And Then One Day: A Memoir by Naseeruddin Shah Read Free Book Online Page B

a hair out of place all the time? Hell no, these people did not exist, it was futile dreaming of being one of them, and if they were real I wasn’t anywhere near them physically. A foreboding of defeat was accompanied by a complete loss of interest in academics, and in life. The mirror ceased to be my friend for a while.
    Then one day we were shown a film called
The Old Man and the Sea.
It had two central characters, a fisherman played by Spencer Tracy, and a large fish he catches and tries to bring home. The fact that it was a classic of literature was not something I knew or would have cared about at that time. But being introduced to this old man, who was a photographic trick of course, was a revelation. He looked so real, he almost smelt of the sea. The sunburnt face, the tattered clothes, the bare feet, the calloused hands. He looked like he had spent his life on this boat. And this was an actor?!! He looked like old Habib Shah at moments and he looked as real. The travails he endured in the movie looked real, the way he rowed his boat looked real, when he hauled in the fish it looked real. His strength and his suffering, even his sweat, looked real.
    I nowjust had to know whether I at least had these qualities, or nothing at all. At the first opportunity, I re-established contact with my old friend and carefully examined my own face to see if twenty-thirty years from now I could maybe play a part like the Old Man. If it was going to take that long I was prepared to wait. I ended the session somewhat satisfied that I could. I had no problem seeing myself, hat at a rakish angle, fag in mouth, gun-belt dangling at my waist, strolling down a deserted street and languidly turning to knock down half a dozen bad guys with unerring aim, but evidently no one else could. So I tried visualizing myself as the Old Man walking home exhausted, oar in hand, dragging his nets behind him. A hockey stick served very well as the oar and my sports jersey as the nets. It was a not unconvincing effort, I have to say. I saw the same Mr Tracy later play some really heroic parts
(The Mountain, Bad Day at Black Rock)
and my joy was uncontained. ‘Hey, this old guy’s not really a fisherman, he does the pistol-packin’ stuff as well.’ That meant that maybe I could too. My dreamworld, now slowly enlarging itself, was becoming an almost tangible reality and beginning to engulf me. I retreated completely into it and was, as I realize now, in very real peril of getting lost.
    But.
    The fisherman was an actor! And he was real. When absolutely alone, and I guess this was where I unconsciously started to train myself, I began to will myself to believe I was actually trudging up a snowy cliff as I ascended the stairs to the dormitory, and I found that I could. I could believe, as I lay in my bed, that I was in a boat adrift in the sea. I believed I was searching for lost treasure and evading snipers’ bullets while walking down the school corridor. I believed I was stranded in a desert as I stood alone on the First field with my towel wrapped around my head. I was the avenger and the thin green bamboo in my hand was a flashing blade. I was the war-weary veteran returning to his family, I was the shadowy killer, I was the clown, I was the wicked sorcerer, I was the wronged lover, the righteous hero, the infuriated father, the ruthless gangster... I was everything I wanted to be. This imaginary world, compared to which the real one was downright drudgery, was where I constantly dwelt.
    Enjoying my own company most, even though I considered myself pretty stupid, may have cost me my supposed childhood when one should be happy and joyous and revelling in friendships, and learning, but it was the path I took, and I have not regretted it for an instant. I started then and have not stopped. This role-playing thing was great fun then and it has stayed great fun. The marvellous Stellan Skarsgard with whom I once acted, in an utterly unmemorable film, had