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Perfumed memories
The stench of putrefying corpses invades me. I am standing outside the morgue, where the body of Parveen Babi lies unclaimed. I am flooded with memories of those champagne moods spent with this gorgeous girl, who had the rare distinction of being the first Bollywood star on the cover of TIME magazine. It was just so tragic that three days after her death, her gangrene-ridden body was found by the police, and it was now waiting to be claimed by someone to give it its legitimate and dignified burial.
It was just another day, and the nation was waking up to get a ‘televisioned’ view of the strange life of this lovely woman who had so completely charmed the nation at one time and whose flight to greater stardom was suddenly aborted by insanity.
How do you tell the story of a girl to whom you owe your first brush with fame, and with whom you have experienced intense passion in love and in life, which later on spiraled into the abyss of madness? How do you express gratitude to that generous heart which had faith in your undiscovered talent when you were a nobody and she was everybody? Who nursed you and fed you and bought you expensive clothes from Chelsea in London? How do you pay back that person whose very personal disintegration and descent gave you the wings to rise like a phoenix in your own life? Who contributes with her tragedy to make your life blossom? I guess you just can’t. Perhaps it was this deep realization that was compelling me to give this friend-turned beloved-turned stranger a dignified exit from this world where she lived, loved and suffered.
Memories of my time with Parveen assail me. I remember particularly once when we had escaped to Switzerland from the paparazzi in Bombay, and were guests of U.G. in chalet Sunbeam in Gstaad. “What is my future?” I remember her pushing her small hands into the scrutiny of U.G’s fierce gaze and waiting for some reason with dread, for his reply. “I see a sudden break in your lifeline,” I remember U.G. saying with uncharacteristic hesitancy. I remember her face ... like a deer trapped in blinding headlights, she froze with fear. And I wondered why. Having done that U.G. then laughed, dismissing the whole attempt to peep into the future as mere entertainment. But in spite of that I could see that there was something about what he had said that remained with her and hovered over the rest of the holiday like a shadow.
Vivid memories of me waking up days later in the middle of the night in our Chelsea apartment in London to find her sitting up and staring at her palm flood me ... she seemed petrified of some terrifying doom approaching and would then hug me. She was inconsolable after that. All my attempts to erase the memories of that prophecy of U.G. failed thereafter.
And then one day, as all stories, good or bad begin, madness hit Parveen like a tsunami, coming out of the epicenter of her own body, from her own genes, and that was the beginning of the end of her world, the force which devastated her life and reduced her to the wreck that she finally became. Even a butcher would have stood by this gorgeous woman in those humiliating and demeaning times. “They’re trying to kill me Mahesh,” she whispered when I found her hiding in the corner of her bedroom like a frightened animal. She still had her make-up and costume on, having run away from Prakash Mehra’s set of Jwalamukhi. “They tried to crush me with a huge chandelier that they had brought just to kill me.”
“Who Parveen, who tried to kill you?” I asked.
“Amitabh Bachchan,” she said.
Until her dying day, she kept reiterating that it was Amitabh who was trying to get her, but the truth is of course that nothing could have been further from the truth. This was a direct manifestation of her mental illness, and in fact when I had contacted Amitabh at that time, he had behaved with exemplary dignity and offered all his help.
‘They’re trying to kill me Mahesh,’ she whispered when I found her hiding in the corner of her bedroom like a frightened animal. She still had her make-up and costume on, having run away from Prakash Mehra’s set of Jwalamukhi. ‘They tried to crush me with a huge chandelier that they had brought just to kill me’
Only those who have tasted the fires of madness will perhaps have an idea how it devastates not only the individual whom it hits, but also the entire family in which it raises its head. It became impossible for me to communicate at that moment in time with my status of being a nobody to the high and mighty of the film industry with whom she was working, that Parveen was afflicted with paranoid schizophrenia, and that it would take at least a period of six months to limp back to functional normalcy. When all attempts to reason and contain their impatience failed, and I saw the doctors buckling under the pressure from harried producers and agreeing to give her electric shock therapy, I shangied her to Bangalore. There, I pleaded with U.G. to shelter her in this hour of desperation from the greed of the film industry to somehow put her back in front of the camera at any cost, never mind what toll it took on her. I recall the day I handed over Parveen’s shivering body into the hands of U.G’s all pervasive calmness; I felt I had played the role I was destined to play in her life.
The story of Praveen’s journey back into functional normalcy and her subsequent return to the world of glamour and glitter and then her final relapses is just impossible to download in this column. But it is imperative to unhesitatingly say that if it hadn’t been for the aggressive and compassionate mothering of this extraordinary ordinary man, Parveen would have gravitated towards doom in the early Eighties.
For me, Parveen Babi died twice. First when madness tore the personality of the beloved that I had known into the shreds of an unrecognizable entity in front of my helpless eyes; and the second time when the news of her passing away exploded on my mobile phone as I landed from Hyderabad, where for some strange reason I was talking about her to the Police Academy, when making some point about madness. For me, the anguish of the first death was much fiercer than this quiet, real death that must have laid its icy hands on her when all alone in her Juhu flat.
