The year was 1955 and in Flat No 17 of Luxmi Mansion, on the Mall in Lahore, lived an autograph hunter who enjoyed life in the blissful ignorance of youth. He used to go to the English movies along with his fifteen year old cronies, without seeking permission from his Abbaji, naturally. He tried to ape the Gary Cooper-cowboy accent and celebrated Eid as well as Christmas, Nauroz and Divali with equal fervour. For in those days, Luxmi Mansion was inhabited by Christians, Parsis and Hindus along with Muslims. We were totally unaware of religious differences and we had yet to develop the glorious passion of hunting minorities and feeling pious.
We, the teenage crowd, recently shedding the shorts and slipping into tight trousers, feeling very mature and important collected our favourite Hollywood stars’ photos, as the fashion was and whistled at the pretty girls when they were at least a mile away and lowered our eyes when they passed by.
In the evenings we roamed the Mall from Shezan up to Charing Cross, like caged tigers. Then one day, Kamal came up with a brilliant idea. We should all buy autograph books and hunt celebrities to obtain their signatures. Because that was the IN thing in America and Europe.
At first the idea didn’t click; I mean, the idea of running after famous people like beggars, just to have their signatures was just too much. But we had to ape the latest fashion, so the autograph books were obtained on 11th of September 1955 and the hunt started.
A discussion ensued as to who should be our first victim. “Why not Manto Sahib, after all charity starts from home?” “Nay”, somebody objected. “Yar Manto Sahib is just like an uncle a friend of sorts and lives just next door, he is not that important.”
“He is important”, I pleaded the case of Saadat Hassan Manto. “Unlike your fathers, my Abbaji allows me to read even Manto’s short stories and recently I read a short story, Mozel and I tell you his power of observation is tremendous.”
“Give us an example of his power of observation”, the crowd demanded.
“Well, the way he describes — I mean — writes about Mozel’s — you know breasts ...” I blushed terribly and then the whole crowd hushed and blushed and then finally agreed that if Manto Sahib had actually seen the spectacle he must be a celebrity.
So one hot afternoon we banged the door of Manto Sahib’s flat. When he came out, adjusting his spectacles, we pushed forward our autograph books. But he ignored them.
“You are again up to some mischief. Have you shattered another window pane of mine and come to collect your cricket ball?”
“No sir, not this time. We have come to obtain your autographs because you are a celebrity.” Manto Sahib smiled and obliged us. That autograph obtained almost fifty years ago is still a prized possession. The ink has faded but not the beauty of his comment. “When there was beauty, there were no mirrors and now the mirrors are there, but where is the beauty? — Saadat Hassan Manto.
After the inauguration by Manto Sahib we decided to hunt individually for the autographs of the famous. In the sizzling summers of Lahore, we roamed all day long in search of celebrities like mad dogs and in the evening compared each others autograph books to decide as to who has bagged the most victims.
One fine morning I read a news item in The Civil & Military Gazette that Prince Ali Khan is due in the city to participate in the annual Horse & Cattle Show. In those days I was not much aware of spiritual importance of the Prince. He was the son of the great Aga Khan and was expected to be the next Aga Khan. However, he later stepped aside and his son Prince Karim adorned the throne, but these matters were not of my interest. For me Prince Ali Khan was the dashing Casanova who loved sports cars, threw sumptuous parties as the representative of Pakistan in United Nations. But most important of all, he had married one of my favourite Hollywood actresses, Rita Hayworth. So, I applied a handful of sarson ka tail to my curly hair to set them in place; dressed in my best attire of tight brown trousers and a white crumpled shirt. I stationed myself outside the Lahore Airport.
Prince Ali Khan came out wearing a large Karakul cap, somewhat like Mirza Ghalib, along with Begum Viqarunnisa Noon. I requested for a photograph with him, and he obliged smilingly. I feverishly set about clicking my ‘baby browni’ Kodak camera, that I had recently bought for a princely sum of Rs22 from Zaidis on the Mall. Then the fiasco took place.
I flashed in front of the Prince, a coloured photograph of Rita Hayworth, from the movie Salome in which the lady was dancing with the minimum of attire and requested the Prince to sign it.
At seeing the revealing photograph of his spouse, the Prince looked down upon me and practically growled. For many years I wondered as to why he growled; after all she was his wife. I think Begum Noon intervened and I escaped the wrath of the Prince; but not before obtaining his autograph.
