For actors in England in the second half of the 20th century John Gielgud was the voice of Shakespeare. We were in awe of him. Every actor that I know, or know of, tried to do a Gielgud. I do not remember any rehearsal of a play -- be it on stage, radio or television -- during which someone didn’t let fly with a Shakespearean line or lines in Gielgudian tones. My favourite Gielgud when I dried during a rehearsal was: "What must the kind do now? Must he be deposed?" Invariably, another member of the cast chipped in with, "Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs…."

And so when I was given a chance to play a major role, Oberon, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I had poor shades of a throaty, tremulous Gielgudian rumble. During the coffee break after the first read through the play, Frank Hauser, the director, approached me and gave me a trenchant note, "Let go of Sir John G. I think he can take care of himself."

Oberon gave me an opportunity to learn to speak Shakespeare’s lines without being prophetic and sonorous. It was also a very good exercise in wearing an exotic costume and not be conscious of it. Oberon is a testy lover, used to having his own way and he mustn’t languish over beautiful lines like:

"But I might see Cupid’s fiery shaft

Quenched in the chaste beams of wat’ry moon."

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Shakespeare’s dramatic pattern lies not so much in the plot but in the succession of episodes that marks the development of a story. It is in the substance of the text, the constantly shifting narrative, shifting subject-matter, wit, word-play and irony. And all these elements -- as well as the emotional inter-action and philosophical speculation -- touch the mind and heart of the audience, not just through the ear, but through the mind’s eye as well.

Students who have to study Shakespeare as part of their course tell me that they find blank verse to be a terrible constraint. One of the reasons is that they tend to read each line separately. Shakespeare says lots of things all at once. He can be obscure, witty, terrifying and dramatic at the same time. Once you learn to continue reading a sentence without a pause, beyond the end of a line -- enjambment, that is -- you are able to get a better insight into what Shakespeare is trying to say.

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The part that enriched me the most was Shylock. I cannot say that it was a definitive performance, but it was one which did not leave me too dissatisfied with my work.

Shakespeare expresses, through Shylock, the centuries-old anguish of a persecuted community. I do not mean the oft-quoted "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" speech. Shylock’s address to the court, when he is asked to be merciful, is the most exquisitely written condemnation of imperialism:

"You have among you many a purchased slaves

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts

Because you bought them. Shall I say to you

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs…"

 I was fortunate enough to be directed by Peter Dews, one of the finest directors of Shakespearean drama in England. He was a Yorkshireman who was proud of not having lost his northern accent. He had a caustic wit and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. "You have to be sure of your text and when you are, may play with your balls if you like, but not before". He said to the cast on the first day.

During the early days of rehearsals he took me out to lunch to tell me that he had chosen me to play the ‘Jewish gent’ not because I was not white. "I want your passion… and I don’t mean screaming mad."

In discussing the character with Peter Dews, it became clear that anti-semitism and racism existed not only in Venice in the 17^th century, but in England as well. So Shakespeare in presenting the feelings of a persecuted member of a minority group had to give him a risible demeanour or else he might have had to face the wrath of the rowdy groundlings who would have mocked him as a Jew-lover. The original title of the play was, The Comical History of The Merchant of Venice, or Otherwise Called The Jew of Venice.

As I prepared for the role I didn’t allow myself to be haunted by Olivier’s Shylock. Dews allowed me to fumble through a medley of emotions: heavy sarcasm in the scene with Antonio, stern, with his daughter, fierce anger in the scene with the Salads (Salerio and Solanio as they are referred to in theatrical parlance) maudlin and mingy with Tubal (the wealthy Hebrew of his tribe), and a haughty plaintiff in the court. Dews allowed me time and space to work on my transitions, and when I thought I got things into shape, he became the ringmaster with the proverbial whip. "Good, but not good enough" was his oft-repeated comment.

Read also: Shakespeare’s shadow over the subcontinent

I don’t think I ever worked harder on any other part. There were times when I wanted to give it all up, but the lash of Peter Dew’s wit worked like wonders making me throw all my misgivings about myself out of the window.

After the opening night, which was considered to be a success, I received a note from him. "My entire purpose in being so tough with you was to make you do something beyond yourself and I can’t say I was disappointed." I cherish that comment to this day.

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One part that I loved playing -- it was a cameo -- was Lucio in Measure for Measure whom Shakespeare lists in the cast as ‘Lucio, the Fantastic’. In Elizabethan times ‘fantastic’ meant existing only in imagination.

Lucio is a dandified, debauched scoundrel who loves spinning scandals. The only person he has any respect for is Isabella, the heroin of the play, who has taken holy orders. Isabella’s brother has been sentenced to death on the charge of adultery. It is Lucio who persuades Isabella to go and seek his pardon for her brother from the Duke who has proclaimed the sentence.

Normally, Lucio only indulges in bawdy talk, but in the presence of Isabella he resorts to what he considers to be posh talk. This is how he chooses to inform her that her brother’s fiancé is heavily pregnant:

"Your brother and his lover have embraced,

As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time

That from the seedness, the bare fallow brings

To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb

Expresses his full tilth and husbandry".

In the review of the play the drama critic of The Guardian wrote how well I had spoken the above speech and wished that English actors "could learn from Zia Mohyeddin how to speak Shakespeare’s blank verse.

I realise that I am blowing my own trumpet but, as Faiz Ahmed Faiz wrote to his wife: "Tum Sochti hogee ke hum itra rahe hain, lekin kabhi kabhi aisa bhee karna chahiyay" (you might think I am gloating. Well, no harm in doing so once in a while)