Dolly Thakore has worked in radio, television, advertising, theatre, films, and public relations. Her memoir, Regrets, None, co-authored with film maker and theatre director Arghya Lahiri, captured her eventful life and presented a picture of India’s non conformist set of the 1960s, 70s and 80s.
You open the book by saying, “I admit to resentments. But I have no regrets. None.” While you don’t have regrets, what about the people in your life? While writing, did you find yourself thinking about what they might find uncomfortable or upsetting?
No way! Too bad if they are nervous about the choices that they have made! This is my book, my story, my reality. I am not bothered about their reactions. They must worry about the things that embarrass them, and what they wish to hide. My life is an open book, and I want it to be that way. I am not ashamed. Why should I be? Like I say in the note at the very beginning, “I wrote this memoir for my son, Quasar, so that he may understand.” If I don’t feel the need to hide things from my son, why should I care about anyone else?
One of the things that you’ve written about is your experience as a single mother. Would you say that attitudes towards single mothers in India have changed?
{{/usCountry}}One of the things that you’ve written about is your experience as a single mother. Would you say that attitudes towards single mothers in India have changed?
{{/usCountry}}I have no objective way of answering this in terms of data and statistics but I know that today’s women are confident, smart, and entirely capable of excelling in their career and raising a child even if there is no husband or partner by their side. A young girl that I met at the Jaipur Literature Festival told me that my book struck a chord with her because she is a single mother. I enjoyed hearing about her experiences. We could not talk much but I left her with one piece of advice: “To hell with your parents. It’s your life, and your child.” This is exactly what I tell all young mothers. They just need to ask themselves, “What do I want?” The answer to that holds the key to their freedom and their happiness. They can live on their own terms if they decide to break away from the expectations that others have placed on them.
Your book released around the same time as books by and about some of your contemporaries – Kabir Bedi’s book Stories I Must Tell and Ritu Menon’s book Zohra! Strange, isn’t it?
Yes, quite strange! None of us got together and discussed it or planned to bring out these books simultaneously. I learnt about Ritu’s book only when she got in touch with me to ask about my association with Zohra Apa. It was just serendipity. That’s how life is, isn’t it?
Protima Bedi, Kabir Bedi’s ex-wife, was an importance presence in your life. You write about how she inspired you to sign up for a 10-day Vipassana meditation course...
Protima was my best friend! She was one of those experimenters who had done everything in life. When she heard the news that her son Siddharth died of suicide, I was with her. She was completely heartbroken, but she knew how to put herself together. Siddharth was just 23 at that time, and he died in Los Angeles. I went to see Protima off at the airport.
She was surrounded by people trying to offer their condolences. It was crowded and chaotic. She must have been overwhelmed. I saw what she was doing. She would close her eyes for a few moments, take a deep breath, and then be fine and talk in a normal voice. I decided then and there that I would go for a Vipassana course if it would make me like that. It was truly the most wonderful thing that happened to me. Of course, I don’t sit and meditate at home now. It’s not part of my lifestyle. But I am very grateful that I did it at the right time.
Some element of the spiritual has always been there in my life but none of it is religious. I was invited to visit the Dalai Lama, so I went and met him. I was invited by the Tibetan poet Tenzin Tsundue – who is Quasar’s friend – to compere some shows for the Dalai Lama, so I did. I have also met Tai Situpa Rinpoche at the Sherab Ling Monastery in Himachal Pradesh. Those were wonderful experiences. I had fun. I learnt new things. It has been enriching.
You also write about visiting a church in Kohat, Pakistan, and then calling your father from there. The fact that you were born in Pakistan must have come as a surprise for many of your readers. How have people responded to that section?
Perhaps the best thing about a memoir is stumbling across things and discovering new aspects about a person you thought you knew everything about. I was born in Kohat in 1943, and when I went back in 2004, it was an amazing feeling for me. I could not help ringing my father from there and sharing that moment with him. He listened carefully when I described the scene from the top of a tower. He was silent for a while, and then he asked me if I could see an abandoned airfield. I was surprised how he knew that. He asked me if I could see a church at the edge of the airfield. I could. I was stunned when he told me that I was baptized at that very church. And right beside it was the sarai where I was born. It was such an unexpected treat, going back to the place where it all began, where my life began.
