I owe everything that I am today to my brief association with this magnificent woman called Parveen Babi. It was my brief relationship with her, that lasted for about two-and-a-half years, that echoed in my film, Arth, which was a semi-autobiographical look at my extramarital relationship with Parveen. If Arth hadn’t happened to me, you wouldn’t be talking to me. In fact, her first mental breakdown was also chronicled in Arth. For me, Parveen died twice. The first time was when she had a mental breakdown, which was a personality death. And the second time is her physical death. I met her way back in the late 1970s when we were both living dangerously. She had just split with Kabir Bedi and was quite heartbroken. Parveen and I parted ways when she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. We hadn’t been in touch for the last 15 years. I remember, the last time I saw her was at a bookshop in Holiday Inn when the Gulf War was on. We didn’t even say hello to each other. She was a generous and giving person, a people’s person and was filled with a true joie de vivre. She never deluded herself into thinking that she was a great actress. But yes, she was an extremely hardworking actress. Parveen was a rebel who lived life on her own terms.
