The Non-Conformist

by Parikshat Sahni

  The director of the film was horrified when he saw me flirting openly with the girl, and that too within range of my father. The rest of the junior artistes, even my leading lady, stared at me aghast, then giggled, and teased the girl I had approached.

  Noticing all the commotion, Dad walked up to me and took me aside. ‘What’s up?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Nice girl! She’s fair and well built. Great bosom! Reminds me of Russian girls. I am dating her tonight,’ I muttered with a broad smile, totally unabashed.

  ‘And what about your work on the set?’

  ‘I hardly have anything to do. I just have to sit around and watch these girls dancing around and singing. Nice looking, all of them! But I have picked the fair one.’

  ‘And what about your work?’ Dad repeated.

  ‘As I said, I have nothing to do. I am looking forward to taking this girl out in the evening.’

  ‘An actor never has ‘nothing’ to do on the set, son. If that was the case, you wouldn’t be in the scene in the first place. Do you understand the significance of the song?’

  ‘No. It’s just some song and dance number like in all Hindi films. It’s silly. No such singing and dancing in European cinema.’

  ‘It’s not just some song and dance number. You are supposed to be in love with the heroine and the song is being sung to celebrate her pending marriage to another man. It is a painful situation for you. Aren’t you supposed to react to it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing serious, Dad. This is not a film by Truffaut or Fellini!’

  ‘Is that what you learnt in the film institute in Russia?’

  ‘Oh come on Dad! It’s only a song!’

  ‘Who are you? Why are you here? When are you here? How are you here? Where are you?’

  These questions bewildered me.

  ‘I am your son! I am here because the director cast me in this film. It’s eleven in the morning and I came with you in the car. That’s how I am here,’ I answered his question literally, amused at his line of questioning.

  ‘Wrong! You are not my son here. You are Kedar Nath. You are here because I hired you as a watchmaker and you are living as a paying guest in my house. It is not eleven in the morning. This is a night scene. And you did not come here with me in a car. You walked from the railway station. That is what your role demands.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You are talking about the character I am playing . . . I see. But why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Listen, son, this is not a film set. For me this is holy ground. I am not religious. I am an atheist. I don’t believe in God. I don’t go to temples or churches or gurdwaras. This place and this set where I work is my temple. This is a place of worship for me. For me, work is worship. Whether it is a Hindi film or a Hollywood film, whether the scene is long or short, I have to give my best every time I am in make-up and come to a set.’

  I stared at him in silence as he continued, ‘After shooting hours, do what you wish. Get boozed up, go to the red-light area and pick up a tart if that’s what you want. You are a man now. This is not the age for me to teach you what is wrong or right. You are mature enough. But do me just one favour. Don’t sully the temple where I worship. As I said, this is holy ground for me. Our job in life is to strive for excellence. If you take up any task, do it to the best of your ability, or if you can’t, then avoid doing it altogether in the first place.’

  He pointed to the camera in the distance and said, ‘This thing called the lens is a real monster. It can see through everything. It picks up your innermost thoughts and moods. And if you are fooling around and are insincere, the camera lens will pick up each thought and enlarge it a thousand-fold on the screen. The camera never lies. So my suggestion is, either walk out of the film right now, or if you wish to continue, then take your work seriously. The producer can easily replace you and reshoot the scenes with some other artiste; you have only shot for a few days. I don’t know what they do in Russia, but don’t defile the atmosphere here. Don’t flirt on the set. We are here to concentrate on our work.’

  As he began to leave, he turned to me and repeated, ‘Remember, for me, this is a place of worship.’

  This was a gentle but very persuasive slap across my face. I was reminded of the time when he told me that all art should have a premise. I realized how serious his contention was when he said that one was on holy ground when creating art.

  Dad’s words left an indelible mark on me and changed my work ethics forever. Since that day, I have made it a point never to get involved, let alone flirt, with any female artiste, junior or senior, in the film industry. I have tried to follow in his footsteps, even though he was inimitable.

