She was undoubtedly one of the finest Pakistani actresses. I remember watching a long play she did with Tauqeer Nasir. In the drama, she’s a doctor and she adopts a sickly orphan (Tauqeer Nasir). The orphan eventually falls for the doc. Excellent story, fabulous acting and a heart-wrenching ending: all ingredients of a good PTV drama. Firdous Jamal was also in it and an elderly actress whose name I forgot.
Roohi Bano - a lost soul
“Do you remember Gardish? The events in my life have been similar to Gardish: I am constantly reeling from one misfortune to another.” Half-smiling, half-sorrowful, Roohi Bano recalls the television play she had acted in back in the eighties. Its story emphasized that all humans are selfish and are wretched captives of their needs.
Roohi Bano, the TV star of yesteryear, once a household name across the country, is now a recluse living in Lahore. In Karachi for two months now, Roohi Bano is visiting the Karachi TV station after a very long time. We are meeting in the office of PTV Programme Manager, Manzoor Qureshi.
She is extremely bitter about two recent events. Promised a 50 per cent share in a new television channel, supposedly in the pipeline, she claimed being defrauded of Rs200,000, apparently by the promoter. The same person also organized a programme to honour her. This was grossly mismanaged and became a fiasco.
“The governor of Sindh, who I met recently, generously gave me Rs200,000. In a way he has compensated me for what I lost, but this one-time financial assistance is not the only thing I need. I would like to live and work in Karachi and requested him to arrange a place to stay.” She acknowledges the support given by Mehtab Rashdi who not only facilitated her meeting with the governor, but also encouraged her to see her old friends in PTV again.
Meanwhile, Manzoor Qureshi is busy putting together some papers, preparing to leave for a meeting. Sultana Siddiqui is also in the room for a few minutes. These well-known producers are Roohi’s colleagues from her acting days. Overhearing the misadventure, they reprimand her for not consulting them before committing herself to such ventures. Their display of a subtle tenderness for her is indeed heart-warming. We joke that while Roohi still looks young and beautiful, Qureshi, her co-star in Kiran Kahani and still young at heart, has nevertheless turned grey, and has grown substantially in girth with the passing years.
Many of Roohi’s fans still remember her as a charming actress par excellence, who ruled the mini-screen for nearly two decades. Television had found a great actress in Roohi when she appeared on the scene in the early years of PTV’s existence. Her repeatedly outstanding performances in Qila Kahani, Zard Gulab, Hairatkada, Darwaza, Kiran Kahani, and several other serials and long plays set her head and shoulders above many other actors. The sensitivity with which she played her roles made her popular across the country. She earned several awards, including the Pride of Performance, for her outstanding work.
Roohi’s life story is perhaps as tragic as some of the roles she has played. It is as much a case of self-destruction as it is a result of a systematic lobby that formed against her, which ultimately ousted her from the position she was enjoying.
“They say I am schizophrenic. I forget who I am,” says Roohi. One wonders though, if it is really Roohi Bano who is a victim of schizophrenia, a psychotic disorder characterized by split personality and loss of contact with the environment. Or is it society which is at fault?
Lately, the ‘long forgotten’ Roohi Bano has again been in the news: “Versatile artists like Roohi Bano are only born once in decades. She is not been in good health for quite some time. She is in need of financial assistance, emotional support and companionship,” said a TV colleague.
Why did she decide to call it quits when she was so loved and admired? She blinks her sad, kohl-lined eyes.
“She is very proud,” the new girls would say, “difficult to work with, purana style hey,” she mimics. It is inconceivable how seasoned producers and directors fell prey to such allegations, thus vitiating the entire body of work that Roohi Bano had done.
“Why didn’t you contact some of your sympathetic old colleagues?” I ask. She admits her mistake, saying, “I was disillusioned and filled with trepidation, not knowing how they would receive me.”
She drifts off, reminiscing about an old play and its story. “My play Saraab - mirage - its story has proven true for me.” She then further elaborates her condition: “Bachpun say hairat kada may rehti hoon. Apnay khaul may nahi balkay aik qilay may rehti hoon.” She looks at me directly, now opening her eyes wide, “I live in a fortress. It is difficult for anyone to climb in.” Hairatkada and Qila Kahani are references from her past - two Ashfaq Ahmad plays from the seventies in which she had acted.
Roohi’s son Ali, now 24, is present but quiet, throughout our meeting. Roohi has high hopes for the young man, who does not appear to be a wunderkind as such. “I want him to act,” she informs. Ali, on the other hand, seems incoherent and lost.
Although Roohi is staying with her mother in Karachi, she says she feels unwelcome here. She is living for her only son and is apprehensive about losing him. “Ali says he will get married and have a family of his own. I will again be left alone,” she laments.
To change the subject, she is asked how she spends her time.
“I read fiction and poetry, but mind you, they are not ordinary books. I also watch some television, but now I want to write. I want to make documentaries too, and learn to handle the whole damn production thing.”
She would like to show a comparison between rural and urban life in her documentary films.
“Our city life is a horrific, hollow life. It is poisonous. It is engulfing us like a tidal wave, like a Chinese dragon, colourful from the outside but there is nothing inside.”
Roohi is looking much better than I had anticipated; her black-and-white silk clothes are well coordinated, her nails are painted, and her cheeks have been brushed with colour. She is also dressed up in philosophical verbiage about wahdaniyat or spirituality, about a “systematic infringement of the zaat” - the self, the persona. Nevertheless, one is compelled to reach out to this 50-year old, yet child-like woman.
Having heard much about her affairs, I ask her about the men in her life. She is elusive.
“Men…” she repeats, “men either don’t understand me or I don’t understand them. I have had very few men in my life. Either they ran away from me, or I have left them…” Her marriage (and then separation) from an already twice-married media-man is well known. She feels both she and her son have been victims of exploitation, abuse and neglect.
When asked if she misses any of her old co-stars, she names a few: Mahmood Masood, Shafi Mohammad, Rahat Kazmi, Talat Hussain, Uzma Gilani and (the late) Tahira Naqvi.
On the way out from the PTV building, huge blow-ups in sepia posted on the walls on either side of the entrance, catch my attention. Roohi Bano’s photograph is amongst some faces from the past that are no more in this world…
Is Roohi Bano’s present attitude and condition a consequence of her changed circumstances, or, was her career affected by her own actions? Will Roohi Bano, once a legend, continue to suffer the sepia fate of oblivion and misery, or are there people out there who can pull her out of her illness by providing help, treatment, emotional comfort and, most importantly, a vocation, bringing back real colour to her cheeks. She deserves the understanding and support of her colleagues and admirers alike.