Chapter 1
The Actor's Odyssey: Naseeruddin Shah's Remarkable Journey
In the heart of post-Partition India, a boy with thick black hair and uncertain dreams began a journey that would transform Indian cinema and theater. Naseeruddin Shah's memoir "And Then One Day" has become a cultural touchstone, celebrated for its unflinching honesty and vivid portrayal of an artist's evolution. The book resonates deeply with aspiring performers and film enthusiasts worldwide, having been translated into multiple languages and appearing on the reading lists of prestigious drama schools. Shah's fearless self-examination and his willingness to expose both triumphs and failures make this not just a celebrity memoir but a profound meditation on the craft of acting and the pursuit of artistic integrity in a commercial world.
Chapter 2
Childhood Wanderings: The Seeds of Performance
My earliest memories are of continuous travel-inspection tours with my father in dak bungalows with their musty drawing rooms, mounted tiger skins, and peeling plaster. Born in Barabanki near Lucknow in either July 1949 or August 1950 (no one, including my mother, was ever quite sure), I was the third son in a family that would eventually include five boys, though only three survived infancy.
The defining moment of my childhood came when I was mesmerized by a performer with a painted face who seemed to touch the sky, gifting me the wonder that would shape my life. This sense of enchantment with performance remained even as I navigated a complicated relationship with my father, a Provincial Civil Service officer who had chosen to remain in India after Partition while some relatives gambled on Pakistan.
My parents' story itself was worthy of cinema-distant cousins from the family of Nawab Jan Fishan Khan who had a complicated courtship interrupted by my father's mysterious travels to Kabul and England. There were whispers that Baba had served as English tutor to the daughter of Amanullah, the exiled Afghan king, possibly involving some romance. When he returned with a government job, he married my mother, who was then assigned the role of selfless daughter to her somewhat woolly-headed parents presiding over the final fall of feudalism in the house of the Sardhana Shahs.
My imagination was nurtured by Ammi's aunt Nani Baji, a blind storyteller who spun magical yarns at bedtime, leading to vivid dreams of ogres, fairies, and flying horses. These stories planted the seeds of performance in my mind, creating worlds I could escape into when reality felt too constraining. The annual visits to Sardhana brought intense hero worship of Ammi's three leather-jacketed brothers, whose incredible good looks and girlfriends made me dissatisfied with my ordinary childhood.
When the time came for formal education, I was sent to St. Joseph's College in Nainital, a Gothic-towered institution run by forbidding Irish "Christian Brothers" convinced they were doing India a favor. Punishments were severe, rules inflexible, and expulsions common. Yet it was here, unexpectedly, that I would receive my first real education in the art that would define my life.
Chapter 3
The Cinematic Education: St. Joseph's Film Institute
While St. Joseph's College aimed to provide a proper British education, it unwittingly gave me something far more valuable-a comprehensive introduction to world cinema. Every week, we watched films selected by someone who really knew cinema. From Mickey Mouse to Orson Welles, Esther Williams to Mario Lanza, On the Waterfront to Zorro Rides Again-I'd wake at night remembering Norman Wisdom tripping over his feet or Jerry Lewis defying gravity.
Spencer Tracy fighting sharks mesmerized me; Gary Cooper taking on villains made me cheer. I loved Capra and Chaplin but never found Laurel & Hardy amusing. The jaw-dropping effects of Tom Thumb and the deadpan acrobatics of Buster Keaton left me spellbound. St. Joseph's hooked me irrevocably on movies, providing a film education that would prove invaluable in my future career.
Ironically, Hindi movies were forbidden at school, as was speaking Hindi (sometimes even in Hindi class). In ten years at Sem, we saw just one Hindi film-Schoolmaster, actually a dubbed Tamil film with Sivaji Ganesan. Occasionally we were allowed into town for "must-see" biblical epics like The Ten Commandments and Ben-Hur, or new Cinemascope releases like The Bridge on the River Kwai.
While watching these films, I discovered my love not just for viewing movies but for pretending to be in them-my first understanding of acting. Deeply unsatisfied with being unremarkable and unattractive, I found solace in pretending to be others, though only in private. I began willing myself to believe I was trudging up snowy cliffs while climbing dormitory stairs, adrift at sea while lying in bed, or evading snipers while walking school corridors.
This imaginary world, where I constantly dwelt, was infinitely more appealing than reality. I've long wondered if difficulty dealing with real life drives people to become actors. Looking at worthwhile actors I've known, many seem to fit this pattern-finding fulfillment in hiding behind make-believe when lacking early self-worth.