“Go to Pakistan” has now become a statement to shut down dissenting voices, mostly people who are concerned about injustice and intolerance in India. Your book suggests that things were different in 2004. How did you manage to go there?
Over the years, there have been ups and downs in the relationship between the two countries. I had gone in 2004, at a time when India and Pakistan were playing a cricket match in Lahore. I was one of the guests invited to go. When the visa papers came, I realised that only city-specific visas were issued to Indians who wanted to visit Pakistan. I didn’t want to go only to Lahore. I was adamant. I wanted to go to Karachi, Islamabad and Kohat.
A few weeks later, I had to go to Delhi. I carried my passport with me. As luck would have it, I met the High Commissioner of Pakistan at a Mehdi Hassan concert. This was at the Ashoka hotel. He was seated right next to me. As soon as I realised that I turned to him and said, “Just the man!” I told him that I really wanted to visit those four cities. He asked me to show up at the High Commission on the following day. I went there and asked to meet him.
There was a flurry of calls, and then I was ushered in. The official who met me was curious to know why I wanted to go to Kohat. I told him, “Because I was born there.” Guess what happened? He too was born in Kohat. He promptly stamped my passport for all four cities. It was a memorable trip. I met amazing people, had excellent food, and made lots of friends.
In the book, you write about some Pakistani ladies who invited you for tea because they found out that you knew Kabir Bedi. Tell us about that experience.
It was hilarious at some level, but also quite moving. I met a woman called Mujahida who showed me this precious object – a framed work signed by Kabir’s mother who was called Sister Palmo. She was a nun, so that was her Buddhist name. Now Mujahida’s mother had the painting hanging over her bed in New York. When the mother died, Mujahida wanted to make sure that the object was returned to its rightful owner. I was asked to bring it back to Mumbai and give it to Kabir. I was only too happy to do that.
Kabir Bedi’s book says a lot about Sister Palmo. How were your interactions with her?
Well, I had no relationship with her. I just met her once. She was there in the house on this one occasion that I had gone to meet Kabir in Juhu. I never approached her. She had this life that I knew nothing about. All that I know about her is from Kabir’s book. I have known him since he was 17 years old, so I was interested in the background he came from.
Speaking of famous people, you had a huge crush on Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. He too is in your book. Tell us how he found a special place in your heart.
Oh, he was an idol! Not just my idol; he was an idol for so many people! I am of a generation that saw India’s independence right in front of our eyes. Nehru was a good-looking man, so I had a crush on him. Gandhi wasn’t, so I didn’t have a crush on him.
Among current politicians, is there anyone that you find attractive?
Certainly not!
Read more: Excerpt: Regrets, None by Dolly Thakore
Are you still performing The Vagina Monologues all across India?
Yes, I love that play. Eve Ensler wrote it; Mahabanoo Mody-Kotwal and I brought it to India. We started in 2003, and it has been going on non-stop. Mahabanoo and I realized that two old women talking about their vaginas wasn’t going to be very attractive for audiences, so we got two young women to join us – Avantika Akerkar and Jayati Bhatia. It has been so well received. We have had people at Prithvi Theatre in Mumbai come and touch our feet, young couples announcing their engagements and wedding anniversaries, cutting cake with us, sharing a drink with us. The Mumbai police have invited us to perform for 600 policewomen. The police commissioner organised a show for us in Dharavi in Hindi for all the Kamathipura women. We have even had Catholic nuns and priests come for our shows.
Once The Vagina Monologues became popular, a play called Penis Dialogues came up in response. It didn’t last very long. Why do you think that happened?
That’s right! Alyque (Padamsee) wrote it. It was meant to be a rejoinder. He thought that it would also win a great deal of support, but it didn’t. I saw it twice, in fact. The script was not as exciting as The Vagina Monologues. Also, I guess the men were not interested in knowing or talking about their penises. The women were interested in talking about vaginas.
What are the other projects that you are working on?
My whole life has been project after project. If I like one that comes my way, I will do it. Recently, I did a bit role in Farhad Samji’s film Bachchan Pandey. I play a reporter. It was a two-day job. It didn’t ask for much. I had fun. I have fun everywhere I go.
Chintan Girish Modi is an independent writer, journalist and book reviewer.