Sophisticated touch

On 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 to carry the news on their front pages. I was disappointed. Only one carried it in its paid obituary column 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 had come to buy the filming rights of my novel, Train to Pakistan. By then I had lost all hopes of it ever being filmed. Many directors had earlier shown interest but cooled off; Kurosawa, Satyajit Ray, Merchant Ivory. (They had introduced me to Shabana Azmi, who was the heroine of their choice). The government’s response was also negative. The then home minister, Bansi Lal, refused to grant permission as he thought it was too sensitive a subject to reopen since the wounds of Partition had not yet healed. The defence minister refused to allow the shooting of the scene of a train going over a bridge. I had given up in despair when Digvijay Singh, who was the then chief minister of Madhya Pradesh, not only gave permission to make the film in his state but also offered financial assistance for the project. It so happened that Madhya Pradesh was the only state of India where steam engines still operated; in other states, the trains had gone diesel.

The road was cleared for Pamela to go ahead. She paid my publisher, Ravi Dayal, and got the 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 the magistrate, who did the same. And 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 Garewal had exposed her shapely bosom to the world. Pamela bore Conrad a son before they parted.

Pamela was born in Calcutta, taught in different hill cantonment schools, and ended up with a diploma in mass communication. She settled down in Delhi’s Defence Colony, not far from where I live. 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 the final prayers (antim ardas) for her were to take place in a gurdwara.

During the last few years of her life, she had 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 Pamela’s home when the car hit another coming from the opposite direction. Their car toppled over and crushed Pamela’s 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 and ran in cinema houses for a few weeks. It was not a box office 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 eagerness by sophisticated audiences. Pamela Rooks was 52 when she died.

The winner takes it all

Santa, Banta, Gurbanta and Khuswanta were boys of the same village travelling in a superfast train. They were the only passengers in that compartment. Khuswanta 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. Khuswanta opposed the proposal tooth and nail. Then Gurbanta remarked, “Why request you? Let us pull the chain. If somebody comes to inquire, we will say that Khuswanta has done the mischief.” Khuswanta said, “Go ahead with your proposal. I don’t mind.” Banta pulled the chain and the train stopped. A ticket checker, along with four police constables, arrived in the compartment and shouted, “Who has pulled the chain?” All three cried in unison, “Khuswanta!”

The ticket checker turned to Khuswanta and asked, “Why have you pulled the chain?” Khuswanta replied, “I pulled the chain because they have snatched Rs 750 from me and the money is lying in Banta’s pocket.” The police constables searched Banta’s pocket and found Rs 750. They returned Khuswanta the amount and took the other three away.

(Contributed by Ram Niwas Malik, Gurgaon)