Some writers tell stories. Others persuade you to accompany them through their mistakes. Naseeruddin Shah’s memoir And Then One Day belongs firmly to the latter category. Early in my reading, long before I had reached the halfway mark, I found myself describing him as a “Rascal of Narration.” At the time, it was merely an instinctive reaction. By the end of the memoir, the phrase had earned its place.
This is not because Shah is mischievous in the conventional sense. Rather, he possesses an unusual ability to keep the reader shifting positions. One moment, he invites admiration; the next, he reveals something that makes us uncomfortable. Just when we think we have understood him, he presents another incident that unsettles our judgement. By the end of the memoir, I found that I trusted him not because he always appeared admirable, but because he seemed unwilling to smooth over his contradictions.
One of the earliest scenes that stayed with me is Shah’s recollection of being punished and spending time in a locker room with a mirror. It is a deceptively simple episode, but it reveals a young boy confronting an anxiety that many people carry through life: the fear of being ordinary. Long before fame, awards, and recognition, there was simply a boy looking at his reflection and wondering who he was. That image remained with me long after I had moved on to later chapters.
Another revelation came through Shah’s admiration for Spencer Tracy in The Old Man and the Sea. What struck the young Shah was not the glamour of stardom but the possibility that an actor could convincingly become a fisherman. Not a hero. Not a larger-than-life figure. A fisherman. This insight seemed to shape much of what followed in his career. Reading those passages helped me understand why Shah was drawn to realism and why he often appeared sceptical of cinematic excess.
The arrival of Geoffrey Kendal in the memoir marks another turning point. Kendal’s travelling theatre company represented a life devoted entirely to the stage. Here was an artist for whom theatre was not a stepping stone to fame but a way of living. Shah’s admiration for Kendal is evident throughout the memoir, and as a reader, I found those sections particularly compelling. They reveal a young man discovering not merely a profession but a calling.
The Aligarh chapters continue this theme. Although enrolled in courses that failed to excite him, Shah found himself increasingly drawn to debates, plays, readings, and performances. His adventures, including the famous incident involving a girls’ college production, reveal both youthful recklessness and an emerging commitment to theatre. Reading these sections, I was reminded of how often creative passions develop in the margins of formal education rather than at its centre.
One of the memoir’s greatest strengths lies in its refusal to transform Shah into a saint. Many celebrity memoirs are carefully managed affairs. Their authors acknowledge mistakes only after ensuring that those mistakes ultimately reinforce a favourable image. Shah’s memoir feels different. He openly discusses failed relationships, poor decisions, selfish behaviour, and emotional blind spots. As a reader, there were moments when I wanted to shake some sense into him, particularly in matters involving family responsibilities and relationships.
Yet these admissions paradoxically increased my trust in him as a narrator. Trust, in memoir, does not necessarily come from factual certainty. It often emerges from a willingness to reveal one’s own weaknesses. Shah does not seem interested in securing the reader’s approval. Instead, he presents himself as he remembers himself, leaving the reader free to admire, criticize, or do both simultaneously.
This raises an interesting question about memoir itself. A memoir is not history. It is memory. Throughout my reading, I found myself thinking about how differently siblings might remember the same childhood event. If I were to write about my own life, my brothers or sisters might immediately dispute certain details. Yet that does not automatically invalidate my recollection. Memory is not a recording device. It preserves feelings, impressions, and meanings more reliably than exact transcripts.
This became especially evident in the sections involving Shah’s daughter, Heeba. Compared to earlier chapters, these passages felt more restrained and somewhat rushed. Whether this was due to privacy, respect, uncertainty, or narrative choice, I cannot say. What I did feel was a sudden awareness of the limits of memoir. Shah can confidently narrate his own experiences, but he cannot fully narrate another person’s emotional reality. In those moments, the memoir seems to acknowledge its own boundaries.
The chapters dealing with the National School of Drama (NSD) and later the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) offer fascinating insights into the craft of acting. These sections are rich with stories of experimentation, artistic debates, friendships, rivalries, and intellectual discovery. Readers unfamiliar with acting theory may not recognize every reference, but the excitement of discovery remains infectious. Shah’s growing obsession with acting as a craft becomes increasingly apparent.
