by Karan Thapar
5
The Impact of Hrithik Roshan
“Aagaye, aagaye, aagaye!”
The hushed whisper resounded through the corridors of Jamia Millia Islamia. Excited studio hands rushed in different directions. Women moved forward, fathers picked up their children whilst the police gently but firmly pushed everyone back.
“Karan, Karan!” A voice shouted as it came closer. “He’s here!”
The photographers positioned themselves at the entrance, their fingers fidgeting with their lenses as they checked their apertures and fixtures one last time. Everyone else fell silent in expectation.
“Aap coat nahin pahenenge?” The man nearest to me asked. I was standing in white shirtsleeves with a bright blue Hermes tie to set it off. I thought I looked natty but clearly for ‘his’ arrival this was inappropriate dressing. I resisted the pressure to put on my jacket. That could wait.
“Bus mere peeche hein, Sir.” Gopal gasped as he ran into the green room. He had come running before ‘him’ like a Greek herald. His face was lit up, his eyes shining and his voice feverish with excitement.
It was at this point that I heard ‘his’ footsteps. Firm, hard and measured. By the sound of it, ‘he’ had a quick well-paced walk. I steeled myself for the man who would within seconds walk into the room. He was the reason I was there. He was the cause of the excitement and tension in the area.
And then, smiling sheepishly, his sea-green eyes appearing coy and his body looking smaller than it has in any of his films, in walked Hrithik Roshan.
Well, in the flesh, Hrithik is thinner, fairer, gentler and younger than you imagine him to be. Altaf in Mission Kashmir is more menacing, Amaan in Fiza seems bigger, Rohit-Raj in KNPH more adult. Unlike them, Hrithik seems more human. At times, he even seems fragile.
But in person, Hrithik’s impact is, if anything, much greater. The on-screen star may leave the audience gasping. The real-life actor leaves on-lookers pretty well legless. It’s not just teenage girls who swoon, elderly matrons tend to become unsteady as well. His wide chest, even when clothed in a thick cashmere jacket, is impressive. Young men stand in awe. Their elderly fathers break out in wide-mouthed smiles. Hrithik appeals across the age barrier and to both sexes.
To be honest, until I saw it for myself, I had not realised this would be the case. On-screen, his biceps remind me of Popeye. Bulging muscles are not my idea of male beauty. His tank tops offend my sartorial taste and although he dances like flowing water, I can’t see anyone dancing like that. So Hrithik, I had decided, was fine for a film but he would not translate comfortably into reality. I was wrong.
Believe it or not, it was the police who first alerted me about how far off my judgement was. Before Hrithik’s arrival last Sunday, I contacted Police Commissioner Ajay Raj Sharma for help. Airports can be difficult places and I did not want my visiting star needlessly detained before he got to our studio. In turn, the Commissioner contacted DCP Kamaraj and the DCP brought in Additional DCP Gogia. As I stood by open-mouthed, they planned Hrithik’s reception at Palam and subsequent journey to Jamia like army generals preparing for battle.
“He’s the biggest name today and his presence will evoke interest.” Mr. Kamaraj explained as he told me about his plans. Policemen in civvies would meet Hrithik at the airport. They would escort his car to Jamia. Once there, a discreet contingent of 10 or 15 would be on guard just in case.
A further fifty would be in readiness nearby if required.
“You see, Mr. Thapar.” Mr. Kamaraj concluded, as Mr. Gogia silently listened nodding agreement, “we can’t take chances. Hrithik is the flavour of the day and I think his presence will excite people.”
They were right. No doubt, I had approached the police but only as a formality. In actual fact, I was unsure of their need. I had only anticipated autograph hunters at the airport. The police, however, had foreseen the full range of possibilities that might occur.
Back in office that night, the interview over and Hrithik safely in his hotel, I turned to my producer, Vishal Pant, to ask what he had thought of it all. I expected a fairly lengthy pause before a tellingly wise answer. Vishal doesn’t rush to judgement and his pronouncements carry the weight of careful consideration. But Vishal surprised me.
