‘Voice modulation and projection, facial expressions and body language, does not need to be saved for the stage. It must be IN you. It must BE YOU.’
My earliest memory of Aunty Zarin is when we were invited to play with Ujaala, her daughter. I was instantly in awe of her. Everything about her. The way her house was done up, the rug that hung as a curtain in her room. The piano. The full-length mirror. The carved wooden corner table in the living room with intricate silverware. The black wired telephone. But most of all, I was in awe of the way she spoke. I was not Pinku. For her, I was always ‘PH-in-KHu, my love’. If we had Peppa Pig back in the early ’90s, she would be the perfect voicing actor for Granny! Having said that, she was a perfect voicing actor for any role!
Every time we went downstairs (to the Chaudhuri residence on the third floor of our humble building), she would ask “dada”, her man Friday, to give us “lemon squash” or “iced tea”. One would not expect her to offer an aerated drink to kids. In an era when Southern Avenue was not flooded with cafes, when the Park Street restaurant visits were minimal and Lipton had not made its way into Indian markets, these drinks were exotic! Every time we headed back home (having learnt something unique), her mum (Mama) would wait at the stairwell till we covered the six-metre vertical distance between the apartments and shouted out, ‘Reached!’. Mama would then walk in slowly and announce, “The girls are home, safely”. Only then would Aunty Z get on with her other activities. She always cared.
One day, Mummy signed me up for an inter-school recitation competition at Sri Aurobindo Bhavan. I was five. Mummy asked Aunty Z if she could hear my rehearsed verse. I only knew she had been an actor in her heyday. I only knew she worked at the British Council. I didn’t know she was an actor par excellence, a director who could bring out the best in everyone (including Babloo da, the light man at Gyan Manch). Aunty Z sent a handwritten note saying, “I can see her at 6:30pm”. I went. And I never stopped. Speeches, pieces, poems, songs — I’d rehearse everything with her, because she always made the time to lend a ear and impart her skill.
Aunty Z was always old, at least since the time I first saw her. But when she would get dressed, age was just a number — a number that couldn’t be guessed by any. When she would do up her hair in a French roll, she was different. When she would put on her heels, she was diggerent. When she would ‘get into character’ she was different. When she was teaching, she was different. All I liked to do was replicate her. I always tried hard to. All I needed to do was listen to every word she said, not just WHAT she said, but HOW she said what she said. I am thankful I could do this for the 20 formative years of my life. I am blessed.
The Calcutta School of Music days. Physical warm-ups, vocal warm-ups, endless rehearsals, poems, plays and often a Monginis chocolate cake or rum ball as a little treat! She would take me to the lessons on Saturday mornings in her red car. Her “driverji” would bring Memsaab’s bags down and keep the car ready, open the door for her and me. I thought all this was very posh, just like her. What stuck with me was the way she would thank him for every little thing — the politeness and love in her voice. As a girl of eight, my thought bubble didn’t reallly reflect that. I was repeating (in my head), “Hum log Calcutta School of Music jayega. Driver, Baby (me) ka window thora roll down kar do. Uska baad hum log return mein cake shop se bakery items purchase karega. Evening ko hamaara doctor Jibok saab ke saath appointment hai. Aap humko u wahaan drop karega. Phir aap chutti ko jaayega.”
Her language was memsahib language — the Queen’s English, and Mumbai Parsi Hindi with Bengali intonations. She seamlessly walked in and out of the two depending on her audience.
At CSM, Winnie the Pooh, The Princess and the Gypsies, The Porcupine, were all very special, but Macavity was my all-time favourite. It was not just the way she directed us. It was the way she explained T.S. Eliot, breaking down every stanza, every line, every word, every syllable. Poems were never a printed piece of paper. They were always an emotion. And they still are, thanks to Aunty. I last performed Macavity in 2000, at The Millennium Showcase. As I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, pushing my diaphragm down and out, I can see her perform it with Macavity’s suavity! The way she taught me how to be an old ‘cat’ while performing Gus, or even how she taught me how to cry at the end of a play at The British Council, saying, ‘If you don’t feel it, they don’t believe it’, is unmatched.
Aunty Z’s appreciation was always heartfelt and handwritten. A ‘thank you’ note or a ‘well done’ card would make its way to my house with a bunch of gladioli and box of Calcutta Club muffins.
Zarin Chaudhuri was active in Kolkata’s theatre scene since the 1970s Sanaya Mehta Vyas/Facebook
During the golden days of elocution, speech and drama at the Gupta residence, Aunty Z’s biggest gift to the pre-teenagers and the teenagers was confidence. Little did we know that we were growing into confident young adults just by spending an hour a week with her! The power of Memsaab.
The degree of practice and perfection with which she demanded, ‘Ayeee Pikloo, tea for Alooda’, lines from plays, entire plays, prose pieces and poems are etched in my memory forever! Gyan Manch, dress rehearsals, lemon tea with honey and the benefits of gargles are part of my sweetest memories.
The Action Players was another world. They were the group of hearing impared actors whom Aunty Z directed. The Rickshaw wala, The Dinner, The Hairdresser, Potol Babu film star, The Frog and the Nightingale, are a few of their works. What rich experiences she provided us with!
She sent us dhansak on Navroz and sevaiya on her birthday, every year, year after year. She celebrated Holi and Diwali with us with the same enthusiasm, every year. We could discuss Mughal miniatures, art exhibitions and Parsi border sarees. It was not just her language, her usage of words, but also her Parsi community parties that influenced us. The amalgamated cultures that she helped us grow up in, was already contributing towards us being world citizens!
Aunty’s anecdotes were the best! At leisure, she would regale us with stories of her past. Whether they were from her university days, about her teachers, about productions or about her friends. Her most heartwarming ones were with Punchal in Darjeeling! She was also always with the times. Eight years ago, when I told her, I wanted to name my daughter after her mum, she verified if the name was ‘modern enough’ and relevant in our times. Only then did she give her approval. I am glad she did!
Aunty Zarin shaped me into who I am today. She taught me punctuality, perfection and patience. She gave me the love for theatre. She ignited in me the passion for being on stage. She inculcated in me, the love for poetry and art. She always encouraged me to be a teacher. In my early 20s she would tell me, “You may not make the big bucks, but the pleasure will always be unmatched. Buildings will make you rich, but student-love will make you richer!” She was right. She was always right. Thank you, Aunty Z, for teaching me to love what I do and do what I love.
Aunty Z was not just a neighbour, a teacher, a mentor, a guide. She was an emotion. She IS an emotion in me. And the emotion will live on. She didn’t just touch lives, she changed lives.
Aunty has made her journey to a happier place. I’m sure she’s found my mum and hers! Let the drama begin!
Thank you Aunty Zarin. Curtain call.
Priyanka Gupta is the jaan of any gathering of family and friends, a one-woman entertainment channel who can liven up an occasion with her recitation, mimicry and singing. These skills would not be what they are without the inspiration and guidance of Zarin Chaudhuri
