I was in London for the shoot of Lamhe and Sridevi was yet to arrive. When she came, she told me: ‘Yashji mera dimaag kha gayen ke tum Waheeda ka snake dance dekh ke London aana.’ [Yashji drove me crazy. He kept saying I must see Waheeda’s snake dance before coming to London.]
Sridevi danced in a similar style but it didn’t work that well. The frustration she feels and Rosie’s frustration come from different emotions. I don’t know if they finally kept her dance in Lamhe.
NMK: Yes, Sridevi’s dance was in the film. Can you tell me what form of dance was the snake dance?
WR: You can’t call it Bharatanatyam or Kathak. It is a mix of all forms. But it had proper mudras and footwork.
Film dancing is a blend of Indian dances, developed especially for a film. Sometimes you change a movement to make it look good on the screen.
NMK: You mean dance movements are designed for the frame?
WR: Yes, especially in a close-up. A dance movement must have a graceful shape and not go outside the frame. If you’re filming a movement in a wide or a mid shot, the movement does not need to be so precise.
Directors who did not know about rhythm and music usually left the camera positions and framing to the choreographer. The director would sit on the set and watch—unlike Guru Dutt who always decided the camera movement. He had learned dance under Uday Shankar and knew all about choreography.
NMK: I am sure working with Uday Shankar must have helped Guru Dutt define his style when it came to filming dance sequences. Minoo Mumtaz performed some unforgettable songs in Guru Dutt’s films. I am thinking of ‘Saaqiya aaj mujhe neend nahin aayegi’ [in Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam]. I asked Murthy why the chorus dancers were filmed in shadow. And he said, because they were ugly, they decided not to show their faces.
WR: I don’t think that’s true. [laughs] The song had such beautiful lighting. The film was set at the end of the nineteenth century, and I thought the lighting effect helped create the shadows made by those old-fashioned pankhas [swinging ceiling fans pulled by rope].
Minoo Mumtaz was excellent in that song. She was a very nice person. Her brother, the comedian Mehmood, once asked me to work opposite him in some movie. I gave him some excuse about not having the time. He got so annoyed with me that in one of his films he tells a girl: ‘Hey, Waheeda Rehman, what are you doing? Are you washing dishes like a maid?’ It was very mean of him. [we laugh]
He was a very talented actor and changed his personality in every film. Johnny Walker was always Johnny, but that was not true of Mehmood.
NMK: Which male actors do you think danced well?
WR: In my time the heroes didn’t dance as such. There was Bhagwan, and among the romantic heroes I believe it was Jeetendra who started the trend of the dancing hero.
In a love song the couple would usually hold hands, or run through fields. So no dance steps were required. I may be wrong but I think Dilip Kumar danced for the first time in Gunga Jumna. There is such charm in his whole personality. He is very lovable, sweet and nice. He has a lovely smile.
I made four films with him, Dil Diya Dard Liya, Aadmi, Ram Aur Shyam and Mashaal. But my role in Mashaal was very small. I didn’t like Dil Diya Dard Liya. It was too melodramatic. The director made us cry too much. I feel dramatic situations should make the audience cry, not the actors.
Personally I liked Dilip Kumar in Gunga Jumna, Andaz and Daag. Amar was interesting too. His voice and his effortless acting are impressive. He has a lot of depth and expression in his eyes—Dilip Kumar is a natural actor like Motilal, Balraj Sahni and Rehman.
NMK: You would be in the same group of natural actors. You have created many lifelike personalities on the screen. The fact that you underplayed your roles has helped your films not feel dated. Much more than dialogue or editing, I think performance can really date a film. When you see some old films, an actor’s wooden performance is what gets the audience laughing. Nothing dates as badly, not the music, photography or even editing.
In this current generation, I find that Nawazuddin Siddiqui is a natural. He’s brilliant. I hope the attention he is now getting doesn’t corrupt him.
WR: His performances are so different from each other. He doesn’t emote through facial expressions; his feelings come from the inside. He’s very good. In The Lunchbox, there is a wonderful scene where Nawaz’s character is feeling hurt and snubbed by the character Irrfan Khan is playing. You can sense Nawaz’s feelings in his slightest glance and gesture. He is subtle and moving.
