Dad was the voluble one. He always needed company and to communicate and talk. He needed someone to second his opinions. Mummy, in contrast, was the strong and silent one. She spoke in monosyllables and to the point. She, like Bhisham-ji, was more of a listener than a talker.
One time, when we went by road to the Ajanta caves, I was sitting in the front seat, Afzal was driving and Dad and Mummy were seated behind us. Mummy was looking out of her side of the window and Dad through his. Dad felt impelled to point out anything interesting he saw on the way and speak about it. The conversation between them went something like this:
Dad: Tosh-ji, just look at that fort! Isn’t it spectacular?
Mummy: Hmmm . . .
Dad: It must be a Maratha fortress! Isn’t it grand?
Mummy: Hmmm
Dad: The Marathas were a great power, you know. They fought the last battle of Panipat
Mummy: Hmmm . . .
Dad: I wonder who the Peshwa was at the time of that battle. Do you have any idea?
Mummy: No . . .
Dad: I wonder who was the general they fought against . . .
After this there was a long silence. It was after about ten minutes that Mummy spoke.
Mummy: Ahmed Shah Abdali . . .
By then, Dad had forgotten all about the conversation and turned to Mummy and asked:
Dad: Who was he?
Mummy: He was the one who fought the last battle of Panipat.
We were on the road almost the whole day. They rarely exchanged a few words and when they did it was Dad who initiated the conversation.
Before Dad attained success as an actor, his mode of transportation was a second-hand motorcycle (AJS). He loved to go for long drives on it, often taking Mummy along on the pillion. Their favourite place was Khandala, the hills not far from the city. They loved the Sahyadri Hills and rode up them every opportunity they got. Usually, Dad filled up his petrol tank before they took off.
One day, as usual, he was talking incessantly to Mummy, probably discussing the fine points of ‘class conflict’, which he was always keen on pointing out, when he stopped to fill up the petrol tank. He continued talking while he did so. As Mummy narrated to me later, so engrossed was he in his narrative that he started the motor-cycle with a jerk, causing Mummy to fall off her seat. But he did not notice her fall off. Mummy said it was not till he had reached Panvel that he paused to ask a question while driving. On receiving no answer, he repeated the question several times but to no avail. It was only when he looked back that he discovered that Mummy wasn’t in her seat. He was panic-stricken at the thought that she might have fallen off along the way. He retraced his steps till he reached the petrol pump only to discover Mummy sitting and calmly listening to the tales of the petrol vendors.
‘Why didn’t you get on the pillion seat?! I drove as far as Panvel before I discovered that you were not sitting behind me. It scared the life out of me! I thought you might have fallen off. Instead, you are sitting and chatting with these guys here!’ Dad said.
’I was talking with the workers about the fine points of class conflict. You drove off so fast I fell off the seat!’
All Dad could say meekly was, ‘Sorry! My fault.’
Dad’s need to talk and discuss matters was insatiable. And he valued Mummy’s opinion the most. He himself was quite indecisive and always depended on her advice. He was the garrulous one, but she always had the final word.
If I had a problem and went to Dad for advice, the conversation invariably went something like this:
‘Dad! I have a problem!’
Dad, as usual, would be sitting at his desk and typing on his bulky Remington typewriter (as he always did on the days he was not shooting.) He would look up at me and smile and sit back in his chair. ‘Sit down,’ he would say cheerfully. He would then become silent and look away at the sea through his window, rapt in thought. ‘Dad! I have a problem.’ ‘Ah yes! You have a problem.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ok. We must discuss your problem! But first let us have a cup of coffee!’ and he would pick up his intercom and give the necessary instructions to Narain, his major-domo. While the coffee was on its way he would again look out through the window and repeat, ‘So you have a problem!’
‘Yes, Dad! I . . .’
‘Let’s have some coffee first!’
The coffee would arrive and he would drink it slowly, savouring its taste.
‘Narain makes good coffee!’
‘Yes, Dad. As I was saying, I have a problem!’
‘Yes, yes . . . we must discuss that, but first let us finish the coffee!’
There would be some more minutes of silence with Dad looking out of the window at the sea and then he would turn to me.
‘So . . . you have a problem!’
‘Yes, Dad!’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘I have an offer from Gemini Studios in Madras to play the lead in their film.’
He looked at me long and hard for a minute or so.
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know if I should do a Madras film. I have never been to that place, I don’t like the sort of films they make, their acting is too loud and I don’t know what to do.’
Again, a minute’s silence as he stared at me.
‘So that is the problem?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
After another long silence, he would finally ask, ‘So that is the problem?’
‘Yes, Dad!’
‘This needs serious thought!’ and he would start thinking hard, looking out of the window.
‘It is a serious problem.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘One has to examine the problem from all angles.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘It is a serious problem.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘So, you don’t want to go to Madras?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘And it is a Gemini film.’
‘Yes, Dad.
‘And you are not keen on it?’
‘No, Dad!’
‘This has to be seriously thought out!’
‘Yes, Dad.’
He would again look out of the window long and hard and after a few sighs as I began to get impatient, his final word in such cases would always be the same:
‘The best person to discuss this with would be Mummy. I think you should go and talk to her!’
