Since you started working in Hindi films in 1955, you have seen the heroine’s character change over the decades. How do you define this change?
WR: Every ten years you can see a distinct change in the role of the heroine. In the 1950s and ’60s, the hero and heroine had more or less equal importance. You also had Meena Kumariji’s many heroine-oriented films in the 1950s—the character she played won the sympathy of the audience because she was a woman who sacrificed everything in the name of love or family duty. People liked Meena Kumari in those roles.
In the 1970s, the hero took over and the violent action film became popular—that was Amitabh Bachchan’s era. In his time, the girl became a kind of showpiece, that’s all. The heroines had nothing to do. But I think roles for women are getting better again in Indian cinema.
NMK: Is there a character you would have liked to play?
WR: Radha in Mother India and the role Suchitra Sen played in Mamta. I liked the character of Radha because she made such a deep impact on the minds of people.
In fact, when producers wanted to cast me in a mother’s role, to persuade me they would say: ‘This is a Mother India role.’ But it was not at all true!
We artistes are very greedy and want to be in the film from the first to the last frame. All artistes like the challenge of growing old on screen. It proves what great actors we are—how real we look at every age. [we laugh]
NMK: I was reading an article on Audrey Hepburn recently and her son Luca Dotti remembered her saying: ‘I don’t understand why people see me as beautiful.’ It is an amazing and a heart-warming statement. The fact that Audrey Hepburn was not vain makes her even more beautiful.
How aware were you of being regarded as a great beauty?
WR: [laughs] I promise you no one ever told me: ‘Wow, how beautiful you are!’ They would say: ‘You photograph well.’ Therefore the compliment was directed at the photographer or the make-up artist or whoever.
I am being very honest with you and God knows it, I have never thought of myself as beautiful. I knew I had a photogenic face, but I’ve never thought I looked like Aishwarya Rai or Hema Malini. People look at them and would say, ‘Wow!’ I didn’t think I had a ‘wow’ kind of personality. When I see my photographs, I think I’m pretty but nothing special.
Now that I am older everyone tells me: ‘You are very graceful.’ I wonder why they did not say that before.
NMK: I can never forget the shot in Pyaasa at the end of the film when Vijay comes to ask you to go away with him. You stand at the balcony and look down and smile at him. You radiate such beauty. You also look exquisite in many films, including Chaudhvin Ka Chand.
WR: Really? Perhaps my leading men and directors were scared of telling me I was beautiful. But that’s how it was and perhaps it was better that way.
NMK: There seems to be a greater emphasis on the physique of the actress today—she must be beautiful, slim, tall and glamorous. Was the look of the actress always that important?
WR: An actress has to be slim because the camera magnifies your size. You look much bigger than you are. The clothes the heroines wear today require the actresses to have good figures—many are former models or beauty queens.
NMK: It’s interesting to note that actresses of your era often had a background in dance—in other words they brought skills of another discipline involving performance and rigorous training to the cinema—whereas actresses now often have a background in fashion and beauty contests.
But what is true is that actresses across generations have influenced fashion. I hear that was the case in your era too. Young women would ask their tailors to copy Nargis’s blouses or Sadhana’s kurtas. Did you start any fashion trend?
WR: I don’t think my clothes were copied but my hairstyle was. I had a centre parting with two waves falling on either side of my forehead. My hair fell naturally like that. Nirupa Roy told me she tried to do her hair like mine. But her hairdresser said her forehead was broader and so it wouldn’t work.
Whenever I had my hair done, the Chinese girls who worked at the parlour would say: ‘Madam, everyone asks for the Waheeda Rehman cut.’
NMK: I was just reminded how rarely you see Chinese girls working in hair saloons in India any more! Wonder when that change happened.
You have worked with directors of all generations, including Aparna Sen in her 2005 film 15 Park Avenue, which won a National Award. Was there any difference working with a woman director?
WR: There was no real difference, really. Aparna is a very clear and good director. She told me the story of the film over the phone and when I heard it, I immediately accepted the role. I liked the story and found it a strong subject. I played the mother of two daughters, one of whom suffers from schizophrenia. The reason why I agreed so readily to work with Aparna Sen was that I liked her earlier films. Both 36 Chowringhee Lane with Jennifer Kendal and Mr and Mrs Iyer were good films.
