I never thought, when I became an actor, that I would ever have to be a writer, too. But I later found that the actor and the writer have frequently to rub shoulders with each other, and also cross pens.

I found that an actor must be able to express himself in writing, as he does on the screen.

So here goes with an apt quotation:

“No man is bad enough to tell the truth about himself during his lifetime, involving, as it must, the truth about his family and his friends and colleagues. And no man is good enough to tell the truth to posterity in a document which he suppresses until there is nobody left alive to contradict him.”–George Bernard Shaw.

Reading my horoscope, a well-known astrologer once said to me, “You have a wonderful memory.” He was right. I have a very good memory.

But a good memory can be a curse, too, when one cannot forget the pains and sorrows one has suffered.

I remember many things, many people, many experiences, all of which make up the kaleidoscopic pattern of my life. Sometimes my memory takes me back to people and events of my early childhood. I can recollect every detail about them vividly.

I remember how my elder brother, Ramesh, and I used to quarrel every morning over the pony which used to take us to school.

We were living with our grandmother at Aligarh. The school was three miles away. There was but one pony, and two of us had to ride it. So it was decided that Ramesh should ride the first half of the distance and let me ride the second half. I was to have the pony when we came to an old banyan tree which was exactly half-way from school.

On the first day, when we arrived at the Landmark, I said to Ramesh, “Brother, please dismount now. It is my turn to ride.”

“Quiet,” snapped Ramesh. “Don’t bring in too much of your arithmetic. Let me ride a little more.” This happened every day. Brother Ramesh was better built and his weight was a good fifteen pounds more than mine. I was slim and in these arguments he had the better of me. Ultimately Ramesh would ride the whole distance and let me trot behind him.

Ramesh is still the autocrat he was. Events have changed, but the pattern remains the same. He does not make me walk like before, but he drives off in my big Chevrolet, leaving his little Austin for my use. Today Ramesh takes advantage of the fact that he is three years older than I.

Then there is that Darjeeling incident— way back in 1935. There was terrorism in Bengal and no Bengali youth was allowed to enter Darjeeling without official permission, because the hill-station was the summer residence of the British Governor.

My father and brother went by car to Darjeeling, leaving me at Siliguri Station to come up later by train. While I was waiting for the train, an inspector of police who happened along looked at me curiously. Perhaps, seeing something suspicious about me, he began to question me. I told him I came from the U. P. and not from Bengal. But he would not have it.

He was sure I was a Bengali and was trying to conceal the fact. To my bad luck, I had an air-gun with me and it made him disbelieve me all the more.

I was taken to a magistrate who asked me my name.

“Bharat Bhooshan,” I said.

The inspector seized his opportunity and exclaimed, “Listen, Sir, this is certainly a Bengali name.” He then went on to repeat my name, giving it a rounded sound to make it Bengali—”Borot Booshon.”
No amount of argument would convince him otherwise.

To amuse myself, when I was alone, I kept pronouncing my name the way the inspector had done and soon came to believe that I was a Bengali terrorist!

I spent the night in custody and, in the morning, the magistrate sent me by car to Darjeeling under police escort to find my father.

To the credit of that police inspector, it must be said that he saw in me a terrorist and revolutionary, which no film producer has seen so far.

Years later Rameshwar Sharma, who is now no more, saw a saint in me. I had just graduated from college and, like other young men of my age, loved some of the pleasures of life. I was very fashionable in dress and was romantically inclined. I also liked an occasional drink.

So, when Sharmaji said that he wanted me for the role of Kabir, I laughed outright. The police inspector saw the terrorist in me and Sharmaji saw the saint. I knew I was neither. I accepted the role with reluctance.

Sharmaji proved right, because the picture turned out to be a great success. After it was released, people started to touch my feet reverently and every time they did so, it made me want to jump aside or run away from their adoration.

The saint’s role started a procession. Came saints, singers and poets—Baiju Bawra, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, Mirza Ghalib and others. I had been branded for these roles.

I struggled for some time against the branding, but gave up to adopt a philosophical attitude. Why blame the poor producer? My lot seems to have been pre-ordained. Destiny herself carried the joke a step further.

I discovered the joke only a few months ago. My house, an English-style cottage, is situated in the angle formed by two roads. It has two entrances, one from each road. One morning I found that the roads were called Tagore Road and Dattatreya Road.

My little place in the world lay linked by Destiny with the names of a great poet and a great saint. It seems to me that such names must have an influence upon my inner life.

However, there are times when I feel I must live the life depicted by Omar Khayyam—a clinging to the flowers and sunshine and wine of life. At others, when memories of my wife come back to me, I feel like renouncing the world to live the life of a saint.

Off the sound stages, I live a double life. I am completely honest in saying this.

My last exit from my cottage is bound to be along one of those two roads—one has the name of a poet, the other of a saint.

Which it is going to be, I cannot say (This interview was conducted in 1956).