Unfortunately, no one at school thought I had ability in any field, least of all acting. Though St. Joseph's produced marvelous annual theatre productions, I never got a look-in. The teachers' pets got all the parts, and I didn't even have the satisfaction of being rejected. My academic performance steadily declined, and by the time I failed Class 9 twice, my future looked bleak indeed.
Chapter 4
The Transformative Encounter: Finding Direction
Everything changed when Geoffrey Kendal's traveling Shakespeare company, Shakespeareana, visited St. Anselm's School in Ajmer. His voice had "the mellowness of old oak" and his body was "an instrument capable of any virtuosity," able to appear intimidating or timid as required. Watching him perform left me transformed. Though Kendal wasn't thrilled by my eager assistance unloading their props, I managed to shake his hand and fantasized about joining his troupe.
When a play competition was announced at St. Anselm's, I immediately took charge, staging scenes from The Merchant of Venice with myself as Shylock. On stage, I felt transformed-"like being submerged in warm rose water"-discovering an energy that has stayed with me throughout my career. Though we lost to another play, Reverend Cedric Fernandes noticed my talent and cast me in the Annual Day production, where I won "Best Actor." That night, I decided acting was what I was born to do.
My reputation grew as I became known as "that actor." I discovered debating-where I'd memorize speeches peppered with Shakespeare quotes and deliver them with theatrical panache. Before the year ended, I was cast in "The Bishop's Candlesticks" as the convict and as Pontius Pilate in a Christmas pageant.
Even my relationship with my parents improved. Ammi was always unconditionally supportive, regarding me with detached amusement. Baba believed I was applying myself better, unaware I was simply doing what finally made sense to me. I began contemplating acting as a profession, reasoning that if my peers could decide their futures, why couldn't I prepare for what I was clearly good at?
The only problem was I had no idea how to prepare as an actor or anyone to guide me. My brothers were already on respectable paths-one at an Indian Institute of Technology and the other at the National Defence Academy. Meanwhile, Baba desperately cycled through alternative professions for me: Foreign Service, law, police, tea gardens, agricultural college, polytechnic institute. Training in arts never occurred to him; he probably didn't know such education existed.
Chapter 5
The First Bold Gamble: Bombay Dreams and Nightmares
At sixteen, armed with nothing but blind confidence and about five hundred rupees raised by selling my watch, bicycle, books, and warm clothes, I boarded the Dehradun Express to Bombay. I was blissfully unaware of Murphy's Law awaiting me, convinced my dreams of acting fame would materialize rapidly.
Reality quickly intruded. Instead of the limousine and palatial home I'd naively expected, I found myself staying temporarily with the family of an acquaintance. When they discovered I had no intention of leaving, a family conference ensued. The father, a character actor, assessed me bluntly: at sixteen I was neither young enough for child roles nor old enough for adult parts. He mentioned my "lack of face" and suggested I return home. Despite his dismissal and the family's growing discomfort, I arrogantly announced I was staying.
Soon I found myself sleeping in a Madanpura zari embroidery workshop-a large hall where thirty people paid ten rupees monthly for sleeping spots, vacating by 9 a.m. daily. For over a month, I traveled ticketless between Madanpura and Bandra twice daily without getting caught. A peculiar apathy overtook me during this period-indifference toward my future, empty stomach, employment prospects, and traumatized parents.
My first film work came when a flashily dressed industry figure recruited several of us as extras, promising 7.50 rupees daily. I was elated at my big chance to act in a movie! During filming of "Aman," I managed to position myself in the front row of mourners for a funeral scene, even appearing in shots with the star Rajendra Kumar. I kept sneaking looks into the camera lens despite instructions not to.
After more work as an extra in "Sapnon ka Saudagar," my funds dwindled quickly. As my situation grew desperate, I sold clothes at Chor Bazaar, but the wolf was truly at the door. Salvation came unexpectedly when a well-dressed lady in a long grey limousine asked if I was Naseer and instructed me to get in. She was Mrs. Saeeda Khan, sister of film star Dilip Kumar. His eldest sister Sakina apa, who knew my father from the Sufi shrine he administered in Ajmer, had tracked me down after my father contacted her.
At Dilip Kumar's Pali Hill bungalow, I faced Sakina apa's fury, dissolved into tears, and agreed to return home. During my brief stay, I briefly encountered Dilip Kumar himself, who delivered a lecture on why "boys from good families should not join the film world." Booked on the Dehradun Express and escorted to my berth, I considered escaping at the next stop but lacked the courage. I returned home to my parents' relief, but the dream of acting remained undiminished.
