Adam Ayub is a well-known cine
artiste with multi-dimensional talents in his
field. He is also a good writer. This is an extract
from his autobiography. The filmography of Adam
Ayub is given separately. He graduated from Ernakulam
Maharajas College in 1972 and joined the film
Institute in Madras. After passing my diploma,
I worked in the film Industry for about 10 years,
before switching over to television when doordarshan
started operation.
He has no other profession, but does several jobs
in the media .
He writes articles in English and Malayalam, and
teaches
cinema at various Media Institutes. He is also
an actor and screenplay writer.
He directs documentaries, serials and spots.
He translates Films and serials from different
languages into Malayalam, and vice versa.
He says he is not a psychologist, but according
to him, teaching is a psychological process ,
particularly acting, screenplay writing and direction,
where you have no prescribed textbooks to follow.
It is a sort of a psychological treatment, teaching
the art and craft of film making.
Ever since he passed out from the Film Institute
in 1975, he had been working in the film industry
as Associate director and in very few films as
actor. When Doordarshan was first established
in Kerala, he switched over to Television. Now
he is very active in the media doing the following
things.
Fallen Leaves
Chapter-1
While I was gradually taking shape and form
in my mother’s womb, God was writing my
destiny. He gave me some talents, but did not
assign me any significant role to play in this
world. Then, you may wonder, why I am writing
this autobiography. Well, to know that, you will
have to read patiently till the end.
I came into this world at 3.45 am on Wednesday,
the 8th of March 1950 at Mattancherry, Kochi,
Kerala, India, as the eldest of the six children
of Mr.Ayub Adam Sait B.A.B.L. and Mrs.Mariam Bai
Ayub. I was not born with a silver spoon in my
mouth. Though my parents were not rich, my foster
grandmother and grandfather were fairly well off.
In fact grandpa was a wealthy and influential
business man, whose wealth had begun to decline
at the time of my birth. So I spent the first
few years of my life in the luxurious care of
my foster grandmother, Haju bai, and wife of Abbamia
raja of Kochangadi. It was a big joint family.
The house was a sprawling mansion. My grand father
commanded a big business in spices. But at the
time of my birth, Grandfather was too old to attend
to his business. There were many children in that
huge family. Most of them were girls. I think
I was the only boy at that time. So I was much
pampered. I was my grandmother’s pet. I
used to boss over the girls due to my proximity
to grandmother. Many acres of land around the
mansion belonged to my grandfather. Apart from
rice and coconuts, mangoes, jackfruits and many
other fruits and vegetables also used to come
From grandfather’s vast cultivated lands.
During one such harvest season, there was a pile
of jackfruits stacked in a corner. All the little
children assembled around gaping in wonder at
the number of jackfruits. As I was the undisputed
prince above all those silly girls, naturally
I laid claim to the biggest jackfruit saying “That
is mine”. One little voice said “No
that is mine” I looked around in surprise
to see who dared to challenge me. It was my little
cousin Zakira. She was only three years old. I
was one year older than her. I could not bear
the challenge to my authority. I grabbed her hand
and sank my teeth into her tender wrist. She screamed
in pain. There was big commotion. No doubt the
quarrel among little children could be a cause
for heartburning among the elders in a joint family.
So my mother caught hold of me. She took a green
chilly from the kitchen, broke it and rubbed it
in my mouth. I screamed in agony. My mother was
shouting “You must never do this again”.
My grand mother came to my rescue. She released
me from my mother’s clutches. My lips were
burning red! She washed my mouth and applied honey.
Then she took me to her bedroom, and put me to
sleep by fanning me with her hand fan. She was
whispering into my ears. “My prince, you
must never bite others, you must never hurt others.
A man must protect the women, not hurt them”.
She was saying this in a rhythmic way, it sounded
like a lullaby and I gradually slipped into sleep.
Soon my grandmother died. Scramble for the properties
started. Grandfather also did not live long after
that. We had to leave that palatial palace and
seek a humble dwelling. The next six to seven
years were the most miserable part of my childhood.