  Frankly, I found it very difficult to connect with Hindi cinema. In hindsight, I think going to the film institute in the USSR was a big mistake. In those days, Soviet cinema was nothing but blatant propaganda to which I succumbed to like everybody else. I considered Soviet art to be supreme and was never critical of the country’s approach to cinema. Perhaps it would have been much better if I had gone to the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII). If I had, I wouldn’t have felt so out of my depth in the Hindi film industry in India when I returned.

  I was not quite ready to become a hero in a film and was supercilious about what I was being forced to do as a hero—wear gaudy clothes, sport a flamboyant hair style and run around trees, singing songs! I felt foolish and embarrassed, prancing around in this manner. Even so, I tried to take Dad’s advice seriously and live up to his exhortations, but to no effect. I couldn’t even come close to what he could achieve; his talent and dedication were unparalleled.

  I am reminded of another example of his enormous ability and his commitment to his art.

  We were doing a film together called Udham Singh, in which I played the role of a revolutionary and Dad of a Gandhian leader. The philosophies of the two characters were inimical—Udham Singh was a fiery revolutionary (he shot Sir Michael O’Dwyer at Caxton Hall in London for the Jallianwala massacre) and the Gandhian character was a pacifist.

  In a particular scene, there was a fierce confrontation and heated argument between my character, Udham Singh, and Dad’s character. I was supposed to become infuriated at one stage and shout at him, and in the end, spit on his face.

  I bungled my lines as usual and tried to deliver them as best as I could. But I could never get around to spitting on Dad’s face. I managed to speak my lines forcefully enough, and then I spat on the floor in front of Dad. I was confident I had given a great shot. The director ‘okayed’ it, but Dad wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a retake. Surprised, the director told him there was no need for a retake, as the shot was good, but Dad insisted. Perhaps he was not happy with his own reaction to my dialogues. But I was mistaken.

  Dad looked at me and said, ‘You were supposed to spit on me!’

  ‘But I did spit at you before I turned around to go.’

  ‘You spat on the ground!’

  ‘Yes, that is what is written in the script.’

  ‘You were supposed to spit on my face.’

  ‘Makes no difference, Dad. I had to just show my disgust and spit. And I did it with all the venom I could muster!’

  ‘You were to spit on my face.”

  ‘That is not important, Dad!’

  ‘It is written in the script. If it was not important, they wouldn’t have written it in the first place.’

  ‘I can’t spit on your face!’

  ‘You will have to! Otherwise we will keep retaking the shot.’

  The director shuddered when he heard this. Raw stock was very expensive; a lot of retakes meant a lot of money down the drain! He came up to me and took me aside. ‘I will tell you the easy way out, Parikshat-ji; just make a gesture to spit on his face and make a loud sound. Don’t actually spit. It will have the desired effect.’ I liked the idea.

  So, for the re-take, I made a lot of noise and made the action of spitting, but did not actually spit out any saliva. Again, I
thought I had done a great job. I was sure Dad would be satisfied. The director looked happy.

  ‘We must have another retake!’ Dad announced.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, frustrated, getting angry.

  ‘You just mimed. You did not actually spit. I didn’t feel the spit on my face. We must do it again.’

  The director winced. This was our eleventh retake.

  The director was at his wit’s end. There were many more retakes. I tried my best to look convincing, but I could not actually spit on Dad’s face. But he was adamant. The director had surrendered himself to his fate and kept repeating ‘One more . . . one more . . . one more’ mechanically, like a man resigned to his execution. I actually tried spitting on the side of his face, just below his face, just to the left of his face, but no, Dad was not satisfied. The director, by now in tears, reassured Dad that it looked very convincing. But to no avail. The shot was not ‘okayed’ till I actually spat on Dad’s face. I was ashamed of myself. I felt as if I had committed a terrible sin and felt depressed, upset and guilty. I wished I had not said ‘yes’ to this film. But Dad was jubilant and came and hugged me.

  ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Remember, acting is not acting. It is believing. You are not my son when the camera is switched on. You are Udham Singh. And I am not your father. I am your enemy. So, before every shot, create a magic circle. Forget about the unit, the director or the onlookers. Get into the soul of your character and the situation you are in.’

  But however much I tried, I have never succeeded in creating this ‘magic circle.’ Perhaps that is why I never achieved the pinnacle of success Dad did.

  I remember another incident, narrated to me by Mr Ved Rahi, a fine writer and director, with whom I have worked in a couple of films. It gives one a glimpse into Dad’s passion for perfection.

  ‘I must have been just twenty years old when this happened. I was an assistant to Sagar Saheb then,’ Ved-ji narrated to me. ‘He was not making a big budget film. Balraj-ji was playing the lead. When the shot was ready, Sagar Saheb told me to go and fetch Balraj-ji from his make-up room. It was about ten in the morning. I went to his room. I found him strangely absent-minded and erratic in his behaviour. One of his hands was trembling. It looked like he had either been drinking or had a massive hangover. I asked him to go with me to the set. He looked at me strangely and got up, doddering like someone totally intoxicated with alcohol. I was shocked to see him in this condition. Balraj-ji did not have a reputation for being a boozer. His hand was still trembling as he wobbled shakily towards the set. He was definitely drunk.’ I thought to myself, ‘Something terrible must have happened to get him into this condition; probably some family problem.’ I was embarrassed. On the set, on an impulse, I held his hand to stop it from trembling so that the director and the onlookers did not notice it. But he was furious with me. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he shouted angrily. All heads turned.

  ‘When the camera rolled, I was sure he would make a mess of the shot. I thought the director would cut it midway. But no sooner was the shot over, that the director smiled and hugged Balraj-ji and said, “Excellent shot!”’

  ‘I was flabbergasted. Balraj-ji saw me, smiled, and came over to me. He was stone sober. He said, “Sorry I was curt with you! You didn’t know. The director and I had decided yesterday that I would play the shot completely drunk. I was getting into my character when you touched me. You almost broke my concentration.”’

  Sagar Saheb laughed and corroborated what Balraj-ji said.

  ‘That was Balraj-ji,’ Ved Rahi said. ‘Whatever he did, whether it was a small or a big film, a small or a big role, he gave it his fullest attention and regard. He was a perfectionist.’

  Dad was in the first category of the types of actors I have mentioned earlier. Although he was an intellectual and his passion was literature, and he had never contemplated becoming a full time professional film actor, and had been cajoled to join the film industry by Chetan Anand Saheb, he was a natural—a born actor if ever there was one!

  Shooting in Shimla

  I was shooting a serial commissioned by Doordarshan in Shimla; it brought back fond memories. Shimla was second only to Kashmir for Dad; he loved Shimla and came here whenever he had time off from his shooting schedule in Mumbai. He loved Himachal and its capital so much that he even bought an old heritage house in the Chakker area. Extending his passion for acting to the stage, he performed a couple of plays in the Gaiety Theatre; in fact, there is an award in his name in Shimla. And despite the passage of decades, I still come across people who remember him fondly there.

  I often wonder what it was, apart from his prodigious talent that made him so loved by the masses. I came on the answer to this question when I was shooting on the Mall one night. We had been given permission to shoot some night scenes on the Mall, but we had very little time at our disposal. Shooting outdoors is tough; it is even tougher shooting outdoors at night. The sky was overcast and rain had been forecast. We were all tense and anxious to complete shooting before time and the weather betrayed us.

  Some passers-by stopped to see the shooting and recognized me. Some of them wanted to take pictures or shake hands, or just say hello. Among these people was a fat, middle-aged man with close-cropped hair who was obviously inebriated. He reeked of liquor, and was loud and obstreperous. He grabbed my hand, not letting it go, even as I tried to extricate myself, gently at first and then with increasing effort as his grip tightened. He pushed me around roughly as he muttered some obscenities, which promptly made my blood boil.