A few years back, during some tourism convention I mentioned this incident to Begum Noon and she smiled. Perhaps she did remember the day when she herself was a beauty to behold. Perhaps she did not because she had become very feeble and frail.
In those days, a particular event took place that, no matter how wild is your imagination, you cannot even think of it in present Pakistan. Miss Universe of those days was invited to Lahore to attend the Mr Pakistan contest. The venue was Punjab University’s Senate Hall, where Mr Iqbal Butt was declared Mr Pakistan. Thereon Miss Universe, not clad in a qameez shalwar and covered with a bashful dupatta. Rather, cald in a swimming costume, appeared on the stage and presented the winners trophy to Mr Butt. Afterwards, both Mr Butt and Miss Universe showed there muscles and body contours in the same order to the Lahori audience who clapped wildly.
How in the present scenario Jammiat would react if a function of this nature is announced to be held in the hall of Punjab University, it is anybody’s guess. Most probably the university building would be burned down.
It could only happen in those heathen days when we were not very good Muslims. Needless to say my autograph book is adorned with the signatures of Miss Universe of those days.
In between these luminaries came Pakistani film stars of the mid-fifties, Noorjehan Shaukat, Santosh Kumar, Allauddin, Sabiha Khanum, Sudheer, Nazar, Swaranlata, Darpan, Nazeer, etc. Amongst them was the heroin of first Pakistani film, Asha Bhonsle. A few years back I happen to come across her in the corridors of Radio Pakistan, Lahore. She was a haggard old woman who had burned the candle from both ends and the consequences showed on her face.
Upon seeing me, she held my hand and pleaded “Tarar Sahib, I am a penniless woman. I can’t even pay the rent of my house. Please ask some producer to include me in some minor programme so that I can earn some money. I don’t even have enough to pay for the rickshaw which has brought me here.”
I shuddered. This was the woman who once ruled the film industry and was now almost begging for a minor programme from a person who once upon a time obtained her autographs with great difficulty. She died a few months later.
Then a day came when in the simplicity and backwardness of Lahore, a train roared in and stopped at Bhawani Junction. Lahore was never the same again. I was returning from school when on the footpath near Regal Cinema I spotted a foreign couple strolling towards the Diyal Singh Mansion. The tall, stately blue eyed woman looked remarkably like Ava Gardner, my heartthrob of those times. But it could not be. How could the barefoot contessa, Hemingway’s heroin of Fiesta and the beauty that melted the snows of Kilimanjaro, be in Lahore?
But there she was, walking right into my teenage heart and blowing a puff of cigarette smoke in my face like I was Gregory Peck. I rushed to Luxmi Mansion, sounded the alarm and grabbing our autograph books, us four musketeers finally spotted her in the showroom of Imperial Leather where she was trying some desi khussa on her dainty feet.
We bowed in front of her and said, “Howdi Mam” like Gary Cooper. Smilingly, she shook our hands and signed our autograph books. And then she lit a cigarette and we were mesmerized.
To us, this was not the showroom of Imperial Leather in Lahore, but a night club in Paris. And there she was, looking at us, four Gregory Pecks whose loose trousers threatened to drop on their knees any moment. We were absolutely awe struck. The scene was straight out of our favourite film Snows of Kilimanjaro, a Hemingway story.
For days to come we sniffed at our autograph books because there was a definite scent of Ava’s hands and a body smell. Besides Ava Gardener, the hero of Wild North and Scaramouch Stewart Granger was also in Lahore. We cornered him in the lawns of Felleti’s Hotel and obtained his autograph. We even almost had a cup of tea with him.
During the shooting of Bhawani Junction, Lahore railway station was converted into ‘Bhawani’ and us four musketeers hounded Ava Gardener wherever she went and whenever the opportunity arose we bowed in front of her muttering, “Howdi Mam”. So much so, that the “Mam” got fedup with us and we could see that on our next “Howdi Mam” she will slap us good and proper.
The year was 1955 and in Flat No 17 of Luxmi Mansion, on the Mall in Lahore, lived an autograph hunter who enjoyed life in the blissful ignorance of youth. He used to go to the English movies along with his fifteen year old cronies, without seeking permission from his Abbaji, naturally. He tried to ape the Gary Cooper-cowboy accent and celebrated Eid as well as Christmas, Nauroz and Divali with equal fervour. For in those days, Luxmi Mansion was inhabited by Christians, Parsis and Hindus along with Muslims. We were totally unaware of religious differences and we had yet to develop the glorious passion of hunting minorities and feeling pious.
