raged within, I had to accept
the humiliating fact. On 19 July 1999, I
filed for bankruptcy in the courts of Los
Angeles. It ended my dreams of Holly­
wood.
Our new home was a cottage in a charm­
ing English village called Dummer. The
price of being dumb and dumber. A far
cry from Carlyle Mansions in Chelsea
where I'd once lived in London. The city
was now a forty-minute ride by train.
Nikki wanted to be close to her parents,
who lived in a nearby town. I understood
her need. Our last few years had been
hell. Bankruptcy made it necessary to
break into my pension plan, which was
mandated by law for my acting services
company in California. My great accoun­
tant Dale Rozzen had set it up brilliantly.
It tided us over financially. I got myself a
new agent in London, Jeremy Conway of
Conway & Van Gelder. Nikki looked for
work in voice-overs, commercials and
radio. We prayed England would give us
a new beginning.
I still faced a big dilemma. I didn't want
to live in England. I knew I wouldn't be
cast as an Englishman, there were far
too many around. And I didn't sound
like a British-Asian who spoke in a man­
ner of their own. Meera Syal, Sanjeev
Bhaskar and Kulvinder Ghir were among
the best. Little else remained on the
table. I thought of going back to Bolly­
wood, but Nikki didn't want to return.
The trauma of Nikki Tonight may have
haunted her, but she had more earthy
reasons. She looked and sounded like a
London girl and saw better prospects in
England. Italy wasn't an option for us. It
would have been far too expensive. So,
we set out to rebuild our ruined lives
from a little village in England.
In the end, I did it, brick by cinematic
brick. It took twenty-six films and four
television series to put me back in the
saddle. Films in English, Italian, Hindi,
Punjabi, Telegu and Kannada. I did roles,
big and small, whatever came my way.
Not all of it was good. I'll tell you
what I like to remember. My resurrection
began in 2001, ironically, with a Holly­
wood miniseries. The Monkey King, star­
ring Thomas Gibson and Bai Ling. It was
based on one of the greatest stories in
Chinese history. I played the role of Friar
Sand, the sage who guides the hero as he
battles demons and dragons.
Shooting in the historic beauty of Prague
warmed my soul. It felt great to be
working again. It lifted me out of my
depression. I hadn't faced the cameras
for almost two years. Then Bollywood
offered me more roles, some big, some
small. I shot four films over the next two
years, two with big stars. Talaash was
with Akshay Kumar, Bollywood's most
disciplined superstar. Forbes listed him
among the highest-paid entertainers in
the world for four years in a row, 2017 to
2020. A success story I really admire. The
Hero: Loue Story of a Spy with Sunny Deal
was Priyanka Chopra's first big Bally­
wood film. It launched her great career.
She played my daughter and I saw her
burning dedication in every shot. I'm
thrilled she's now India's biggest inter­
national star. A terrific achievement for
an Army girl from Bareilly. I always root
for her success.
Bollywood made me happier as two
more films rolled in. I loved being in
India. In my heart, it's always been
home. Then another Italian film came
my way. Andata Ritorno, directed by
Marco Ponti, starred Donatello winner
Libero De Rienzo and Vanessa Incon­
trada. Today Vanessa is one of Italy's
most respected stars. India called once
again with Bewafaa starring Anil Kapoor,
followed by Main Hoon Na with Shah
Rukh Khan. He's another middle-class
boy from Delhi who came on his own
to Bollywood. But he played his cards
far better than me. He's very bright, and
smart too, a deadly combination. I salute
him for becoming an enduring super­
star. Then I started shooting an epic role
in Akbar Khan's Taj Mahal: An Eternal
Love Story, playing Shah Jahan, who built
the Taj Mahal. It's one of my treasured
performances. Manisha Koirala played
my daughter Jahanara. Akbar directed
his spectacular film painstakingly, for
more than two hundred days, in in­
stalments spread over three years, at
Jodhpur's towering Mehrangarh Fort. It
finally released in 2005.
Flash forward, six years later: In 2011,
I played Shah Jahan on stage at the
Luminato Festival in Toronto, the best
performing arts festival in the world. It
felt terrific to be back on stage with
a role that rocked the aisles. No other
medium lets you sense the feelings of an
audience so intimately. TAJ was written
by Canada's most respected playwright
John Murrell. It was directed with oper­
atic brilliance by Tom Diamond. Lisa Ray
