NMK: It shows on screen when a performance is heartfelt. I am thinking of you as Radha in Khamoshi.
WR: The director Asit Sen was very good and the only time I worked with him was in Khamoshi. He had made many Bengali and Hindi movies, including Mamta. I liked him very much because he was a sensitive man and had a great understanding of cinema. He guided me to deliver the right tone.
NMK: Many people confuse the director Asit Sen with the comedian Asit Sen. But they were entirely different people. The director Asit Sen was a former assistant to Bimal Roy and came from Calcutta with Bimal Roy and his team to live in Bombay in 1950.
Apparently Khamoshi was the Hindi version of the 1959 Bengali film Deep Jweley Jai that Asit Sen made with Suchitra Sen in the role of the psychiatric nurse that you ultimately played. Was it a tough role?
WR: Khamoshi was a demanding film and so was the role. The character I played, Radha, had intense but suppressed feelings. She has great self-control and was not the kind of person to demand that the man she loves must love her in return. It would be out of character for her to behave like that. Acting quieter emotions is far more difficult.
On the other hand when I played Chamelijaan in Mujhe Jeene Do, I was required to express loud emotions. She starts off as a tawaif and later becomes a dacoit’s wife. She yells and shouts. That kind of behaviour suited the character and background she came from.
NMK: Did rehearsals help you achieve the right pitch of performance? Did you have camera rehearsals?
WR: No, not in the early days. Before we put on our costumes and did our make-up, all the artistes were called on the set and the director would explain the camera positions. This was about rehearsing movement, not performance.
Say an actor had to walk over and sit on a chair while talking. We would then rehearse just that movement and not necessarily the whole scene. The idea was to get familiar with our cues and make us feel comfortable. They call it ‘blocking the scene’.
NMK: Actors talk of becoming the character; was it something you believed in?
WR: Yes. I became Gulaabo [Pyaasa] or Shanti [Kaagaz Ke Phool]. I think I knew how to act but relied on the director to help me stay in character throughout the story: ‘Shanti aise nahin karegi. Shanti aise hi karegi.’ [Shanti would not do this. Shanti would do that.] Consistency in performance is important.
NMK: You’re right. We’ve got to believe that when we meet someone on the screen, they are the same person from the first to the last scene. That can be tricky when a film has a lot of dialogue. Do you think Hindi films tend to overdo the talking?
WR: Indian films are too verbose. There’s too much talking. I have told my writers and directors many times: ‘Saab, this whole scene is a repeat. Why don’t you cut it down?’ But they didn’t listen to me.
I think emotions expressed through songs and music are a good way of taking the story forward. They’re emotionally more effective than endless dialogue.
NMK: I think Hindi film songs are the glue that binds us to Indian cinema, especially the old songs—they are the most original aspect. It’s interesting that the audience tolerates the repetition of storyline, but they will not tolerate the same song being used again and again.
That said, songs today have less purpose in the story. I am sure you agree they don’t seem to fit in the current mood of today’s films.
WR: Well, they don’t fit because the stories are often action-based or they have more realistic settings. Everyone wants special effects these days. In the realistic dramas or the crime thrillers, they tend to use the song as a background song—not a lip-synced song.
I think that’s because the characters in some recent films would look too odd if they were singing. You can’t expect the hero in The Lunchbox or Paan Singh Tomar to sing a song, can you? How could the character Vidya Balan plays in Kahaani sing? It would look totally wrong.
There are also fewer situations in the stories today for the characters to sing. In a way I think it is a good thing.
In our time songs were used to express love. But now the couple meet and are hugging and kissing soon enough—where’s the time or opportunity for them to sing a love song?
NMK: I suppose it would be out of place for a hero to also sing praise of the heroine’s beautiful eyes—her ‘nargisi ankhen’—when she is scantily clad. I am not sure why would he concentrate on her eyes? [we laugh]
We see comedies, action stories and crime thrillers dominate film-going tastes in the 2010s. I wonder if romance has finally taken a back seat today. Is it a loss for Indian cinema?
