The Non-Conformist

by Parikshat Sahni

  But Dev Saheb was not always this lucky with his locations during shooting. One day, something very embarrassing happened, thinking about which makes me turn red in the face. Dev Saheb needed a very rich house to shoot some of the scenes and he did not know how to go about it. But the gods always favoured him. A young Danish lady, incredibly beautiful and charming, came up to him and began chatting with him while we were shooting a street scene in Copenhagen. As usual, the young lady was captivated by his suave demeanour. He confided in her that it was his desire to shoot in a very opulent-looking house, but didn’t know how to go about it. To everyone’s surprise, the lady immediately called her husband, who was in a nearby shop, and told him about Dev Saheb’s request.

  This was an elderly man (must have been in his sixties) almost always under the influence of vodka, which he drank, it seems, from morning till night. He was one of the richest men in Denmark and had a house the likes of which we had never set our eyes on before this time. He offered his house for the shooting with alacrity. I was playing the hero’s father and this was supposed to be my house. Rima Lagoo was playing my wife.

  We arrived there for shooting in the morning the next day. It was a gorgeous house. The drawing room was breathtaking. In it were some very precious artefacts. There was a rare and priceless Ming vase and the floor was carpeted with an exquisite centuries-old Persian carpet worth millions. There were other unique objects and curios that belonged more to museums than to a private house, and shooting in it, surrounded by such opulence and rare objects of art, was quite an experience. Walking on the carpet was intimidating, knowing how rare and priceless it was and one was afraid to touch any of the precious artefacts that he had collected from all over the world.

  Indian film units are very efficient and conscientious about their work and think little about their surroundings when they have their nose to the grindstone. They are very business-like in their attitude. For them working in this house was like shooting in any other location, whether it is in Bombay, Copenhagen or Timbuctoo. Their main concern is to shoot the best possible shot from the best possible angle with the best possible result.

  The light boys and assistants cared two hoots about the artefacts. At first, the cameraman placed the tripod of his camera (which had very sharp edges so as to take firm hold of the ground). This is all right when shooting on an ordinary floor, but he placed he camera on the Persian carpet. The legs of the tripod dug deep into the priceless carpet and the owner of the house winced. But before he could say Jack Robinson, one of the boys on the set was asked by the cameraman to remove the big white vase and place it at the other end of the room. The fellow picked up the Ming vase and threw it at another fellow across the room. As the vase flew through the air, the old man let out a horrendous scream and collapsed on a sofa. He was panting hard. The effects of the vodka seemed to wear off in a flash. ‘My vase . . . my vase . . . and the carpet!’ he mumbled, and staggered up to go and fix himself another drink.

  But he made the mistake of going into the bathroom first and there he saw something that he had never seen before—huge splashes of a red substance on the wall and the floor, which resembled blood. He let out a scream! We ran in to find out what had happened, most of us thinking he had been stabbed or something. ‘Call the ambulance! Call the ambulance!’ he shouted! ‘There has been a murder in the house. Look at all the blood!’ He pointed to the bathroom floor and walls. It took us a long time for Dev Saheb to explain to him that there was nothing for him to worry about and that these were merely marks from the paan the unit members had been chewing and spitting out. The man looked baffled. To allay his fears, a paan was offered to him which he accepted and began to chew slowly, looking around wide-eyed.

  The poor man did not know that the paan had tobacco in it. He went to his room and before long we heard him vomiting. By that time, it was lunch break. He came out of his room looking like death warmed up and tottered towards Dev Saheb. Lunch had arrived. An Indian restaurant had been asked to cater it. Dev Saheb offered some food to the Dane. He accepted the platter and sat down with the unit to eat it. One morsel of the naan dipped in mutton curry made the man take hold of his stomach, throw his tongue out and let out a pathetic groan as though he had been poisoned. His mouth and innards were on fire! He rushed to the bathroom again, and this time he got another shock. Someone had used his toilet sitting on it Indian style.

  The man rushed out of the bathroom breathing fire. Seeing him in this state, Dev Saheb asked his unit to pack up immediately and leave the venue.

