But years later, that night on the Mall, as the fat man was buffeting me around, the truth of Dad’s words was brought home to me with startling clarity. In his inebriated condition, the fat man was hell bent on creating a scene (and he was tough!). In a flash I remembered that evening in Delhi with Dad. Instead of giving in to my impulse and throwing a punch at him, I repeated Dad’s words, even though I was sure they would have no effect on his sozzled mind.
‘I love you, sir,’ I said to him softly. ‘My father used to say that it is for you that we artists create. You are our heroes and the ultimate judge of our work. Come, let us sit down and have a cup of coffee together, but don’t create a scene, please. We have little time left till the morning and we have to complete our work. Please bear with us.’
To my surprise, the fat man stopped in his tracks and became thoughtful. Suddenly he became emotional and hugged me tight. He apologised, drank a cup of coffee and sobered up. After that, he not only sat with us through the cold night, but also helped with the shooting as best he could! That night, the veracity of my father’s contention was brought home to me in full measure.
‘Love of mankind is the greatest of all goals,’ Dad would say. That was his strongest point; he didn’t work just for himself. He genuinely loved the public. He worked for others, in particular for the common man. That was the secret of his prodigious success.
Shooting for Shivaji
Dad was an atheist and did not believe in religious practices and avoided religion like the plague. Nor did he have much knowledge about the tenets of any religion. I doubt if he had ever read any religious book in his life. He was convinced that there was nothing good at all about any religious practices. But, strange to say, his actions were often of a deeply religious nature. He followed many religious doctrines without being conscious of doing so. For instance, the Bible, referring to alms, says, ‘Let not your left hand know what your right hand does’ (i.e. do your charitable acts in secret). Dad lived by that axiom without having read the Bible. He never boasted about his altruistic activities and always kept them secret. I found out, a few years after he had passed away, when I was asked to play the role of Shivaji, that he was doing this all his life without letting anyone know about it.
I still don‘t understand why the producer or director cast me in the role of Shivaji, who was supposed to have been of an athletic build, lean, wiry and energetic, with flashing, penetrating and hypnotic eyes. I was flabby, sluggish, lugubrious, lazy, dull and had a spectacular paunch. My eyes were as hypnotic as those of a dead fish. I usually had a massive hangover during those days. I was the least suited to play the role of the great Maratha leader. Dad would have been the right person for it.
‘I wonder what Mr Balraj Sahni would have said if he saw his slob of a son playing the role of Shivaji,’ I heard someone say one night at a party. ‘Balraj Sahni studied, researched and lived every role he played. This fellow is a slug. He is an insult to his father’s memory.’
This hurt me. I tried to make amends. I exercised, read a lot of books about Shivaji, but just could not get rid of the paunch. The horse I rode during the shooting usually let out a startled groan and a huge fart every time I mounted him. I tried belts and cummerbunds around my waist; I tried jogging and calisthenics but to no avail. I still looked like a miniature Sumo wrestler.
I started the shooting schedule with trepidation. My friend Amol Palekar guffawed when I told him I had been chosen to play the role of Shivaji. ‘Be careful! If you make the slightest mistake in portraying our great leader, you will be lynched publicly by the people of Maharashtra!’ he said. The thought scared me no end.
When we went to Agra to shoot the sequence of the film depicting the imprisonment and escape of Shivaji from the clutches of the Mughal monarch (I was decked up, with beard, turban, sword et al and thought I looked quite impressive), an onlooker came up to me and asked me casually, ‘What role are you playing in this film?’ I was surprised at this question. ‘Whom do I look like in this garb and make up?’ I asked him angrily. He scrutinized me carefully from head to toe, thought for a while, and finally said, ‘You must be playing the role of Afzal Khan, the ominous looking general who tried to kill Shivaji. Am I right?’
His answer stunned me. If I looked like Afzal Khan and not Shivaji, I was sure Amol Palekar’s words would come true.