NMK: For the record, I’d like to ask if you had worked in many films that were never released.
WR: There were a few—there was a film with Rajesh Khanna and Tina Munim called Baayein Haath Ka Khel, an NFDC [National Film Development Corporation of India] film called Trisandhya and Ulfat. I don’t know if Trisandhya was finally released.
NMK: Your Wikipedia entry has Baayein Haath Ka Khel down as a released film.
WR: I am sure it was never released. I think there was some misunderstanding between the producer and Rajesh Khanna. I don’t know what happened in the end because I had moved to Bangalore.
Rajesh Khanna and I acted in a few films together—Khamoshi, Maqsad and Dharam Kanta.
NMK: He was amazingly popular in his time. His smile became a kind of trademark.
I have always believed a star must have a winning smile. Rajesh Khanna’s smile had millions swooning and so did Dev Anand’s. You have that kind of smile too—a smile that lights up the face.
WR: Oh yes? Madhubala had a lovely smile. Dev Anand was all charm.
In fact he was the only star who could put his arms around any actress and she would not object or push him away. Today the stars are physically affectionate with each other—there’s a lot of hugging—but we were reserved in our time. Yet none of us minded when Dev put his arms around us. He would say: ‘Hi, Waheeda! Hi, Nandu’—that’s what he used to call Nanda.
The other actors were jealous and complained that whenever they tried to give us a hug, we girls would push them away. Dev was a decent flirt. [laughs]
NMK: Your family background, being the daughter of an IAS officer, was probably quite different from the background of most people working in films in the 1950s. Was it something that set you apart?
WR: Not really, all kinds of people worked in films. When I first started, I was very apprehensive and my mother was too. But I never forgot the advice of our producer friend Mr Prasad who said I should not concede to every demand. For example, I made it a rule that no one should call me at home after 9.30 at night.
Sometime in 1965, I was working in Palki. One evening K. Asif was finalizing a scene with the actor Mahesh Kaul and the writers of the film. At 11 p.m. they told their production assistant to inform me of the schedule. The assistant immediately said: ‘No, sir, we cannot call Waheedaji at home after 9.30.’ Asif Saab couldn’t believe it.
A few days later, he asked me: ‘I want to know if it’s true that no one can call you after 9.30? Why not?’
‘Asif Saab, I am not afraid of hard work, but there must be some discipline. Only my sisters who live out of town or my close friends can call me after 9.30.’
NMK: K. Asif was an amazingly accomplished film-maker. What do you remember of him?
WR: If anyone talks of Asif Saab, the first thing they speak about is his style of smoking. It was so distinctive. He kept his cigarette between his third and fourth finger, clicked his fingers and took a deep drag.
When we were working in Palki, I noticed that Asif Saab did not instruct us clearly about what he wanted us to do. He did not speak in full sentences. The actors had to know him well to second-guess what he wanted. When we were ready for the take, Asif Saab would just say: ‘Try . . . with force.’
‘Do you mean the emotions should be more forceful? Louder?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ He’d click his fingers and take another drag.
In the beginning I found it difficult to understand him. Rajendra Kumar, who was my co-star in Palki, had t
o explain what Asif Saab meant to say. It was very amusing.
NMK: I suppose some people with a strong visual sense cannot always describe what they want in words. He was probably seeing the scene in his mind’s eye and could not articulate it.
WR: This is true. He was imaginative and fabulous at conceiving scenes. I don’t believe he was very educated or anything like that, but then one does not have to rely on intellect or education in the creative arts—all you need is imagination. I think creativity is an inborn gift.
Asif Saab once told us about a scene he wanted in Mughal-e-Azam where Prince Saleem sends a love letter to Anaarkali. He asked the writers Kamaal Amrohi and Vajahat Mirza to come up with a romantic idea, but they couldn’t. Then Asif Saab came up with the idea of wrapping Saleem’s letter in a lotus and letting the flower float to Anaarkali through the waterways of the palace. How exquisite!
While we were working on Palki, Asif Saab narrated some fantastic scenes of Sasta Khoon Mehenga Paani, a film he was planning with Rajendra Kumar. Sadly the film was shelved. He was a very interesting person.