WR: There has to be change. You can’t stick to the same themes like love and tragedy. People are changing in India. The audiences are more educated, otherwise would they accept films like Kahaani or Paan Singh Tomar or Kai Po Che!? These films have done well at the box office and so show us that the audience is changing.
In my era, people who watched films were not highly educated. Perhaps that’s why melodramas and weepy love stories dominated our films. Those films struck a chord, and people would let out their frustrations by watching them.
Audiences today have a lot more entertainment. They’re far more aware because of the vast number of television channels and the Net. Little kids can teach you a lot today.
NMK: Earlier films were indeed preoccupied by romantic themes, and this was particularly true of your era. Do you think the prevalence of arranged marriages had something to do with it?
WR: I think so. We should not generalize, but even today some traditional families, especially in small towns and villages, do not want the couple to know each other before marriage. The girl does not see the boy’s face before her wedding day. The poor thing doesn’t even know what he looks like. Is he hideous or handsome or what?
This was the norm in earlier times and so there had to be a sense of frustration and anxiety of not knowing who they will live with for the rest of their lives. Young people have a yearning for love and this increased the appeal of romantic stories. The story of doomed lovers like Laila–Majnu, Heer–Raanjha and others were always popular and so it was natural that romance of all kinds would become central to our films.
Our society is changing and that’s why you see a wider variety of film subjects.
NMK: Like film stories, as we said, the role of songs is also changing and they don’t have the same importance as before. I think it would be a loss if they disappeared entirely from Hindi films. They made Indian cinema unique.
In addition to performing and delivering dialogue, there is an art to lip-syncing. Did you find it difficult to mime to the words of a playback singer?
With sisters Shahida (left) and Sayeeda with whom she continues to share a very close relationship. 1960s.
WR: Dilip Saab would tease me because I would actually sing along with the playback track. One can tell if the actor is singing or not. [sings] ‘Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein’. I may be singing out of tune, but you can see the neck veins protrude slightly—that’s how you know if I’m singing.
The basic requirement is to know the song perfectly. You need to feel and understand the meaning of words and only then can you have the right facial expressions to match the words and mood of the song.
In a song like ‘Jaane kya tu ne kahi’, it was nearly all about facial expressions. There was a little body movement—the way I walk, the way I look at the hero, flirt and seduce him—all that was important.
‘Waqt ne kiya kya haseen situm’ on the other hand is played in the background. I do not mime to the track and so I relied entirely on silent expressions—my face had to say it all. There was no movement in the song. I sit in a chair and knit. At one point, the souls of the two characters walk across the studio floor and merge together in a dissolve—a merging of shadows.
NMK: That was an extraordinary moment—an imaginary union or one could say a union of spirits. It is almost ghostly.
WR: It was very unusual. By and large, movement in a song varies according to the situation in the story.
NMK: There are many examples of excellent song picturizations but do you think that background music has been used well in Hindi cinema?
WR: I think it is rarely used well. The songs have a definite purpose and take the story forward. They are a form of narrative through lyrics and music. The old songs were very good. But you can’t say the same about the background music. It was often too loud and too present.
I liked the way S.D. Burman and Madan Mohan composed background m usic. I never had the opportunity of working in a film in which the music was composed by Madan Mohan. But he was good. O.P. Nayyar did not write music for many movies, but his background scores were very effective—especially in the early crime thrillers like Aar Paar and C.I.D. I liked his music in those films.
NMK: I read an interview with Meena Kumari in which she said she didn’t have to act if Lata Mangeshkar was singin g for her. I am sure she meant the emotional power of Lataji’s singing was enough, so why act when the voice conveyed all the feelings?
Did the way Lata Mangeshkar sing help you find the right way of expressing the song?
WR: No matter how much one praises Lataji, it isn’t enough. She is a perfectionist. She takes her work totally seriously. Many other singers have come and gone. But she is unmatched.