Things became worse when we went to shoot in Panhala, a beautiful, hilly area not far from Kolhapur. I found the local food irresistible. The mutton curry and bhakri served with chilly and garlic chutney was out of this world and I gorged on these unabashedly, glutton that I was.
Within a week my cheeks had puffed up and become red. I had gained four kilos. The horse groaned and passed wind louder than ever each time I mounted him. He pulled at the bit and muttered incoherent obscenities in horse language whenever I goaded him to gallop.
But I must say that, in spite of the difficulties I was facing, I had begun to enjoy playing the role. As I learnt more and more about Shivaji, I realized that he was indeed a phenomenally brave and courageous man with uncanny wisdom and perspicacity. Without doubt he was one of the greatest Indians that ever lived. But just when I thought I was finally getting into the role, something startling happened.
One day, we were shooting in the countryside close to a small village near a small town in the sugar-cane belt, when a bus loaded with some tough-looking men arrived and made straight for me. The unit members were alarmed, and fearing the worst, fled. The toughies walked up to me menacingly, and without a word, dragged me to the bus in which they had come. They shoved me into the front seat. The bus immediately lurched forward as it gathered speed.
I was sure my time had come. I fingered my sword (a blunt and harmless film prop) and decided to put up a brave fight anyway and take as many of the toughies with me to kingdom come as I could. I tried to make conversation with the huge muscular man sitting next to me, but he stared at me malevolently in silence. I prepared myself for a quick and violent end.
A surprise awaited me when we arrived at our destination—a spacious but scraggy garden just outside a small village. A makeshift stage had been set up at one end of it. Before the stage squatted several hundred villagers. ‘So this will be a public execution,’ I thought. On the stage sat some local dignitaries. I was hurriedly escorted up the stage and unceremoniously plonked into one of the chairs. By now my courage had abandoned me. I was baffled by what was happening. There was no chance to run for it either because I was flanked by two hefty youths.
A gentleman got up and addressed the crowd. He looked at me and smiled wryly. ‘He is obviously enjoying the prospect of what is to come,’ I thought. But when he spoke I was dumbfounded.
‘Sir,’ he said, in his heavily accented Hindi, ‘this garden has been named after your father. It is called the Balraj Sahni Udyan. At the beginning of the month of April 1973, we had a terrible drought in this area. There was no water to drink and we were in a very bad shape. It was at the height of the drought that your father drove to our village all by himself in his Ambassador car and stayed with us for a week. He said to us, “I have brought no water for you. I could not have even if I tried to. I have come here to share your thirst. That is all I can do.” And even though we offered him a small portion of the water rations that we were guarding for the infants and the elderly, he refused to drink it. He waited till a tanker was sent by the government, and then too he made sure everyone’s thirst was first slaked before he took a gulp of water himself. He died two weeks later. We have named this garden for him and we have called you here to tell you that we are very happy that you, his son, are playing the role of our great leader Chhattrapati Shivaji.’
It was then that something happened that was very un-Shivaji like—tears came to my eyes. I wept. I don’t know if it was from sheer relief at being spared a public lynching or from the realization that Dad had done this noble deed so unobtrusively. Any present-day public figure would have informed the press, made a hug
e noise and turned it into a grand publicity event.
My attitude to my role changed after that. I put heart and soul into it, started to live the character I was playing, and, much to my own surprise, was able to do justice to the role.
Method acting
Dad mentions in his autobiography that when Nargis-ji’s mother died (he knew her quite well) he went to their home to offer his condolences. He had not yet quite made it as an actor, but knew many of the people assembled there quite well. He was surprised at how those who were normally quite friendly gave him a cold shoulder on that particular day. Ignoring him completely, they paid attention to and huddled around only the big names. This hurt Dad. He writes, ‘One’s status in life should not come in the way of friendship. I vowed then and there that I would be a success in this industry come what may.’
Dad confesses in his autobiography that he was terrified of the camera lens when he joined films. He also discloses that he was so nervous before he faced the camera that he once wet his pants before going on the set! He wrote:
The fright I had for the camera had by then reached truly ridiculous proportions. Indeed, things came to such a pass on that day that once during a break when I went out into the garden to take a breather, I peed in my trousers!