  I went out of the house with him and tried to commiserate with him. He responded by saying, ‘Not to worry, we will find a better place to shoot the scenes!’

  And sure enough, he did! He found not only a better place but a full-fledged castle with some of the most stunning interiors we had ever seen. This ancient castle had been turned into a hotel. It dated back to the middle ages and was owned by a young Parsee gentleman who had migrated to Denmark. One look at Dev Saheb and he went into raptures. ‘You were my hero right through my school and college days, Dev Saheb! This is a dream come true. It is the most memorable day of my life!” he cried excitedly like a schoolboy. When Dev Saheb asked him if it was possible to shoot a small portion of the film in his castle, he replied spontaneously, ‘Sir, it will be an honour! You can shoot your entire film in this castle. It is mine; I own it and can do with it what I want!’

  And so it was that Dev Saheb, because of the mark of the sun on his forehead (that the Guru in Gurdaspur had observed many years ago), got a great deal from the Parsi gentleman!

  Life was heavenly after that. The castle was stunning! Ancient (original) suits of armour decorated its corridors and the rooms all done up in the medieval style with huge metal bed posts, ornate carpets and colourful silk curtains draped tastefully on the windows. And the main hall had to be seen to be believed! Lit by huge chandeliers, huge carpets, solid and intricately carved mahogany furniture of the style of the middle ages, it transported us into another age.

  I went up and stood on the battlements and they reminded me of Hamlet’s Castle of Elsinore. However, I didn’t sleep too well on the enormous bed draped with silk and brocade at night because I expected the ghost of Hamlet’s father to appear at any moment, armour et al, and moan about the injustice that had been done to him.

  We did a fair amount of shooting there, enthusiastically partook of tasty Danish food morning, noon and night and drank some wonderful wines. When Dev Saheb asked our host how much he owed him for his hospitality, the generous man said it was all on the house!

  Yes, the Gods were kind to Dev Saheb and poured their favours on him at every stage of his life. He was around eighty at the time, but at heart younger than the youngest member of the unit.

  I got proof of this the day he told me, ‘I am shooting on one of the beaches of this city. I am told this is an interesting place. Would you like to come?’ I had swum in many seas—in the Pacific Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean. I wanted to add the North Sea to this list, and so I agreed to accompany Dev Saheb. He was shooting some scenes with the heroine and hero on the beach. I thought I would take a dip in the sea while they were shooting. It was a sunny day (something rare in the northern regions) and the Danes had turned out in hordes to bask in the warmth of their Northern sun.

  However, what I saw on the beach took my breath away. It was a nudist beach. Elderly and young people were sitting around and basking in the sun stark naked! I had never seen anything like this before. I was married to Dev Saheb’s niece. In fact, he had asked me to allow my younger daughter to work as a heroine in the film, but I had refused. I knew how arduous and unpredictable film business is and what most heroines had to go through to make it big on the silver screen. When I saw what Dev Saheb’s heroine was wearing for this particular scene, I thanked God I had not allowed Tanya to work in this film! She would have been outraged by what was happening on the beach, and embarrasse
d by the kind of clothes she would have had to wear and the things she would have had to do during the shoot.

  I tried sitting down in a corner of the beach and warming up before I stepped into the sea. I had on my swim trunks. The beach was crowded and the sea looked emerald blue and inviting. But strangely enough, no one was swimming. I had not sat for long in the sun, before getting into the water, when I felt someone’s back come to rest on mine. I looked around. It was a young girl in her birthday suit, using my back to prop herself up. She had not uttered a word nor asked for permission before using my back as a backrest. She wore enormous dark glasses and I couldn’t see her eyes. She had, for I couldn’t help giving her contours a cursory survey, a beautiful figure. Finally, she said something in Danish that I didn’t understand. And then she turned her face away and lifted it up to the sun and seemed to doze off. She seemed to be utterly relaxed, but I wasn’t. The close proximity of this young, naked and beautiful girl agitated me. I began to breathe hard and my head, among other things, began to throb.

