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Thursday March 28, 2024

Art of living

Zermina is not a lady you can say no to. When was it I first set eyes on her...15-20 years ago? As C

By Ayaz Amir
March 30, 2012
Zermina is not a lady you can say no to. When was it I first set eyes on her...15-20 years ago? As Captain Rhett Butler might have said, “Frankly, my dear, you are quite a thing.” She is still quite a thing and so when she met me in the lobby of the Avari and said I must come for lunch on Monday to meet Sri Sri Ravi Shankar I said yes and asked whether the sitar recital would be after lunch.
Tossing her head slightly, and with just the faintest look of exasperation in her eyes, she said it wasn’t that Ravi Shankar but Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, the famous art-of-living guru. When, a bit confused, I asked what this meant she said that’s why it was so important I should make it for lunch on Monday to find out all about it. So that was that and even though I was returning to Chakwal, a good distance away, I found myself tearing down the Motorway back to Lahore and the Avari the next day. There is something to be said for the famous Mukesh song, “Sab kuch seekha hamne, na seekhi hoshiari.”
Zermina comes from a formidable line of sisters whose trademark is dazzling white. Dressed in the colours of the sisterhood she was at the door of the Khurshid Mahal welcoming her slightly disoriented guests, some of whom it was easy to see weren’t quite sure what they were letting themselves in for. It was equally plain that like me they had been in no position to say no to Zermina.
There was Shanaz too whom I was seeing after many years. She squealed with delight (I trust not feigned) as she stepped forward to hug me. I held on to her a bit, no doubt absentmindedly, as she breathlessly explained what a great thing the art of living was. The crowd was all well-heeled, part of Lahore’s wide circle of the good and great, who I thought needed no instructions from anyone in the art of living. But then Shanaz hugged me once more and I found my doubts evaporating.
There were some gentlemen at large, smart and confident, whom I couldn’t immediately place...but some familiar faces too including, to my infinite relief, a famous human rights activist. As we looked into each other’s eyes we tried giving the impression that, well, we shouldn’t be here but with all the insistence what were we to do. A lawyer friend, young and bright, seemed in much the same mood. He kept fiddling with his iphone all the time, as if to suggest that his mind was on other things.
A famous model, dressed plainly and without much makeup, reminded me of the once-upon-a-time queen of the silver screen, Shamim Ara, whom I had met in Tashkent in 1975. This was the Tashkent Film Festival and she was part of a Pakistani delegation which included Sabiha and Santosh Kumar, Waheed Murad, and the unforgettable Rani. At dinner Shamim Ara would look gorgeous, a creature from the Arabian Nights. Once or twice I saw her at breakfast without paint and done-up eyes and eyelashes. Let me say no more. It is easy to be crass and tasteless on this subject. Still, a passing thought: where would the world be without its makeup artists?
I remember Waheed Murad spending most of his time chasing a buxom, very buxom, actress from South India...successfully or not I cannot say because the look of smugness usually attendant upon success, when luck smiles on you, I did not see on his face.
A very young Shabana Azmi was also part of the large Indian delegation led by Raj Kapoor who was very popular in the Soviet Union, almost a household name. Once or twice I was with her in the lift and greenhorn as I was, and despite my years still am in so many things, I could not summon up the courage or the address to say a word to her. In a life with no shortage of heart-pangs and sore memories this will remain amongst the biggest regrets of all.
Santosh could down fabulous amounts of liquor and the only thing to show for it would be his handsome and fair face getting more crimson and handsomer as the night wore on. Later Sabiha would warm food for him in their room on a Russian electric kettle.
Someone weak-kneed like me spends a rough night and it shows. Santosh would never be the worse for wear in the mornings. We console ourselves with the fiction that all men are born equal. It takes no poets or lovers to tell us that they are not. The greatest gift from the heavens is a strong constitution. Santosh was a lucky man. Not for nothing does Bertrand Russell opine that one of the prerequisites of happiness, above and beyond most other things, is a strong liver.
Gen Yahya Khan, with all the general staff in attendance, came down to dinner in the PMA mess in the summer of 1969 – some kind of a war conference was taking place in Kakul – and being Gen Yahya it was pretty obvious to us all that he had had his quota of the evening. I saw his face aglow, almost like a torch burning inside. He too had a strong constitution...it was just not up to the ravages of East Pakistan. If only he had the sense to stick to Gen Rani and his other ladies, Bengal’s famous Black Beauty amongst them and the immortal Noor Jahan too, he would have an honoured place in our history. Gen Rani and politics – Gen Yahya of all people should have known not to mix his drinks.
My reverie was broken by Shanaz clapping her hands and calling upon us all to say in unison (I am not joking), “Hello Guruji”...Sri Sri Ravi Shankar by this time having appeared on the makeshift, low-slung stage. The human rights activist looked slightly embarrassed. My lawyer friend kept playing with his iphone. The rest of the audience dutifully intoned, “Hello Guruji”, and the art-of-living conference had begun. Guruji talked about peace and universal understanding and how correct breathing was essential for the attainment of these ideals. He fielded some questions with great humour and clarity and then took out a small bottle with some potion in it.
One by one, a few volunteers, men and women, stepped to the stage. Guruji would ask them to stretch out their arms, and then applying pressure on the arms would bring them down. But when he poured a few drops of the potion on their hands, the arms would become hard and strong and then, to the amazement of all, they were not to be bent. With a quizzical expression on his face, my lawyer friend wondered whether hands and arms were the only parts of the anatomy on which the magic drops had this effect.
Shanaz, somewhat excited throughout the proceedings, then announced that it was time for some meditation. The Guru asked us to close our eyes, relax our arms and forget everything. I soon found myself breathing deeply. Sri Sri Ravi Shankar kept on intoning words and instructions which had a very soothing effect. The meditation was supposed to last 10 minutes but went on for 20 and I did not realise it, so quickly the time had passed.
There was an art-of-living instructress in the hall, a Pakistani, with long legs, a close pair of very smart jeans enclosing them and arms that could be almost sculpted. I had felt my eyes wandering in her direction from the beginning. Ideally speaking, the meditation session should have served to cleanse my mind of all loose thoughts. But I was reminded of my unworthiness when I found myself looking at her again.
I was 62 this March. All my hair is white. Before stepping into the sun I look into the mirror and compose my features, trying to impart some gravitas to them. I succeed and look thoughtful and grave but it often happens that the moment I see a flashing form, all equanimity is gone and my poise crumbles. Zermina informs me art-of-living classes are about to begin. The instructress in jeans...now which class does she take?

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