These years were spent in utter poverty. We had
no house, no proper clothes and no food. We were
living at the kindness of another aunt of my mother,
whom we used to call nanima. My parents and we
six children, along with our chacha, Khalid, were
all crammed in a single room of nanima’s
house. Though my father, whom we used to call
Raja, was an advocate by profession, he had no
work. For some time, he had a fairly big office
in mattancherry. My only memory associated with
that office is that, once I had meals there with
father. He had ordered meals from a nearby hotel.
In fact that was the first time I tasted hotel
food. I remember there was very tasty fish fry.
But he did not have much work in the office. He
had to close down the office, as he did not have
income even to pay for the office rent. Thereafter
he was at home most of the time, lying on the
bed during day and night.
I studied in the Haji Essa Haji Moossa Memorial
high School of Mattancherry.It was just half a
kilometer from where we lived. My brother, Akber
was one class junior to me. Most of the days we
did not go home for lunch, as there was nothing
to eat at home. Some times, mother used to buy
groundnut for half anna from the“kappalandi”wala
on credit and give us when we go home for lunch.
Some nights nanima used to give one chappathi
to us, which we used to eat in turns. One child
got the chappathi one night. The others slept
with empty stomachs. Each one of us got a chappathi
once in six days. The elders never had anything
to eat. Tapioca was the staple diet those days.
Even if mother could borrow some money from somewhere,
it was not enough to buy rice to feed nine mouths.
So boiled tapioca often blessed our shrunken stomachs
as a luxury food, after prolonged periods of starvation.
My youngest sister, Nazneen was born into these
hardest of times. She never had the luxury of
milk and fruits or even rice. Boiled tapioca was
the food her tiny tongue first tasted and continued
to taste for a long time to come. Mother used
to send me to relatives’ houses to borrow
money. I used to melt with shame when their sympathetic
and sometimes contemptuous eyes fell on my frail
body and shabby clothes. I was always reluctant
to go; but my mother used to plead with me promising
boiled tapioca for me and my starving siblings
if I get the money. My sister Nafia, fifth in
the line, used to wear my shirts at home. It used
to reach her knee. As little children we never
had the luxury of good food, chocolates, Toys
or good clothes. Milk was also alien to our little
palettes. We had never tasted ice-cream in our
childhood.
One day I and my brother Akbar were returning
home after school. We saw a small crowd on the
roadside. We were walking in the opposite side
of the road. When we drew near we saw that the
crowd had collected around two foreigners. The
foreigners seemed to be enjoying the scene. Suddenly
their attention fell on us. They beckoned us.
We were scared. But the crowd urged us to come
near. We looked at each other. The crowd kept
on calling us. “Don’t worry, they
won’t harm you. We are here. Come over”
they urged. We crossed the road and went to them.
Immediately one of them put his hands into his
pockets, pulled out a handful of coins and put
it into my hands. The other also followed suit.
He gave the money to Akbar. We stood there gaping
at them, not knowing what to do. One man from
the crowd said, “They are drunk, that’s
why they are distributing money recklessly. Take
the money and go home.” When the man said
they were drunk, we were scared. We did not want
to invite their wrath. So we left the place immediately.
But we were facing another dilemma. How will my
mother react, when she comes to know that we had
accepted money from strangers, that too foreigners?
We were sure that we would get punishment. We
reached home with the coins in our pockets. We
started narrating the story fearfully, with Akbar
trying to put the blame on me and me trying to
put it on him. We gave the coins to mother. She
counted it. I had got six annas and Akbar got
five annas. The foreigners had not counted the
coins; neither did we. But they seemed to have
done justice in the matter of seniority and I
was secretly happy. But then I suddenly wondered
whether I will get six thrashing and Akbar five.
But to our surprise mother said, “Alright,
go and buy some rice and provisions with this
money. We can eat something tonight”. We
jumped with joy. Then mother said “But hereafter
don’t accept money from strangers. I think
God has sent us this money, as my children have
not eaten anything for the last two days.”
Akbar had the habit of chewing his thumb from
early childhood. My parents tried to discourage
him. But the habit persisted. They tried all ways
to get rid of this habit. They applied some bitter
tasting herbal paste to his thumb, when he was
asleep. But to no avail. He will have the thumb
in his mouth and the forefinger in his nose. His
thumb had become very thin due to constant chewing.
