6

Broken, but Picked Up by Love

‘Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.’

—George Burns

2–9 December 2012

Chetna Di, my father’s only sister, was one of the people who reinforced my belief in the reassuring power of family and friends. We share a mutual fondness for each other and our families are very close.

I had rushed to Virginia to be by her side in January 2012 on learning that she had zero-stage breast cancer. My distress turned to relief when I saw that she was recovering well. However, I could not push away the thought of our family history. I had lost several family members to cancer. Unease and worry raced through me.

Little did I know that by the end of 2012, the tables would get turned. My aunt would be visiting me after my cancer diagnosis.

During my treatment in New York, my uncle, Praveen Da, and Chetna Di went out of their way to take care of us, spending most of their off days with me and my family. They would drive down all the way from Virginia, spend the weekends with us and then drive back to their work.

I will never forget how they made our cold New York winters warm with their love. They brought thoughtful gifts for each one of us, including much-needed winter clothes. For me, Chetna Di would get the softest T-shirts, loose pyjamas (to accommodate my bloated stomach), socks, mufflers and caps. She took great care to ensure that the comfortable clothes she brought for me did not graze my chemotherapy-induced sensitive skin.

Chetna Di also brought clothes for Dad and Mom, as also food items for us. Since our decision to go to the US had been sudden, we were unprepared for a longer stay. So Chetna Di brought familiar utensils that she knew Mom would need for cooking in a new country. Her care and affection and Praveen Da’s quirky wit kept us all in good humour.

It is in a crisis such as this that one realizes the value of people who stand by you. Chetna Di and Praveen Da stand tall in this regard.

***

Besides them and my immediate family—Mom, Dad and my bhai, Siddharth—there emerged a supportive, affectionate army around me comprising Mridula Di, Mukul Aunty, Dipika Aunty, Meena Aunty, Kumi Aunty, Lulu Rana and Sudhir Vaishnav-ji. I was deeply grateful for their presence and began drawing strength from them.

My entourage remained busy in their own anxious little worlds, all centering around me.

My brother, Biru and Sudhir Vaishnav-ji were constantly in and out of the hospital trying to understand the administrative side of things, working out the cost of treatment, understanding the procedure and the protocol of admitting an international patient, which they discovered was not easy. None of us had any clue. So Bhai became totally engaged in all this.

Chetna Di and Praveen Da busied themselves with thinking of ways to make us comfortable in a country they lived in. Lulu Rana, a survivor of breast cancer herself, brought along a wig for me. Smilingly, she told me that I would need it soon. She prepared me for what lay ahead. Mridula Aunty lovingly got some home-cooked meals for me.

My mother had her family friends who supported her emotionally. Mridula Aunty would be with her whenever she could. Mom also called up her friends and sought blessings from Pilot Baba. While in her own space, she would cry on the phone, asking for blessings and prayers. With me, she remained calm.

Dad dealt with pain in his own way. As he is a very quiet person, he kept his feelings to himself. He is a very sensitive and caring person and does not like being a burden on anyone. My brother noticed that he had fallen very silent and kept reading the same book again and again—often as many as seven to eight times. He would remain engrossed in them. He would get books from people and ask for those on healing. Those were the days Dad discovered Dr Andrew Weil’s book on achieving optimum health through the body’s natural healing power. He became interested in the field of integrative medicine and the healing-oriented approach to healthcare that encompasses body, mind and spirit. He started reading other books by Dr Weil. I guess this was Dad’s way of dealing with the crisis at hand—quietly and in the most dignified way possible.

To tell you the truth, my entourage, though busy, felt clueless and helpless themselves. What they felt they were up against was far too big for them to comprehend or deal with.

My friend Paulomi set aside all her personal work and accompanied me to New York during my most difficult period. She remained with me until the surgery.

Now confidence was a quality I badly needed those days. My self-esteem was at its lowest and I felt useless. I constantly fought swirls of darkness rising within me. It threatened to choke me. It was a feeling I could not share with anyone.

I remember that beautiful morning—just a day before my operation. I had been avoiding people as I was no longer sure of myself. But that day, Paulomi insisted that I go with her to buy something she needed. Reluctantly, I stepped out of the hotel.

Emerging out of the familiar, I suddenly felt overwhelmed at the sheer number of people around me—all striding along energetically. I was amazed by what I saw. Being a woman, and a fashionable one in Bollywood’s heydays, I gazed in awe at the fashionable ladies ramp-walking on the streets in their high heels.

