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IN the evening of October 1, my neighbour, who gets an evening paper, dropped in and told me that Pamela Rooks had died that morning. She had been dead to the world for the past five years. She had been in a coma after she met with a car accident. Nevertheless, I went numb as I had cherished her friendship for some years. I expected the next day’s papers would carry the news on their front pages. I was disappointed. Only one carried it in its paid obituary columns, announcing that she would be cremated in the Lodhi Road electric crematorium at 11 am that day. Memories of Pamela came flooding back to my mind. Our association began when she came to buy filming rights to my novel, Train to Pakistan. By then I had lost all hopes of its ever being filmed. Many directors had earlier shown interest but cooled off —Kurosawa, Satyajit Ray, Merchant and Ivory. They had introduced me to Shabana Azmi, who was their choice to play the heroin’s role. The government’s role
was also negative. The then Home Minister Bansi Lal refused permission
as he thought it was too sensitive a subject to open as the wound of
Partition had not yet healed.
The Defence Minister refused to allow shooting of a scene of a train going over a bridge. I had given up in despair when Digvijay Singh, who was then Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh, not only gave permission to make the film in his state but also offered official assistance to do so. It so happened that Madhya Pradesh was also the only state of India which had steam engines operating; the others had gone for diesel. The road was cleared for Pamela to go ahead. She had paid my publisher Ravi Dayal and got film rights. It took her six months to finish the job. She invited me to the preview. She had made a major change in the role of the hero. In my novel he was the village goonda who gave his life to save the lives of Muslims. She gave the role to a magistrate, who did the same. I found the ending too abrupt. Nevertheless, I wholly approved of the liberties she had taken. We became friends. She was petite, pretty and full of life. I did not know anything about her background except that she had married the celebrated Conrad Rooks, maker of the classic Siddhartha in which Simi Grewal had exposed her shapely bosom to the world. Pamela bore Conrad a son before they parted. Pamela was born in Calcutta, schooled in different hill cantonment schools and ended with a diploma in mass communication. She settled down in Delhi’s Defence Colony, not far from me. I met her off and on. She was a very likeable person. Once I spotted a picture of Guru Nanak under the table lamp beside her pillow, and thought she was a Sikh. But she was also a heavy smoker. My doubts were cleared when I read that final prayers (Antim Ardas) for her were to take place in a gurdwara. During the last few years of her life, she befriended Richard Holkar, scion of the once ruling family of Indore. They made a handsome couple devoted to each other. He was with her in Amsterdam for a film festival where she showed him Train to Pakistan. The couple returned to Delhi and were in the same car driving to her home when it hit another coming from the opposite side. Their car toppled over and crashed her skull. She never recovered from the injury. Pamela is gone but will never be forgotten. Her Train to Pakistan was shown on Doordarshan a couple of times. The film ran in cinema houses for a few weeks. It was not a boxoffice hit as it had no dance, song and fight sequences which Bollywood churns out to make money. But whenever and wherever there are film festivals, her Train to Pakistan, Dance Like a Man and Miss Beatty’s Children will be screened and seen with the same eagerness by sophisticated audiences as Satyajit Ray’s films. Pamela Rooks was 52 when she died. Khushwanta always wins Santa, Banta, Gurbanta and Khushwanta were boys of the same village and travelling in a super fast train. They were the only passengers in that compartment. Khushwanta was the cleverest of them all and was busy writing a story. Santa suddenly said: "Let us pull the chain and have fun." Banta read the warning, which stated that anybody pulling the chain without a valid reason would be fined Rs 1,000. So Banta said: "We are four and let us collect Rs 250 each." Santa and Gurbanta readily agreed and deposited Rs 250 each to Banta. Khushwanta opposed the proposal tooth and nail. Then Gurbanta remarked: "Why request you? Let us pull the chain. If somebody comes to enquire we will unanimously tell him that Khushwanta has done the mischief." Khushwanta said: "Go ahead with your proposal. I don’t mind." Banta pulled the chain and the train stopped. A TT along with four police constables arrived in the compartment and shouted: "Who pulled the chain?" Santa, Banta and Gurbanta cried in chorus: "Khushwanta." The TT turned towards Khushwanta and asked: "Have you pulled the chain? If so, why?" Khushwanta replied: "Yes, I pulled the chain because they have snatched Rs 750 from me, and the amount is lying in the pocket of Banta." The police constables searched the pocket of Banta and found Rs 750. They took out the money and returned the amount to Khushwanta, and took the three away for custodial interrogation. Khushwanta was overjoyed and continued the journey with glee. — (Contributed by Ram Niwas Malik, Gurgaon) |
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