Tomorrow the 5th of August is ‘Raksha Bandhan’. The festival that respects the bond between brother and sister. Sisters shall perform a puja and arti with a diya, shall feed the brother something sweet and shall tie a ‘rakhi’ on their right wrist - a symbol seeking protection from their brother. She will respectfully touch his feet and the brother shall give her a gift - something to wear, a piece of jewelry or at times an envelope containing ’shagun’; money which is considered auspicious. One hundred and one, one thousand and one. The one is essential in our custom. It brings on the auspiciousness of the moment. A wonderful age old custom living through generations of our culture. The brother sister relationship has been very pronounced in all our films too and looked upon with great reverence. The relationship does not necessarily have to be of blood. Many women tie ‘rakhi’s’ on men they wish to seek brotherly love from and there have been instances when these bonds have flourished and strengthened associations. The ‘rakhi brother’ or the ‘rakhi sister’ is a common reference in society of these relationships.

Shweta will tie one on Abhishek. Last year she flew down to New York to perform the ritual as we were on tour. And then later in the evening at the concert he pulled her up in the audience when he was on stage. Navya-Naveli shall tie one on Agastya. They shall dress up in traditional attire and put on cute little solemn faces as the importance of the moment shall be explained to them from their Mother.

Shweta performs the ritual on Abhishek, some years ago at Jalsa….

…… and the saga continues !!

But before that … I cracked the pedometer range today at 7,056 .. which may be considered a considerable achievement from the 1000’s that I was grudgingly managing earlier.

And for that lady in the ‘comments’ who was not conversant with WW or West Wing may she be informed that it is a TV serial in USA, which deals with the office of the President of the United States of America and all the stories that unfold there in a most gripping manner. Its called West Wing, because it is indeed the West Wing of the White House where the President resides and functions from.

We tried to keep the time and day of my discharge from Breach Candy as quiet as possible, but word gets around and I did not fuss too much over it. The others were more excited and cautious. I was very frail, down to about 50 kg from my average 80, and the bandages on my surgery were still on. Those with me feared the crowds jostling around and causing more harm than expression of happiness.

I dressed up for the first time in civilians. It seemed peculiar and odd. I brushed my hair to the best I could. The heavy antibiotics had scared my forehead with lacerations so I dropped a few strands in cavalier fashion over them to cover the disfiguration. A nostril still carried a deep scar. I could do nothing about it. It had come about, when in one of my violent acts under excessive pain, I had pulled out the oxygen pipe that had been inserted there. The doctors found a permanent solution to that and stitched the nostril to the pipe. That fixed me. I never touched my nose again. In some close ups even now, the scar is noticed, despite Deepak my make up man for over 33 years, doing his best to camouflage it.

Just before ‘walking’ out from the ICU I spent some time with the nurses and my fellow patients, doctors and staff. In a sense it was like leaving home. A ‘bidai’ – the custom at marriages when the bride leaves her father’s home for her new place of residence and a new life. The night before, Dr Udwadia made another departure from his routine ; he came and sat by my bed and talked to me about everything under the sun except my medical condition, for hours. His music, his love for Napoleon, life …

And then he left to see me off in the morning, writing my discharge note with such eloquence, that I believe it is a document often referred to in medical history journals. On a private visit to the New York Hospital, purely for a routine examination, the concerned doctor on reading this report had been so impressed with it that he gave me an instant appointment. We all know how difficult it is to get specialized time from professionals of caliber in the West. He did come out with a strange one though, when my manager went in to present my papers –

“Is this patient still alive ?”, he exclaimed in wonder.

My brother and cousins, some very close friends surrounded me as I stepped out on the ICU floor, barricading any untoward intrusion. Shweta and Abhishek were with me. At 8 and 6 they were lost in this group of security around. I held their little hands and they pulled and guided me out. The roar from the crowd as I stepped out of the main door of the Hospital filled me with emotion. I could feel it crawling up to my eyes. Shweta almost crushed in the surge of people around me started to cry. I consoled her. Abhishek was firm. I told him to hold his sister and lifted my hand out to the masses. The sound was deafening. I never felt stronger in my life.

Much of what transpired on the drive home and after has been documented earlier. But it was moving and fulfilling and for long it seemed like an event that had never taken place.

My Father wrote a moving piece on my home coming and for the first time I saw him break down as he read it out to the family.

Days went by in repair. I thought back on all that had transpired and one nagging recollection kept me disturbed throughout. Why didn’t I place my hand in front of my stomach when enacting that action. So many times we had been trained by our stunt coordinators to do just that and we had been following it diligently. But that day that moment, it was not in position. Had it been there, this injury would never have taken place.

