My Priceless Wealth - Neelima Borwankar

"You strike up such good conversations with a stranger in your first meeting. Would you consider conducting interviews for our magazine?" That question was posed to me exactly 25 years ago by Shivraj Gorle, then the editor of and magazines. Just five or six months prior, I had spontaneously written and sent a short story to magazine. Its publication boosted my confidence, and I had just submitted my next one. The magazine's office was a mere five-minute walk from my home, so I went to inquire about my story and was sent directly into the editor's cabin. He gave me the pleasant news that my second story had been accepted and then asked me what I did for a living. I mentioned that I had played a small role in the film . The cinematographer for that film was Datta Gorle, who, I learned, was Shivraj Gorle's father. This opened up a new topic of conversation, and just as I was about to leave, Mr. Gorle asked, "Why don't you do interviews for us?" I swear, I had no idea what an interview entailed. Who was I to interview? What questions should I ask? How should I write it? Despite knowing none of the answers, that very day, I conducted an interview, wrote it up that night, and submitted it to the editor the next day. It was published the following month, and for the last 25 years, I have been interviewing people ever since. Here’s how it happened. After leaving Mr. Gorle's office that afternoon, I went to the railway station in the evening to see my daughter off on a trek to the Himalayas. In her group, I noticed a little girl moving about with the ease of a seasoned pro. It turned out this was the nine-year-old's sixth Himalayan trek. When I started talking to her, she rattled off the names of her previous five treks, starting with the Valley of Flowers. She had been doing two treks a year, in May and October, ever since. The editor's question—"Why don't you do interviews?"—was still ringing in my head. I asked her a few more questions. Her school? Her grade? This little girl, a third-grader, became my inspiration to start interviewing. After the train departed, I went straight to her home with her parents. Her father was a mountaineer himself and led expeditions to the Himalayas through his own organization, Girikujan (which is still active). He and his wife had taken their daughter to the Valley of Flowers when she was just one and a half years old, trusting that someone in their group would carry her. But the little girl loved the environment so much that she walked most of the way herself. As her parents spoke, showing me photos and telling me about the expeditions she had completed and the peaks she had scaled, I was utterly fascinated. I returned home in a daze, as if I had entered a different world. When I sat down to write that night, the words flowed effortlessly. We have a saying in Marathi, "Distant hills look beautiful." Ordinary hills feel distant to us, so imagine how far the Himalayas must seem! Yet, here was a little girl who wandered the Himalayan peaks on every holiday as if she were visiting her uncle's village. Looking at her, I thought, "My goodness, she's so tiny, just nine years old! But is there really a limit to the heights one can reach in one's short life?" With that opening, I kept writing, completely unaware of the techniques of interview writing. The editor loved the article. Not only that, but he also offered me a job as an assistant editor. The girl's name was Purva Chepe. That interview became incredibly popular. Soon after, I received a call from All India Radio (Akashvani) to interview her there—my first radio interview. Then came an interview on Balchitravani, Pune's children's television channel, which was my first time conducting an interview in front of a camera. After that, I got a call from the newspaper : "Would you interview Purva Chepe for our 'Chatura' supplement? We need you to cover these specific points." It was my first opportunity to write for . The next step was the then-Alpha TV Marathi (now Zee Marathi), which was yet another first for me on that platform. Purva Chepe's interview opened so many doors for me and gave me tremendous self-confidence. Over the years, I have interviewed more than 500 people, both famous and unknown. Because I didn't know the technical format, I avoided a simple question-and-answer style. Instead, I wrote an article describing how I met the person, the atmosphere, their demeanor, and their work. This narrative style became my signature. At the time, I was in my late thirties, on the cusp of forty, and pursuing a diploma in the Russian language. Though I was new to writing, my work experience in other fields meant I wasn't shy about interacting with people. I was curious to meet new individuals, talk to them, and learn about their work. Opportunities for interviews seemed to fall into my lap as if destined. I conducted numerous interviews for various periodicals, Balchitravani, Akashvani, and Alpha TV. My subjects