And Then One Day: A Memoir

by Shah, Naseeruddin

  Through this, all I remember doing is waiting endlessly for Amjad bhai who was dealing with a hundred other films and a humongous new-found celebrity status and was always ‘about to arrive’. To his credit he actually did, sometimes. Despite all this industriousness, the shooting of Pyaara Dost, as it was finally called, dragged on for the next two years, for reasons too complicated to go into here. That song I enacted in Alibag, seeing before me Om’s disapproving face instead of the heroine’s, was not even used. And Imtiyaz Khan, being strictly a nightbird, made me do the accursed graveyard shift for him along with whatever project I happened to be currently involved in. I swore that in the future whatever the monetary inducement, I would never shoot double shifts again. This particular bum-trip doesn’t merit further mention other than that it was the first of the films I acted in that I never bothered to see. Quite a few more I never ever saw were to follow, though: Haadsa, Tajurba, Swami Dada, Kanhaiya, Shatrutaa. My career was barely five years old, and along with some critically acclaimed stuff I also had an impressive roster of truly execrable films.

  When Saeed Mirza was making his Arvind Desai ki Ajeeb Dastan I was to be in it until I learnt that so was not only Jaspal but AP, the lady from Manthan, as well, and we were all to share screen space which would mean spending time together on the sets. I didn’t want to take any more chances and withdrew. But Arvind Desai was now history; despite being a quite exquisite piece of work it stayed unreleased, and Saeed now embarked on his next, titled Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai and asked me to play Albert. For such a dynamic title the script seemed strangely somnambulistic to me, but I thought it would be fun playing this Anglo-Indian character whose alienation from the working classes and apathetic attitude to life gradually turn into a growing political awareness. Finally shedding the communal identity about which he is so vain he eventually merges whole-heartedly with the mainstream. The positioning of the minorities in the larger scheme was obviously close to Saeed’s heart; he himself is a Muslim married to a Goan Christian, and this film is his dreamscape about the dawning of a political awareness. Believing that it would be significant and also pretty keen that his work should be seen, and being basically an adman, Saeed was canny enough to ask Shabana if she would play Albert’s girlfriend Stella, not a large part, which she very sportingly accepted even though she wasn’t (if Shabana will forgive me) strictly speaking ideal for it. In fact neither was I, as Shyam reminded me—I had gone all Elvis Presley and James Dean when it was street-cred that was required. Mine is an immature self-adulatory performance but Shabana’s presence added great oomph to the project and certainly was one of the factors that helped make the film widely known, even though there are probably more people who have heard the title than have actually seen the film.

  Shabana and I over the decades have worked together in more films than you can shake a script at. Her dramatic abilities are too well documented to need a testimonial from me so I won’t go there, except to say that but for the somewhat smug reverence she has for her own acting and her tendency to perform with background music playing in her head not to mention the eccentric preference for her right profile over her left (or is it the other way around?) I have never found her to be anything but a consummate professional and the most confident, generous, sane and positive female co-actor I have ever worked with in films. Playing off her has always been non-competitive, full of mutual regard and trust and, therefore, a great joy. Our views differ drastically on many subjects but whatever we may think of one another’s opinions and one another as people, I have while working with her always felt safe. Evidently so has she, and on the solitary occasion that we didn’t enjoy working together, it had nothing to do with her! Never once while working have I seen her at the mercy of her moods or indulging in displays of temperament; something I, on the other hand, have often been guilty of. I had looked up to her ever since she had conducted a class in speech in our first year at the Film Institute, and receiving her encouragement and approval now was a great high. Many of my personal favourites among the films I have done are the ones with Shabana; films it was generous of her, a mainstream star, to consent to do with me—a nobody.

  I believe it was also not only coincidence that we happened to be paired together so often; I think we carried similar energies and a similar attitude to the table. This helped us both bring out the best in each other. I suppose that’s what ‘good chemistry’ is all about. For whatever they are worth I could not have done those performances without her, I know that for sure. I’d like to believe the reverse is also the case but one never knows.