I looked forward to the evenings everyday. Colleagues and friends would come over and spend time with me. Their concern and affection so spontaneous and caring. We talked and sang and joked and laughed. But when they left I would ponder over what was left of me and what was left was not complimentary to my condition.

The mind functions pre 1982, the body post that. And that is the horror that you first begin to realize. Your step your walk your disposition your run your jump your speech, are all handicapped. They are not what they were a few months ago. And they never would be, ever.

In the winter of that year, in November, I was taken to Delhi and convalesced in a farm house on the outskirts of the city. The brisk winter of the north it was suggested would help in my recovery. I was advised to not start work for another 6 months, but by December I was trying to coax the family in letting me start. My brother after much persuasion was willing, provided I could demonstrate to him if I could move, to dance and do action. When the whole house slept I would take a small portable CD player into the fields at the back of the farm, put on some music and try to practice some of the moves by myself. They were a strain. I was unable to lift my legs beyond a few inches. My hips would not move. So I stood by a tree and raised my leg towards its trunk and marked the spot where the foot hit the tree. Next morning I would come back to it and try to raise the mark a little higher from the previous day. It began to work. By January I had committed to get back on set. It was to be for Man Mohan Desai. It was to be for ‘Coolie’. It was to be from the shot where I had gone down. It was to be where I get up after rolling over the ‘table’ and punch back the villain that had punched my stomach six months ago ! This was my condition to Manji, else I wasn’t getting back to work.

That morning I took the blessings of my elders and got into my car to drive to work, just like any other day. It was at Chandivili Studios some distance away. I was by myself in the car and by the newest electronic discovery of the time - the Walkman. In it was placed a casette, given with great care, by one of my co artists when they had visited me at home - a favorite melody of mine, by Chopin. As the strains of that masterpiece played again and again a catharsis of all that I had been through built up. I buried my face in my hands, not wanting to expose my condition to the driver and wept .. silently !

I hear that piece often at times, not with any motive or deliberation, and link myself to that day when I started off again. Music is the sound of our soul. Those that feel it not, are without understanding of music, or without understanding of soul.

Life moved on …

Moved on, to another Man Mohan Desai film, ‘Mard’. The year 1983, the location, Mysore close by to Bangalore and around the months of July and August. I have been feeling a strange tiredness at work. I let it pass as a condition post the surgery of the previous year. We are at the Mysore Palace Hotel and after the days work as I walk back to my room through the magnificent marble staircase, my legs suddenly give way and I drop on the steps. Confused and surprised at this sudden occurrence I remain there for a while and then struggle to get up. Some strength returns to me and holding on to the banister I manage to get to my room and on to my bed and on to the phone with Dr Udwadia. I quickly describe my symptoms to him and within minutes he commands me –

“ Get back to Bombay ! Now ! You have Myasthenia Gravis !”

I hear this name for the first time. I do not know even how it is spelt. My flight is from Madras. I am asked to get myself checked by a famous doctor there who deals with nerve diseases. The check up is excruciating. Needles the size your hand get inserted at sensitive portions of your skin – tips of fingers, around the toes, the face, the body. They have on the other end electrodes connected to them. The electrodes go into a machine. Electricity is then passed through them and your body convulses with the intensity of the current going through. This is like some World War II torture chamber. If the doctor had asked me to confess something at the time I would have readily agreed. Espionage, secrets of war, confidential documents … anything !! But just stop !!

Before long I was back at Breach Candy where similar WW II experiments were conducted and Myasthenia was confirmed and the only cure for it, the drug Mestinon, administered.

The condition of Myasthenia is frightening ! It is muscle failure. It’s the depletion of the liquid in the trough that connects the nerve to the muscle. Why am I afflicted with it … no answers ! Symptoms .. you cannot purse your lips, they will open involuntarily. You cannot swallow because your muscles in the mouth do not operate, the liquid that you put in your mouth flows out instead of going into the throat, you cannot comb your hair, because when you lift your hand to do so, it will drop, eyes shut can remain shut, you have to prize them open manually and then brace a matchstick between your lids to keep them open and when open, can remain open and will not shut. As it grows in intensity it attacks your breathing muscles and you stop breathing.

I spend a fortnight at the Hospital and am asked to return home and not indulge in any activity. While in Breach Candy a leading lady journalist of the times who’s column in a magazine that discussed stars and their styles sniggers at my condition by comparing it to the one the previous year –

“ The crowds at Breach Candy were less than what they were last year. He has obviously lost his popularity” she yellow tongued. Disgusting !! It that all you have to say about a person lying sick in hospital. She was also the one that declared after the release of ‘Lawaris’ that my ‘sun’ had set for good !