ranged from a woman who made traditional sugar jewelry for the Sankranti festival to renowned personalities like painter Subhash Avchat, journalist Nikhil Wagle, photographer Gautam Rajadhyaksha, makeup artist Vikram Gaikwad, Lok Sabha Speaker Manohar Joshi, veteran dancers Pandita Rohini Bhate and Shama Bhate, computer scientist Achyut Godbole, classical singer Aarti Ankalikar-Tikekar (and 20 years later, her daughter Swanandi Tikekar), Mrinal Kulkarni, Smita Talwalkar, N. D. Mahanor, and even the internationally acclaimed scientist Dr. Jayant Narlikar. Gautam Rajadhyaksha didn't use a mobile phone; you had to contact him on his landline. We scheduled our meeting over the phone. Since I was traveling from Pune, he gave me detailed directions. The next day, he called again. "Gautam speaking!" he said. My heart sank. I thought, "He must have something important to do. Will the interview even happen?" I nervously replied, "Yes, please tell me." He asked, "How are you coming?" I replied, "By the Deccan Queen." Then, in his incredibly charming voice, he said, "That means you'll reach my place around 11:30. Why don't you come for lunch?" I was speechless with hesitation. Sensing this, he enthusiastically told me how much he loved cooking and feeding people, how he and Asha Bhosle would discuss recipes, and what a great foodie Bhimsen Joshi was. "Do you eat fish? There's no healthier food than fish..." Oh my God! I couldn't believe my luck or my ears. Here was this incredibly famous photographer from the Hindi film industry, who had no lack of publicity, thinking so much about a woman coming from Pune for an interview for a simple Marathi magazine. And to make me feel comfortable, he was giving examples of none other than Asha Bhosle and Bhimsen Joshi! During the interview, he spoke freely. "You see that sliver of sunlight coming through the window? That's my favorite natural light. I took Madhuri's photo when a similar ray fell across her eyes. I told Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, 'Just hold the sarod and play a note.' Oh, the look of complete absorption on his face! I just captured that expression in my camera, that's all." The interview was, of course, wonderful. I had met a man who was not only great in his craft but also incredibly down-to-earth. After the interview was published, he called me immediately. "You've painted a portrait of me with your words!" What beautiful praise! I was witnessing moments that would stay with me for a lifetime. But the experience didn't end there. After reading the interview, Madhuri Vaidya, the editor of magazine, called me. She was organizing an event called 'Vipulshree Gappa' and asked if I could invite Gautamji. She also asked about his fee. Gautamji came in his own car and stayed at a hotel at his own expense. During the event, he chatted as if among friends. Pune's residents turned out in huge numbers to see such a celebrated artist. The program was a massive success. When Madhuri Vaidya tried to discuss his payment, he stopped her. "The Hindi film industry pays me plenty. I will not take a single penny from my own Marathi people." My wealth grew day by day in this manner. My understanding of getting ready was applying a bit of moisturizer and talcum powder. So when I had to interview makeup artist Vikram Gaikwad, it was a new world for me. This was around 2001, before information was readily available on the internet. Gathering basic information about a person before an interview was a challenge in itself, and I was determined not to go unprepared. The information I gathered about Vikram from an acquaintance at the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) was fascinating. His journey had started with Marathi one-act plays and films and had already reached the Hindi film industry. His specialty was prosthetic makeup, with a knack for transforming actors into spitting images of historical figures like Jawaharlal Nehru, Mahatma Gandhi, and Sardar Patel. I was in awe of what I had heard. When I met him, I was struck by his simple home, where he lived with his mother, wife, and young daughter. His thoughts on makeup and his complete lack of airs, despite being part of the glamorous film world, deeply impressed me. When his cover story in became a hit, he told me, "You introduced me to the Marathi people!" What magnanimity! Who was I to make his name known? His work spoke for itself. He invited me to the premiere of his film . At the event, director Jabbar Patel was praising everyone. He saved Vikram for last, saying, "And this is our Pappu Gaikwad. He just touched Mammootty, and he became Babasaheb Ambedkar. There's magic in his fingers." His career continued to soar with films like , , , , , , , and . What an incredible range! Despite winning numerous state and national awards, he has remained a humble man. Our communication was so easy; I could call him anytime, and he would either answer or message back, "In a shoot, will call later." When I completed 