But as I sit here coming to terms with her sudden madness and her equally sudden death, I know that the perfumed memories of Parveen Babi will linger within me through my lifetime.
Bye, bye, Babi
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PARVEEN BABI, with the impish smile, stunning figure and lilting voice wooed millions when she first appeared in the 1973 Charitra. Although the movie did not do well at the box office, the beauteous Babi left an impression on the public and producers alike.Her big break came when she was paired the superstar Amitabh Bachchan in the mid-70s in hit films such as Majboor, Deewar, Amar Akbar Anthony, Namak Halal and numerous others. Riding high on hit songs such as Raat baqi, Humko tumse ho gaya hai pyar, Jawani janeman haseen dilruba and Angrezi mein kehte hai ke I love you, Parveen Babi became an icon of glamour and style, at a time when heroine-oriented movies were nearly non-existent, and the leading actresses were reduced to being mere eye candy.
However, the women that Parveen Babi portrayed changed the image of the buxom and docile heroines that were the norm in those days, and paved the way for actresses who wanted to prove their mettle on the silver screen.
In Deewar she played a call girl who smoked and drank openly, while indulging in pre-marital sex with her lover, Amitabh. This was, perhaps, her most memorable albeit a minor role of her entire career. Her role in Namak Halal, in which she tries to kill Shashi Kapoor (because her mother is being held hostage by the bad guys) further proved that she had no problems in going against convention, and did as she pleased. For the most part, she took roles in which she exuded a sexy, charming yet independent woman; she also had a flair for comedy, which she explored with Rang Birangi, Majboor, Do aur Do Paanch, Ashaanti and Mahaan.
After these movies, she came into her own, and was no longer touted as mere eye candy, Amitabh’s shadow or a poor man’s Zeenat Aman. This is perhaps why she tried her hand at some artsy roles in Dil Aakhir Dil Hai with veteran actor Naseerudin Shah as well as Mark Zuber in Yeh Nazdeekiyan although neither of these films did well.
In March 1977, she appeared on the cover of Time magazine, as the changing face of the Indian heroine, which paved the way of today’s heroines.
But what is sad is that unlike Zeenat Aman, who was considered her main rival, probably because both had the lustrous long hair, enviable height and spoke Hindi in an English accent, who fought for respectability as a serious actress via films like Insaaf Ka Tarazu, Pyaas and Satyam Shivam Sundaram, Parveen Babi never really got a chance to prove her worth as a serious actress. Her tryst with fame was short lived, and her star power diminished as she became disinterested in doing run-of-the-mill roles, and perhaps, the audiences never got to see her true capabilities as a serious actress. Instead, the media’s attention shifted towards her personal rather than professional life and her relationships with Mahesh Bhatt, Kabir Bedi and Danny Denzonpa were publicised to the hilt, as well as rumours of her mental breakdowns.
She began to display signs of schizophrenia and her reputation as a neurotic and temperamental actress began to grow. She claimed that she was having an affair with Amitabh, and began to badmouth Rekha, who was also rumoured to be having an affair with him. Perhaps as a result of her glamorous, westernized image — the reason for her phenomenal success — the press had a field day in terming her as moody and “mental”.
In the early ’80s, perhaps as a result of the upcoming Arth which was directed by Mahesh Bhatt and who claimed that Smita Patel’s role was based on Parveen Babi, she flew off to New York. When she returned about a decade later, she had gained a lot of weight. She claimed that she had fled her home country because Amitabh Bachchan was trying to kill her. He, for his part, never said anything against her.
In the 1990s, she tried her hand at interior designing, and later on she claimed to have information against Sanjay Dutt who was linked in the 1993 bombings that occurred in Mumbai. However, she did not go to court on her assigned date.
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Later, she became a recluse, letting her few friends and family members fade out of her life, and died in self-created solitude. It is perhaps no surprise that her death was as controversial as her life, since at the time of her burial, no one was sure whether she should be given a Muslim or Christian service. Additionally, there has been some mystery surrounding the location of her will. Sadly, not many members of the film industry attended her funeral, except Mahesh Bhatt, Kabir Bedi and Danny Denzongpa.An admirer of Charles Dickens and Oscar Wilde, Parveen Babi once said: “Experience is the name that we give to our mistakes.” Perhaps she was referring to herself at a subconscious level.
At the time of her death, she has been compared to Marilyn Monroe because of their similar glamorous yet tragic lives. But perhaps we should remember her like Hema Malini does, who said: “She was such a joy to be around. On the sets of Do Aur Do Paanch, she would have us in splits with her pranks and perfect comic timing. She was a trendsetter and was well-turned out in manner and attire. Parveen will always be remembered as a style icon by her contemporaries.”
Ironically, one of songs with Amitabh Bachchan went something like Tum saath ho jab apne, duniya ko bhuladenge, hum maut ko jeene kay andaaz sikhadenge (As long as you are with me, we’ll forget the world, and teach death ways to live). If only songs could truly mirror reality.— Mamun M. Adil
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