And this was the same man who is now considered the epitome of realistic acting by most people, even contemporary actors—an exceptional and unique actor, as many people have often told me.
In the early fifties, Dad was incarcerated for six or eight months for taking part in a Communist rally in Bombay. He had just got remarried, had two children to care for and a third one on the way, and was making an attempt to find his footing in the film industry. There was no money in the house. The family had lost everything during the Partition. Fortunately, Dilip Saheb and his older brother, who were close friends, found work not only for Dad but for me as well, so that we could keep the home fires burning. Special arrangements were made for Dad to be taken from jail for the shooting of a film called Hulchul.
One day when I was shooting (having been given the role of junior Dilip Saheb), I was told that Dad was also being brought from jail for shooting that day. My scene got over early, so I quickly took off my make-up, changed and ran to the courtyard to wait for his arrival in a police van. A small crowd had assembled behind me. This was quite a phenomenon people for people to see—a prisoner in handcuffs being escorted to the studio by a police inspector to play a police inspector! It was something unheard of in the annals of Indian cinema.
No one was allowed to go near or meet Dad as he was brought out of the van. I wanted to rush to him, but all I could do was watch him wistfully from a distance. While I stood there, someone behind me (not knowing that I was his son) sniggered and said, ‘What a jackass this fellow is! He wants to make a career as an actor. Just look at him. He is so ugly and looks like a scarecrow. To think of all the idiots who come to this city thinking they can become actors! This fellow will never make it in films, that’s certain.’
I was so hurt on hearing this that I started crying. Dad saw me from a distance. He stopped in his tracks, and pointing to me, whispered something in the inspector’s ears. The inspector allowed Dad to come and talk to me for a short while. Still handcuffed, but with a smile on his lips, he took me aside and hugged me. He looked pained. ‘What is the matter, son? Why are you crying? Has someone hurt you?’ he asked.
‘Someone behind me was making fun of you,’ I blurted out, tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘He said you look ugly and will never make it as an actor. And he used very foul language.’
I can never forget the look of determination that crossed Dad’s face as he said, ‘Don’t worry, son, I will show them. I will make them eat their words.’ And he did. And although Hulchul did not do well, the very next year, his movie, Humlog, was a big hit and his performance shook the country. Within a short time he was a household name.
Soon after my stint as a child artiste, I was sent to Shivaji boarding school in Poona. I was in the history class one day when I heard the sound of an approaching motor-cycle. I perked up my ears as I recognized Dad’s second hand AJS motorbike. Or was I imagining things? It could not be Dad. It is a long drive from Mumbai to Poona, particularly on a motor-cycle. I was wrong. To my utter astonishment, it was Dad. I saw him get off his motor-cycle and put it on the stand, and head for the class-rooms. Soon he knocked on our classroom door. Mr Rege, our teacher, was surprised to see him and welcomed him enthusiastically. He had seen Humlog and loved it. After getting his permission, Dad took me to a restaurant for a veritable feast. I guzzled the food hungrily. He looked at me long and hard. Then a smile appeared on his face. He said softly, ‘I told you I would make them eat their words, son. I did! Don’t ever worry about what people say. Just remember never to give in. Never say die!’ I nodded, my mouth stuffed with carrot halwa. Truly, what he had achieved was phenomenal.
I was witness to Dad’s tenacity when he came out of jail before I went to Shivaji School. He looked weak and frail. And he was out of his depth in the sphere of acting. He once even asked Dilip Saheb, who was very close to him, to teach him how to act. But Dilip Saheb was busy with other things and could not offer much help at the time. Dad says in his autobiography:
When the shot was over, I went to Dilip Kumar, and in all humility, begged him to tell me how he managed to make his roles so very life-like. I remember to this day what Dilip Kumar said by way of reply, ‘Whatever I have learnt of acting is partly through watching others and partly through the tips given by friends.’ His evasive reply disappointed me. He had seen with his own eyes that I was floundering miserably as an actor, and yet he had not thought it fit to come to my rescue!