Chapter 6
The Academic Path: Finding My Theatrical Voice
After my failed Bombay adventure, I ended up at Aligarh Muslim University studying English literature. Here, fate intervened in the form of Shaw's "Arms and the Man" in our literature syllabus. Having seen Shakespeareana perform it multiple times, I persuaded our lecturer to distribute roles for a read-aloud, casting myself as "the chocolate cream soldier." The acclaim from our public reading began establishing my reputation.
Zahida Zaidi, a feisty English department professor known as "lady in the car" for driving around campus smoking in her white Standard Herald, introduced me to absurdist theater through Eugene Ionesco's "The Lesson"-something utterly new that resonated with my own bewilderment in mathematics and logic. At nineteen, I was cast as a ninety-five-year-old man in Ionesco's "The Chairs"-a dense, bewildering play I barely understood but could pretend to comprehend.
During this period, I met Purveen, a Pakistani national fourteen years my senior who was a final-year MBBS ophthalmology student. We connected instantly when she attended "The Chairs" rehearsal. Purveen quickly became my champion, treating my acting ability as fact rather than compliment, insisting I had "no option but to make good" and wasn't the "personality type to fail."
Our relationship blossomed despite whispered gossip about our public hand-holding and movie outings. When CID officers came to check Purveen's visa status, she faced deportation unless she married an Indian citizen. At nineteen, madly in love, I saw no problem with this solution. We married secretly, and soon after, our daughter Heeba was born-an event that revealed my complete unpreparedness for fatherhood.
Meanwhile, I had discovered the National School of Drama in Delhi. When I saw their breathtaking production of Brecht's "Caucasian Chalk Circle," I became convinced I wanted to attend NSD, despite hearing bleak stories about graduates' career prospects. The prospect of attending this institution, then under Ebrahim Alkazi's direction, seemed impossibly perfect-acting in multiple plays simultaneously and receiving a 200-rupee monthly stipend.
Chapter 7
The Formal Training: NSD and FTII
At the National School of Drama, I discovered my shocking ignorance of Hindi plays when Professor Nemichand Jain asked about our reading experience. While my classmates rattled off numerous titles, I had to admit I'd read none. Despite this, I quickly found success in school productions, being cast in "The Little Blue Horse," "Othello," "Three-Penny Opera," and surprisingly, as a court poet in "Jasma Odan"-a singing role despite my terrible voice.
In Alkazi I finally found an inspiring teacher who appreciated me without making me feel foolish. He introduced us to art appreciation, classical music, Indian theatrical forms, and serious cinema. My fascination with him was profound-this charismatic, sophisticated director with impeccable taste who demanded discipline and organization in Indian theater.
I landed the coveted role of Azdak in "Caucasian Chalk Circle" despite being only a first-year student. During our tour to Bombay, Poona, Hyderabad and Bangalore, the plays performed to packed houses. In Bombay, I received a mention in the Times of India-my first press recognition.
However, in my second year, I grew increasingly disillusioned with the acting instruction. While I enjoyed theater history and play analysis, the acting classes made little sense. Alkazi himself was primarily a designer with little patience for actors. His vast knowledge of arts had honed his instincts for creating effects, but actors were left to find their own truth within his compositions.
One fateful evening in Delhi, I wandered into Regal Cinema and watched "Piya ka Ghar," a family drama featuring several graduates from the Film and Television Institute of India in important roles. I suddenly saw my future clearly-I might not end up as a romantic lead, but I could play supporting roles in films. All I needed was one perceptive filmmaker to give me a chance.
Despite Alkazi's objections, calling me a "traitor to theater," I applied to the Film and Television Institute of India. Both my roommate Jaspal and I were admitted. At FTII, I finally began to understand what I'd been missing in my acting education. We were taught to "throw characterization out of the window" and perform actions as ourselves, focusing on intentions rather than planned movements.
Professor Taneja, who studied under Lee Strasberg, was the antithesis of Alkazi-cheerful, patient, and unfailingly supportive. Through foreign films, I discovered the kind of naturalistic acting I aspired to-actors who seemed to be their characters rather than pretending. The elusive "method" began to reveal itself as a system developed by Stanislavsky to create truthful performances not dependent on talent or mood but on accurate human behavior and psychological understanding.