  Despite spending so much time together, we have somehow escaped becoming close on a personal level, which I am inclined to think is not a bad thing. We do consider each other to be friends, but visit each other’s homes on an average once every two years or so. The roles in our real-life relationship are not at all defined so when we meet there are no expectations, and when we approach two characters at work it’s like drawing those people on a clean slate, the baggage of things personal does not intrude. I believe the danger of that happening is greater in cinema than in the theatre; the camera may not be ‘able to look into your soul’, as they say, but the fact is it can catch you with your metaphorical pants down, and if a personal relationship is involved there are bound to be unguarded moments, which can sometimes embellish, but more often mar, the content of the scenes. That is probably why there have been many legendary husband-wife acting teams in the theatre but not in cinema. In some cases a close personal equation between actors may have resulted in charming or believable behaviour on screen, but only when those actors were playing parts that conformed to their real-life relationship. It is equally true, though, that personal animosity between actors has often been the cause of incurably bad acting. For the avid ‘listener’, the things unspoken between characters in popular cinema are sometimes more audible and engrossing than what is actually being said. In fact, my only reason for watching Hindi potboilers now is to catch the subtexts passing between the actors.

  I received an unexpected lesson in the politics of the Hindi film industry in the midst of shooting Albert. Called for a meeting by a writer duo of some recent blockbusters, I went to meet them, heart bouncing with joy. These two gentlemen had earlier been extremely warm in their praise of my work, had made many polite noises and the usual vague promises. Now I was being urgently summoned and I had visions of a part like the one a few years ago in which they had seen the potential in an unconventional actor and it had paid off big- time. I learnt later of course that the ‘unconventional actor’ had been their third or fourth choice and he was only cast when the stars they wanted turned down the part. I decided I wouldn’t mind one little bit being the third or fourth choice provided I got a part like that one. Arriving at the plush seaside residence where the meeting was it didn’t take me long to figure that I was dealing with very big brass here. The legendary director, who mostly kept silent or looked suitably harassed, was there, so were the producers with their shiny briefcases and, as was unfailingly mentioned, the ‘stunt coordinators from Hollywood’; also a journalist or two; and everyone got up to greet me.

  Polite chat filled the room for a while as I sat there silently squirming, and finally a few subtle signals and quick looks shot around the gathering and one of the writer gentlemen came out with it: prima-donna attitude from one of the stars in the massive film they were shooting at the moment had made them decide to replace the gentleman in question with yours truly, and I should make myself available from next week. I wasn’t asked, I was told. My stunned reply that I was already in the midst of a shoot ending in three weeks was met with an incredulous guffaw. ‘What film yaar? Who is going to see it?’ I desisted from naming it, not wanting to create further merriment, so got bombarded with advice that was not without a certain friendliness: ‘This is the chance of a lifetime for you’, ‘think of your career’, ‘forget that film whatever it is’. I have to say that this carrot-on-a-stick they dangled,
far from tempting me, made me wonder what kind of people these were, for whom nothing else mattered except having their way immediately, for whom no other film in the world apart from the one bringing them big bucks quickly was of any importance. I had absolutely no intention of saying yes, there seemed more to this whole thing than met the eye anyway, and secondly, I just didn’t think I’d be right for the part they briefly described—I knew I was no good at this larger- than-life stuff. My temperature was rising but I put a lid on it and continued listening silently. Even though the producers sitting there were itching to instantly hand me a cheque and I was being paid nothing for Albert, there was not the slightest dilemma in my mind. I could only stare in disbelief at these rich, arrogant poseurs and wished I could tell them all where they got off; but I only stammered and excused myself, saying I would think about it. That was also greeted with garrulous disbelief and I took my leave. I didn’t bother to re-establish contact. In a day or two the unconfirmed news that I was in the film broke anyway, and in yet another few days the news that I was not, and that all had been amicably settled also appeared and so prima donna and I were both back where we belonged. And fate decreed that this ‘colossal extravaganza’ on which I had missed out sank leaving barely a trace, taking with it some big reputations and at least a couple of fledgling careers (mine without a doubt would have been one) and it now rests secure in the musty pantheon of forgotten biggies while the tiny Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai is still remembered if only for its title.