But Dad was blessed with bulldog tenacity. ‘Never say die’ was his motto. On getting out of jail, he got down to mastering his craft in real earnest. I remember him doing vigorous exercises on the beach (which he had learnt while in jail from one of his ‘comrades’), swimming in the sea for an hour every morning and going for long walks.
We lived close to Palm Grove Hotel and our shack was right on the beach. Dad would go into the sea and swim to the creek, which was about two miles away.
Chetan Anand Saheb’s shack was also located there. After his swim, Dad would walk up to it, calling out to Chetan-ji. The two of them would sit on the steps of the shack, have a cup of coffee and share the latest news about the film industry. They were close friends, both struggling at that time.
Apart from exercising and looking after his diet, Dad, I remember, read numerous books about acting. He read Stanislavsky several times over and some others whose names I don’t remember. He often rehearsed in front of the mirror, modulating his voice and looking at his expression while he did so. After dinner, I remember, as the family sat around him, he read out Harivansh Rai-ji Bachchan’s Hindi translation of Hamlet and other Shakespearean plays. He thought the world of Bachchan Saheb! Dad also recited his poetry, as well as some poems by Kaifi Azmi Saheb, who was his close friend and comrade.
There was no television, CDs or home theatres those days. Dad watched movies in theatres, and those he liked, he saw again and again. He studied the acting techniques of other actors (not just Indian but also Hollywood). I remember one day, he took me to see a film called The Defiant Ones at the Eros cinema. We saw the 3.30 show, then the 6.30 show and then he insisted on seeing the night show too (after treating me to a quick bite at a nearby restaurant). After a few years, he did the same thing when he saw David Lean’s Bridge on the River Kwai. He was particularly impressed by William Holden’s acting. ‘William Holden was something!’ he said. ‘Sir Alec Guinness was acting. This man William Holden was himself. He was natural, realistic and truthful. Sir Alec could learn something from him.’
In addition to films, Dad went to see a Marathi play at Shivaji Mandir every week. He thought Marathi actors were a cut above the rest and he could learn a lot from them. I was in Shivaji School in Pune in the fifth or sixth class when he was inv
ited to give a speech at the Shanwar Wada (an old fortress in the heart of Pune dating from Shivaji’s time) one evening. He spoke in Marathi, much to the delight of the audience. When I asked him why he had addressed the audience in Marathi, he said, ‘One must learn and know the language of the part of India where one lives. I learnt Bengali when I was in Bengal. I must master Marathi when I am in Maharashtra. Marathi is a great language with a great literature. Some of the Bhakti poets of Maharashtra are mentioned and quoted even in the Guru Granth Sahib. Did you know that?’
Dad formed his own theatre group, The Juhu Art Theatre. ‘Acting on the stage is the best exercise for one’s acting muscles,’ he would say. He continued to take an active part in IPTA plays, even when he had become a big name in the film industry, travelling with the troupe wherever it went to perform a play out of Bombay. Everyone travelled in what was called ‘third class’, but a first-class ticket was bought for Dad. I went with him on one such occasion to Baroda. He refused to travel first class, insisting on sharing the carriage with the rest of the cast and crew. There was no room for him to sleep! I remember, one night, he insisted on sleeping on the floor under one of the berths of the carriage! Despite the dirt and dust, with no air-conditioning, he slept on the floor the whole night.
Dad believed in ‘socialist realism’ which meant ‘method acting.’ He took incredible pains over every role he enacted. He always looked for and found a model in real life for the character he was to portray to give a third dimension to art and experience the joy of creation. And then he studied the mannerisms, the manner, the intonations, the gait, the laughter and also the background of his model. After that he rehearsed for hours before the mirror. Perhaps this was a throwback to his teen years. He remembered, ‘No sooner I returned home from an English movie that I would run to my mirror and “admire” myself from every possible angle.’ Only now this habit was for self-criticism and self-improvement rather than self-admiration.
The Non-Conformist Page 13