20 years in the writing field, I published a collection of stories and decided to host a small get-together at my home. I invited a select group of writers, editors, and artists who had supported and guided me over two decades. Vikram said, "I have a shoot in Mumbai that will go late, so I won't be able to make it." But at the scheduled time, the doorbell rang, and there stood Vikram. "If I can't be present on such special occasions, what's the point of friendship?" he said. "I delegated the responsibility to my colleague and came." What a precious memory. I was interviewing people who had achieved towering success in various fields. Once, while watching a film by Gajendra Ahire, I looked at the credits and realized I had interviewed most of the key people involved—actors like Nina Kulkarni and Madhura Velankar, the director-writer Gajendra Ahire himself, and many of the technicians. Interviewing famous people taught me so much about the heights they had reached, their capabilities, intellect, memory, the awards they had won, and the love and respect they had earned. I was grateful for the opportunity to meet them and learn about their lives. It wasn't always easy. Getting their phone numbers, gathering preliminary information, and scheduling a time—all while managing my home, two growing daughters, and my thriving flower arrangement business—required a lot of effort. Yet, conducting interviews never felt like work. After more than a hundred such interviews, I went to meet a famous woman. After the interview, while chatting over tea, she suddenly said, "Sometimes I get tired of it all. I'm just sick of it." I was shocked. It reminded me of the saying, "The king doesn't even know what Diwali is." Here was a person whose entire life revolved around success, money, and fame, and she was bored of it? If she felt weary of a life of comfort, what must those whose lives are a daily struggle feel? My mind kept circling back to this thought. By then, I had started writing short stories again. The many subtle shades of human life I observed in my interviews would linger in my mind, their seeds taking root, eventually blossoming into stories. This woman and her weariness stayed with me. Then, an idea struck me: how do families cope when a member suffers from a major illness? I spoke to the editors of magazine, two young sisters named Swati Chitnis and Vaishali Bapat. They wondered if readers would be interested in stories of sickness and sorrow. I explained that I didn't want to write tales of misery, but rather to highlight the families' struggles and the positive paths they forged. After much discussion, we decided to run the series for a year. I went to meet a woman in the Sahakar Nagar area of Pune. Nearing her forties, she had adopted a son. Within five or six months, she discovered he was mentally and physically challenged. At six months old, the baby couldn't even hold his head up. The adoption agency offered to replace the child. "We'll give you another baby," they said. The woman refused. "No. He is our son. If he had been born to me, would I have asked God for a replacement?" Raising this child was not easy. He later turned out to be deaf and mute, with an IQ of zero. While facing these stresses, her husband died suddenly of a heart attack. The woman was raising her son alone, making him as self-reliant as possible. When I interviewed Mrs. Kulkarni, her 21-year-old son was heading out with a note in his hand to buy groceries from the corner store. A short while later, he returned with the items. After this interview was published, I received a call from the president of the Acharya Atre Pratishthan. He informed me that they had decided to honor Mrs. Kulkarni with the "Ideal Mother" award and was calling to invite me to the ceremony. The response to the very first interview in the series boosted my morale tremendously. A gentleman named Prakash Date from Ichalkaranji also called after reading it. "We want to honor this woman by gifting her a sari for Shravani Shukrawar," he said. "The ritual of Jivati Puja during the month of Shravan is performed to pray for the health and long life of one's children, and it's customary to honor a married woman whose husband is alive. We want to send her a sari for that." The fact that Mr. Date wanted to honor her—even though her son was adopted and her husband was no longer alive, meaning the traditional definition didn't apply—moved me deeply. When I inquired further, I learned that his own son had Down syndrome. I then decided to interview him. His son couldn't attend a regular school, but seeing his interest in computers, his parents enrolled him in a library science computer course. Today, this young man, now 18 or 19, works in a library in Ichalkaranji. I've shared this information in two lines, but behind it lie the immense efforts of the Date couple. Their son, too, couldn't hold his head up or even crawl at seven or eight months old. His appearance was different, his hair stood