  Dev Saheb was eyeing me inquisitively. I didn’t want him to go back to India and tell his niece (my wife) about what I had been up to in Denmark, so I quietly got up and went into the sea to cool off, and took a long swim a la Dad. I swam along the coast for a mile or so. The water was extremely cold, but refreshing; ideal for cooling me off. It was very clear and I saw innumerable small jelly fish floating in it. They resembled the blue-bottles we can see in our sea during the monsoons. I hoped the jelly fish were not poisonous or caused a rash to appear on the skin as blue bottles do. However, they did not come close to me. I got out of the water and looked around to see where Dev Saheb was shooting. The local sun-bathers didn’t seem to be bothered about what was going on. And Dev Saheb was shooting away with the usual zeal and excitement.

  That nudist beach was quite an experience, as was living in a medieval castle, but shooting in a city within Copenhagen called Christiania was something I will never forget. Christiania, a walled city in the heart of Copenhagen has, believe it or not, its own government and laws. It is a country within a country.

  The rest of the city has nothing to do with how Christianians run their city. It is (or used to be) hippie-land. The non-conformists, the hippies, who did not accept the norms of society and wanted to have a life of their own—with drugs sex and music, et al—were given this portion of the city to live in the way they liked without breaking the laws or norms of Danish life. Soft drugs were allowed in this township and sold openly. But hard drugs such as cocaine and others were banned.

  I remember seeing a young girl who was completely ‘stoned’ getting up and falling again and again on the road as her companions laughed and clapped their hands at her plight. It was not a pretty sight! I wanted to leave straight away, but by chance, came across a chess board with the pieces set up in the middle of the square and a bearded man sitting behind it, staring at the board. I love chess, so I asked him if he would care to play a game. He smiled and agreed with alacrity, but quoted a fairly large amount of money as a wager. He said, ‘If you are carrying that amount of money, we can have a game!’ I had just about that much in my pocket and agreed.

  The man lit a ‘joint’ and made his first move. He wasn’t a good player and I was sure I could beat him easily. My position was solid and unassailable by the middle game. But then something happened that I couldn’t, for the world of me, understand. The pieces seemed to come alive and began to sway. I didn’t know what was happening to me. What I didn’t notice was that the opponent was blowing smoke at me while I was concentrating on the board. Inadvertently, and without noticing it, I was inhaling the smoke and it hit me like a sledge hammer.

  For no reason at all I found this situation very funny and began to giggle and then laugh. After making a rather silly move, I looked up at the fellow and caught him blowing smoke at me. I understood his strategy. I was stoned. As I have said, there was plenty of beer available all the time. I helped myself to a bottle, drank half and poured the other half on my head. That cleared my brain somewhat. Whenever he blew the smoke in my direction I looked the other way and held my breath. Before long the tide had turned. The man had lost a piece and his king-side castling had been shattered. I could checkmate him in a few moves. But before I could make these moves, he went away and never returned. So much for my experience of Christiania!

  With all this captured on celluloid—the shooting in the nudist colony, the beautiful castle, Christiania etc.—I was sure this film would do very well in India. And so, on returning to Mumbai I went to meet Dev Saheb one day. I found him busy editing the film. I asked him how it was coming along and whether he was satisfied with what we had shot and the shape the film was taking. Dev Saheb was the perennial optimist. He smiled, as usual, and said, ‘The idea is to enjoy the work one is doing. One always needs a hit. But that is in the hands of the gods! The main thing is that it was fun making it. What do you say?’ ‘Yes, sure, Dev Saheb, it was great fun,’ I replied. ‘Then that is all that matters!” he said and turned back to the editing.

  Dev Saheb was one of the rare people I have come across in the film industry who lived up to the dictum of the Bhagwadgita that ‘we have got the right to labour but not to the fruits of our labour!’ I don’t know if the film did well at the box office. The last I heard about it, Dev Saheb’s partner in Denmark had sued him and the project had turned sour. It didn’t seem to bother Dev Saheb. He continued making film after film. But as far as I can remember, except the first one or two, none of them did well at the box office. And in the end, still full of life and active as ever and full of plans, he went location hunting to London, and there breathed his last peacefully, without falling ill. He had a sudden cardiac arrest. It came as a shock to the film industry. For me it was a personal tragedy. He had lived like a karma yogi and died like one.