Then they decided to apply psychological pressure.
They said they have made a vow to cut his thumb
and donate it to the Nagoor mosque, a dargah in
Tamilnadu
Two people, with green turbans around their heads,
used to go around the houses singing and beating
drums, seeking alms. I do not know whether they
were from Nagoor. Later I came to know that my
parents did not believe in dargahs. We were taught
that it is a sin to worship anybody other than
Allah. So I think the Nagoor vow was just a ploy
invented by somebody else to scare Akbar. Anyway
it had a tremendous psychological impact on him.
He was so addicted to the habit that he could
not keep his thumb away from his mouth, in spite
of the fear of Nagoor. Whenever the drums of the
Nagoor monks were heard from a distance, Akbar
used to tremble with fear. He used to hide under
the cot, behind the door or wherever he felt safe.
Elders used to laugh, seeing him panic. But I
feel it was a great mistake on their part. Such
traumatic experiences leave a deep impact on the
minds of little children. As I was also not old
enough to understand the pain he was feeling,
I also joined the chorus in mentally torturing
him. His terror stricken little face is still
fresh in my memory. Later I realized that this
kind of torture can do irreparable damage to a
child’s psyche.
Later I came to know that, it was a state wide
agitation. In fact I was witnessing the historic
Liberation struggle to oust the first elected
communist government of the world; the government
led by communist veteran EMS Namboothirippad.
My father made desperate attempts to find a
job; but in vain. Finally he got a visa and went
to Kuwait. He soon landed a job there. This was
in 1961 or so. I was studying in the sixth standard.
Then my uncle D.A.Sait came from Bangalore. Since
there was no body to look after us here, probably
under my father’s instructions, he took
us all to Bangalore. Thus the entire family shifted
to Bangalore. We rented a house about a kilometer
away from uncle’s house. We were all admitted
to an Urdu medium school. Urdu was totally a new
language to us. I was admitted to the 7th standard
and Akbar to the 6th. They had separate sections
for middle school and high school; Middle school
means upper primary. High school had four years,
7th, 8th, 9th and 10th. I was put in the high
school first year class. I was trying to pick
up the thread of the new curriculum, when suddenly
one day, the headmaster came to our class. He
asked me to take my bag and accompany him. I was
taken to the final year class of the middle school
and admitted there. Similarly, Akbar was also
taken to one class down. We were new to that place.
We did not know the language. We did not know
what was happening to us. We could not even protest.
Coming home, I narrated the incident to my mother
with tears rolling down my eyes. She was also
helpless. When the matter was brought to my uncle’s
notice, he said there was some discrepancy in
the number of school years in both the states
and that there was nothing he could do. I resigned
to my fate. I had to learn history, geography,
science everything in Urdu. I did not even know
the alphabets of Urdu. My uncle’s wife,
Mettichachi, was a school teacher. She used to
give us tuition. Many students used to come to
her house for tuition. So we had to go to her
house at night for tuition. It was terribly cold
in Bangalore at that time. People used to go to
bed early. By 9 pm the roads were almost deserted.
It was at this time that I used to return home
after tuition. Streets were all dark and deserted.
There was a big bungalow on the way. There were
two ferocious dogs in that house. They used to
set the dogs free at night. It was a nightmare
going past that house at that time. Many a times
the dogs have chased me. I used to run screaming.
Many a times I would wait on the road for some
passerby, so that I can walk in his company. This
was the reason I dreaded going to tuition. But
I started from the alphabets and worked very hard
to pass the annual exams with good marks. But
all this turned out to be in vain. Because after
one year mettichachi was transferred to Nanjangud,
a far off town in Karanataka. So uncle’s
family shifted to that place and we were left
high and dry in a strange land with no relatives
or friends. Mother faced a dilemma. What to do
here with six small children? Chacha always had
his roots in Kochi, so he never stayed in Bangalore
for long periods. Finally we decided to shift
back to Kochi bag and baggage.
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