Once home I call Manji over and tell him honestly that I may never be able to work again. He doesn’t waste a moment in his response –

“Bha….?**$&?**, I will put you in a wheel chair and make a film with you. Don’t worry, take your time to repair, we will work again !”

Spurred by his words I gradually removed myself from the gloom of lying on a couch the entire day and started the whole process of activating my body. The tablets helped and miraculously after several months their dosage reduced sufficiently for me to be labeled as a victim of the disease myasthenia gravis in remission. Doctors at UCLA, New York and in London confirmed it too and I was back on the saddle. Later one examination showed that perhaps I was down with the Guillian Barre syndrome. An ailment close in similarity to Myasthenia. Guillaian and Barre, being two professionals who first came across soldiers returning after WW I from the front, with this ailment. The diagnostic explanation being that the soldiers suffered extreme trauma while fighting in those conditions which affected the nerves. Medical journals however differ with this theory. They being of the opinion severe stomach infections could bring this on. Figures !!

With tablet Mestinon by my side I slid into work mode again until … that winter .. back in Delhi and celebrating Divali with the family at Sopaan my Father’s home, I got up to light an ‘anaar’ and an explosion..!! The ‘anaar’ was made of spurious material and blew my left hand off. The entire hand in fist form melted like a blob of freshly cooked meat.

I had screamed looking up to the heavens. I have had enough !! How much more !!

The AIIMS at Delhi – All India Institute of Medical Sciences, became my new home. I was not admitted, but needed to go there every day for dressings and mini surgery’s conducted without anesthesia on my hand. Dr Nandy, a generous and accomplished professional would work meticulously every other day in cutting free my skin on my hand so my fingers could get separated and straighten up. All my contours had disappeared. No nails, no lines, nothing. I used to joke with the Doc – “While you’re at it cold you also change my fate line as well !”

In the middle of this incident there rose an emergency. I was to report for work in Madras for my film ‘Inquilab’ and the producers had a time line constraint. It was imperative that I start shooting. So I went across and started it. Those that may have seen the film will perhaps have noticed that most shots have me covering my hand with a cloth, almost making it appear a character prop. It was in fact an attempt to cover the bandages on my hand. The hand hurt, but once the cameras go on, actors generally have difficulty in recognizing their own blood relations. Such is the depth of their commitment !!

Simultaneously “Sharabi’ was on set as well. The hand raw and just about having enough flesh on it was the problem again. So the brain worked and into the pocket went the left hand to keep it away from the camera. A style was adopted and became part of sharabi’s characteristics. Much of the film was done in extreme pain and pain killers and at times with gentle make up. Any make up material on the raw wound was anathema to my condition.

The hand came back slowly but gradually. The fingers formed again. Nails, skin repaired. The skin is stained, the web on my left hand has melted and does not open completely. It took me months of exercise to make simple movements ; like bringing the thumb to touch the tips of my fingers. Astonishing isn’t it to imagine not being able to touch your finger tips with your thumb, but that is how severe my condition was ! I am certain many of you know that the hand is the most complicated piece of machinery of our body. It has yet to be replicated. It is also the most vulnerable portion of our system. Keep it stationary in one position without moving for some time and see what happens. It will become as stiff as a rock !!

The loss of the use of the one hand is a mammoth impediment in everyday life. Without the use of fingers and thumb of one hand, there are many common deeds that cannot be performed. You can wear a shirt, but you would not be able to button it. Trousers would need assistance to be worn without the help of both hands. Zipping up your pants..? Forget it..

And that is when you value the gift of the Almighty. HE made a complete body, or to keep Rochelle pleased, nature, made our systems in its completeness. Each little portion has such great importance in its use for our existence. But just look at the way we torture and maltreat our body. How much we abuse it and subject it to extremes. The matter that we consume, the limits that we stretch it to, all all so damaging to it.

I was fortunate, I got back what I had lost. But during the time I was deprived of its use, I understood those that deal with permanent handicaps and live through life. Because let me tell you. I went through hell for a limited period of time. They will have to bear it an entire lifetime.

It has been a revelation for me to have delved into all that I have written these past few days. The experience of having to share it with you has been difficult , but my trust and my faith in your sincerity and your devotion has given me the license to indulge in matters that may never have seen the light of day.

All that came to me just flowed out. I do not know why I did it. There was no purpose; though Satyam seems to analyze it differently. But here it is, free and unadulterated. I will confess that it is still not all in its entirety. There is more much more that transpired, but suffice to say this is what I am comfortable with for the moment.

Who knows what tomorrow holds …

Do you .. ?

Amitabh Bachchan