played my daughter Jahanara most mov­
ingly. A spectacular production by Lata
Pada's Sampradaya. Two years later, we
toured the play to standing ovations
in six cities in Canada. It touched the
hearts of people. Like the magnificent
Taj Mahal he built, Shah Jahan person­
ified the immensity of love a man can
have for a woman.
Back to 2004: My love for Nikki was pay­
ing a wrenching price for my incessant
travels and absences. With the money I
made, I had bought a beautiful flat in
London. Linkenholt Mansions was close
to the River Thames in Chiswick. Nikki
loved to power-walk along its winding
banks. She travelled regularly to Birm­
ingham to work at the BBC Asian Net­
work. Beyond our eclectic London gang,
Nikki developed a circle of friends there
who I liked though rarely saw. She de­
veloped two different social circles. But
we had great times together in London.
London has the best of theatre, art
and culture, buildings of historic beauty
and modern architecture, great trans­
port systems, food from around the
world, and palaces, parks and clubs.
It was the home of my buddies
like Shekhar Kapoor, Farrukh Dhondy,
Mohan Chopra, Jules Fuller, Sophia Haq
and my favourite cousin, Mala Lever.
Farrukh, who had been the commis­
sioning editor of Channel 4 Television,
gave Shekhar his first big break as a
director in the West with Bandit Queen.
Shekhar never looked back ever since. I
was thrilled when he was nominated for
an Oscar for Elizabeth. A terrific achieve­
ment for an Indian director! He's one
of my dearest friends. We have been in
and out of each other's homes and lives
since our Delhi college days: in Mumbai,
London and Los Angeles. He is as great
a philosopher as he is a director. Lon­
don also had fond memories of my times
with Gita and Sonny Mehta, before he
became America's most powerful pub­
lisher.
But the heart of the matter was the
dilemma I faced when I first came to
England. Nikki wanted to be in England,
my heart wanted to be in India. My
constant commuting wasn't giving me
any joy. It only made the airlines and
telephone companies richer. Our worlds
were growing apart. It depressed me
deeply. Could I never make a marriage
work? Had I messed it up again? Was I
headed for my third divorce? I sensed an
unmistakeable shift in Nikki by the time
I set off for my next big adventure.
Isola dei Famosi (Island of the Famous)
put me centre stage in Italy. An Italian
reality show, like Suruiuor, shot on a re­
mote island in the Caribbean, with thir­
teen celebrities looking for food on an
island with little in sight. It was a chal­
lenge I couldn't resist. The drama began
before we reached it. Santo Domingo
was hit by the worst typhoon in twenty
of my dearest friends. We have been in
and out of each other's homes and lives
since our Delhi college days: in Mumbai,
London and Los Angeles. He is as great
a philosopher as he is a director. Lon­
don also had fond memories of my times
with Gita and Sonny Mehta, before he
became America's most powerful pub­
lisher.
But the heart of the matter was the
dilemma I faced when I first came to
England. Nikki wanted to be in England,
my heart wanted to be in India. My
constant commuting wasn't giving me
any joy. It only made the airlines and
telephone companies richer. Our worlds
were growing apart. It depressed me
deeply. Could I never make a marriage
work? Had I messed it up again? Was I
headed for my third divorce? I sensed an
unmistakeable shift in Nikki by the time
I set off for my next big adventure.
Isola dei Famosi (Island of the Famous)
put me centre stage in Italy. An Italian
reality show, like Suruiuor, shot on a re­
mote island in the Caribbean, with thir­
teen celebrities looking for food on an
island with little in sight. It was a chal­
lenge I couldn't resist. The drama began
before we reached it. Santo Domingo
was hit by the worst typhoon in twenty
years. It flooded our hotel, devastated
travel and communication and delayed
our start by a week. The drama con­
tinued on our remote location, the is­
land of Samana. Many contestants were
poisoned by wild berries on the day
the show began. I alternated between
projectile vomiting and non-stop visits
to the loo. The show continued soon
enough. Every week a contestant was
eliminated in a televised vote. It was
a tough and relentless battle. There
was nothing fake about it. All we were
guaranteed each day was a handful of
uncooked rice, a spoon of olive oil, a
pinch of salt and lots of water. Food was
earned through gruelling weekly con­
tests.
There were dramas galore as hun­
