Asha Parekh on depression, love and being single

Just the other day I invited the psychiatrist who had treated me — with strong daily medication reduced to a mild dosage eventually — to my house for a cup of tea. I warned him I had an agenda—I needed to know if I had been a difficult case. Could I have gone over the brink?

Hesitant to discuss this initially, the psychiatrist agreed on two conditions. Out of professional ethics his name would not be mentioned. Second, he would talk candidly. No problems, he was assured. I merely wanted to turn the clock back for a re-appraisal.

I cannot rule out of the possibility that he was somewhat polite and guarded when we spoke. Still quite a few observations made by him have been useful.

According to him I was not averse to the prospect of psychiatric treatment. Like most people who are over 60 years old, I had craved for a panacea, for solutions.

That was half the battle won. If I had been resistant, I would never have been able to achieve an iota of equanimity in my life.

Several other factors had triggered my depression. I feared cardiac arrest. Was it hereditary? I was overreacting to the extent of becoming hyper, a hypochondriac. Nanda passed away suddenly, a heart attack.

My contemporaries, my heroes were no more. Guru Dutt, Bharat Bhushan, Pradeep Kumar, Rajendra Kumar, Joy Mukherjee and Sunil Dutt were no more. The passing away of Shammi Kapoor left me shattered. He had been ailing for years, he was on dialysis and then he was gone, taking a part of everyone of us, who had adored him to pieces.

Being a single woman did not worry me, maybe because I had seen quite a few marriages break up, and unhappy marriages. Somewhere down the line there was a sense of relief. My feeling was and is: love and companionship have to be mutual, unconditional and euphoric. Love has to last.

I have been remorseful on one count. When I was around 35 I wished to adopt a child. My parents had given me the go-ahead. I had connected to a child who must have been barely two years old, at a social welfare centre in Shivaji Park in Dadar. That was not to be. I was told I could not adopt the infant. It was in a precarious medical condition and would not survive for long. That truly broke my heart. The infant had smiled and had clutched my fingers. It did not want to let me go. Denied that opportunity, somehow I could never contemplate adoption again. My loss entirely.

Another trigger for my depression was the ongoing responsibility of maintaining and developing the hospital, something which I have sought to carry out with sincerity against untold odds.

Fear of flying had set in. I felt I would be breathless, claustrophobic inside in an aircraft, especially if it was a long-haul flight. This fear was overcome when the psychiatrist said he would accompany me if necessary on a flight. Summoning up courage I did take a flight alone to Birmingham to be with my friends and family, and after a year flew to New York.

The phobia about flying ended there. I would get fidgety, try to doze off, read a book and pray during the flights but after those two trips I was back to travelling in right earnest. Visiting new places and surrendering myself to new environments, metaphorically amounted to a return to Eden. I did not have to grapple with myself. My thoughts and approach to life went through a process of renewal.

If there is a void, it has been accepted to a large extent. Self-pity and the reality of losing one’s emotional investments have been faced and resolved. No point losing oneself in the maze of self-denial the way I had on my mother’s death. I had gone stonecold, silent. Tears would not come. When they did, the tears were unstoppable for weeks.

The day my mother went away, Amjad Khan had come over to pay his condolences but I was dazed. I could not come out of my room to express my gratitude. Amjad bhai was in the house from early morning till midnight. It was his son’s birthday, so he had to leave. He told someone in the house, “Please tell Asha I was here.” After a month or two, I called him to apologise and he said, “Do take care of yourself. Your mother would have wanted you to.”

Invariably film artists are ghettoised as incurable narcissists given to displaying their life-size portraits and collection of awards and honours. But do think again. If we indulge in this, it can be out of nostalgia and a remembrance of the days that were.

I am delighted when fans courier me a rare photograph they may have found. Neither do I believe that trophies and honours must be hidden away. They are a part of my being. They are my most precious mementoes, exhorting me to wonder, “Did you actually do so much work? Did you deserve the accolades? And hey, perhaps you could have done more.” No artist is ever completely satisfied. There is that lingering greed of I could have done more.

I suspect today’s stars have it tougher than I ever did. There is far more stress, groupism, competitiveness. A new film has to be promoted intensively in various cities. Insecurity affects most of us. I was not insecure about my career when the going was good but I have been uncertain about maintaining a comfortable lifestyle as I grow older. That is why I am practical about money.

I do not live like a star. I live within my means, never indulging in luxuries like a flashy car, gizmos or branded designer clothes beyond my means. If I do dress up once in a while, it is only because I am expected to on being invited to public functions.

(Re-printed with publisher's permission.) 

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