Manmohan Desai's Enchantment of the Mind

by Connie Haham

  Interestingly, just as women can act tough like men and men can ‘mother’ like women, so the Savitri model can be espoused by a male character. In Aa Gale Lag Jaa Prem (Shashi Kapoor), ever faithful to Preeti (Sharmila Tagore), says to the young woman with a crush on him, ‘Don’t you know that once an Indian man has loved one woman, he cannot even think of another?’ Desai’s subconscious would seem to have been in command, expressing the wish that he, the notorious womanizer, could be so faithful.

  physical desire

  Femininity also encompasses another quite different dimension in Desai’s films. Women may be respected for being Savitri-like, but they are desired for other reasons. From the outset, a certain sexual undercurrent—rarely lewd or overplayed—is present in Desai’s work. In Chhalia, the hero (Raj Kapoor) invites the homeless Shaanti (Nutan) to stay in his humble dwelling. Before he can actually allow her in, however, he must scurry about, to jazzy background music, taking down the girlie pictures that decorate his walls. In Budtameez the undercurrent is strengthened by crosscurrents. The animated cartoon of the lady chaser during the titles sets the pace of this film made at the height of Shammi Kapoor’s reign. Titillation is the rule. Shots from behind feature Sadhana in a bathing suit and clinging pants. When Shyam (Shammi Kapoor) and Shanta (Sadhana) are caught in the forest in the rain, their only shelter is the still-standing doorway of an ancient ruin. If they remain face-to-face below this arch, and if he does not breathe, the two will not touch. The sudden appearance of a cobra, poised to strike, adds an unmistakable phallic image to the already charged scene. In Coolie Rati Agnihotri’s hips have replaced Sadhana’s. The song ‘Jawani Ki Railway’ is introduced with Iqbal (Amitabh) fingering the railway crossing barrier racily as he says, ‘Shaadi ke liye uparvaale ne javaani ke sirf chaar din rakhe. Yeh char din men nikal gae na, to samajh lo ki signal down aur apni gaari gai.’ (Youth lasts only a fleeting moment, and it was given by the One Above for the sake of marriage. When that moment is over, you understand, the signal goes down, and my train is gone.)

  The barrier then lowers in time with his falling intonation. The syncopated, hip-swaying music that follows is picturized with an easily read symbol, a broken water jug.

  Yet the atmosphere is light, not lurid. Desai’s films do not centre on passion or stunted desire. It is significant that in both Budtameez and Aa Gale Lag Jaa jokes are made about Majnu, the legendary, forlorn lover driven mad by his passion for Laila. Male-female relationships in Desai’s films regularly exude not passion—a heavy, generally thwarted, and often violent desire— but rather, either a soft and sentimental feeling of romance or a lighthearted sense of fun, neither of which conveys the sense of tragedy that accompanies most of the world’s great tales of love. In Amar Akbar Anthony three beautiful shapely girls are central in the heroes’ motivations. Yet we have our laughs even during a declaration of love. Jenny (Parveen Babi) is confessing in church and mentions Anthony’s (Amitabh Bachchan) name, ‘I think I, I…’ And out pops Anthony’s head from the booth where we supposed the priest to be, ‘Do you love me?’ The humour of the situation is compounded by his unlikely explanation for his presence in the box: he was cleaning!

  The undercurrent that was always present in Desai’s films, in Mard turned into a small tidal wave, perhaps in translation of Desai’s own moods or interests, but more likely simply in keeping with the times. The sex angle in Mard was not unique or isolated. Films made as the eighties progressed, generally, gave clear proof that the Indian film industry had become convinced of the selling power of sex. In Rahul Rawail’s Betaab (1983), for instance, when heroine (Amrita Singh) is bitten by a snake, the hero (Sunny Deol) sucks venom from her leg while she writhes and moans suggestively on the ground to affect a lightly disguised bedroom scene. The same sort of allusions to sexual relations are found even in the serious world of art cinema. At the end of Gautum Ghose’s Paar (1984), Naseeruddin Shah, playing a poor harijan, listens anxiously, with his ear against Shabana Azmi’s abdomen, for the faint heartbeat of the baby in his wife’s womb. An apparently deliberate confusion is created in the scene between a deep concern for the living fruit of a couple’s union and the thrill of the union itself. Some films from South India, made with no artistic or intellectual pretensions, regularly offered more blatant sexuality, much to the chagrin of many writers of letters to editors of film magazines. At one time only the vamp could bare and seduce on the Hindi film screen. In the eighties, the major stars did the same. Mores were changing. At least in urban India, the country was undergoing something of a sexual revolution. Aparna Sen’s Paroma (1985), with its story of a middle class housewife guiltlessly involved in an extramarital affair, may have been a cinematic hint of a wider social phenomenon that continued to grow, perhaps reaching something of an apex with Deepa Mehta’s Fire (1996) in which two frustrated middle class sisters-in-law turn to each other for sexual satisfaction; the taboo of homosexuality was lifted.

