Unbeknownst to me, my father had been invited to be a member of the jury at the International Film Festival in Beirut in September 64. Apparently Ma insisted on taking me along, but I found out only on the day of the journey, and in my excitement l started cycling at top speed around the garden. I fell and grazed my knee and it had to be bandaged.
The airhostess greeting us at the entrance to the aircraft gave me a patently synthetic smile and said: Hello, soldier! For some reason l was very discomfited by her greeting. l managed a weak smile in return, but at least it was real.
Shammi Kapoor was on the plane too. He was part of the Indian film delegation. He was dressed in a post box red T-shirt and kept sashaying up and down the aisle chatting up admiring passengers.
I was laboriously writing a postcard to my sisters, feeling bad about having left them behind. Shammi stopped by to greet Baba, peered over my shoulder and said: Nice handwriting. I almost swooned in delight.
I had a window seat and kept my nose glued to the window as soon as I heard that we were about to land shortly. I was told it was 3 am in Beirut but the whole city was ablaze with lights. Obviously Beirut never sleeps.
We were put up in the Carlton hotel overlooking the Mediterranean. I was half asleep by the time we got to our room and just flopped into bed and passed out. I awoke early next morning, and decided to explore. So I went out to the balcony. I will never forget my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The blue was surreal. After Bombay’s drab grey sea it was akin to being in paradise.
This impression grew as I saw the local people. They all resembled gods and goddesses. Never have I seen such good looking people, before or after. Even the sales girl in the neighbourhood chemist shop looked like she had walked out of the pages of Vogue.
Stunningly beautiful, with picture perfect hair, make up and ultra chic clothes. I gawped at her disbelievingly, wondering why salespeople back home looked like something the cat brought in.
Staying in the hotel room next to us was a childhood friend of my father, way back from his Dacca days. He was a dashing bachelor known for his fine taste in women and all good things in life. I was not aware of this side of him so I was mildly surprised to find out that an exquisite woman was sharing his room. She was Leela Naidu.
I remember Ma trying to hurry me past their door but Leela was draped decoratively in the doorway dressed in a diaphanous negligee with a cigarette dangling from her shapely lips. She gave both of us a sunny smile.
I smiled back at her, but I don’t know if Ma did. I was dazzled by Leela’s beauty. Not for nothing had she made it to the Vogue list of the 10 most beautiful women in the world.
I met her again 21 years later in Goa where both of us were on location for Shyam Benegal’s Trikal, I as an assistant to him, and she as the lead actress playing the role of an a cranky and imperious landowner called Dona Maria.
I couldn’t believe it was the same woman I saw 21 years earlier. She looked ravaged, and to make matters worse, dissolved into tears at the drop of a hat.
Every night her husband, poet Dom Moraes, would drink himself into a stupor and had to be carried back to their room, with Leela sniffling away all along.
Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about our previous encounter. Possibly because I didn’t know how she would react and I didn’t really want to find out. Old age can be so cruel.
One evening my parents took me to a nightclub because I couldn’t be left alone in the hotel room. Shammi Kapoor was also with us. By now I knew he was a craze in Beirut and got mobbed wherever he went.
The amply endowed middle aged crooner broke into a spirited rendition of Shammi’s Junglee number Suku Suku the minute she set eyes on him, and shook her hips provocatively while leering at him.
The crowd went wild and Shammi preened like a peacock. He was enjoying himself to the hilt, and so was I. Looking at Ma’s disapproving expression I get the feeling that she was regretting having brought me along. Luckily for me there was not much she could do about it.
From the nightclub we proceeded to a dimly lit cavernous restaurant below street level to sample Lebanese food. I tasted hummus and Baba Ghanoush for the first time and loved the taste. The place was hazy with smoke, because EVERYONE without exception, man or woman, smoked like chimneys in Beirut.
They are also very voluble people, so the decibel level was unbearably high. But everyone seemed to be having a blast, and so was I. After the Festival got over the Bengali press attache at the Indian Embassy, Mr Ashok Gupta, insisted that we stay back for a few days at his home, tempting us with an offer to take us to see Jerusalem and Bethlehem. My mother succumbed...we were all devotees of Mount Mary Church.
But before we left, the Indian Ambassador Mr Chopra, a distinguished looking man with silver hair, and a very decorative but intimidating wife, was invited home to dinner to meet Baba. I had already fallen asleep in my vest and pyjamas by that time. I was suddenly woken up by my father and made to sing Rabindra Sangeet for the Ambassador.
I realised for the first time Baba was aware that I sang, because he was definitely not aware in which school I was studying. Half asleep I broke into a Rabindra sangeet. Not the best choice for a Punjabi couple, I suppose because they left the moment I finished.
Mrs Gupta tempted Ma into buying gold, saying it was very cheap there. Ma gave way quite happily and off we went to a gold souk driven by Sami, the Gupta’s driver, who looked like a prince straight out of the Arabian Nights. I was utterly fascinated by the souk. It was like entering another world. Outside it was bright and noisy, inside it was dim and everyone seemed to talk in whispers.
Mrs Gupta was very good at bargaining. She also seemed to enjoy it very much. So did the shopkeeper apparently. It was all very amiable, and the shopkeeper sportingly agreed to half the original price, which is what he had wanted in the first to begin with in all probability.