“Hrithik has presence.” He said without hesitation. “I knew about everything else but presence can only be felt in person. He has it. Didn’t you notice it?”
I suppose I did. But hacks are cynics and charisma and presence get discounted in our disbelieving eyes. Sometimes we lack the sensitivity to human emotions to properly notice them. That would certainly have been the case with me were it not for a chance remark by one of Mr. Kamaraj’s policemen. It opened my eyes as nothing else could have.
It happened as I was escorting Hrithik to the door after the interview. It was dark, night had fallen and the winter chill had set in.
“Kamal hei sahab.” The policeman said with a big generous smile around his lips. “Yeh bachcha jadu kar gaya. Chahe log inka interview nahin samajhein lekin sunke sabke liye mathlab nikl ayega!”
6
Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and
Sanjay Dutt for New Year’s Eve
It’s strange how your memory can play tricks on you. For instance, I always associate Sanjay Dutt and Sharmila Tagore with each other. There is no logical reason for this but events have perpetuated the arbitrary connection. It first happened nine years ago. It happened again last week.
In 1991, Sharmila and I used to together present Eyewitness. We’d set up studio at Kamani – oh yes, on stage but there was no audience — and our guests would filter in, one by one, as the day went on. In those days, television as we now know it did not exist. Video magazines were the popular substitute. Ours was, initially, the lesser known but it was always the better one.
“Who do you think we should try for next month?” I asked Sharmila. She has a keen sense of popular taste and in those days, I would defer to her judgement.
Her answer was Sanjay Dutt. Saajan and Sadak had been recently released and Sanjay was a much sought after Bollywood star. I knew little of this which is why I suppose I was sceptical. But rather than express my reservations, I decided to telephone Sanjay and discover him for myself. If he could stand up to a telephone conversation, he was on.
After several phone calls I tracked him down to Calcutta. He was at the Grand. I got through around 1.00 at night. The hotel operator was reluctant to connect me but my insistence wore down his hesitation.
“Hi.” I said trying to sound friendly when Sanjay picked up the phone. By his voice, I could tell he was not asleep.
“Hi.” Sanjay replied.
A long silence followed. Sanjay, I suppose, was waiting for me to speak. After all, I was the one who had rung up. But I was struggling for something to say. I could hardly announce that I had rung to check on him.Yet that was the truth. As a result, I wasn’t sure how to begin.
“Well.” said Sanjay still sounding friendly. As I’ve since discovered, Sanjay is very tolerant. He also takes everything in his stride. I continued to keep silent and he said nothing more.
My mind raced over the various possibilities that I could open with. ‘Sharmila has asked me to phone you’ but that would sound like someone’s secretary. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night’ but that was so clearly the case he might have agreed and put the phone down. And finally ‘you don’t know me but I’m Karan Thapar.’ That was the truth but why would it help engage him in conversation?
Then it hit me. The morning’s papers had been full of a talk Sanjay had given on drugs. He had spoken to Calcutta University students on the perils of addiction. This would clearly have to be my opening gambit.
“I’ve rung about drugs.” I spluttered a bit too abruptly to be inviting. Fortunately, Sanjay ignored my indiscretion. He listened attentively as I scrambled to correct the bad first impression I had made. I explained that I wanted to invite him to talk about his experiences so that other
s, younger people with less strength than him could learn.
“Will you do the interview?” He asked and then added sotto voce “or will it be Sharmilaji?”
“Sharmila.” I replied sensing that was the correct answer. He accepted at once.
Ten days later, the interview happened. Sanjay flew to Delhi, drove down to Kamani and opened his heart to Sharmila. It was one of the best interviews Eyewitness ever did and it got us nation-wide front page headlines.
I suppose it was in the aftermath of this that the Sharmila-Sanjay association was born. Thereafter, whenever I’ve thought of one, memories of the other always follow. This is how last week’s events took place.They started when the phone rang.
“We’d like a couple of big stars to end the year with.” The lady from the BBC instructed me. In case you haven’t noticed, I do a programme on their channel called Face to Face. Even if others don’t, I enjoy it.