  To counter this event, something else happened around the same time, almost as if to illustrate to me that the film industry is not completely full of self-importance. With nothing much to do, I was snoozing one afternoon when Ramesh who had been looking after the kitchen for about a year came and woke

  me, looking as if he had seen a ghost. ‘P.. P... Pr..... Prraaannn!’

  his voice was trembling as he frantically gesticulated towards the outside room, ‘Pran saab is there!’ Only half registering what he meant, I went out and snakes alive! There was Mr Pran Sikand himself, wearing a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, grey trousers and white shirt sitting cross-legged, shoes off, on the huge mattress on my living room floor. Pran! He of the riding crop and breeches, of the evil eyes, of the pencil moustache, of the blood-curdling half-smile half-leer, was sitting in my living room looking as timid as a vacuum cleaner salesman.

  Mr Pran had so defined the concept of villainy in Hindi movies that I suppose something in me expected to see him in felt hat and trench coat, nonchalantly blowing smoke rings; to see this side of a star of his magnitude was a revelation, it actually took me a few seconds to recognize him. He had come to invite me to play in a film-stars’ festival cricket match, but being pretty allergic to these things, I made an excuse and declined. He took the refusal in good spirit and, while leaving, remarked that I reminded him a great deal of his elder son, and he hoped we would work together some day. Through the time he was there, sharing a cup of tea and Shrewsbury biscuits with me (he had quit smoking though), he graciously said he admired my work. Thinking it too obvious to return the compliment, I gratefully swallowed his praises, not quite believing who they were coming from. I did get to work with him much later and discovered he loved being praised. He would be overjoyed, Mithun once told me, if he were in make-up and you walked past not recognizing—or rather, pretending not to recognize— him. Your subsequent fake apologies, ‘Pran saab, kya fantastic get-up hai! Main to pehchana hi nahin!’ would literally make him blush. I tried it and it worked! So punctual you could set your watch by him, always ready bang on time in full costume and make-up, usually pretty elaborate make-up, never leaving the set between shots, retiring to his green room only for lunch, then right back to the set in full battle readiness. This was something the entire old-time brigade of supporting actors, a breed that has vanished, had in common.

  There was a survey conducted once which uncovered the disconcerting statistic that on an average five hundred young boys/girls arrive in Bombay every day to become actors. No one has ever researched the number of moneyed people who arrive here every day, hoping to produce films to multiply their investments and of course get photographed with the star, preferably the female star, but my guess is that that number too would be staggering. Among that legion was a multi-millionaire shipping magnate from Hong Kong who decided he wanted to be a movie mogul as well. While staying in the wings he had quietly financed the film Shaayad with a frontman acting as producer, and having tested the waters and decided they were to his taste, he had now decided to make a big noise to herald his arrival in the film world. He wanted his pictures in the glossies, he had had enough of being invisible and shelling out piddling amounts to make ‘Naseeruddin Shah type of serious movies’; he now wanted to scatter the stuff about and sign up the biggest stars he could buy, to appear in thoroughly commercial fare. ‘Money can get anything done’ being his motto, the overambitious gent formed a film production company and in four full-page ads in Screen announced four medium-to-large movies, all four to be shot simultaneously, at least two with big-name directors and each with a different star-cast. The only common factor was the presence, in a leading capacity, of Om Puri in each of them; in fact one of the films was to star Rajesh Khanna and Om Puri. The fourth, never made, was also announced thus, ‘Production no. 4 starring Om Puri’. Govind Nihalani had not spotted Om yet, he was not really known, so many assumed that this was a new leading lady being introduced. By the time these films got under way Om was gainfully employed elsewhere and to my knowledge, he didn’t actually appear in any of them.

