A sudden cardiac arrest had left him very weak. His soft
pale fingers moved over mine while he laid comfortably with his closed eyes. His
loosened skin around his eyes made sharp depth just like he did on people’s heart in his life. I was the son of a stand-up comedian.
And it wasn't easy.
I was seven. Very young and naive to know why people would
mob my father when he went out on streets with us. Nobody did this to anybody else's father. I remember being just pulled aside by my mother who would patiently
wait at the corner for the crowd to go away. Meerut was a small enough place
for everybody to know everybody. Apart from this our lives were pretty normal. I
don’t remember any extravagant holiday or an expensive toy that I would have got.
Dad use to travel a lot. He was mostly away for his work. As I grew older I
understood he is someone who goes on the stage to make people laugh. Sometimes he
sung, sometimes he acted like a film star and sometimes he just made weird
faces. People laughed at every little act of his. I remained perplexed.
All this didn't bother to me until I moved into high school.
That part of school brings you challenges which are beyond homework and class
tests. They test you on unfamiliar grounds like ‘tell us a joke like your
father does’. I had realized that my father was a comedian. A popular one.
Gulab Mastana was a household name and I was his son. My fellow students would
recite his jokes in the class and laugh over it. They would act like him, make
faces as he did on stage shows and growl with laughter with a finger pointed at
me. I avoided having lunch with them as they would ask me to tell a joke. I hated
every part of it.
A part of me started to hate him too.
Unlike other parents he didn't bring pride to me. He wasn't a physician or a lawyer that in my mind carried respect when they came to
school. Kids didn't ask their sons and daughters to tell a medical theory or an
act of law. They never got featured on newspapers like my father, who always
did with funny looking faces. It was the last year of my school when I hammered
a chair on the head of my classmate, who had mocked him by calling him a joker.
His words cracked me from within. A guy who hadn't smashed anyone in his head
even, stood with blood smeared on his hands, albeit figuratively. I got away because
I was Gulab Mastana’s son. That night we confronted.
In few months, I moved to Delhi for my graduation. All along
the first year I tried to protect my identity. To save myself from another embarrassment.
Yet it leaked like a dysfunctional roof in the rains. His stature had grown
bigger and now a national figure. He epitomized characters and immortalized them.
University students used them as pet names for each other. People here were not
as nasty as in school. But that inevitable smirk on everyone’s face on knowing
my father’s name was enough for me to dig a hole and duck inside. When you are
in your late teens, apart from other biological changes a different sort of
transformation also happens. You start to become more conscious of your image. A
bit of ego hormones release. It hurts more than ever.
It was college fest trials and all departments heads were
sitting together to take up roles for the next three days, I was the economics
group lead and my priorities were very clear in my head. My grades were
outstanding and if I could lead the group to win the economics debate, I had a
very strong chance to go to London in university exchange programme. While the
department heads where brainstorming, someone asked how we are going to take
care of the fillers. Suddenly someone came up with this brilliant idea of stand-up
comedy as fillers. The next thing I saw was everybody looking at me, waiting
for the obvious yes that I would do it. There was nothing obvious about it. The
next few minutes went into rage and depression.
I called up home and told my mother that the ghost hadn't left me yet. That I am the quintessential joker for everyone. That I skip
college canteen where the whole university watched dad’s weekly shows. That the
show where he dresses up like women, monkeys, eunuch and every random insult
possible in this world. That I am being expected to have brought this exceptional
talent in my blood. That people ask me imaginative questions like how is our
family at home. Does your dad crack jokes at home also? Is he as funny at home?
Oh how lucky I am! That, can she ask him to find another job? But then that wouldn't repair the damage. So I will have to live with it, like I have to with his name.
She wept and said nothing until I finished. When I did she
said, “In my twenty five years of marriage, every single day I have walked out
of the house with pride and respect, that has come from what your father did on
the stage. I have lived a financially and socially secured life. It happened because
of that every applause that your father got for what he did on the stage. I am
happy and loved. I hope you will know that someday for yourself.” It didn't move me at all. We lived in two different worlds.
The next two years passed as I submerged myself into books. It
paid off. I got my much awaited student exchange call. I was flying to London. The
best thing that had happened to me ever since I was born.