NMK: I wonder why he was not credited as the director of Palki along with S.U. Sunny and Mahesh Kaul.
WR: S.U. Sunny was to produce and direct the film but he passed away in 1966. Then sometime later Rajendra thought they should restart it because it was a very good subject. Mahesh Kaul was the original screenplay writer, and he decided to direct, but Rajendra Kumar wanted K. Asif. So Asif Saab helped out on an informal basis and maybe that’s why it was agreed that he would not be credited.
There was a lot of confusion on the Palki sets. It isn’t easy working with two directors. They were both very intelligent men and we actors didn’t know who to listen to. Mahesh Kaul would say the take was good and Asif Saab would say let’s go for another take.
NMK: Your co-star Rajendra Kumar was a popular actor in the 1960s and part of the ’70s. As you know he was famously called ‘Jubilee Kumar’ because many of his films enjoyed a jubilee run. I believe you made three films with him.
WR: Besides Palki, I made Shatranj and Dharti with him. He was a very popular star. But he cried a lot in his films. I used to tell him: ‘If you cry so much, Rajendraji, how will I cry?’ He would smile and say: ‘Oh sorry, you’re right. One more take.’
I remember this one delightful incident. Rajendra and I were on location in Lausanne during the shooting of Dharti in the late 1960s and by chance I met a little Swiss German girl in a restaurant. When she saw me, she came over and sat on my lap and refused to go back to her parents who were at another table. She would not leave my side for a minute. Her parents had to go somewhere and so they left, saying they’d be back to collect her in a few hours.
During the shooting of Dharti in Lausanne, a young Swiss German girl (unidentified) took a shine to Waheeda Rehman. Circa 1970.
The little girl spoke no English and I couldn’t speak German, but we somehow communicated through hand gestures. We had a lovely time. At the end of the day when her parents came to take her home, she was very upset to leave me. She was a sweet little girl. Rajendra Kumar was most amused by the whole story and said the girl and I must have some connection from a previous lifetime. I don’t know her name but I have not forgotten her.
NMK: The world has become such a small place, thanks to the Net, that she might find herself in this book some day! That would be nice.
Were you considered a romantic pair with Rajendra Kumar?
WR: Not really. Meena Kumari and Rajendra Kumar made a very successful romantic screen pair and worked in many hit films with tragic stories. Rajendra Kumar was so popular.
Dharmendra also had a great following. And many people loved Balraj Sahni. He was such a sensitive artist and had a lovely face.
NMK: His face epitomized decency and integrity, and what an extraordinary actor he was.
Can we talk about another fascinating director you worked with—the exuberant Manmohan Desai?
WR: Before we made Coolie in 1983, he was making Naseeb and that’s when we met. For a party scene in the film where Amitabh sings ‘John Jaani Janaardhan’, Manmohan Desai asked many top Hindi film stars to make a guest appearance. He also asked me to participate. I think it was the first and probably the last time that so many stars came together in the same film.
On the day of the shoot, Manmohan Desai said: ‘Waheedaji, I have a request; I am sure you won’t refuse. Shammi Kapoor wants to walk into the party arm in arm with you.’ I said okay and he ran like a child to tell Shammiji, who had wanted to work with me, but somehow it had never happened.
Shammiji came over to me and said: ‘Arey kya baat hai ji? I was dying to work with you.’ I said: ‘This is our last chance. Let’s enter the party together.’
Sometime later, Manmohan Desai offered me the role of Amitabh’s mother in Coolie. He asked Shashi [Rekhy] to play my husband in the film. But Shashi had given up acting ten years before that and wasn’t keen to face the camera again.
NMK: Coolie became doubly famous because of Amitabh Bachchan’s near fatal accident on the set in 1982.
WR: Yes, it was awful. Poor fellow. Thank God he recovered.
NMK: Manmohan Desai was an amazing man. I made a documentary on him in 1987, and was very fond of him. He had a beautiful singing voice.
WR: Really? I didn’t know that. He would always be jumping about. He could never sit still.
As I told you, I have a logical mind and I would ask Manji how some situations in his films were possible. He would say: ‘Waheedaji, it’s a Manmohan Desai movie—there is no logic. No truth. No reality.’