gry people got angry. Betrayals, back­
stabbing and hair-pulling fights among
women. Even the most gracious became
savages. People do anything to win. The
deserving winner was Sergio Muniz, a
dashing Spanish model whose survival
skills beat us all. I came second, besting
people half my age, some twice as fit. I
was fifty-eight years old and lost eight
kilos in twelve weeks. People got to see
Sandokan as a person. The second run­
ner-up was Toto Schillaci, a legendary
footballer. The ratings were phenome­
nal.
In a segment of Isola dei Famosi, mes­
sages of loved ones were relayed to the
contestants. Nikki's message was bright
and beautiful but it wasn't a message of
love. Living on a desert island gives you
time to think. I realised our transcon­
tinental marriage was dying, if not al­
ready dead. It was tragic, because Nikki
was a good person. She was loads of fun,
outrageously witty at times and laughed
more happily than anyone I knew. At
times, she could be fiercely wilful, which
is why I called her ''Hun'', which all
thought meant ''Honey'', but was short
for ''Atilla the Hun''.
I remembered the passion that began
when we played Othello and Desde­
mona. She'd taken a big risk in mar­
rying me when she was comfortably
married. She'd seen me through Sid­
dharth's suicide and the worst of times
in Hollywood. She was a great actress
but found her calling in radio. Today,
she writes and presents The Arts Hour on
the BBC World Service, heard by ninety­
seven million listeners, and other high­
profile shows. Her success gives me infi­
nite joy. It hurt me when we had to end
our marriage in 2005, but we parted as
friends. A year later, when our divorce
was formalised, I gave her the Linken­
holt Mansions flat and continued paying
the mortgage till she sold it. Until then, I
stayed in the London flat and performed
in a fabulous play.
The Far Pavilions opened at the Shaftes­
bury Theatre in London's West End on
24 March 2005. It is an awe-inspiring
theatre. One thousand three hundred
red velvet seats under an Edwardian
canopy of gold. Wedgewood decor on
the Royal Boxes that looked down from
the sides. It was the perfect setting for
M.M. Kaye's epic love story of a young
English officer and an Indian princess
during the British Raj. I played Khoda
Dad, Master of the Horse, who guides
the English hero from childhood when
he thought he was really an Indian. It
was a lavish seven-million-pound ex­
travaganza by producer Michael Ward.
Boisterous banquets on revolving stages,
rousing songs of love and war, powerful
dramatic scenes. A live orchestra played
as we performed. Epic theatre! Alas, its
run was cut short by the deadliest ter­
rorist attack in England. On 7 July 2005,
three deadly bombs went off on London
Underground trains and, close to us, on
a bus in Tavistock Square. In all, fifty-
two people were killed and seven hun­
dred injured. Ticket sales dried up for
all shows in the West End. I was gutted
when the play closed in September after
running steadily for six months. I had
really enjoyed playing Khoda Dad.
There was a deeper reason for my joy.
Two decades earlier, I had been signed
for the same role in the HBO's television
series The Far Pavilions. It was then their
most expensive production. The shoot­
ing was to start on 10 January 1982 in
Jaipur. Alas, Octopussy, the Bond film I
was shooting just before it, overran by
three weeks over Christmas. They re­
fused to let me go. I begged Geoffrey
Reeve, the producer of The Far Pavilions,
to allow me to start late. It was only a
matter of a week. But he'd planned a
grand opening, with me leading a pa­
rade of elephants, for the world press in
Jaipur. It couldn't be delayed. I was re­
placed by Omar Sharif.
Ironically, I'd taken a role from Omar
three years earlier. He was to play Malik,
my character in Ashanti. But as an Egyp­
tian, he couldn't shoot in Israel. So, I
got his role. Instead, he played a guest
role shot in Italy. We worked together
on two other films and laughed about
the biz. You can't win them all, Omar
told me with a smile. He explained why
he had worked for peanuts in Hollywood
even after his stunning debuts in Doc­
tor Zhivago and Lawrence of Arabia. They
promised him greater stardom, he grum­
bled, but never gave him roles that were
great. Funny Girl, with Barbara Streisand,
was an exception.
An exceptional girl walked into my life
at an after-party for The Far Pavilions in
Soho. Parveen Dusanj saw my play by
accident a month before it ended. I was
surprised she knew about a remote is­
land I was planning to visit. Holy Island
is a retreat in the seas of Scotland built
by Akong Rinpoche who thought of me
as a brother. My mother had sent him
to England after he came to India as a
refugee from Tibet. Parveen and I began
a genuine friendship. We conversed for
months without any rolls in the hay.
I knew I wasn't the best of prospects.
My age didn't endear me either. My
profession rang bells of alarm, and my
love life was far from spotless. Yet,
against all logic, our unspoken attraction
grew stronger. We both had Sikh roots,
revered Guru Nanak and loved Punjab
with a passion. I talked of my life,
cooked her great dinners and showed
her that I cared. I was drawn to her
honesty and her idealistic social beliefs.
They were the values I grew up with
and respected. I was impressed she ad­
vised the British government on minori­
ties and the downtrodden. She didn't
mince her words when she spoke, but
they came from a place of compassion.
She was kind by nature. She was edu­
cated, intelligent and sensitive. To me,
she looked like Nefertiti, the Egyptian
Queen, with long black curls cascading
down her shoulders. But she's an Eng­
land-born Punjabi sherni. Affectionately,
I called her ''Vee''. Gradually, we began
dating.
Vee's family wasn't thrilled by the
prospect. I was fifty-nine and much mar­
ried; she was thirty-one and single. She
was the eldest of six children, four girls
and two boys, raised singlehandedly by
a caring Punjabi mother. They would
have been happy if she married, but not
to an actor like me. Surely there were
better husbands in England. Neither of
us were really thinking of marriage. She
was wary of my world, and I didn't want
to repeat my mistakes, jumping from the
frying pan to the fire. Our relationship
seemed over when I finally moved back
to India at the end of the year.
Miraculously, the universe ordained a
continuing dance. In February 2006, Vee
came to Delhi with her sister Suki for a
conference of broadcasters. I happened
to be in the city for the Mahindra Excel­
lence in Theatre Awards. That serendip­
ity rekindled our romance. It flared more
brightly when I returned to London in
April for the sale of the Linkenholt flat.
She helped pack up the house. As I
waved her goodbye, I realised I'd miss
her deeply. But the cosmic dance still
wasn't over. I was called to Italy for a
guest role in Viuere, a series. Vee came
for a day to Turin that summer. Her
work didn't allow for more. Another
painful goodbye.
Our cosmic dance reached its crescendo
in autumn. Italy continued my resurrec­
tion by asking me to star in Un Medico
in Famiglia (A Doctor in the Family), a
prime-time show with Lino Banfi, Italy's
most famous comic. Shivani Ghai was a
brilliant young lead. This time I threw
all my fears to the wind and asked Vee
to live with me in the historic centre of
Rome. She came against the wishes of
her family, leaving her work behind. She
didn't want a life of regretting, of think­
ing what it might have been if she had
given it a shot. She could always return
to England. But, she fell in love with
Rome, and even more so with me. Love
came back to my life.
Our love deepened when I stayed on
in Rome to voice a modern incarnation
of Sandokan on CH@T, a brilliantly cre­
ative radio show on Rai Radio 2. Writ­
ers Roberto Cavosi and Edoardo Rossi
invented a mystic sailor who pretends
to be ''Sandokan'' for Verdeluna, a bored
housewife in Italy looking for poetic
adventures. They discovered each other
on a social site where she'd posted
''a message in a bottle''. Daniela Gior­
dano voiced the housewife entranced by
Sandokan. They communicated only by
text. The show mixed fantasy with real­
ity, famous figures on a mythical island
and wild theories that boggled the mind.
CH@T ran by popular demand from Sep­
tember 2007 to May 2008, when I had to
return to India.
Bollywood was offering me more films.
Among them, I worked for one of India's
great directors, Ashutosh Gowariker,
known for his brilliance with epic films.
I played the villainous ruler of the Indus
Valley Civilisation in Mohenjo Daro oppo­
site Hrithik Roshan. I've known and ad­
mired Hrithik long before he became a
superstar in Bollywood. He had been a
shy young assistant to his father, Rakesh
Roshan, when we shot for Khoon Bhari
Maang. He's become a great actor now,
and by far India's most handsome. But
Italy wasn't done with me. A lucrative
commercial for Unipol Insurance came
as a welcome bonus.
In our years in Rome, Vee and I cre­
ated memories of a lifetime. Of driving
into the Tuscan countryside to stay at
picturesque wineries. Of hot water cas­
cading down our heads in the Satur­
nia Springs beneath a midnight moon.
Of feasting on the world's best truffles
with Lino Banfi on the roof of the Eden
Hotel. Of introducing Shekhar Kapur to
the screaming paparazzi at the premiere
of Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Of grandson
Omar's joy on discovering lasagna in a
street cafe. Of an old female security
guard hugging Vee like a lost daughter
in a gallery of classical art. Of strolling
hand in hand among the trees of Villa
Borghese past the statues of serious
men. Of marvelling the light of Rome in
October. Of an extravagant celebration
for Pooja at the Hostaria dell Orso in
Rome. Of always being surprised by the
paparazzi. Of aperitivos in sunlit piaz­
zas with friends Tarun, Edoardo, Pascal,
Leonardo, Francesco, Sergio and Katrina.
Of starlings swarming in magical pat­
terns in the skies above the Tiber. Of
little churches that touched our souls in
streets of the Eternal City.
Vee touched my heart like no other. She
brought joy back into my life. I proposed
to her on bended knee on the historic
Spanish Steps of Rome. She accepted,
but didn't say when. She was still tread­
ing carefully. But it mattered to her that
I'd asked. I knew I wanted her in my life
and was happy to give her time. By then,
even her family, to whom she is deeply
attached, had accepted me. But it took a
long decade of living together, in Rome
and then Mumbai, before she finally
agreed on the date. She thought I was
brave to still believe in marriage, and
marvelled that I still had a tender heart.
But I like sharing my life with a woman I
love. Else, it's a lonely journey. I wanted
to protect her too. I wanted people to
give her the respect that girlfriends don't
get in India.
We had planned a Sikh ceremony, but
the gurdwaras in Mumbai refused to
marry me. You've cut your hair, they
apologised, we have instructions from
Amritsar. It upset me that a descen­
dant of Guru Nanak couldn't wed in a
place where he was worshipped. So, we
married in a Vedic ceremony, preceded
by a Sikh blessing, on the palm-fringed
lawns of a beautiful home in Alibagh.
We announced it to the world the next
day in Mumbai on my birthday, 16 Janu­
ary 2016. The Indian press made a meal
of my many marriages and the twenty­
eight years between us. It didn't matter a
jot. We'd weathered such storms before.
It hadn't all been wine and roses. So we
counted our blessings as we began our
married life together.
Of course, we have our differences.
Every couple has spats. We have con­
flicting political opinions but agree to
disagree. I wrestle away the remote for
the news but don't stop her binge­
watching series. I'm the spender, she's
the saver. She's no pushover. She's firm
as a Brit about table manners. At such
times, I address her as ''HQ'', short for
headquarters. She's accepted my three
fried eggs for breakfast, come rain, hail
or shine, every day. I score brownie
points by making her tea in the morn­
ing before our cook rises. Ever since
she introduced me to Twitter, I've called
her ''Tweety'' instead of ''Sweetie''. She's
tolerated my foibles and encouraged
my endeavours. She calls me ''a gentle
giant''. She's producing films and televi-
sion series and looks for human stories.
I tell her our story is the best. I'm proud
of her for being one of the producers of
Bad Boy Billionaires, one of the highest
rated shows on Netflix worldwide. After
wandering the world, I found my home
in a Punjabi girl who is fiercely loyal and
loving. We've now been together for fif­
teen years. I've finally found a love that
fulfils me since beginning my journey as
a man.
What of professional fulfilment? Bally­
wood could have given me better roles;
they still can today. But Italy gave me
the best. Actors are remembered for
the roles that made them iconic. Clark
Gable for Gone with the Wind. Can you
think of any other films he did? Sean
Connery will always be James Bond for
me. Christopher Reeve was always Su­
perman. And I will always be Sandokan.
Italians call me Sandokan, no matter
what else I've done, whether fighting
James Bond or loving Hunter Tylo or
fooling with Lino Banfi. Indians remem­
ber me for Khoon Bhari Maang, not for my
roles with superstars. It's not how many
films you do, not even the most success­
ful ones. It's the ones people remember
you by. The ones that touched them the
most.
I've had my highs, and I've had my lows,
and I've lived to tell my tale. What I feel
today is best told in an ode of old, John
Dryden's version of Horace's Book III, Ode
29:

