WHEN Naseeruddin Shah comes to town, and the LLF extends you an open invitation to come and hear him speak at the launch of his memoirs, you go. You brave the traffic situation — the beautiful Mall Road chock-a-block with vehicles, and deal with a non-existent parking situation with gritted teeth.

Once there (and believe me, that in itself is worth a congratulatory nod), you join the gargantuan queue of people which leads all the way to the opposite end of the Alhamra, and try to smile at the equally weary ushers who come around announcing “sorry but you can’t go in”, although the session before hasn’t ended yet. “Why?” you inquire, with the last bit of politeness that you can muster. The hall is already full, they reply. And that’s when you snap and say: “Well, of all the miracles the LLF didn’t manage this year — things like parking, a decent programme lineup even — how did they manage this one?” Turns out, there were a lot of VIPs who had already entered through the VIP entrance, and had “marofied the seats” as the usher whispered.

The poor child probably regretted those words the very next moment. Onwards, shouted the crowd, and onwards we went, till I was perched on the highest stair of the highest row in the hall, staring with open fascination (along with everyone else I may add) at the man of the hour. Oh Mr Shah, what a moment that was.

Granted, Naseeruddin Shah isn’t quite the charmer that other actors (none of his artistic calibre, although they share his level of popularity) are, but he is forthright and unapologetic; a wonderful boon in the literary — or otherwise — world of false humility and condescending pretensions to knowledge.

If you felt that his memoirs were controversial, the real McCoy is just as fun. Given Shah’s vast experience in the Hindi film and television industry, and his work with almost all the famed actors in each decade, he has earned his right to be opinionated. Add to that his accomplished body of work, and you have a force to reckon with. In the man himself, there is self-deprecation of the matter-of-fact kind — Ijaazat, he said, is far too sentimental for him, to the consternation of the crowd.

There is passion that reflects his art in both its excess and honest simplicity: “Would you rather die than not become an actor?” he asked. “Only if you answer ‘yes’, then go down the thorny path of acting, because a path rife with disappointment and heartbreak it is.”

There was humour and sparkling wit, especially in the story about wanting the part of Ghalib while he was in film school, and writing a bombastic letter to Gulzar (whom Shah did not know in the least at that time) about why he was the best person for the role. What a job interview if there ever was one, and don’t we all want to be blessed with that kind of quick-witted naturalness. Last but not least, there was also reflection of the harshest kind: “I wasn’t good at anything growing up,” he admitted in his blunt way but he refused to pander to self-indulgence at that revelation. It is what it is; his entire demeanour seemed to say, with no longing to capture his audience’s sympathy.

Empathy is more Shah’s game, as he spoke at length about finding his characters within himself. Playing characters as diverse as Ghalib and Gandhi (whom he played on stage), there is labour he said before playing the character, to actually find pieces of the character within himself. He also mentioned the element of wonder in each character, and the necessity to tap into that wonder in order to embody the uniqueness and idiosyncrasies which he is known for.

One wonderful story that Shah recounted was about C.S. Dubey, a stalwart of Bollywood, but one of the many nameless ones who remain forever in the background as extras. Dubey told Shah that the only way to be an excellent actor was to maintain forever the amazement that one has as a child. This, said Shah, was the greatest piece of advice he ever received. No woes of method acting; no ‘ifs and buts’ about projection and makeup and costumes — the real trick is as basic as finding something to surprise you — with all the innocence and unawareness of a child, no matter how old you get or what a bore life seems otherwise. Hear, hear, I said silently.

The interviewers were the suitably star-struck Sarmad Khoosat and Mira Hashmi, who did a good job of asking Shah questions that led him to comment on his memoirs as well as provide some much-awaited anecdotes (read: gossip). About his memoirs, titled And Then One Day, Shah said that it was an exercise of memory and so self-censorship has no place in it. Indeed, his memoirs are no-holds-barred as they speak of his love for women, some serious trippin’ with substance abuse (or just substance fun), as well as the fragile relationships with his daughter and father. It is what reviewers have likened to a fresh mint, a readable breeze of a book which entertains just as effortlessly as it muses. I ran into an acquaintance at the end of the session, who was thoroughly unimpressed. “Well, he was a bit of a one-upper wasn’t he?” she commented. I shrugged and said he was entitled to his opinions, and Sanjeev Kumar was a bit of a yawn fest as far I am concerned anyway (I assumed this was the one-upping she was referring to).

She persisted: “I don’t get the big deal. He did Oye Oye and Ooh La La, and a bunch of art films. He wasn’t half as charming as Amitabh Bachchan nor did I feel envious of him. He’s just a normal guy.” I reminded her of the nugget of wisdom Shah had just mentioned — that the undiscerning audience felt a need to say something, anything at all, when they met him. This included remarkably tactless (and brainless, I am tempted to add) comments about his height, his age, his choice of films and so on. The girl looked at me blankly and said “Well I’m talking to you aren’t I, not him!”

I am inclined to agree with Shah, when he said it takes all sorts to make a world; it most certainly does. I just take consolation in the fact that his sort is part of it.