  Raj Kapoor

  Raj Kapoor Saheb was a legend in India and Russia and several other countries and it was my good fortune to be associated with him after coming back from the USSR, again because I was Dad’s son. In Russia, he was better known even than Jawaharlal Nehru and was the darling of the Russian masses and a symbol of India’s artistic excellence. His film Awaara was a perennial favourite with the Russians. They saw it again and again. Raj-ji was almost a cult figure in Russia. I met people in Moscow who had seen Awara more than thirty or forty times and sang the song ‘Awara hoon’ as fluently, if not more fluently, than their own songs. Whenever I was asked which country I was from, and I said ‘India’, I was given royal treatment because I was ‘from the land of Raj Kapoor’. Taxi drivers often refused to take money from me when they found out that I was from India and hummed the tune from Awara merrily as they drove me to my hostel. Awara was an outstanding film and Raj-ji’s performance in it was hailed by the Time Magazine as one of the best ten performances of all time.

  I was in awe of Raj-ji when I returned from Russia. Our families knew each other well. My mother, Damayanti Sahni, had worked in Prithvi Theatre in some of the plays put up by Prithviraj Kapoor Saheb, and one of those plays, Deewar, was a big hit. She had made a name for herself and soon joined films as a heroine. I have already written about this in another chapter. Ever since then the two families were close to one another and Prithviraj-ji, in particular, seems to have been quite close to Dad.

  So I was taken by surprise and overwhelmed when Raj-ji asked me to help him as an assistant during the shooting of Mera Naam Joker, in which the members of the Russian Circus had been invited to participate. Very few of them spoke or understood English and I was the interpreter. This was a great honour and I was lucky to get a first-hand glimpse of Raj-ji’s style of film-making.

  My professor in film direction in the Moscow Institute said in class one day, ‘Film direction is one of the most difficult jobs a man can undertake. It demands not only all of man’s attention, but also his total emotional and spiritual involvement. He has to put his heart and soul into his work and live with his project night and da
y. There is no respite for him. It demands all of his time and energy—physical and emotional—and so intense is his involvement that more often than not, it shortens his life. Good directors die young. They rarely cross sixty or sixty-five.’ When he said this, I was sure he was talking through his hat. My favourite director at the time was David Lean and he lived to a hoary old age and every film he made was a classic. But it is quite possible he was an exception to the rule.

  As far as Raj-ji was concerned, I had never come across a film director as intense and obsessed with his work as him. I had worked with Sergei Bondarchuk during the making of the magnum opus Tolstoy’s War and Peace, and he too was shouldering a very heavy burden. It was one of the most colossal projects the Russians had ever undertaken. He was not only supervising the script, the music, the set construction but also doing the pivotal role in the film. I noticed that in order to do justice to his role he had, in real life, adopted the behavioural patterns and mannerisms of Pierre Bezukhov, the hero of War and Peace. He had purposely put on a lot of extra weight to look like Pierre and spoke haltingly, hesitatingly, looking nervous and unsure of himself according to the character Tolstoy had portrayed. It was a colossal film that ran into six hours (with two intervals in between), which was a record of sorts. The man had not only to work on his own performance, but also supervise the work of his fellow actors. He, incidentally, was a great friend of Raj-ji and the two had a lot in common.

  Raj-ji was also totally involved in the project and worked on it from its inception—the scripting, the musical accompaniment down to the picturization, the editing and re-recording of the film. I remember him sitting outside the set with some of his assistants, the cameraman and the music director one day and listening to a song that had to be picturized. He listened to the song again and again for hours till he had worked out the minutest details of how he would picturize it. He didn’t leave much to the imagination of the ‘dance director’ or the ‘song director’. He wasn’t satisfied till he had planned out in his mind every detail, every image and every shot the song-picturization demanded. He was in a kind of frenzy when at work. On the sets as well, his mind was like a laser beam, focusing on the minutest details of a shot.