  Mard, then, with its couple who set a haystack in motion with their pulsations, was a departure from Manmohan Desai’s earlier relative reserve, but it was not unlike other films of the eighties. Likewise, the racy song ‘Hum to tambu men bambu lagaaye baithe’ (I put my bamboo in the tent) exhibits an open lustiness that carries Desai’s imprint, neither passionate nor lascivious, but rather, fast, lively, and witty.

  Subhash K. Jha’s analysis of the Freudian implications in Mard is worth noting, especially for his perception that the sexuality in Mard is not limited to the dialogues or to the girl-boy relationship.

  A strong current of sexuality runs through the very structure and style of this tale of masculinity. Each of the ‘action’ sequences (which are the highlights of Desai’s films) builds the sense of injustice within the situation to a climactic peak, with almost sexual frenzy. The release comes in an orgasmic explosion when the tangewallah rides into the scene. The ‘coming’ is captured in long shots in which Raju ‘comes’ hurling, shattering mirrored partitions and the likes, with a passionate urgency.5

  If Savitri represents traditional modesty and fidelity, Radha, another mythic figure, represents desirability. Radha and Krishna’s love has been elevated to spiritual heights. It is the very physical nature of their relationship, however, that has largely set the norms for the behaviour of screen couples. To varying degrees, the majority of unmarried heroines exemplify Radha, and most screen couples play out their romance in the Radha-Krishna fashion. (A recent, unmistakable example of this lineage is the splendid song sequence of ‘Morey Piya’ in Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Devdas.) The Gita Govinda describes the couple’s relationship as one of agony alternating with bliss. They first suffer each other’s absence, then take joy in each other’s presence. But union and harmony are fleeting, soon followed by jealousy and anger. Many romantic song picturizations have maintained this condensation and stylisation, so common in traditional dance. Often, though, the entire development of hero-heroine relations, though less emphatic, adheres to this pattern of vacillation between who needs and who is needed, who cares and who is indifferent, who searches for and who is sought after, who provokes and who is provoked.

  Judging the distribution of power between the sexes in this context becomes extremely complex. If power could be made visible, it might resemble a ball, first captured forcibly by one, then thrown willingly to the other, back and forth, back and forth. Part of Desh Premee exemplifies this shifting power. Dancing in a gambling casino, Asha (Hema Malini) appears free and spirited until we see two strong men who would bar her escape. She seems twice a victim, then, when Raju (Amitabh Bachchan), to protect his flight from the police, takes her hostage. ‘Coward!’ the inspector yells, ‘Hiding behind a woman!’ In the ensuing fight, Asha appears no more than a pawn. Raju’s control is broken, though, when, after they flee, Asha inexplicably thanks him.

  ‘For what?’ he asks perplexed.

  ‘You saved me,’ she answers, ‘from my step brothers who forced me dance at the club.’ He is nonplussed. On the run, t
he two become part of a group wedding. The ceremony ended and the danger seemingly passed, Raju throws off his wedding turban and starts to walk away. Noticing his former hostage following him, he asks what she is doing. Casting her eyes down, she answers, ‘In India wives walk behind their husbands, not in front.’ Certain of her morally indisputable case, she counters his every argument. Yet when he defiantly walks away, she again heaves the victim’s sigh…until the sight of patrolling policemen sends Raju scurrying back to her protection. Asha mockingly sings and dances around him and claps her hands tauntingly in his face, ‘Jaao, ji jaao, par itna sunlo, tori churiyon pehen lo, ek gajra silvaalo.’ (Go on, dear, go away, but listen to this: if you want to be a woman, then put on a bracelet.)6 Her song barely ended, her stepbrothers arrive, apparently to Raju’s relief. Yet when they attempt to carry her off, he valiantly fights to free her. Once again she tries to follow him; once again he protests, and once again she begins her song. He surrenders, and they enter a nearby hotel. The next morning her ‘husband’ has gone, leaving no name or address. Violins underscore her pitiful state. Raju disappears from Asha’s life, but the final word is hers. Much later, he chances to see her being harassed, comes to her defense, and at last publicly recognizes her as his wife. Such power fluctuation, common throughout Desai’s cinema, is not only an unending re-enactment of the pain and frivolity of youthful love; it is also a comment on the nature of power within a couple and perhaps on the transitory nature of power itself.