He also navigates the student–teacher dynamic that shaped his understanding of acting. Shah and his friend Jaspal initially followed the guidance of Ebrahim Alkazi at NSD, only to move beyond his influence as they forged their own understanding of performance. Satyadev Dubey (Dubeji), meanwhile, became a significant force in Shah’s later engagement with experimental theatre and parallel cinema. Throughout these years, Shah’s inner critic remained on the prowl, questioning creative choices and challenging assumptions both on stage and on set.
One detail that particularly interested me was his discussion of voice. I have long admired Shah’s diction and vocal clarity in the films I have seen. Discovering that he experienced significant vocal strain and required medical intervention after intense performances added a new dimension to my appreciation. Suddenly, what appeared effortless revealed itself as the product of discipline, endurance, and care. The voice became not merely a talent but an instrument requiring maintenance.
The memoir also explores Shah’s complicated relationship with commercial cinema. His criticism of fandom and formulaic filmmaking may not appeal to everyone, but it emerges from a deeply held commitment to artistic integrity. Whether one agrees with him or not, it is difficult to miss the sincerity of his convictions. For Shah, acting appears to have been less about celebrity and more about pursuing truth within performance.
Because I was fascinated with Sparsh, Masoom, Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyoon Aata Hai?, Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro, Nishant, Junoon, Bhumika, and I may have seen a few whose title I don’t remember. Even if my recollection of parallel cinema remains incomplete, those films continue to educate and to entertain me in equal measure.
Interestingly, the later sections of the memoir shift in tone. The earlier chapters unfold through vivid scenes and stories. The later chapters often feel more reflective and explanatory. Film projects, collaborations, and professional milestones are sometimes mentioned in passing rather than explored in great depth. At first, I found this surprising. However, I gradually realised that Shah seemed less interested in cataloguing achievements than in reflecting on what those achievements ultimately meant.
This is where the memoir’s exploration of fame becomes particularly compelling. Shah appears increasingly aware that recognition and fulfilment are not the same thing. Fame answers one set of questions while leaving more fundamental questions unresolved. The older Shah who emerges in the final chapters appears far more interested in craft, purpose, and artistic honesty than in celebrity. The years seem to have deepened his commitment to theatre and meaningful performance rather than diminishing it.
Looking back, I realise that what interested me most was not Shah’s career but his narration of it. By the end of the memoir, I found myself less fascinated by the chronology of films and more fascinated by the storyteller guiding me through them. The “Rascal of Narration” continued to earn the title chapter after chapter. He repeatedly led me toward one judgement only to complicate it moments later.
Perhaps that is why the memoir stayed with me. It does not offer a neatly packaged life story. Instead, it presents a human being in all his contradictions: passionate yet selfish, insightful yet blind, devoted yet flawed, confident yet uncertain. Shah does not always make himself easy to admire, but he makes himself difficult to ignore.
The critic within Shah remains active throughout the memoir. He is unafraid to challenge directors, question creative choices, or express dissatisfaction when he feels a role has been compromised. His reputation as a difficult actor seems to arise less from ego than from a fierce commitment to the craft itself. Whether one agrees with him or not, his arguments are usually rooted in his understanding of performance rather than in public opinion or box-office expectations. The often spoken disagreement and being called a difficult actor to work with comes from his strong belief in the craft itself than in public opinions or assumed preferences.
He is especially sharp in his views about commercial cinema and concept of blockbusters. There is no actor alive who does not want the performance to be recognised and hailed. But the mill variety movies of Hindi cinema sickened him and much like it does me.
By the final page, I was less interested in Naseeruddin Shah the celebrity than in Naseeruddin Shah the narrator. The boy in the locker room, the aspiring actor inspired by a fisherman, the theatre enthusiast captivated by Geoffrey Kendal, the student at NSD and FTII, the man grappling with fame, failure, and relationships—all of these selves coexist within the memoir.
And perhaps that is the true achievement of And Then One Day. It allows the reader to walk alongside its author without demanding either admiration or forgiveness. It simply asks us to listen. That, in my view, is the enduring charm of a rascal of narration.
The final impression that the memoir left me with was the boy who marvelled at Spencer Tracy becoming a fisherman spent the rest of his life pursuing that same truthfulness in performance.
Credit: In Convo with Mira (AI Powered ChatGPT)
Itinerant Storyteller 