Baba, my father, used to call me Bia. Many times, I have recounted the various gifts I received from him—though often not appreciative of them when they were presented. Here, I recount those that have guided my aesthetic journey.
First and foremost, S.T.Zaidi (Baba) was my father. Much older than my mother, his love for us, his three children, remains everlasting. Digression: I was sandwiched between his beloved older son and my younger sister, whom he doted on. On reflection, I now know my feelings of being less favoured weren’t true.
Secondly, Baba was a film director. Before migrating to Pakistan, he worked on Mughal-e-Azam, a landmark film that took eleven years to complete. Initially, one of many assistant directors, he eventually became the Associate Director. He had several other films in the pipeline, which he was assured he would be able to complete even after migration. However, both governments denied that option. To his credit, in Pakistan he directed Taj Mahal (1969), Salam-e-Mohabbat (1971), Badley Gi Dunya Saathi (1972), Mr. Buddhu (1973), Be-iman (1973), Imaandar (1974), and Chori Chori (1979).
Besides these two major identities, despite never having pursued a formal education, he surrounded himself with books. From his eclectic collection, the ones that remain vivid in my memory include a signed Chughtai edition of Diwan-e-Ghalib, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, a research book on the history of the Taj Mahal, a coffee table publication on the art of Khujarao, Crime and Punishment, War and Peace, complete works of Khalil Gibran, complete works of Oscar Wilde, Our Lady of the Flowers, King Rat, The Pearl, and Godfather.
He cast me as a child actor in a couple of his films. I LOVED the experience. The theatricality of working on set was thrilling. Shahnoor and Evernew Studios became my playground between shoots. Location filming was the best—it was the only time I got to visit the Swat Valley. On outdoor shoots, I loathed it when Baba would roar from behind the camera, “Open up your eyes, Bia!” For a nine-year-old, it was tough to do that under the blinding glare of the mighty reflectors. His assistants were tasked with discouraging me from silently mouthing the other actor’s lines before delivering my own.
I felt like a heroine after emerging from the makeup room and adored the attention from the powder guy. It was bloody hard work in the dubbing studio, but I most cherished scavenging in the editing room. I would collect and treasure the discarded clips from the floor. Clips as long as my arm were most precious—they could be sandwiched between two fingers and swiped quickly to bring the still frames to life. It was magic!
Watching these films in a cinema was awe-inspiring. Larger than life, it was like stepping into a parallel universe.
Growing up, it was natural for me to draw people who always looked beautiful. But deep down, I wanted the tools of this magic in my own hands. In my early teens, I began pestering Baba with questions. “How do you write stories?” I asked. His answer made no sense to me at the time: “All stories begin with a simple triangle. It’s a relationship of two people, and there’s always a third. Then more and more triangles overlap until crystals form, and eventually, a gem made of many small triangles.” I looked at him blankly and replied with a simple, “Huh?”
I asked Baba for lighting tips. “Bia, you have two beautiful eyes. Look around and observe, it’s simple.”
When I got my hands on a borrowed camera, I wanted my images to look like film stills. We had an anglepoise desk lamp, and I played with it using my action man as the model. The film pack offered limited instruction—1/250 sec at f/16 for bright sun, 1/125 at f/5.6 for cloudy, 1/60 at f/4 for artificial light—but the results were disappointing. I asked Baba for lighting tips. “Bia, you have two beautiful eyes. Look around and observe, it’s simple.” He then turned off the room lights except for the lamp, held the action man with the bulb behind it, and—lo and behold—I could only see the shape and no details. “That’s silhouette lighting. Put the lamp on the side—that’s sidelight. Place it in front, move it up and down, and see how it changes the face and shape of your toy.” That was the entirety of his lesson.
Years later, I found myself echoing his words to my photography students at NCA: “Look and carefully observe nature. Make mental notes of the lighting you encounter—its direction, intensity, where it’s bouncing from, what materials it’s reflecting off, what happens when clouds cover the sun. Learn how you can manipulate, change, and recreate light.”
He taught me to see the complex as simple, and to peel back the onion skin to observe the intricate.
Baba may not have been a box-office hit director, but his answers to my early, burning questions were packed with a simplicity that I continue to unravel. His wisdom guides me still—not just in photography—but in observation, in appreciating similarities as much as differences, in seeing people and objects in their best light and complementing what is already there. He taught me to see the complex as simple, and to peel back the onion skin to observe the intricate. It’s a constant oscillation between the micro and the macro.
If I ever commented on how gorgeous some of his actors were, Baba would shrug and laugh, saying, “A donkey in its prime is BEAUTIFUL.” I used to think he was being ageist, but now, replacing “prime” with “authenticity,” I see how right he was.
Many decades ago, Baba visited London around Father’s Day, and I wanted to take a photo of us; he did oblige, but also added, “What is this business of celebrating this day and that day? You and I know what our bond is, and that is all that matters.” Fast forward thirty-five years, on this Father’s Day, I thank you, Baba, for being my guide and mentor. Thank you for sharing your strengths and vulnerabilities—not just in the time we pulsed together, but also in the unshakable, ethereal connection that continues.