  the manmohan desai legacy

  ‘The only thing worse than not being taken seriously enough is being taken too seriously.’ Manmohan Desai did not say this. Billy Wilder did. Yet one could easily imagine Desai echoing Wilder’s words. Having a book written about his work seemed to leave Manmohan Desai with mixed feelings. Pride was quickly tempered with caution and accompanied by a reaffirmation of his central and unchanging priorities:

  In the West people may read meanings into my films which I hadn’t consciously intended. But they may be right. At least they’re taking an academic interest in me while I’m still alive. What matters, above all, is that my audiences have never let me down. They’ve always given me a hero’s welcome. Finally what counts is pleasing not the critics, but the public.1

  In recent years the Bombay film world, or ‘Bollywood,’ as it has come to be known, has been forced to evolve. For a period of time, television, video and satellite TV offered ever greater choices in entertainment to Indian spectators, draining many theatres in the process. Hindi cinema then began to revive by the mid-nineties, as it has at various times in the past. Mani Ratnam’s films from the South brought a breath of fresh air, and ‘family cinema’ made a popular comeback. Bombay ‘yuppie’ films like Farhaan Akhtar’s Dil Chahta Hai (2001) and the ‘desi’ films made by ethnic Indians in the U.S., e.g., American Chai (by Anurag Mehta, 2002), are changing the configuration of Hindi popular cinema and its extensions abroad. At present, in spite of the fact that box office figures show the majority of films to be failures, the industry has never had a greater following. Thanks to the video revolution, Hindi cinema has been able to maintain the allegiance of generations of ethnic Indians residing abroad. DVD technology has overcome the problems of poor quality in videos, and has, in addition, facilitated subtitling and permitted non-Hindi speakers—whether non-Indian or ethnic Indian who have lost the language but not the inclination to see Indian films—to keep abreast of a world that was once largely closed because of language barriers. Middle class disdain has generally given way to acceptance inside India and outside; Hindi cinema has even become a major welding force and source of identity for the Indian disaspora. Ph.D. students of physics and mathematics chat online across the U.S. or around the world about arcane minutia gleaned from decades of Hindi film productions. Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding and Gurinder Chadha’s Bend It Like Beckham, though arguably not Hindi films as such, have nevertheless given a broad spectrum of spectators in the West a taste of India on screen along with a desire to see more. Some spectacular productions such as Lagaan, Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham, Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Dil Se, and, particularly, Devdas, which was shown in Cannes in 2002 and then released in France by the largest of French distributors, have attracted wide audiences. Nasreen Munni Kabir’s series of documentaries and well-chosen Indian films shown on Channel 4 and BBC television in Britain and on the Turner Movie Channel in the U.S. have made Hindi cinema available to viewers living outside the areas of traditional distribution for Indian films abroad. Aishwarya Rai was among Time magazine’s top 100, ‘The A-list of the world’s most influential people.’2 Globalization has become a fact of life. People, ideas, information and films move across the planet with ever increasing speed and in multiple directions. Bolivian television has shown Hindi films, and Spanish cinema websites list Indian films matter-of-factly along with films from across the world. Reflection on Indian cinema, too, has increased. Books are being published, and papers on various aspects of Indian popular cinema are being presented at university conferences.

