Shan Interview(New)

Heres an interview of Shan. He comes off as a nice decent hardworking person.
    
   I used to go to the movies with my mother when I was a child. Mohammad Ali and Zeba flicks were her favourites, though she always felt that Zeba and Waheed Murad made a rather better couple. On the way we would pass Waheed Murad’s house on Tariq Road in Karachi, and eagerly wait to see if we could spot him. It was my bonding time with my mother, as my younger siblings were left safely at home, and I had her all to myself. The ’70s saw the advent of the VCR, and we switched to watching Indian movies at home instead of going to the cinema. My fling with Lollywood was over, for now.

I first heard of Shan in the ’80s. Everyone seemed to be talking about the hot new actor starring opposite Reema in Bulandi. I watched the film, but my enthusiasm for Pakistani cinema was by then a thing of the past. It was not until I befriended Fifi Haroon and Saqib Malik that my interest was reignited. I first met Shan on a visit to his home with Fifi. She had told me that he’d studied in New York, but I dismissed this as yet another concocted story that Lollywood types come up with. So I was shocked to find Shan spoke little, but in clear, articulate English.

He was clearly one of us. Why would an educated, handsome guy want to be a Lollywood hero? What possible satisfaction can he derive from hurling obscenities and gandasas at his foes? “Aishwarya Rai may have been Miss World, but till she became an actress the masses were clueless about her. You have to be in the masses to be a star,” says Shan.

Now I’ve become Shan’s manager, and we are sitting at Eastern Studio where the new Mobilink commercial is being shot. I did not ask to be his manager – he has just handed over the post to me. He calls me his lucky charm. Ever since I convinced him to act in the music video for Fuzon’s ‘Khamaj’ and secured Mobilink for him he’s convinced I can make things happen.

For all you scandal hounds out there, I should clarify I’m not having an affair with him. There’s a whole regiment of actresses who claim to have, however, and I ask him bluntly if there is any truth to the rumour that he’s slept with every actress in Lollywood. “No, are you kidding?” he exclaims. “Do you know what expectations these women would have from me if I did? I’ve been in love twice and I married the last lady I fell in love with, my wife. I like women who are beautiful, intelligent and strong. I’m not into bimbos!” he adds.

Shan is happily married to Amna, and the couple have a delightful little child named Bhahist, which means ‘paradise’. I’m surprised to discover his real name isn’t Shan at all, but Armaghan, ‘present’. These names come from his dada (paternal grandfather) who was fluent in Persian. The family has long been deeply into filmmaking; Shan’s mother Neelo was a famous actress and his father Riaz Shahid a cameraman, writer and director. Shan dotes on his mother, and tells me the famous story of how his parents met. “The Shah of Iran came to Pakistan and wanted my mother to dance. She refused; suddenly there was police at their house. My mother took pills and landed at the hospital. My father and other industry member backed her courageous act. He came to see her at the hospital and they fell in love.” He adds “They wanted to marry but since she was Christian there was opposition. Eventually they married and my father made controversial but super hit films like Zarqa”.

We’re interrupted by fans who want to be photographed with Shan. “Give me a few minutes,” he tells them. He always seems to have time to chat with upcoming young artists and fans. One such fan calls while we are talking, and he immediately speaks to him. I’ve also realised just how popular he is – so much for my slightly condescending attitude towards Lollywood. The only other celebrity I know who commands such attention outdoors is Imran Khan.

Shan’s childhood was filled with props – swords, horses and flags. After 13 years at Aitchison College in Lahore, the family packed off to New York where he attended high school. He tells me a little about his personal tragedy: he never knew his father, who died of leukaemia when Shan was only a year old. While he was growing up his family told him his father was abroad, and Shan only learnt the truth from taunting friends.

“I disappeared for two days when I found out they had lied to me, and hid in the godown behind the studio,” he admits. So was his dad his hero? “No. I’m proud of him, but to have a hero you need a person to be around. I have his watch, his pen, but I never had his time.”

Shan came back to Pakistan for his sister’s wedding and his family pressured him to stay on for four years, during which time he shot Bulandi. At 22 he returned to New York and went to film school, not for acting, but to study cinematography and writing screenplays. Given this, I ask him what he envisions for himself. “I can’t disclose that!” he says. “All I can say is I want it all. More, more, more…”

At this point Shan must leave to render his shot for Jami, who is directing the Mobilink ad. “No more hairspray, Tariq,” Shan warns his stylist. Earlier I’d received frantic calls from Jami saying Shan’s hair just had to look like the last commercial, but Shan is obstinate. He does not want to colour his hair or cut it. After a brief crisis we arrive at a compromise, and Shan goes from a 20-something to a 30-something dad.

When he returns, the conversation drifts naturally to metrosexuality. “I don’t wax, I shave, I work out like crazy, my best features are my eyes, and if you catch my left angle on camera it’s the best.” Shan shed a lot of weight years ago, and speaks of it with some relief. “Fat people don’t have good moods. There’s a high attached to asking for a 29 inch waist at a Levis store,” he admits.

The shoot is over and Shan hasn’t eaten. I’m in a bit of a hurry to leave as I have two parties to attend this evening, but we wait in his rented car outside the studio for the chicken tikkas to arrive. We’re flanked by a pair of goons who follow us everywhere. “This is Karachi, I need security,” he explains.

We get to the Pearl Continental Hotel, and the information minister, Sheikh Rashid, crosses our path. Again, however, it is Shan who commands all the attention. A thought crosses my mind, and I ask him if he, like Hollywood and Bollywood politicians before him, has any political aspirations. “If a doctor and a banker can become prime minister, why can’t an actor?” he replies.

Wazir-e-Azam Shan, eh? So what’s his manifesto? “I would rid the country of corruption by paying higher wages. This I would achieve by cutting the defence budget. When you have the bomb you have enough of an arsenal to protect yourself.”

Shan’s next meeting is with a producer for a production to be shot in Italy. As I leave, he says to me, “I want Iraj for the role, please talk to her.”

Two hours later I’m back to take him to the parties. Now he has another request. “Does Agha’s Supermarket have a billboard? If so, I want to be on it.” Coincidentally, at that moment an SMS message arrives on my phone: it’s Farid Verani of Agha’s Supermarket asking me to a GT at his home. I take Shan there, and then we move on to other parties. At one, a young model/actress tells him she’s been a big fan of his since her teens. He’s not just a heartthrob for the masses, I realise; Shan’s appeal extends even to those Anglophone types who otherwise look down upon Lollywood.

At the party Shan finds a client and sits down to discuss his next new endorsement. He has me chewing my nails – he wants to change concepts, scripts, even co-stars. “I don’t care about the money. I make enough