Yes, they were all there, mostly turned out in black. To a fashionista like me, New York appeared to be a non-stop high-end fashion parade.

There was the power suit, the structured-jacket-on-the-shoulder look, the leather mini with training sneakers, the sexy shirt with a casual sweatshirt, the jumpsuit with platform heels, the statement leather with boots, the monochrome look with dark shades, the contrast oversized pieces with designer bags, the rugged sneakers and the just-rolled-out-of-bed T-shirt with designer heels.

And as if to rebel against the monotony of the stylish black was the casually elegant multi-coloured look: the cross-body bag with a statement strap, the run-free-in-a-slip dress, the throw-and-go backpack, the all-rocker-grunge look with vintage tees, the undone blazer, the baggy trousers, the parka with a playful dress.

But something strange happened to me while these women were striding forward confidently. My heart began to beat rapidly, my breath began coming out in short puffs, my face burnt with hot flashes and my head suddenly felt very light. Fear gripped me. I began sweating and shaking.

As we entered a sprawling mall, I was overcome by a strong sense of impending doom. It was accompanied by nausea, chest pain, headache, numbness and tingling.

Am I having a heart attack? Am I dying?

Suddenly, Paulomi turned towards me and said, ‘My god, sweetie! Are you having a panic attack?’

And then, she soothed and reassured me by saying the sweetest words, ‘You are in the best place for your treatment. Don’t worry.’

But my shaking just would not stop!

She held my arms protectively and gently walked me back to my hotel room. All the time, she kept on saying, ‘It’s okay. It’s all going to be fine, Manisha!’ Gently, she made me lie on my bed, made sure I was covered and warm and left to continue her shopping.

That memory is on top of my list when I think of Paulomi. The compassionate gesture placed her firmly on my heart’s Wall of Fame.

***

To me New York has always meant Shail Mama. I always associate this dazzling city with him. Shail Upadhya was my mother’s cousin, hence my uncle—my mama. He was quite a dandy and had introduced me to New York in 1993 and later in 2004 when I had come to the city to study film-making. He is one person whose memory will remain etched in my heart forever.

Mama had quite an illustrious career and we were extremely proud of his achievements. He had come to the US from Nepal as the head of the United Nation’s peacekeeping efforts and in this significant role, he had remained in New York from the 1960s to the 1980s.

After his retirement from the United Nations, he lived in a swanky apartment opposite the Shah of Iran’s. All the top diplomats lived in that lane. During weekends, he would go to his weekend Southampton home to spend time with his long-term girlfriend, Karen. Though they never married, I think they were closer to each other than any husband and wife. I was greatly distressed when I learnt of her passing. How must he be coping without his beloved by his side, I wondered.

In the middle of my film career, I had flown to this city in 2004. It was a time when I had begun feeling suffocated with my non-stop dress-up-make-up-act-change routine. At one point I was doing twelve films in a year! I had started feeling like a robot who was taken to the most exotic locales and countries, but never got the chance to explore anything beyond the film set.

Being a girl who hailed from a mountainous country, I longed to be close to nature. I wanted to see beaches when it rained, golden sunsets from mountain tops and nature in all its wild glory. I badly wanted to experience real life, meet real people and see all the stunning places we recreated in our movies.

Mama’s New York seemed to be the perfect escape. If you ask me the truth, I was actually testing the waters to see if I could shift base here permanently.

Mama was a kind as well as a fun-loving man. He understood my deepest desires. In a wish-granted sort of way, he began taking me to high-end fashion shows, interesting museums, awe-inspiring art exhibitions and the most happening restaurants. He seemed to be on a roll—introducing me to his most fashionable friends and showing me all things wonderful in Manhattan. With him as my beloved guide and companion, I began feeling at home in the city. I remember Karen Aunty helping me choose a very pretty yellow summery dress one morning when Mama was taking me to the races. I think it suited me. I could see it in Mama’s eyes.

But it was Mama’s unique style of dressing that made him stand out in the crowd. After his retirement, he became a men’s clothing designer, catering to the rich and the famous.