I remember a scene in Coolie where the villain is chasing Amitabh, Chintu [Rishi Kapoor] and me. I fall and am injured, and a bandage is put on my forehead.
The next scene we were filming was the climax scene. We shot it somewhere near the Bandra Reclamation. A huge crowd had gathered to watch us shoot. Kadar Khan was also there and he was very popular too.
After a few shots, I said: ‘These assistants are very bad. They should have remembered to put the bandage on my forehead for continuity. I should have thought of it myself.’ Chintu looked at me and said softly: ‘This must be the first time you’re working with Manmohan Desai. There’s nothing for you to worry about because he never gives the viewer the time to see what went wrong where. If you notice the continuity in his movie that means the picture is a flop.’ [we laugh]
NMK: He was an original. I still miss him.
WR: He suffered from terrible backaches and poor health.
Manji’s passing was a loss to Hindi cinema and a big shock for us all. He had a great personality.
NMK: This is really the age of the celebrity. And thanks to Facebook and Twitter, everyone seems to want to know what the stars are doing on a daily basis. Before the Net, you must have had contact with your fans. Did you receive letters from your admirers? When did that start?
WR: Just after the release of C.I.D. I started getting fan mail. In the early days, I read the postcards and letters. I didn’t have a secretary and so I threw away everything. I was told it was rude not to reply because most fans only wanted a signed photograph. So I started sending out signed photographs.
I got strange fan mail too. There was a man who sent me eight-page letters every day for weeks on end. He wrote: ‘I am going to build a Taj Mahal for you, better than the real one. You live in my heart . . .’ He claimed to be an architect and I wondered if it was true and if so, how did he find the time to write such long letters to me? [we laugh]
NMK: Did you ever meet any of your fans?
WR: Yes, I did. A young man once wrote saying we did not need to marry because we were already married. Crazy fellow. I forgot all about it, but then one day he landed up at our door. It was very scary. Thankfully my sisters and my servants were there. When one of our servants tried to stop him from entering the house, he said: ‘Tu kaun hai chaar paisewala, hato! Main apni biwi se milne aaya hoon.’ [Cheapskate! Who are you to stop me? I have come to see my w
ife.]
We had to call the watchman to get rid of him. It was a frightening experience.
NMK: I hope you have had a more positive encounter with a fan.
WR: I had a very special encounter once. One day a woman came up to me in a shop and said: ‘I have wanted to meet you for years. I have something personal I want to share with you. You know Shanti, the character you played in Trishul? Well, my life was just like hers. I was in love with someone and was expecting his child. He abandoned me, but I decided to bring up the child on my own. It was a terrible struggle. When I saw you in Trishul, I thought to myself, if you could do it, so could I.’ I found her story very moving.
NMK: The 1978 film you are talking about tackled a very daring subject because in those days the story of single mothers was uncommon in Hindi cinema and frowned upon by society. Trishul was a very popular Yash Chopra film based on a Salim–Javed script with some leading stars, including Amitabh Bachchan and Sanjeev Kumar.
WR: Yes, it was popular and it dealt with a bold subject. Unmarried mothers had to face many social stigmas. There is a famous scene in the film in which someone asks the hero Vijay, who is forever putting himself in danger, why he never fears anything in life and he answers: ‘Maine maa ki nazron mein maut har din dekhi hai, to mujhe kis baat ka darr?’ [I have seen death in my mother’s eyes every day. What could possibly frighten me now?]
Vijay finally has his revenge on his father by taking over his business and renaming the company ‘Shanti’ after his mother.
NMK: Before Trishul you played the heroine opposite Amitabh Bachchan. Was it odd to play the mother of an actor who was once your romantic lead?
WR: By the late 1970s, I had started playing mother roles. This kind of casting is not unusual in Indian cinema. Even in regional cinema, in Tamil and Telugu films, many actresses have played the heroine, mother and sister of the same male star. Audiences have never questioned it.
NMK: I can’t imagine an actor playing Anushka Sharma’s hero in one film and her father in another, even if the male star is old enough in real life to be her father. But ours is not to reason why. [we laugh]
Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 11