NMK: Once again you played the mother in Rakeysh Mehra’s Rang De Basanti and then in his Delhi-6 you played the grandmother. How was the experience of working with him?
WR: Rakeysh first came to me for Delhi-6. He narrated the story but then he kind of vanished. Some years later, he came back to Bangalore to see me and said he wanted to narrate another idea and told me the story of Rang De Basanti. I didn’t think I had much of a role in the film, but he insisted and said: ‘Perhaps not in terms of screen time, but the mother is pivotal to the story and triggers the change in the main characters.’ Rakeysh said if I did not accept the role, he would bring the whole unit to Bangalore, build the set on my farm and shoot.
When I was given the screenplay of Rang De Basanti, Rakeysh Mehra asked me to attend a workshop.
‘Workshop? What workshop?’
‘Waheedaji, have you never attended a workshop?’
I said we didn’t have workshops in our time—no one did, not even Yash Chopra. I asked him to explain what a workshop was and he said the cast sat in a circle and read the lines out loud.
Aamir Khan and the whole jingbang, including Madhavan and Sharman Joshi, came for the workshop and when my turn came, I read the first two lines and then said: ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ They burst out laughing. I said the shoot was a month away, and it was too soon for me to memorize my lines.
Rakeysh’s team was very dedicated. Aamir is a very professional kind of an actor. Like Amitabh, he takes his work very seriously. We also laughed and joked a lot during the making of the film.
NMK: Rang De Basanti had a big impact on young audiences.
WR: Yes, it did. I was coming out of a Bangalore hotel once, and the public relations girl stopped me and held my hand and said: ‘Rang De Basanti has had a huge effect on us all. It has woken us up. We’re always blaming the system and the government, but we must ask ourselves how we as individuals can change things.’
It’s good when a film brings about positive change.
NMK: Some people think that cinema has a bad influence too. Do you hear comments like that?
WR: Because of that brutal and horrific rape that happened in Delhi in December 2012, many people have said to me: ‘It’s because of your Bollywood.’ What nonsense!
A few weeks ago some friends and I went to Cambodia and we saw several statues of topless women in the temples there. You mean to say if you see images of half-clad women, it encourages men to rape?
NMK: That sadistic rape and murder of the young Delhi girl, who came to be known as Nirbhaya, was the worst crime I have heard of in recent times.
It woke people up to the reality of violence against women. Attitudes have to change because rapes in India have not decreased in number. So many children are raped—it’s beyond comprehension.
WR: It’s completely horrifying. I hear that most rapes take place within the family—an uncle, a grandfather or else a neighbour. People say girls should not go out, but if this is happening within the home, what is a woman supposed to do? It is so deeply disturbing.
Parents and teach
ers must teach children correct values. The mindset has to change—and change soon.
NMK: Many people in films have spoken about the violence against women. Do you believe that artistes should have a sense of social responsibility?
WR: Yes, we must. I have been involved with social work for forty-five years and worked for the Bangladesh relief fund and collected funds for the War Widows Association, the Spastics Society and schools for the disabled. I have been a brand ambassador for Pratham, which works for underprivileged children in India. I continue to attend their events and dinners and lend them my support.
I used to feel awkward talking about my charity work. I didn’t want people to think I was somehow showing off. Then a friend said it was silly to feel awkward because talking about it would help draw attention to the social cause.
My parents believed in social work. God has given us a lot. We should not be concerned only with our needs. There is only that much we need in life. We’re capable of feeling the pain and suffering of others, and if we contribute even a little, it helps—a pond can be filled drop by drop.
NMK: You clearly have a deep sense of empathy for the plight of others. But what makes you angry or upset?
WR: I rarely get angry. But if I am angry—oh my God!