  And where, one might ask, do Manmohan Desai’s films fit in this newly emerging picture of Indian cinema? The answers are complex. His cinema has not been forgotten. A google search of his name reveals page upon page devoted to his work: reviews of his films, his filmography, lines of dialogue from Amar Akbar Anthony, DVDs for sale, transcribed or Devanagari versions of his film songs, and downloadable songs that can be listened to by computer. At the British Film Institute’s website devoted to South Asian cinema3, Amar Akbar Anthony is listed in the nineteenth position among the all-time favourite Hindi films, Sholay being number one. Yet when the Pompidou Center in Paris had an Indian film retrospective from February to April 2004, no Manmohan Desai film was selected for showing. And many young second generation Asians living abroad speak of his cinema as dated, something they vaguely remember having seen on video as children. A wider American public has an appreciation for his style of cinema but finds the length of the films an insurmountable barrier. Nevertheless, Desai has gone from being often maligned to something of an icon. In its opening shots, Mukul Anand’s Khuda Gawah shows a tribute to Manmohan Desai. Though his paternity is not regularly acknowledged, one can assume Desai’s influence in the way younger directors bring the city of Bombay/Mumbai lovingly to the screen. Critic, screenwriter and director Khalid Mohamed, for example, in his Fiza (2000) shows simple residential Bombay streets, crowded thoroughfares, parks, the coastline, or landmarks like the Haji Ali Shrine. Asked about Desai, Khalid Mohamed replied, ‘I personally cherish his generosity as a person to me and love some of his films with undiminished zeal.’4

  A much more troubling reference to Manmohan Desai comes during the opening credits of Yeh Hai Jalwa (2002), directed by David Dhawan and produced by Ketan Desai. Manmohan Desai himself regularly introduced his own productions with dedications. In the case of Mard the Censor Board Certificate is followed by a single shot in simple yellow lettering against a red background: ‘Dedicated to the loving memory of.’ There is no background sound for the successive shots of four individual, framed and garlanded photos, each with a name below: Late Shri Kikubhai C. Desai, Late Smt. Jeevanprabha M. Desai, Late Shri Subhash Desai, Late Shri Mohammed Rafi. These are respectively: 1. Manmohan Desai’s father 2. his wife 3. his brother 4. the famous singer. These dedication shots are followed by more acknowledgments to several people who facilitated the making of the film. The case of Yeh Hai Jalwa is markedly different in that even though Manmohan Desai died in 1994, the film is introduced as ‘Manmohan Desai Productions: Yeh Hai Jalwa.’ The next shot shows the titles of Desai’s big hits in the background while in the foreground we read: ‘This film is a live dedication to Shri Manmohan Desai.’ Manmohan Desai himself is next shown in a back shot in his director’s chair; he stands, turns, and, framed by the neon-lit names of his top films, he points to the right, gives a big smile and says, ‘Action!’ In the following shot we see the beginning of the pre-film credits, which again underscore his name:
‘Manmohan Desai presents.’ Unfortunately, despite the fact that David Dhawan is considered a money-spinning director, the film that follows has none of the verve, none of the wit, none of the spirit of invention that characterized Desai’s films. The question will not go away: What would Manmohan Desai think if he could see his image and his name used thus? While he was alive, many accused Manmohan Desai’s cinema of being formulaic. The ‘formula,’ however, apparently carried the director’s own trademark because no one has been able to replace him.

  Quite by chance on a spring day in 2002, one small piece of evidence of Manmohan Desai’s enduring appeal popped up unexpectedly as I walked along rue Faubourg St. Denis in Paris. At one end of this street is a massive, late seventeenth- century classic arch, adorned with Latin inscriptions. The monument is a reminder that here once stood one of the medieval gateways into the old heart of the city. Today Faubourg St. Denis is a thriving, cosmopolitan neighbourhood, attracting people from every continent. It is an active, even vibrant, area where people scurry to make a living, meet compatriots, shop for traditional French pastries or finely ground fresh coffee, eat Turkish kebabs or Pakistani sweets, buy phone cards to connect to the world at a reasonable price…and buy or rent Indian videos and DVDs. The smells of Indian spices from one shop combine with Gitane cigarette smoke wafting from a proletarian Parisian café across the street. Here it was, then, that one afternoon a drunken man, wine bottle in hand, was weaving down the sidewalk, singing a song from Dharam Veer: ‘Main galiyon kaa raajaa, tum mahalon ki raani’ (I’m the king of the streets; you’re the queen of the palaces). Now Paris is rich in charm and overflowing with culture, but its inhabitants rarely sing. When they do, passers-by take note. One could suppose, because the man was drunk, that he was sad, and yet he was singing a happy song and spreading cheer. It seemed appropriate. Years later and far from his Bombay home, Manmohan Desai, who had also known both sadness and joy, was still pleasing a member of his public.