London welcomed me with its signature rains. A young twenty
one year old walked through the London School of Economics with aplomb. This was
one thing that I had earned myself. I stayed there for two months. We had a
project to finish on macroeconomics. At the end of the course we were to get a
diploma certificate from the dean and a renowned economist. I gave my two
months to build my career out of this and in the end got gold certification. In
an extravagant ceremony at the campus I was handed over my certificate by Mr. K
V Balakrishnan, the famous economist. At 70 he looked fit and healthy. His books
were quoted by many corporate giants and media honchos. He was a coveted speaker at many global forums
and worked as advisory to IMF. After the felicitation I walked up to him to
introduce myself again. After gaining enough courage, I greeted him and told
how I had followed him like a fan. He being an extraordinary gentleman gave me
time and spoke to me at length. We kept economics as the central theme until he
asked “so what does your father do?”
As I begun to gulp my hesitation, I realized this is a safe
zone and it won’t get embarrassing here. So I told him my father is a stand-up
comedian and his name is Gulab Mastana. He jumped out of his seat on those two
words.
“You are son of Mr. Gulab Mastana!” are you kidding me!” a
70 year old, economics great, with coveted Nobel on his CV, was standing in
front of me with his mouth open. I had a very ugly feeling of something inevitable
is going to happen the next.
“Yes sir” I said in the most sheepish way.
“Son, how is your father doing? I am such a big admirer of
his craft. He is unparalleled. Do you know I have the recordings of almost all
shows of him? Oh my God, what a pleasant surprise.’ He had a glee in his eye as
he spoke those lines. Imagine he was
just meeting the son and not him.
“Yeah that’s nice sir. My father does all those funny things”
as I tried to kill the discussion.
“Funny things? You call them funny things? Ah let me guess,
they must be embarrassing to you. At your age you don’t think deep, I know. They
are not funny things son. You just can’t stand at the center of the stage and
make a crowd of hundred thousand laugh. They can mercilessly kill you if you
don’t have that gift in you. It is easier to work in a closed room on your own
under a lamp when millions of people are not around to judge you. Hmmm… come
with me” He held my hand and took me to his reading room in the college.
As I entered this large room full of books and charts, he
guided me to a section with a large television and VHS player.
“Look at this. These are your father's performances that I have
collected over the years. When I was working on my books and the stress use to
get the better of me, I would watch one of these to release the pressure. Listen
and laugh. It was therapeutic. Your father was one of the best doctors I had
ever been to. I always wanted to see him live but I wasn't fortunate.” He shrugged
his head in disappointment.
“I never liked the way he dressed or played characters like
women, eunuchs. It was just too awkward.” I opened.
‘Awkward? What do you think of Dilip Kumar? He also dressed
up as characters and did funny things. But we called it art. We called him a
thespian. This world bows down to Charlie Chaplin. He did funny things. Was it
awkward? What you saw of him was a reflection of how you perceived his art. When
he portrayed characters he brought out the reality of many lives. Many hidden
truths. He was a magical writer. He was a master observer. We are too little to
realize that.” A Nobel Laureate was talking about my father’s prowess to his
son who had all along his life, belittled his talent as an insult to him.
I walked to the control room from there and called up home. Dad
picked up the phone and I told him about Mr. Balakrishnan and my gold
certificate. Then I said ‘sorry’ and a long silence followed.
Many years have passed since then. Today I am old enough to
understand what Mr. Balakrishnan caught from my father’s performances. As I begin
to think this all over again, I see my father, the greatest stand up, Gulab
Mastana now a weary old man, in his late 70's lying in front of me with a
certain clam on his face. “Do you remember there was a time I hated your stage
antics?” I chuckled as I asked him.
He smiled and nodded his head in yes. “May be you were right
from your point. Your father was a funny man.” He said playfully.
“You were not a funny man. You were a magician. You made a
whole stadium laugh at once” I said as I held his hand firmly. “I never looked
beyond your costumes may be. May be I perceived what people never said. I could
never make even a bunch of people laugh. I learned nothing from you”
He gasped for breath and said, “You can. Will you do me a
favor?” as he looked up the roof with his half open, tired eyes.
“Yeah of course, tell me” I leaned myself ahead to listen to
him
“I made people happy throughout my life. May be for those
2-3 hours. I made them laugh. I don’t want to make people cry when I die. I am assuming
they will cry” and we giggled.
He continued “will you make sure nobody cries”
That was tough. I said I will try.
The night passed and as I woke up in the morning, his hand
laid exactly on my hand as it was in the night. The legendary Gulab Mastana had
left to make the other world laugh.
As he went for his final journey, instead of chants I recited
his famous acts and everyone laughed over them. I gave the performance of my
life. After all I was the Son of a Stand-Up Comedian.