straight up, he wasn't growing taller, and his speech wasn't clear. Teaching him every little thing was a tightrope walk, a challenge his parents and extended family joyfully undertook for years. After this interview was published, a reader from Mumbai called me. "This differently-abled boy is employed," he said. "Please ask them to send his details. There are Presidential awards for children like him." I immediately passed on the message to Mr. Date. I'm delighted to share that "Prathmesh Date" received the National Award for the Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities that year. The following year, he was honored with an international award in England. Documentaries were made about him, and his story was featured in the in-flight magazine of Jet Airways. He was selected as a brand ambassador for an international conference. Using the interview I wrote in 2008 as a source, more than 100 articles were published about him in over 10 Indian language newspapers. The latest news is that Prathmesh is set to work in Aamir Khan's new film. When Prathmesh received his first National Award, the entire Date family stopped at our home in Pune on their way back to show me the award. For me, it was a moment of immense satisfaction. A moment of fulfillment. I went on to interview many people who were bravely facing illnesses, establishing organizations, and creating employment opportunities for others. I received letters from parents saying that these stories gave them a ray of hope and new strength to fight. My efforts felt worthwhile. In 2010, I received a fellowship from the Shri Shashi Thanedar Foundation in the USA. My research topic was "The Mental, Emotional, Financial, and Social Condition of Parents Living in India Whose Children Live Abroad." For this, I traveled across India and interviewed 250 parents in cities like Pune, Mumbai, Nagpur, Kolkata, Bengaluru, Delhi, and Indore, as well as in smaller towns like Kolhapur, Jalgaon, and Sangli, and even in rural parts of Goa. I interviewed people from various economic backgrounds, aged between 50 and 90. This research culminated in the book (We in the Homeland, Children in a Foreign Land), published by Majestic Prakashan in 2011. The first edition sold out within a year. Even years after the next edition sold out, people still ask where they can find the book. An English version, , was published by a Delhi-based publishing house. Through these interviews, I witnessed a vast canvas of emotions—the parents' joys and sorrows, their pride and affection for their children, and their silent grief. The book allowed me to share these stories with readers. Today, the number of parents whose children live abroad is so large that everyone finds a reflection of their own experiences in the book. There's a unique joy in conducting live interviews. The presence of an audience adds a special energy to the conversation. The interview becomes more engaging when their unspoken questions are addressed, and their spontaneous reactions bring it to life. I was conducting a live interview with Vikram Gaikwad for the 'Vipulshree Gappa' program. I knew that during his struggling days in his youth, he had developed a hobby of memorizing songs as a form of escapism and had even sung in a five-star hotel in Mumbai for a while. Towards the end of the interview, I requested him to sing a song. Without any hesitation, he sang "Pucho Na Kaise Maine Rain Bitayi," and the audience erupted in thunderous applause. An unknown side of his personality was unexpectedly revealed, and the audience gave him a heartfelt ovation. Dwarkanath Sanzgiri is a personality with expertise in cricket, films, and music, with over 20-25 books to his name. When I was scheduled to interview him for the 'Majestic Gappa' event, I felt a little intimidated. Sanzgiri himself is a performer who does one-man shows and musical programs. What if he tried to get my wicket? But when we spoke on the phone beforehand, the ease and positivity in his voice dispelled all my fears. In fact, our friendship lasted until his final days. When I went to Mumbai specifically to meet him during his last days, he had the same ease and positivity in his conversation. It is said that interviewing is an art, but I had never even dreamed that I could do it. Yet, I kept on doing it, and I still do. New people unfold their lives before me, allowing me to learn about new fields. Listening to their experiences has taught me so much—what a divine gift is, how to polish it, what struggle means, how to accept a challenge, how to stay grounded, and what happens to those who don't. As I grew richer with these experiences, I suddenly realized I had accumulated a great fortune. In other matters, I say "no" to temptation, but I just can't seem to let go of the allure of this wealth. ( This article is the translated version of the original article माझी लाखमोलाची श्रीमंती written by Neelima Borwankar published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )