Conversations with Waheeda Rehman (4 page)

NMK:
It’s a song from
Nirala
, a 1950 movie.

WR:
Nirala
? That’s right.

NMK:
And Hollywood movies? Which ones did you see?

WR:
Gone with the Wind
. There were other films, but I can’t remember them now. My parents always made sure the films we saw were suitable for us girls. But more than going to the cinema, our main entertainment was going on picnics.

NMK:
I am curious to know if you were influenced by any Hollywood actress when you came to act in films.

WR:
I liked Ingrid Bergman very much. You could never forget her presence on the screen. I liked Vivien Leigh in
Gone with the Wind
.

I never wanted to copy any of the Hollywood actresses, and did not think I should perform in the way they did because no one could. Hollywood productions are totally different from ours. How could I do a scene in
Guide
or
Dil Diya Dard Liya
with Vivien Leigh in mind?

I have always believed you should do what you feel is right. I never think: ‘Nasreen sits like this so I should sit like her.’ You can’t imitate anyone.

NMK:
You talked about going on picnics as a family. How many sisters are you?

WR:
Four. The eldest is Zahida and we call her ‘Bi-Apa’. Then there’s Shahida, or ‘Sha-Apa’, and Sayeeda and I. All our names end in ‘da’.

When we were growing up, some people commented to my father: ‘Rehman, isn’t it a pity that God did not give you a son?’ He would say: ‘Emperor Akbar had nine jewels in his court and I have four.’

I used to get cross when I heard people talk like that. So what if we did not have a brother? I was sure us girls would do well in life.

Accompanying her father on an official tour (L to R), young Waheeda, M.A. Rehman, Mumtaz Begum and sister Sayeeda. Circa 1949.

I once told my father: ‘Daddy, don’t worry, one day my photograph will appear in the papers. I don’t know why, but it will.’ I also told him I would own a farm and, many years later, I did. Can you believe that?

NMK:
Were these the kind of daydreams you had?

WR:
Yes. I had a feeling I was going to make something of my life, even when I was ten years old. But I was a sickly child. I had a kind of allergic asthma and every few months I’d fall ill. My parents were very worried about me and did not know if I would survive. For a while I would be all right and then fall sick again because we kept moving home.

When my father was posted to another city, he usually went on ahead while my mother would arrange for the house to be painted and cleaned before we joined him. She used to call my father ‘Saab’, and she would say: ‘Saab, as soon as you get there, make sure you find a doctor.’ She knew I would need a doctor soon enough.

Drinking different kinds of water, the smell of paint, the dust and the new environment would set off an allergic reaction in me. Recuperating from these bouts of illness took time and this meant my schooling suffered a great deal. I was a fairly good student but a slow learner. I can’t say I’m very educated in that sense.

NMK:
What did the family call you at home? Did you have a pet name?

WR:
No. It was just Waheeda. My husband was a Punjabi, and, because I knew Punjabis give their children pet names, when I had children of my own I requested my mother-in-law: ‘Mama, please don’t call them by some meaningless name like Intu, Pintu, Bintu. Sohail is Sohail and Kashvi is Kashvi.’
[laughs]

NMK:
I believe you started learning Bharatanatyam at a young age. How old were you?

WR:
I must have been about nine. We were living in Rajahmundry in Andhra Pradesh. Many cultural events took place there, and we were fortunate to see the great dancer Kamala Laxman on stage. I was completely enamoured of her. She could hold a pose for a long time—statue-like. That’s when I told my parents I wanted to learn classical dance.

My first dance guru was Ramachandran. He was a middle-aged man who came to the house to give me dance lessons. I didn’t have a lot of energy because of my asthma and, as a result, my lungs were not very strong. My guruji told my mother that dancing might help my lungs expand, and she started regarding the dance lessons as a kind of treatment. In fact they did help. My sister Sayeeda used to play the tabla for me during the lessons but then she started learning how to dance as well.

Three different gurus taught me Bharatanatyam. When my first guru passed away, Tirachandoor Meenaxi Sundaram Pillai became my teacher. That was in Madras and when I moved to
Bombay, Jayalaxmi Alva became my teacher. They all had their own style.

She began studying Bharatanatyam at the age of nine. Seen here at a Madras dance recital.

When I first started learning how to dance some of our relatives were disapproving and told my father: ‘Saab, you’re a Muslim and you’re allowing your daughters to dance?’ His reply was: ‘Dancing is an art and no art is bad. It’s how you conduct yourself that can bring dishonour to your profession. The medical profession is a fine one, but if a doctor misbehaves, you cannot blame his profession, can you?’

NMK:
It sounds like your father was a very wise man.

WR:
That he was.

NMK:
Knowing the stigma against women entering the performing arts, how did you come to dance in public for the first time?