Chapter 8
The Breakthrough: From Student to Professional
My breakthrough came when Girish Karnad, impressed by my performance in "Zoo Story," recommended me to Shyam Benegal, who was casting for his second film. Meeting Benegal at his Pedder Road residence, I was offered the role of a village landlord's younger brother-the second lead in "Nishant"! The payment of 10,000 rupees seemed a fortune.
I arrived in Hyderabad for filming with tremendous excitement. Meeting the cast and crew was like entering a who's who of Indian theatre-Satyadev Dubey (who wrote the dialogue), Girish Karnad, Amrish Puri, Mohan Agashe, Kulbhushan Kharbanda, Shabana Azmi, and Smita Patil who played my neglected wife. I submitted completely to Shyam Benegal's direction, learning that good film performances are assembled piece by piece rather than depending on an actor "feeling right."
Despite performing well in "Nishant" and Shabana Azmi predicting I would "surely become a star," I received not a single offer after the film's release, while every other actor emerged with enhanced reputations and further employment. My only earnings came from two commercials-one for Gulab agarbatti and another for Britannia Delite biscuits.
Soon after, Shyam Benegal summoned me for his next film-a Gujarat Milk Marketing Federation project about cooperative milk-farming called "Manthan." I was cast as a rebellious village busybody who initially opposes the cooperative but eventually champions it. I threw myself into the role, mimicking the posture of Gujarati shepherds, staying in costume constantly, sleeping on the floor, and learning to milk buffaloes.
This began a pattern of working in what became known as "parallel cinema"-films that prioritized storytelling and social commentary over commercial appeal. I was cast in Shyam Benegal's "Bhumika," Sai Paranjpye's "Sparsh," Saeed Mirza's "Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai," and Ketan Mehta's "Bhavni Bhavai." These films earned critical acclaim but limited viewership, establishing me as a serious actor rather than a commercial star.
Chapter 9
Finding Balance: Theater, Film, and Personal Life
Throughout my film career, I maintained my connection to theater. When Benjamin Gilani and I formed Motley, we had ambitious wish lists of plays but limited resources. Starting small with English two-handers after "Waiting for Godot," we included only people who shared our love for theatre. Despite fantasizing about playing Hamlet, I suspected mounting it properly was beyond our means.
Caught between dreams of Alkazi's grand productions and Satyadev Dubey's minimalist approach, I ultimately followed Dubey's example of working effectively with limited resources. Our early productions like Neil Simon's "The Odd Couple" and Shaw's "Arms and the Man" closed after poorly attended runs, teaching me valuable lessons about theatrical production.
Revisiting Jerzy Grotowski's "Towards a Poor Theatre" transformed my theatrical thinking. Grotowski advocated for theatre stripped to its essentials: actors and text. He eliminated sets, used minimal costumes, and focused on the actor as the central communicative tool. His statement that actor training should "rid the Actor of everything that prevents him from being himself" created a paradigm shift in my understanding.
Meanwhile, my personal life was changing. I met Ratna Pathak, daughter of the formidable Dina Pathak, during a theater production. Despite our seven-year age gap and different backgrounds, we made no attempt to hide our relationship. We discovered Chhabildas, a school hall that became a haven for experimental theater, and staged plays like Ionesco's "The Lesson" and Jorge Diaz's "Man Does Not Die by Bread Alone."
Ratna and I decided to live together and eventually marry. She took over managing my finances-I still only have a rough idea of my earnings and taxes. Beyond our differences (I was a slob, she immaculately turned out), we shared many similarities. She was hot-tempered but rational to my hot-tempered impulsiveness. She made me appreciate family, bringing me closer to Ammi and my brothers. Her calm acceptance of Heeba's existence proved her character.
About a year after our marriage, Heeba finally came to live with us. Though fourteen and speaking only Farsi after difficult years in Iran during Khomeini's revolution, she gracefully handled being placed in Class 6 with younger children. She quickly abandoned the chador and religious practices, went on to graduate and study drama, and is now a well-adjusted working actor and positive influence on her half-brothers.
Chapter 10
The Actor's Evolution: Finding My Voice and Place
My persistent laryngeal issues had plagued performances since school-after each show, my voice reduced to a whisper, affecting film shoots and dubbing sessions. While performing Don Juan with its wordy passages, Dubey advised me to stop speaking excitedly in life, to relax and discover my own voice. He explained Shaw's words as musical notes requiring the right key, respecting punctuation, and speaking at the pitch words demanded rather than straining for volume.