It’s an absolute fact that her singing helped us actresses a lot. The feelings of a song came through her voice while she kept something of the personality of the actress. When you heard a song, without seeing the film in which it appeared, you could tell if Lataji was singing for Meena Kumari, Nargis, Madhubala or Nutan. When she sang for Dimple in Bobby, her voice had the innocence of a fifteen-year-old. Matching the voice with the face is very important or else the performance itself cannot convince anyone.
Lataji is a great artist and yet so down to earth. I remember we were in Sunil Dutt’s Ajanta Arts W elfare Troupe show in Bangladesh in 1972. A whole group of artistes had gone for the show. Lataji and I were sharing a room. One day I had undressed, and was about to have my bath when I realized that there was no running water. She understood my predicament and immediately rushed off and found a bucket, filled it with water and carried it back to me. She had no pretensions whatsoever.
Nargisji, Lataji and I laughed a lot together. We had wonderful times.
NMK: One of Lataji’s songs for you is the famous ‘Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai’ from Guide. How did that song get made?
WR: We were filming in Udaipur when Dev went to Bombay to record the song. He returned worried, and told Goldie he was unhappy with the song that Burmanda had given him. He didn’t like it at all and wondered what had come over Dada. They got on very well and Dev knew Dada would not mind if he were asked to compose another number in its place.
But we all insisted we should at least hear the song, and when we heard it, we loved it. We told Dev: ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s a beautiful song. It will fit perfectly into the story. The music is good and Lataji’s singing—everything about it is good.’ But Dev kept saying he didn’t like it.
With Lata Mangeshkar with whom she shares many years of friendship. Photograph courtesy: Lata Mangeshkar.
Goldie persuaded Dev to let him at least film the song. He explained that when we returned to Bombay we could view the rushes and if Dev still didn’t like it, we could come back to Udaipur and film another song in its place. Dev agreed and we started filming.
The song was shot over five days at various locations in Rajasthan. Every evening when the crew returned to the hotel, Dev noticed they were all humming the tune. On the fifth day, he said: ‘Sorry, I made a mistake. It’s a lovely song. We don’t need to record another.’
Before the song starts, there is a short exchange between Raju and Rosie in which Raju says: ‘Yesterday you seemed like a forty-year-old woman, disenchanted and tired with life, and today you are like a sixteen-year-old, carefree and happy.’
‘Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai’ is the answer to Raju’s lines. The song had such a feeling of freedom and much of the credit goes to Lataji. Her singing matched Rosie’s emotions perfectly. It made me really feel the words: ‘Today I want to live again; today I want to die.’
When talking about the difference between old and new songs, Lataji once said: ‘The orchestra was there to give us singers a rest. Today we singers are there to give the orchestra a rest!’ [laughs]
NMK: I suppose what she meant was that the music is more important today than the lyrics—because songs are now essentially dance numbers.
WR: Even the dance numbers don’t show real dancing. The dances are more like PT drills. When I listen to recent film songs, they all sound the same to me. They have a good rhythm, but it is the same rhythm again and again.
NMK: Another lovely and unusual song is ‘Bhanwaraa badaa nadaan haye’ from Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam, sung by Asha Bhonsle for you.
WR: She’s another great artiste. She brought that song alive. If you hear it again, you will notice how she stresses each syllable. ‘Bhan-wa-ra bad-aa naa-daan . . .’ etc. I had to make exaggerated facial movements to match her singing and intonation. She sang the words like that because in the scene Jabba is making fun of Bhoothnath who she thinks is foolish. Ashaji understood Jabba’s character and the situation in the story totally.
How beautifully she sang ‘Nadi naare na jaao shyaam paiyyan padun’ in Mujhe Jeene Do and ‘Paan khaaye saiyyan hamaaro’ in Teesri Kasam.
You know, the singer I used to meet very often was Rafi Saab because we appeared in many stage shows together. He had a magical voice and was a very simple and good man. When he sang, you could also guess who he was singing for—Dev Anand, Balraj Sahni or Dilip Kumar. Looking at the shy and reserved RafiSaab, you could never imagine it was he who sang those wild songs for Shammi Kapoor.
