Friends, only when in need

[1]

Long, long ago in New York, my sling bag containing my passport, dollars, keys to a friend’s apartment, were stolen. I was engaged in a stimulating discussion on my taste for Lata Mangeshkar over Madonna, Amitabh Bachchan over Arnie Schwarzenegger, and pakoras over pizzas. An hour later, the bag was gone, I no longer had an identity, my blood froze.
To acquire a new passport, visa, air ticket, was the mind-spinning exercise ahead. Raj Kapoor was in the city, asked me if he could loan me some dollars. I declined as I’d retrieved sufficient funds through traveller’s cheques. “Don’t be silly,” he admonished me, as he would a stubborn kid. “You can use it.” He was right but if I’d accepted the cash, I would have felt tainted.
“Okay, I’ll give you something else,” Mr Blue Eyes insisted, “and if you don’t accept it, I’ll feel insulted.” He fished out a battered Parker ink pen from his jacket’s top pocket. “Here! I wrote the scripts of Awara and Shree 420 with this, it’s yours.” I accepted it. Although I can never ever think of writing anything even remotely of the RK calibre, that pen is an inspiration. Never a writer’s block, yet, thank you once again sir.
I’ve narrated this anecdote (always warms me up) simply because, the relationship between a journalist and a star can get sticky, if there’s any kind of IOU involved. The dollars would have made me feel ethically compromised, the pen was accepted as a fan would accept an autograph. It has priceless value for me: a piece of memorabilia, a spontaneous gesture from Indian cinema’s only showman.
The initials RK continue to rekindle that emotionally generous moment. That’s where the line has to be drawn. This far, no further. Between a film celebrity and a journalist, the connection has to be of moments rather than that of “friendship”. Let’s face it, friendship or bonding between the two communities is strictly need-based. The celebrity craves favourable write-ups and the journalist scents exclusive stories for his paper — an inside, exclusive view of the life of an actor, writer, music composer, whoever.
Whenever the lines between the professional and the personal connect have overlapped, like a tortoise perhaps, I’ve chosen to retreat into a shell. Professional integrity’s way more important than personal equations.
This overlap I experienced on getting to know Salim Khan. Javed Akhtar and he had gone on the rocks. Javed regained the spotlight immediately with lyrics (Ek do teen, Tezaab). Salim saab was in the shadows. Through a senior colleague of mine, he sent word that he would like to be featured in the Sunday section of the newspaper where I had a Q and A column. Cool, no worries.
The outspoken hyphenated scriptwriter hadn’t spoken for eons, but not out of choice. No one had solicited interviews of him, as is the custom in Bollywood when even its superstars are on the skid. On a weekday afternoon, Salim saab spoke frankly about the parting of ways with Javed, and of course, chatted animatedly about Falak, the only film he was writing at the time.
The interview was printed in eight columns and blared a bold headline. Salim saab khush hua. Thereon, it was open house for me chez the Khans. Salman already with buffed up biceps would saunter past deferentially (“Salaam uncle,” he would say infallibly). Arbaaz and Sohail were the epitomes of courtesy. Till my review of the Salim Khan-scripted Akayla stated that the film was not up to much, neither was the script. Boom!
It was never the same again with Salim Khan, even if he would mock-laugh, “See, you gave me a bad review but I’m still friendly with you.” He wasn’t, his words now had a steely edge. Obviously, no dissenting opinion allowed. To be absolutely fair, though, here’s one of the most lively and intelligent film persons I have ever met in my life. At evenings on his seafacing terrace, he has a regular captive audience of cricketers, cops and neighbourhood guys. There’s no raconteur like him. I may miss hearing those stories but so be it.
Over to Saif Ali Khan, who subjected me to the strangest afternoon in a Delhi hotel’s coffee shop. He asked for the meeting, wanted to “clear the air” about his relationship with Kareena Kapoor. “You are family,” he swore. “I need to meet you.” Okay, noon sharp. At 1.30 pm, he still wasn’t in sight. 90 minutes destructed.
I would have left, after 30, if it weren’t for Ustad Amjad Ali Khan who happened to be at the hotel lobby, stirring a cup of tea. Ustad Amjad kept me company, talked music. Then open Sesame, Prince Pataudi shows up, muttering, “Sorrrrry, sorrrry, sorrrrrry, I slept very late at night.” Right, excused, go on. Over black coffee and a croissant Saif Ali Khan made my ears burn by detailing some recent hours in his life. Huh, what’s this? Why am I being told the unprintable stuff? A wide, fluorescent smile, “Because you’re family.”Am I? When was I inducted into the hallowed circle? Obviously, the actor’s aim was to get a journo to be empathetic, “understand” him, and honeycoat every sentence which would be written about him in the future. Enough Saifji, I thought. There are those who use precious words like “family” randomly. And there are those who give away a pen, no agenda intended.