And with that he would again turn to his type-writer and start typing.
So I would go to Mummy, who made the final decision, and that too in a jiffy!
* * *
In writing about the two brothers, I have realized how beneficial a sibling can be. Despite their different philosophies, their contrasting temperaments, their dissimilar personalities, Dad and Bhisham-ji were each other’s best friends. Bhisham-ji worshipped his brother and would defend his honour with his life if he had to; Dad valued his brother’s judgement and confided in him about everything—whether it was his career, his professional life or his political views.
It would have been easy for Bhisham-ji to be jealous of and resent Dad for his status as a celebrity. There is no doubt that he was overshadowed by Dad, not only for his success as an actor, but also because of his sociable nature. But Bhisham-ji was a heavyweight in his own right and became an accomplished writer who was acclaimed for his contribution to Indian literature. His philosophic bent of mind, his maturity and his genuine love and respect for Dad perhaps spurred him to find his own niche and reach the heights. Rather than being consumed by sibling rivalry and jealousy, he strongly supported Dad and took great pride in him; the two of them were incomplete without each other. A shared childhood (they slept on the same bed as boys), and a bond built on the foundation of growing up together and participating in most activities together laid the foundation of a closeness and respect for each other that lasted a lifetime. And being only two years apart, they also shared the trauma of upheaval caused by the
Partition, which left an indelible mark on their psyche and gave them both an insight into each other’s feelings.
The itinerant life thrust on the family because of the Partition was unsettling to say the least. Barely had we got used to one place than we moved to another. It was Kashmir first, then for a short while Bombay, then Dharamsala and then Ambala. This was the cause of considerable of insecurity and confusion. But I didn’t feel unsettled as long I was with Sheila-ji and Bhisham-ji. Through all the trials and tribulations caused by the Great Divide, they remained calm and collected, and didn’t let it unsettle us (the children) in any way.
So when Dad married again after that, and Sheila-ji told me that I now had a ‘new’ mother and would be returning to Bombay, I looked forward to finally leading a ‘settled’ life. Bombay was where Dad was and that is where I belonged. And that is where, for the first time in my life, I faced stormy weather, unlike in Kashmir, Dharamsala and Ambala. Mummy was new to Bombay; Dad, far from having a regular job, was in jail for his revolutionary activities and the family was stone broke. Dad took all the vicissitudes of life on the chin, for he loved stormy weather; he fought a hard battle and emerged victorious in the end. There was nothing of the pacifist in him. ‘Nothing risked, nothing gained’ was his motto.
Many children in the film industry have had an easy entrance into the industry because of the struggles of their fathers. Some have made good, some not. But very rarely have they surpassed their fathers. And yet, if their fathers had not risked their all to plunge into the maelstrom of the film industry and gone through hell to achieve their dreams, they would not have succeeded. Mediocrity was an odious word for Dad. He wanted to excel in whatever he did. And excel he did. If his stormy life was reflected in the life of his family and children, he is not to be held responsible for it—it came with the deal.
5
The Actor
The struggle
I was travelling in Bombay with Sunil Dutt Saheb in his car one day. While passing Flora Fountain, he asked the driver to stop the car. I didn’t know why till, after staring at a street light for a long time, he looked wistful and, pointing to a lamp post, his eyes moist, he said, ‘That is the spot on the pavement where I once slept when I first came to Bombay. Yes, I slept on a pavement.’
I have heard that even Raj Kapoor Saheb had to start from scratch as an assistant of Kedar Sharma, the renowned film director of his day. Raj-ji’s first job was to sweep the floor on the sets, and I am told that one day Kedar Saheb even slapped him for a small oversight!
Very few people know what Amitabh Bachchan went through when he came to Mumbai to join films. He was rejected by producers; one producer said to him openly, ‘There is no place for you in this industry. Don’t waste your time here. Go back to Allahabad and write poetry like your father!’ It is to his credit that he did not hold this against the man. A couple of years later, the same producer cast him in a major role in his film, having forgotten his earlier words of advice. Had he wanted, Amitabh could have created problems for him during the shooting to teach him a lesson, but he didn’t. It was only after it was over that he gently reminded the producer that he was the same person whom he had asked to go back to Allahabad and not waste his time in Mumbai. I believe the producer first turned pale and then the colour of an over-ripe tomato. Amitabh achieved success only after a back-breaking struggle, but once he did, he never looked back. There are innumerable such stories, but the public only sees these stars as successful icons to be worshipped and admired.
Thousands of people gathered at Dad’s funeral to witness his last rites in Juhu. Unfortunately, like the funerals of most stars, this also turned into a spectacle with thousands attending it, not so much to pay their respects as to get a glimpse of the celebrities who came to honour the memory of the deceased. (In this respect, Raaj Kumar Saheb was the wisest of all; he wanted his funeral to be held in secret and most people didn’t hear about his death till after he had been cremated.) Amitabh Bachchan was present at Dad’s funeral, but I remember he stood quietly under a tree, alone and aloof in the melee. No one paid the slightest attention to him—the same actor who is hero worshipped today!