WR:
My father was posted to Visakhapatnam, and India’s last Governor General, C. Rajagopalachari, who was known as Rajaji, was visiting on an official tour. Whenever dignitaries came to the city, the local officials had to organize a cultural programme. So my father and his team started preparing for Rajaji’s arrival. They received a message from Delhi instructing them not to invite artists from other towns and instead favour local talent.

My father and his colleagues were in a flap. How were they going to entertain the Governor General? Daddy’s superior
told him: ‘Rehman, why are you worried? We need a few performers. We have found a violinist and a classical singer and your daughters can dance.’ My father said: ‘They’re young and haven’t had enough training.’

‘No, they’ll be fine.’

When my father came home and told my mother, she was most upset: ‘How is it possible? You mean my daughters will dance on the stage? Why did you agree?’ He explained that he had tried hard to dissuade his boss, but his boss would not take no for an answer.

The night before the show, my father sat Sayeeda and me down and said: ‘Don’t be scared. It’ll be fine. The stage is always higher than the audience; so don’t look down. If you catch someone’s eye, you’ll get nervous. Look straight ahead and forget about the audience. Do what you can, but do it wholeheartedly.’

Guess what happened the next day? A photograph of Sayeeda and me appeared on the front page of
The Hindu
. Isn’t that amazing?
[laughs]

NMK:
Did your father connect it to your daydream?

WR:
I don’t know.

NMK:
The 1940s was a politically turbulent time in India. There was the triumph of Independence in 1947, but also the traumas faced by millions during the Partition. Did your family experience any Hindu–Muslim tension?

WR:
No, not at all. In 1947, I was about nine and wasn’t really aware of what was going on in the country. But I remember we listened to the radio broadcasts describing the terrible riots in the north and were deeply upset. But there were no riots in the south and as Muslims we never faced any problem.

My father had a doctor friend, an orthodox Brahmin, who told him: ‘Don’t worry. You can change your name from Rehman to Raman. And if you have any problems, come to my house with your wife and children. You have nothing to worry about. No harm will come to you.’

NMK:
Was there any discussion about Gandhiji at home?

WR:
Sometimes my father would speak of him. He said he was an amazing man who had achieved so much. It was a terrible shame that things turned out so differently from what Gandhiji had imagined—I mean the violence that erupted.

I recently went to South Africa and visited the house where Gandhiji had lived. I felt very moved to see the rooms where this great man had spent so many years.

NMK:
When you were growing up, did you have a sense of the British in India?

WR:
My father had many English friends. Around the time of the Partition, he once noticed me staring at a full-page
photograph of Lord Mountbatten in the
Illustrated Weekly
. He explained to me that Mountbatten was the last viceroy of India and was leaving India soon. I told him I thought he was very good-looking.

NMK:
You said you were thirteen when you lost your father. Had he been unwell for a long time?

WR:
No, he was in good health. All of a sudden, he fell ill. He had a very high temperature. The doctors thought it was perhaps typhoid—his fever would go down in the day and up again at night. No one knew what ailed him.

In spite of the fact that he was unwell, he would send for the office files and work at home. We were in Vijayawada at the time. His superior came to the house and scolded him:
‘Rehman, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be working. Till you get well again, I am appointing another commissioner. All the office facilities are at your disposal, but you must not work.’

But my father wasn’t getting better. The doctor told us to take him to the Madras General Hospital, but he insisted on going to Visakhapatnam where he had many friends. The whole family accompanied him there and at first he started feeling much better. Six weeks later, he suddenly collapsed and died. He was only fifty-two. It was such a terrible shock. We were grief-stricken. My mother was a very strong person, but losing someone you cherish is never easy.

NMK:
How did she manage after your father passed away? Did she receive a pension?

WR:
She did, but it was very little. We had no idea about provident funds and life insurance policies. We hardly had any money. Bi-Apa and Sha-Apa were already married and lived in their own homes. That was around the time Sayeeda and I started dancing on stage. The shows brought in some money, but it wasn’t much.

In 1953, two years after my father died, Sayeeda got married and my mother’s family migrated to Pakistan. She thought of going with them but did not know what she could do there. She was a heart patient and, because of her fragile health, she became increasingly worried about my future. She was very keen that I marry and settle down. That’s when I got the dancing part in
Rojulu Marayi
.

NMK:
And as we know that led to your moving to Bombay by the end of 1955 to work in your first Hindi film,
C.I.D
. Dev Anand, who reigned supreme in the 1950s, was the hero of
C.I.D
. in which you played the second heroine, a gentle vamp character called Kamini. Did you find it intimidating to work with the celebrated Dev Anand?

WR:
Not really. He was very charming and sweet. When we were introduced to one another, I called him ‘Dev Saab’.

He immediately said: ‘No, you will call me Dev.’