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

he who can call today his own:
he who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have
liued today.

I bless India for making me who I am,

Bollywood for the respect they give me
and Italy for loving me so immensely.
Italy has honoured me with awards at
film festivals, presented me the keys
to the cities of Florence and Caggiano,
made me an Honorary Citizen of towns
in the north and south. On 11 December
2010, I was presented with Italy's high­
est civilian award, ''Cavaliere'', knighting
me for my lifetime of achievements. I
couldn't have asked for more. Another
great fulfilment. My life has been the
rollercoaster ride of a middle-class boy
from Delhi, as wrenching, as thrilling,
and often as satisfying. I hope this book
has been too. Arrivederci, as they say
in Italy, till we meet again, my friends.
My journey is not yet done. The best is
yet to come, I believe. For I'm an eternal
optimist.
THEEND
ICONIC PHOTOG ,.....,.PHS
AND ,.....,.GAZINE
COVE

Parveen Dusanj-Bedi and Kabir wedding day

 Kabir with Parueen

Geiongma Palmo and Baba Bedi

Kabir as a monk
 Kabir with Parveen in Rome

Kabir at his Italian knighthood ceremony

 Adam with wife Melissa Bedi

Kabir with Pooja

Grand-daughter, Alaya

Grandson Omar and Alaya with Kabir

Kabir with Siddharth on Graduation Day

Sister Guli with husband Sam Scales

Kabir with cousin Mala Lever and Nikki

Christmas in LA. Clockwise from left: Ixchel
and husband Ken, Kabir and Nikki, Farhan,
Protima, Adam, (Pooja took the picture)

Kabir and Nikki's wedding with Baba Bedi

Kabir with Omar and Adam

Nikki and Kabir

 Kabir and Ixchel's wedding

Kabir in Ashanti

With Omar Sharif, Bud Spencer, Angelo Infanti

 AtBAFTA

As Sandokan

With Hunter Tylo in Bold and Beautiful

 With Rekha

In Octopussy

In Mysteries of the Dark Jungle

 Kabir with Rekha in Khoon Bhari Maang

On location in Morocco in The Beast of War

As Kammamuri in Dark Jungle

 As Friar Sands in The Monkey King

As Khodadad in The Far Pavilions in London

As Emperor Maham in Mohenjo Daro

 Sandokan and Marianna

With fans in Hungary

Receiving Pegaso D'Oro award in Italy

Kabir and Shekhar Kapur in Rome

 With Gerson Da Cunha

With Alyque Padamsee

With Johny Bakshi and Vinay Sinha

Principal Rev. R.C Llewelyn of Sherwood

Akong and Trungpa Rinpoche

Director Sergio Sollima

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LES
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LA
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El LA
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I MISTER!
DELLA
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NERA
 FOR THIS BOOK,
I THANK