Dad, like many others, was discouraged, demeaned and insulted when he joined films. First it was the elders of the family who came down hard on him, subjecting him to mockery and laughter. They were vocal in expressing their disapproval of his profession, which they held in very low esteem.
Then it was the film folk who called him a ‘scarecrow’ and told him to forget about acting in films because he was ‘too old’ for the job. When Seema was released, starring Nutan-ji, who was half his age and just starting her film career, Dad often received ‘stinkers’, which he read out aloud at the dining table. They were downright insulting. One letter said, ‘Old man, don’t you feel ashamed to be involved with such a young girl! She is a beauty, and you are a beast. Go back to where you came from!’ This was followed by abuse. Dad laughed the letter off with, ‘Nutan is so pretty. This man must be in love with her. He is jealous. And I don’t blame him.’ And this was followed by sad laughter. However, despite his attempt to dismiss such letters, he was deeply hurt at the negative response he was getting and would often say, ‘Maybe I should chuck it and go back to writing or being a professor!’ I remember someone saying once about actors, ‘One has to have the heart of a doe and the skin of a rhinoceros to survive in this industry.’
Dad’s influence on my career
Ask any self-made actor, and he will have a story to tell you about the back-breaking struggle he had to go through to make it in films. But there are some who don’t. These are the star sons. And I was one of them.
There are three types of actors: (1) those who are born actors, (2) those who become actors through sheer hard work and (3) those who have acting thrust on them. I definitely fit into the third category. I had heard this profession denigrated and had witnessed my father’s struggles. So it was never my desire to become an actor. But fate hounded me and compelled me to follow in my Dad’s footsteps.
I didn’t have to struggle much in the film industry when I began my career. I got my first break easily because of Dad. Perhaps the producers thought that, being the only son of a consummate actor, some of Dad’s talent must have rubbed off on me. My first film Anokhi Raat was a big hit. After its success, I was offered a role by a reputed film company in Chennai (which was Madras then); Dad insisted that I do this film as the producer was a friend of his. It was called Samaj ko Badal Dalo. The success of this film was followed by one or two more, which did well. And I was flooded with offers. This left me confused and undecided about what I should do next. I had been trained as a director and a script-writer, not an actor. I did not know the ways of the Hindi film industry and I floundered.
I was usually offered the lead role, without being told the story line. In those days, barring three or four top producers, people rarely worked according to scripts. They simply obtained the rough outline of a story, signed up saleable actors and then started the film, improvising the script as they went along. Very often, ready with make-up, with the lighting and cameraman ready to ‘take’ a shot, I would ask for the scene and my dialogues, and would be asked to wait because the scene and dialogues were still in the process of being written by the writer. On one occasion, I remember, one of the most renowned writers in our industry sat in my room and wrote my dialogues, speaking them aloud as I waited for the scene to be over. He took almost an hour to complete writing the scene, and then asked his assistant to get it photocopied and distribute it to the director, actors, the producer and the camera department!
But I had to contend with myself for compromising my profession. I did my best to be as realistic as possible on the sets, but sometimes the situations were hackneyed. However, with Dad’s encouragement and guidance, I finally began understanding the norms of the industry. The following incidents are worth recalling:
On the sets of Pavitra Paapi and Udham Singh
I
was cast as the hero of a film called Pavitra Paapi in 1969. Dad has written eloquently in his autobiography about how he froze the first time he faced the camera. I went through a similar experience. I found it extremely difficult to remember my lines. The only languages I spoke fluently were Russian, Punjabi and English—in that order. I wasn’t too fluent in Hindustani. So, for the first few days, I mumbled my lines just like Marlon Brando, hoping that this would cover up my mistakes.
The frustrated producer tore at the little hair he had and became balder by the day! I dreaded his wrath as much as I feared my inability to deliver my lines. However, there was some respite for me one day when they were shooting a song sequence in which I had just to sit around and watch the proceedings from a distance. I heaved a sigh of relief, as I was spared the ordeal of learning any lines.
In this scene, some girls were singing and dancing around Tanuja, the leading lady, as her father (played by Dad) watched from a corner. I was just a passive onlooker. Forgetting that I was the hero and supposed to react to what was being portrayed, I was intently focused on one of the junior dancers, who struck me as being very pretty. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She stole a few coy and seemingly inviting glances at me. Unaware of the unwritten protocol that the hero of a film is never supposed to mess around or interact with junior artistes, I walked up to her to strike up a conversation. Perhaps I would get lucky with this beautiful girl!
People on the set stared at me inquisitively as I tentatively approached her and asked her what she was doing that night. Would she have dinner with me after the shooting was over, and later, spend time with me? Emboldened by her silence and the rosy blush that crept to her cheeks, I continued, ‘We could go for a walk on the beach, and then, ahem, perhaps check into some beachside hotel.’
Everyone on the set looked at one another in disbelief. I couldn’t understand why they were so astounded. After all, I was doing what I thought was normal. That is how people behaved in Russia. You liked a girl; you approached her, and, if she was agreeable, you spent some time with her. And if she was amenable, you spent the night with her. There was no taboo on sex. So I was not prepared for the unit’s reaction to my apparently brazen boldness.
The Non-Conformist Page 11