I found his fashion sense quite fascinating. He wore black and white all his life. He would match a black-and-white checked shirt with black-and-white striped trousers. Then he would match monochromes with a cap of polka dots and stars. Creating new patterns in black and white was a passion for him—one that he was very proud of. Smugly, he told me once that a top designer had copied his style. The next thing he knew was that black and white had become the newest trend in the designer’s collection. He also often talked about his friendship with the famous stylist Donna Karan.

Even though I had laughed about it, I was proud of him for being featured in the documentary Bill Cunningham New York. In truth, he had begun getting recognized as a part of New York’s fashion scene. He was often photographed in his plaid suits, chequered ties and Warhol blazers for the New York Times’s style section. I was in awe of him as he flitted from one home to another in New York, Southampton and Miami.

Because of our past bonding, I was in a hurry to meet him this time. Shail Mama had not changed over the years. He was as kind, as warm and as fun-loving as I remembered him. But my discerning eyes noticed that he had changed after his beloved’s death. He had become weak. He needed a stick to walk and even though he did not express it, I could sense the heaviness of his emotional burden.

He had told my mom, ‘God cannot be that unkind. He will save Manisha!’

He was very happy to see me and did not hide his pleasure. I had visited his apartment earlier in 1993. I had then wondered what a black-and-white apartment would look like! But what I saw had shocked me completely.

His house was done up in the most vibrant, outrageous colours imaginable. His bedroom was painted a brilliant red. In the centre of it was a four-poster bed with a multi-hued bedspread. The Rajasthani mirror work on the canopy above the four-poster bed flashed colours of brilliant light everywhere. On the ornate bed were thrown several red pillows with a lot of brightly coloured tassels hanging from them.

His kitchen, surprisingly, was a bright pink. His flamboyant style floored me. But what really caught my attention was a picture. He had no photographs of any kind in his bedroom. Yet, mounted in a silver frame was a single picture—mine. I knew he was not only proud of me but also loved me deeply.

He had pooh-poohed the news of my cancer diagnosis and felt sure that I would be up on my feet stronger than before. His confidence made my heart sing.

Mama was a regular visitor during my treatment. One day, when he saw me feeling morose, confined to my bed, he promised to take me to a fashion show wearing his extravagant clothes. He said that my bald head would make a fashion statement.

I was undergoing chemotherapy at that time. Three rounds of my first session had been completed and my hair had started falling. While taking a shower, strands of hair would get stuck on the shower handle and taps and I would see clumps of it on my pillow when I woke up each morning. My mane was getting noticeably thinner. Yet it took me a while before deciding to go bald.

Finally, one day, I went to a salon and asked them to shave my hair off. I did not make a great deal of this decision. Of course it did pain me to see my hair gone, but I had made peace with myself on this issue. Zakia had explained to me that baldness would be a part of my treatment. So I was prepared for it. I had to tell myself that this was a small thing. I was more focused on making sure that the treatment was effective and on throwing the cancer cells out of my body. Mentally, I switched off from the pain and switched my mind on to the fact that if chemo was making me bald, it was also killing my cancer cells. I felt this was a small sacrifice to make.

That is why I smiled when Mama told me he would take me to a fashion show. I would wear one of his creations and my bald head would make a fashion statement. It thrilled me to be his muse. He had succeeded in tempting me. I eagerly looked forward to slipping my arm into the crook of his and enjoying the glamorous evening. I could not wait to get well. That is the kind of close bonding I had with him.

But that evening was never to be.

Months later, in February 2013, the news of his death reached me suddenly. My family had hidden it from me, and I accidentally stumbled on it. You can imagine my shock.

I sank into deep mourning. Shail Mama, though in his eighties, had the attitude and chutzpah of a youngster. How could a human dynamo like him die?

As if on cue, the clouds became dark and lightning flashed. I looked up at the New York sky.

Black clouds and white thunder. The black-and-white drama of nature appeared elemental. Was nature paying a tribute to that glorious human being? To the genius with a quirky sense of style?

The next instant, my mind rejected this tribute. What about the life he had led steeped in brilliant colours? Where had such a vibrant man disappeared?

I imagined him as a streak of merry breeze . . . a fast-moving meteor in the sky. I imagined him moving at a fast pace, diaphanous, stopping long enough to dip his brush into a huge tray of colours to paint the clouds an outrageous orange, pink and purple. Have you ever chanced on such clouds? Well, that’s my beloved Mama’s doing.

A sob rose from within me. New York would never be the same without him.