  I did, in one of the three, an adaptation of Oliver! and I did a bad imitation of Ron Moody’s Fagin, one of my favourite performances. Amjad Khan played Bill Sikes and this film did to the Carol Reed classic what many Hindi films have done and continue to do to classics to this day. Though, as in the original, the film’s title was the child’s name (Kanhaiya) the ads screamed out ‘Amjad Khan as Kanhaiya’, a marketing ploy that fooled no one. The mainstream audience didn’t know who I was but Amjad bhai’s massive fan following also decided to give this one a miss. The other two films produced by the company, starring some marquee names, plodded along for a few years then also died of natural causes at the box office. The shipping magnate, after being repeatedly taken to the cleaners by the film industry’s charlatans, was barely heard of after that and I have a bad feeling about those ships.

  Still fancying myself to be leading-man material I initially turned down the part Ketan Mehta asked me to do in his gorgeous allegorical film of a folk tale, Bhavni Bhavai, but I hadn’t anticipated his persistence. I didn’t want to do it mainly because I wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of the kind of run- ins we’d had when he had directed The Lesson for us. In that production, apart from one stunning visual idea for the set— four gigantic books suspended by invisible wires from the four corners of the stage—he had had precious little by way of nuts- and-bolts help to give the actors and would constantly resort to unfathomable abstractions instead of tangible guidance: ‘a spiral turn is needed here’, ‘you must show the character’s contradictions’ and so forth; or when at a loss he would tauntingly toss the ball into my court: ‘Tum actor ho yaar kuch jadoo karo, kuch khelo!’ I would be halfway up the wall, and our friendship was seriously endangered by hysterical arguments occurring too often for my liking in the course of rehearsal.

  I seriously thought I’d never work with the man again, and now he wanted me to play a bumbling Raja in a film that would be seen by many more people than had seen The Lesson. I had an immediate premonition that this film would work but the thought of playing a foolish character was not appetizing. I opted for a shorter, heroic role but Ketan would have none of it and coerced me into agreeing to do the Raja and am I glad he did. I look back on it with great affection and pride, not least because the splendid look of the film, for which Archana Shah and Mira Lakhia must get complete credit, belies its impossibly small budget. It was produced by a coo
perative of which I was a member and everyone in the unit treated it as their own baby: no one in the unit was paid a penny, some of us even travelled to the location at our own expense, but despite it all, a group of friends mucking in together to create something, with the odds heavily stacked against them, created such joyous energy that all of us who acted in it, and are still alive, look back on it with great affection.

  This film also helped illustrate what Mr Brecht had been saying all this time and which so far had made little impression on me who was dying to ‘become’ every character I ever played. Ketan’s vision for the acting in the film was that it should be like the behaviour of the characters in the Asterix comics, which on reading the delightful script made complete sense. Om was cast as the Untouchable who, in the best tradition of fairy tales, discovers and rears the baby prince. Benjamin was playing the Prime Minister; Suhasini Mulay on whom I had had a crush ever since Bhuvan Shome was the Queen; another dear friend, Mohan Gokhale, was the abandoned Prince; and Smita was his love interest. Another pivotal part, the Chorus, who narrates the story mostly in song, had not yet been cast. Ketan dearly wanted B. V. Karanth, something of a guru to him, to play it but Karanthji was unavailable and so crisis Number One hit us on the first day itself. A brainstorming session was held to discuss possibilities and inevitably Jaspal’s name cropped up—he could sing, reasoned Ketan, and working would do him good. So he was informed and called to the location, something I had major misgivings about but was assured we would be kept apart, and in any case we were never in the same frame together.

  When he arrived for the shoot, staying true to his current form he proved impossible to handle, and had to be asked to leave. The man for all seasons, Om Puri, who couldn’t sing a note, took over and played both the narrator as well as one of the chief protagonists. I desisted from any I told you so’s because I was really disappointed. I knew that Jaspal had blown this as well; he wouldn’t now have another chance to redeem himself. This was the last chapter in which I was to figure in his long and extremely sad story. We never met at the location, and subsequently I had no more direct contact with him, just kept hearing bizarre, disturbing and often contradictory reports about his doings first in Delhi and then Patiala, whence apparently he returned when Ketan’s misguided plan to help him backfired.