“And who do you have in mind?”
I wasn’t just being polite. The BBC pays the money which gives them every right to call the tune. More often than not, they are also right.
“Well I don’t know if you can get them but at least you could try,” and then she paused. It seemed like a challenge. Ask a man a favour, then question his ability to do it and before you’ve finished, you’ve aroused his pride. Mine was bristling to prove itself.
“What about Sharmila Tagore for Christmas and Sanjay Dutt for New Year’s Eve?”
I suppose I should have gasped with horror. After all, they are big names. Getting hold of one is tough enough. Both would ordinarily be impossible. Instead I smiled, no, maybe I laughed. This would be a cinch. It’s always a heady feeling when someone throws a challenge and it turns out to be the very question you crammed last night.
“Done.” I said with an aplomb bordering arrogance.
I set about inviting them with diligence. At the time, Sharmila was in London. Even though she would have been jetlagged, she accepted within a few days of her return. Sanjay was in Mumbai and needs permission to leave the city. Would he want to? For a mere television interview? Not sure of his answer, I rang his father. Dutt Sahib has helped me in the past and I hoped he would again. He did.
“I’ve got Sanjay coming tomorrow.” I said to Sharmila after she had finished her interview and was preparing to leave.
“Oh do say hello.” She answered.
At the time we were walking towards the front patio at Jamia Millia Islamia where our studio happens to be. I couldn’t help notice the number of heads that turned in her direction and stayed turned as she walked past. The Begum of Pataudi, which is the other name she likes to be known by, could make a dead man’s head turn. At Jamia, everyone is under 30.
“Guess who was here yesterday?” I said to Sanjay the next day. Because of the number of his fans, his journey down the same passage was a bit more traumatic.
“Who?”
“Sharmila. She’s our Christmas special.”
“And I’m the New Year Turkey.” Sanjay spontaneously quipped.“What a wonderfully gracious lady and, Christ, what a tough act to follow!”
Now it’s up to you to judge whether the connection I make between the two of them is justified. It’s not just events and coincidences that draw them together. To my mind, they seem equally frank, forthright and touchingly vulnerable. I like such people. I’m sure you will too.
7
The Eyes That Spoke To Me
It may sound middle-aged but it’s very difficult not to be smitten by Madhuri Dixit when you come face to face with her. I was.
We met at Ramoji Film City, Hyderabad. She was there to complete Raj Kumar Santoshi’s film Lajja. I went to interview her. As I approached her room, I could feel a frisson of excitement course through my veins. There’s something about stars that quickens the flesh. Even past forty, you are not immune to it.
I knocked on her door. A man who looked like her dresser opened it. He had a sari neatly folded over his left hand, a bit like a french waiter with a serviette. I announced myself but he remained non-plussed. In his world, there was no place for, leave aside recognition of, people like me.
“Madhuriji hein?” I asked sounding needlessly tentative but I suppose that was inevitable.
“Aap kaun?”
I was about to answer when a voice from inside stopped me.
“Hi.” It trilled. There’s really no other word for it. It was cheerful and welcoming. “Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Suddenly introduction seemed superfluous. She knew who I was and I could hardly pretend not to recognise her. As a result, my well-planned opening gambit was instantly invalidated. I had intended to start with a ‘Hi, I’m Karan Thapar.’ But now, that would sound stupid. In its place, all I could come up with was ‘Oh, you’re ready’ and without thinking, I said so.
“What did you expect?” Madhuri replied, laughing as she did.
To be honest, I hadn’t the faintest idea. I had not meant to say what I had and therefore I had no idea how to continue. I was, you see, star-struck and a little tongue-tied. After all, what do you say if you come into contact with Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor or even Meryl Streep? If ‘Hi, I’m Karan Thapar’ is no longer necessary and there’s no point in asking ‘Excuse me, are you Elizabeth Taylor?’, what do you say instead?
Once again, Madhuri saved the situation. She spoke first and broke the silence.