NMK: Shammi Kapoor had such rhythm and abandon. I think that, among today’s stars, Hrithik Roshan is the best dancer—a naturally gifted dancer.
But I suppose most actors need only give the impression they can dance because their dance steps have to last for a few seconds on the screen. Then the shot is cut. More than the actor, I think, the film editor is doing the dancing today. [we laugh]
Your dancing was of an exceptionally high standard. Can you tell me how you prepared for a dance scene?
WR: I insisted on rehearsing for at least five days with my choreographer to avoid wasting time on the day of the shoot.
The director explained the camera movements to me so I would know beforehand if he had decided to start the dance with a trolley movement or a wide shot.
Most of my dances were filmed in extended shots with no cuts. I was used to dancing for two hours at a stretch for the stage. So giving an extended take was no problem for me.
NMK: You have worked with many choreographers. Did you have any favourite?
WR: I liked many of them, but I think I worked with Hiralal the most. For Guide I told Dev I wanted both B. Hiralal and his elder brother B. Sohanlal who was a Kathak expert. They were originally from Jaipur and had settled in Madras many years ago. They spoke Tamil and Telugu, but basically were Rajasthanis. Hiralal’s granddaughter Vaibhavi Merchant is a well-known choreographer today.
I lost touch with Sohanlal and Hiralal over the years, and when I started playing character roles, there was no need for me to sing and dance.
NMK: Hiralal was responsible for choreographing many brilliant songs, including ‘Inhi logon ne’ in Pakeezah and ‘Piya tose naina lage re’ in Guide.
But one of Hindi cinema’s most memorable dances is your extraordinary snake dance in Guide. It was full of emotion and dramatic tension without the help of lyrics. It must have been a difficult dance to perform.
WR: I tell you, Hiralal broke my bones. We rehearsed in a sound studio in Dadar between five and eight in the morning. Then I’d come home, have a bath and go to another studio to shoot some dialogue scenes. Straight from there I went back to the dance rehearsal and we’d work till ten or eleven at night.
My God! It killed me. I
couldn’t walk for days and it was only with great difficulty that I managed to get out of my car because all my muscles were aching so much. My driver Naseer Ahmed said: ‘Memsaab, ye kaisa zaalim aadmi hai. Aap ki jaan nikaal dete hai.’ [Madam, he’s a cruel fellow. He’s killing you.]
NMK: But it was well worth it! I am curious about the girl who danced with you. She was fantastic. Who was she?
WR: Hiralalji’s assistant, Sheela. She was very good and graceful. I told her to become a solo dancer. But she had her own logic and said: ‘I won’t get many solo dances, but as an assistant I can work in ten pictures.’ I saw Sheela in some film recently but haven’t met her for years. She was excellent and so was Saroj Khan who was Sohanlalji’s assistant.
NMK: Did Vijay Anand choose the camera positions for the snake dance or was it Hiralal?
WR: Goldie was a very good director and always decided the camera positions. He left the choreography to Hiralal.
NMK: Do tell me about that fantastic circular shot that comes at the end of the snake dance. How was that done?
WR: In those days, we didn’t have crab trolleys and the cameras were bulky and heavy. In the middle of the set at Mehboob Studio, they built a raised platform on which the camera and circular tracks were placed. They call this structure a ‘ghoda’ [horse]. Fali Mistry, his assistant and Goldie sat there with the camera tilted down for the top shot.
I danced round and round and the camera followed me on the circular tracks. At the end of the take, I felt really dizzy. There was a camera assistant who ran alongside the tracks, holding all the cables—we both went round and round—it must have looked like a jalebi being fried. [we laugh]
NMK: Wow! Vijay Anand and Fali Mistry were very inventive. That dance will remain forever as among the best Hindi film dances ever.
WR: You know the greatest compliment I got was during the making of Yash Chopra’s Lamhe. There is a scene in the film in which Anil Kapoor slaps Sridevi when she tells him she loves him. She is upset and in her frustration she dances.
Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 10