The Mask

But it has always been difficult for him to carry the burden of his stardom. His exterior may be that of a rough, angry, violent man. But that is a cunningly cultivated act. Behind that shield is a hypersensitive person—moved to tears by the sight of starving street kids and outraged by any injustice perpetrated on the working class.

His tears and his anger; his sympathy and his violence; his warmth and his vehemence are all part of a schizophrenic mask. He’d collapse if the mask was removed.

But I don’t think he would have become a don. It’s more likely that he would have become a Naxalite leader, or a bandit, riding through deserts and jungles, distributing justice to the needy and killing their oppressors, raising from the grateful, the riotous cry—‘Viva Nana, Viva Nana, Viva Nana’. He likes being Robin Hood. If he was in Hollywood, he would have had the fan following of a Clint Eastwood.

Born into a lower middle class Marathi family, he grew up in Mumbai in the wild ’60s when the Shiv Sena was born with a tiger’s roar.

It was also the period when a large number of textile workers were on strike. An era when there was rebellion everywhere—on the university and college campuses, in the factories, amongst the unemployed youth and the Dali’s.

The young Dali’s were overthrowing their old leadership. They created an organisation called Dalit Panthers. The name came from the United States, where militant black Americans formed the Black Panthers. The counter culture movement was sweeping through America, while anti-war protests were spreading across Europe. In China, there was the Cultural Revolution; in Vietnam, the peasants challenged the American might.

It was inevitable that this mood would reflect in the literature and arts of the time. At the movies, there was Satyajit Ray’s Pratidwandi, Mrinal Sen’s Interview and Badal Sircar’s Baki Itihas. On stage, Girish Karnad and Vijay Tendulkar’s parallel theatre dominated the scene.

It was during those days that a theatre movement of sorts began at a small school in Dadar, central Mumbai. Chhabildas High School was run by maverick but committed teachers, who belonged to the socialist and communist ideology. The small hall in the school became a centre for inspiration. And it is there that I met Nana for the first time. A young boy with a vibrant but shy face, he did not look like a prospective actor or mafia chief. He was like most other kids of his age, class and era.

Nana could memorise dialogues quickly, remember hundreds of poems and songs, and perform roles that required a robust and rugged character. He was our very own Anthony Quinn. He first became famous after his role in Purush, the raucous play written by Jaywant Dalvi and directed by Vijaya Mehta. His portrayal of a violent and vicious male chauvinist took the Marathi stage by storm. He became the darling of Tendulkar and Dalvi, of Vijaya Mehta and Jabbar Patel. He had begun his journey towards stardom.

In the last 25 years, he has earned scores of awards, hundreds of roles, thousands of fans and crores of rupees. All that has made him more stubborn outwardly, so as to protect the subtle and sensitive self within. If he exposed his inner self to the world, it would turn him into a real schizophrenic instead of the multi-faceted personality he is.

He is Dr Jekyll, who also enjoys being seen as Mr Hyde. But the pressure of putting on an act is unbearable sometimes—Mr Hyde pops out of Dr Jekyll. As indeed he did recently when Nana took out a gun to protect his privacy. It is difficult to predict who will be present in court when the matter reaches there, Dr Jekyll or Mr Hyde. It is also difficult to say on whom the judgement will be passed.

(Kumar Ketkar is the editor of Loksatta)