  My immediate impulse was to sock the man in the jaw. But then, all of a sudden, I remembered something that had happened almost four decades ago in Delhi. From some deep reserve of my memory, I recalled an incident when Dad had been pawed and manhandled by a volatile crowd in a fashion much worse than the one I was being subjected to. It happened like this . . .

  In the late sixties, a premiere of a film was held in Delhi, with Dad as the star of the show. I was studying in Delhi at the time and Dad invited his younger brother, Bhisham-ji, his pregnant wife, Sheila-ji and me to accompany him. We went to the theatre in Bhisham-ji’s old Morris Minor and parked it on the curb near the theatre.

  The premiere went off well. The film was much appreciated by the audience. But when the show was over and we came out of the theatre, all hell broke loose. The tires of Bhisham-ji’s car had been deflated to prevent us from leaving; the crowd mobbed Dad with a ferocity that stunned me. He was tossed around like a rag doll. A fleeting thought occurred to me that if this was the price one had to pay for stardom, I wanted no part of it. But however frightening the sight was, my immediate concern was for Sheila-ji, who was seven months pregnant. We were all alarmed at the thought of what might happen to her if she was buffeted around along with Dad. Anger at the crowd and fear for her safety caused me to lose my temper and I began throwing random punches at people right and left. There was regular bedlam. The police looked helpless, even as they made futile efforts to disperse the crowd with their swinging batons.

  Dad, seeing that we were faced with riot conditions and the mob was completely out of control, somehow managed to disentangle himself, and suddenly jumped on top of the hood of a car. Balancing himself, slightly unsteady on his feet and smiling broadly, he addressed the crowd amicably in a voice that resonated down the street. ‘I love you all,’ he said. He repeated himself, raising his voice. Seeing him on top of the car and hearing his voice, the loud and jostling crowd gradually quieted down and people stood still, craning their necks to get a clear view of Dad.

  He continued, ‘I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for having found time to see my film. The producer pays me for my work, but it is your love that sustains me and draws me to you. You are wonderful! For me you, my audience, are God Himself. It is for you that I try to do my best, and when you appreciate my work, that is my greatest reward, not any financial remuneration I receive. I would like nothing better than to be with you and chat with you longe
r. But my sister-in-law is seven months pregnant. So please be kind enough to let us depart in peace. We will find a taxi to take us home since the tires of our car have been punctured.’

  His words worked like magic. The crowd became still and silent. People parted and made way for him and escorted us respectfully to a waiting taxi. Someone shouted, ‘We love you, sir! You belong to us. We will see you home safely. Your sister is our sister. We will pray for her safety and her health.’ The atmosphere had turned from one of utter chaos to one of loving familiarity and calm.

  Apologising profusely to Sheila-ji, several people made a ring around her to give her some breathing space. The crowd stood absolutely still as we got into the taxi and the driver drove us to Bhisham-ji’s house in Patel Nagar. Not long afterwards, the little Morris Minor was delivered to us in tiptop condition. The tyres had been repaired.

  When we had all settled down in the drawing room, Dad turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘Son, you lost your cool back there; you manhandled the crowd.’ I was about to protest, but he raised his hand, silencing me, ‘Never be rude to the public. They are the salt of the earth. We must love our countrymen with all our heart and all our soul and all our might . . . only then can we be truly creative. I have sent you to study in one of the best colleges in India; you lack nothing. The fees for your college, the money for your comfortable life style, it all comes from these people, the masses, who buy tickets to see my films. If I do not love them, how can I serve them? So be good to them always, son . . . and love them with all your heart. They are my motivation . . . they are God incarnate.’

  I was a youngster then; moreover, I was peeved at being reprimanded for what, in my view, was perfectly justifiable anger at the crowd’s manhandling of my father, and did not take his words seriously. I thought he was just being emotional and idealistic.