“I don’t know if I’m making a terrible mistake.” She began with a warm but contradictory smile playing about her lips. And then she asked with mischief in her eyes, “Are you going to eat me up?”
It wasn’t a question looking for an answer. She knew that too. I smiled a little sheepishly. In return, she gave me the first of her famous looks.
Over the next few hours, I saw that look several times and on each occasion, it was to beguile me. Even today I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye. It is, in fact, my memory of Madhuri. It’s also the secret of her charm. The reason why white-haired middle-aged men like me – who clearly should know better – end up hopelessly infatuated.
The famous look is a combination of a smile with the simultaneous movement of her eyes. In fact, not just her eyes but her eyebrows too. The result is that long before Madhuri’s voice speaks her face communicates with you. Usually they say the same thing but just sometimes they can speak differently too.
“As the baby of the family, were you spoilt?” I asked. She smiled. Her face gave one answer. Her eyes flashed another. Her laugh conveyed it was the eyes I should go by.
“Ummmm,” Her voice exclaimed when I asked if it was love at first sight with Shriram Nene. She was reluctant to answer verbally. Her eyes, however, were far more eloquent. They had a look that clearly suggested, ‘what do you think?’
But it was when I asked if she was really an introvert that the answer from her eyes and that spoken by her mouth were most at odds with each other. “I am.” Her lips said. Her eyes laughed and twinkled with knowing mischievousness. The more her voice pleaded shyness, the more her eyes seemed to ask ‘do you really believe that?.’
The interview over, I realised I wasn’t the only one to be hypnotised by her eyes. An enormous crew of seventeen had crammed onto the little set to watch the interview. Each and everyone of them had spent the time transfixed by Madhuri’s talking eyes.
“Aankhe dekhi?” I was asked by our cameraman. Later, most of the others were to ask similar questions too. The funny thing is each of us thought we had noticed something special. Something the next man had not discovered for himself. That’s the real magic of Madhuri’s eyes. They speak individually even when she is surrounded by a crowd.
Mona Lisa has eyes like that. Look at any of her pictures from any angle and she seems to be looking back straight at you. But her’s remain mysterious, even inscrutable and ultimately silent. Madhuri’s are talkative and they speak volumes. I’d like to believe that last week they were talking to me.
8
If Gen
erals Are in the News
Then Try and Beat This One
It’s a long time since I was called ‘boy’. If I had been younger, the term would have made me bristle. But last Saturday, it left me with a warm, happy feeling. For to be ‘boy’ to someone twice your age is to be spoken to with affection. Of course, the speaker was one of the grand old men of our times. That made it really special.
I was interviewing Field Marshal Manekshaw. He told me it was the first ever television interview he has given about himself. He has an avuncular and friendly manner, he tells enchanting stories and when he does, his eyes twinkle with laughter and mischief. This man is made for the box, I said to myself, yet why is it that we hardly know him? This man is made for television chat shows so why have they ignored him? This man is an icon of post-independence India so how is it that we have forgotten him?
The fault lies in ourselves.We have no interest in history, no curiosity about the past and we are too brash, too narrow, perhaps even too young to respect, leave aside admire, the charm, manners and style of an age now over and fading out fast. We are prisoners of the present and limited and confined by it.
So, this Sunday morning, as we read about other Generals, their armies and its battles, let me tell you about a man we should never have forgotten.
“Sam Hormusji Framji Jamshedji Manekshaw.That’s a mouthful of a name. How did you get so many?” I asked.
“Simple.” The FM replied, his eyes lighting up with glee. “I gave them to myself. When I was a Gentleman Cadet at Dehra Dun, my instructor was a certain G.F.S. McClaren. I decided then and there that I had to have as many initials as he did. So I took S from my name, H from my father, F from his father and J from his father and I became S.H.F.J. Manekshaw.”
Manekshaw is a Parsi born in Amritsar in 1914. His father was briefly a doctor in the Army Medical Corp. He studied in the city’s Hindu Sabha College. But what was a Parsi family doing in the Punjab before the First World War?