Parveen Dusanj, my wife, for her tireless

support in making this book a reality.
Her advice, criticism and insights im­
proved it significantly. She gave me the
freedom to write by protecting me from
endless distractions. I couldn't have
done it without her. She even picked the
picture for the cover.
For publishing my book in the In­
dian subcontinent: Westland Books. CEO
Gautam Padmanaban and my brilliant
publisher Karthika V.K., and the great
Westland Team: Sonia Madan, Arunima
Mazumdar, Shweta Bhagat, Shwetha V,
Saurabh Garge, for all their invaluable
help and initiatives.
For their wisdom and advice: Gerson da
Cunha, my guru from advertising days;
journalist, historian and author Andrew
Whitehead; and Italian journalist, au­
thor and friend Carlo Pizzati.
For granting me permissions to quote
them, the authors of the three wonderful
biographies on my mother:
Andrew Whitehead: The Liues of Freda
Bedi: The Political, Spiritual and Personal
Journey of Freda Bedi (Speaking Tiger Pub­
lishing)
Norma Levine: The Spiritual Odyssey of
Freda Bedi (Shang Shung Publications)

Vicki Mackenzie: The Revolutionary Life of

Freda Bedi: British Feminist, Indian Nation­
alist, Buddhist Nun (Shambala Publica­
tions)
For their wise counsel on my man­
uscript: Raunaq Roy, Sonya Dutta
Chaudhry and Mickey Nivelli.
For the brilliant cover photograph: Terry
O'Neill
For the casual author pie on the back
cover/inside flap: Vikram Bawa
For photo of my mother on back cover:
John Hills
For personal photos:
Nikki Bedi, Pooja Bedi, Adam and
Melissa Bedi, Alaya and Omar Furniture­
walla.
For historical photographs: Bedi Family
archives and albums
For the photograph of Sergio Sollima:
Samanta Sollima
For the Bond film photos: DANJAQ
For photographs of my roles: All my film,
TV and theatre producers.
For urging me to write this book for
years: Vinay Sinha, Johny Bakshi, Roy
Patrao and Shekhar Kapur, my best and
most loyal friends.
For their love and support as I wrote:
the Dusanj family: Mother Mohinder Du­
sanj, Parvinder and Kiran, Kalvinder and
Tom, Suki and Giuliano, Nin and Aftab,
and Kuldeep. I welcome their next gen­
eration babies to the world: Esmeralda,
Nevaeh and Amara.
For their tireless support, my dedicated
staff: Liyaqat Hussain, Anita Tamang,
Suman Adekar and David Nadar.
Book and Cover Design: BUUKS.
CEO: Aashish Agarwal. Cover Designer:
Surendran Boopalan. Interior Design­
ers: Ranganayagalu ], Dhanasekar Pe­
rumal and Shanmuga Sundaram. Edi­
tor: Yashas Mahajan. Reviewer: Rekha
Menon. Management Team: Sakhi
Ahamed, Sandra Sherin Naren, Pravinraj
M.
I thank all those who inspired the chap­
ters I wrote:
The Beatles, my pop idols.
Protima Bedi, my first wife and compan-
lOn.

Parveen Babi, my luminous and tragic

love.
Baba and Freda Bedi, my magnificent
parents.
Siddharth Bedi, my sensitive and bril­
liant son, who I still mourn.
Pooja and Adam Bedi, my wonderful
children, who I love dearly.
Alaya F and Omar Furniturewalla, my
brilliant grandchildren.
Ixchel Leigh, my caring wife in Holly­
wood of the 1980s.
Nikki Bedi, my vivacious wife for twelve
years, now my friend.
All the directors and producers with
whom I worked.
My teachers, gurus, philosophers, the
founders of all religions.
The Dalai Lama, Pope John Paul II and
His Holiness Karmapa XVI.
Parveen Dusanj, for being my most lov­
ing wife, the perfect culmination of my
story.