Dr. Raj Kumar, a voice therapist, appeared "like the Lone Ranger" in answer to my prayers. For six months, he taught me diaphragmatic breathing, proper exhalation to relax vocal equipment, and techniques to produce and enlarge sound while maintaining pitch. His diagnosis was simple: I was neglecting to breathe properly while speaking, exhausting my breath in the first few words of sentences. After his guidance, I never lost my voice while acting again.
My reputation in theatre and "serious" cinema grew, though earnings from both remained negligible. The "non-serious" movies kept my finances stable. Without star power to dictate terms, I couldn't always work on one film at a time, but I managed to avoid double shifts and repetitive roles. Nature helped by not granting me a single box office hit in any category, leaving the industry unsure how to typecast me.
This worked in my favor-I received roles other actors couldn't or wouldn't play. I was hired not for popularity but for perceived ability to deliver, though only in "story pitcher" films (as opposed to "faiting pitcher" or "famly pitcher" in audience parlance). This spared me the nightmare of worrying about box office collections.
I discovered that an actor's effectiveness depends entirely on directorial orchestration. Despite not disgracing myself in Shammi Kapoor-style songs for some films, I knew I wasn't right for such roles. When Shekhar Kapur approached me for "Masoom," unlike previous directors who explained characters through analogies, he simply wanted me to be myself. This created a comfort zone where I felt trusted and appreciated. The resulting film introduced me to three generations of children and holds pride of place in my memories.
I finally understood that my acting references came from life, not Hindi films, and finding my "spot" took nearly forty years. Since age fifteen, after my triumphant school performances as Shylock and Lear, I've lived with a recurring waking nightmare: meeting a wise old man who, after watching my work, says "Well... doubtless everyone has always said you are a very good actor but..." The sentence never completes in my imagination. This fear, which I've come to enjoy living with, has propelled me to take nothing for granted and find answers when not even looking.
Chapter 11
The Reflective Artist: Legacy and Continuing Journey
Since age fifteen, I've lived with a recurring waking nightmare: meeting a wise old man who, after watching my work, says "Well... doubtless everyone has always said you are a very good actor but..." The sentence never completes in my imagination. This fear has propelled me to take nothing for granted and find answers when not even looking. The old man has manifested in unexpected forms-a young Jesuit, a woolly-headed professor, a stoned companion, a beautiful woman, a guardian angel. Now when I look in the mirror, I get a hazy glimpse of him looking right into my eyes.
My journey through Indian cinema and theater has been marked by constant questioning and evolution. I discovered that an actor's effectiveness depends entirely on external factors-the same performer can be brilliant in one production and atrocious in another. Our output hinges on proper casting, scene writing, character development, direction, and even lighting. No actor can salvage a fundamentally flawed scene.
Working with directors like Shyam Benegal, Sai Paranjpye, and Shekhar Kapur taught me different approaches to the craft. Unlike previous directors who explained characters through analogies, Shekhar simply wanted me to be myself for "Masoom." This created a comfort zone where I felt trusted and appreciated, resulting in one of my most beloved performances.
My collaboration with Shabana Azmi across countless films demonstrates the power of artistic partnership. Despite her occasional smugness about her acting, preference for one profile, and tendency to perform with imaginary background music, she remains the most consummate professional and positive female co-star I've worked with. Our collaborations have been non-competitive, built on mutual trust and generosity. Though our personal views differ drastically, we've always felt safe working together.
Nature kindly gave me fame in small doses, testing my ability to handle it. I struggled not with privacy invasion but with being treated as public property-strangers putting arms around me, aggressive photograph requests, meal interruptions. The paradox wasn't lost on me: I'd become an actor wanting recognition, then shied away when it happened.
If "an actor's talent lies in his choices," I had none. Art-house cinema chose me, not the other way around. Yet I continued receiving offers for popular films, where my choices proved disastrous-turning down future hits while selecting flops. I wasn't equipped to think in Hindi film terms. Unlike Dilip Kumar or Amitabh Bachchan, I lacked the sensibility to make schmaltzy dialogue believable.
Through it all, my relationship with Ratna has been my anchor. She made me appreciate family, bringing me closer to Ammi and my brothers. Her calm acceptance of Heeba's existence proved her character. Life remains too complicated for a "happily ever after" ending, but I've found my place in the world of Indian cinema and theater-not as a conventional star but as an actor committed to his craft, constantly evolving and questioning.
The journey continues, and the wise old man in the mirror keeps watching, pushing me to discover new dimensions of this art form that captured my imagination so many years ago in a dak bungalow, watching a performer who seemed to touch the sky.
