The passing of a star-struck youth with Kalpana

Kalpana died last month, on January 10, to be precise. The obituary said she was 65.

Film stars, women and gays, they all lie about their age. My other childhood hero, my sister, died a year ago exactly. My film friend of 20 years died in December. With these deaths, I lament the passing of my star-struck youth.

It was the age of the heroine-under-waterfall scenes. Kalpana had moved into our 26 Pali Hill bungalow. Pyaar Ki Jeet was her first film. It ran for exactly a week. She completed Madhubala’s Naughty Boy, but was not a patch on the heroine, who died of a hole-in-the heart.

Kalpana’s star were not very promising. Then came Professor (1968), and suddenly she was the Rs50,000 heroine who starred with Shammi, the saat-lakh-ka-hero (his black market price then).

I was 16. I was desperately in love with the boy I shared a school-bench with in class. Why was I not a girl? I hated being a boy. Other classmates dreamt of Kalpana. I wanted to become Kalpana. I imitated her walk, her talk (‘Hai! Hoshi!’), and even tripped around the house, a towel held aloft. The man-servant would say Baba tum uski naqal accha karte hain (you imitate her well).  I would sing her songs in my falsetto, evoking enraged responses from my classically-trained mom.

Those were the days. We thought they’d never end. But they did. I grew a beard.

Kalpana moved up in life. She bought the silent-era star Gulab’s bungalow at Khar-Pali. Pali Hill was crumbling. Father had left the house. Meena had fled Amrohi’s golden cage. I was free to be as gay as I wanted, practising Kalpana’s onscreen come-hither looks before a mirror and then at the local train stations.  Then came Kalpana’s saheli (a code-word for lesbian). Suddenly Kalpana’s career ended. Kalpana’s marriage to Sachin Bhowmick ended with her claiming she was still a virgin.  Mother died, lonely and divorced. She had warned her college friend Ismat Chugtai about the latter’s husband’s interest in Kalpana earlier. Ismat Aapa was least bothered. I was learning about film-morality.

Kalpana found a Dogra! I found a Sindhi fashion model, who compared himself to Dev Anand, and me to the vampish Kalpana of Teen Deviyan.  Later on, I imitated the villainous, keychain-twirling blackmailer, Shashikala of Gumrah.  I learnt the modus operandi to blackmail father’s girlfriends.
When my X-rays came for the facial fractures given by a Midwest American sissy-beater, I realised my bone-structure was Saira Banu’s, beak-nose and all.  (Do not be fooled by my current Dumbledore beard.  I still have the Saira structure intact). But my loyalty to Kalpana did not lessen, it only increased.  I knew she ran a dance-school ‘Nupur’ after her second divorce. There was no respect for dancers. Mrs Gopi Krishna told her dance student Ayesha Jhulka in my presence, Ay heroine, paun chala (Move your ass).  I gave up my fantasy of a song-and-dance life and went back to teaching. Nothing could sully my childhood love for my sweet neighbour.

At TV reruns of Professor I still weep at the song Awaaz De Ke. I now realise this is no flesh-and-blood love. Hasrath Jaipuri wrote about Divine Sufi Love, of frail humans suffering an ineffable longing for completion. I was half and made whole again. Thank you, Kalpana.