Sometimes halfway through a movie I realized that I made a bad mistake—that I should never have agreed to do this film in the first place—that has made me angry. When I realized too late it was the wrong role, the wrong unit and the wrong director. This kind of thing has upset me in the past, but I have never walked out of a film halfway. When it happened, I would come home from the shoot in a bad mood. I wouldn’t talk to anyone. I’d go straight into my room, lock the door and stay there till dinner was served. I’d only come out to eat dinner and then immediately retreat into my room. My sisters would tell me to yell or shout—just as long as I said something.
I usually withdraw into myself when I feel angry or upset.
NMK: I am sure you can’t tell me which film was the bad choice! But how do you let your anger out?
WR: I took it out on the screen. You know my directors always thought I was very delicate, but soon they realized that I have very strong hands. For a scene in Reshma Aur Shera I had to slap Amitabh, and for another in Mujhe Jeene Do, I had to slap Rajendra Nath. In each instance, after the shot was filmed, my co-stars told the directors that I should pretend to slap them and not actually do it. [we laugh]
NMK: Talking about something irritating—that’s the wrong information on your Wikipedia page. Besides other errors, they have your birthday as 14 May 1936.
WR: Vinod Khanna sent me flowers on 14 May this year thinking it was my birthday. I had to explain to him I was born on 3 February 1938, and not in May and not in 1936. And I was not born in Hyderabad but in Chingleput, which is now called Chengalpattu, a suburb about sixty kilometres south of Madras. I am Tamilian and not a Hyderabadi, as many believe.
Wikipedia has the wrong day, year and place of birth. Why can’t they check? It’s embarrassing. And this incorrect information gets printed elsewhere.
NMK: I agree such errors should be avoided.
You have had a long career in films, but unlike many actors who had to face years of struggle before becoming successful, you arrived in Bombay in 1955 with a contract waiting for you.
Nevertheless it took you almost eight years to buy your own home. How many times did you have to change homes in Bombay before that?
WR: Many times. When my mother and I first moved here, we stayed at the Norman Guest House on Marine Drive. Landlords were very scared to rent their flats to film people because film people had a reputation of not paying the rent on time nor vacating when they were supposed to. Thankfully my mother and I were not like that, and so we managed to find places to rent. We moved to a two-bedroom flat on 16th Road in Khar at the end of 1955 from the Norman Guest House. I can’t remember the name of the building, but we lived there for about two years. That was the time when C.I.D. and Pyaasa were being made.
Our next home was a ground-floor flat at 57 Worli Sea Face. We stayed there for about a year. By the end of 1957, we moved to an apartment in Colaba near the Radio Club. You will remember my mother passed away there on 12 December 1957. After my mother died, Sayeeda and her family came to live with me.
From Colaba, we shifted to a fourth-floor apartment in Sea Bell on Nepean Sea Road and lived there from 1958 to 1962. While we were at Sea Bell, I noticed a new building called ‘Poonam’ that was being built opposite us. I thought I’d try and buy a ground-floor flat there. That was the first place that I bought. It became our home for ten years from 1962.
NMK: When did you move to your current home in Bandra?
WR: In 1972, I bought the ground floor of this bungalow. The original house had a huge garden, and the builder who owned the whole plot decided to build Galaxy Apartments in the compound. When it was ready, Salim Khan and his family moved here in the early 1970s. I wasn’t married in those days and did not know Salim Saab but he made a courtesy call. And later I became close friends with his wife, Salma, and the whole family.
My upstairs neighbours are Sikander Fateh Ali—the cousin of Salim Ali, the famous birdwatcher—and his wife, Qamar. They thought our bungalow should have its own name, so we called it ‘Sahil’ [Shore].
NMK: Anyone passing your end of Bandstand will see many fans milling around the gates of Galaxy Apartments hoping to catch a glimpse of the superstar Salman Khan, entering or exiting. Galaxy Apartments has become famous.
WR: I have known Salman since he was ten years old. His father used to really scold the poor fellow! Salim Saab was very strict. He has three sons—Salman, Arbaaz and Sohail—and two daughters—Alvira and Arpita.
NMK: We have spoken a bit about your husband, Shashi Rekhy. But I’d like you to tell me more about him.
You acted together in the 1964 film Shagoon. I am not sure many people have seen the film, but they will remember the film’s amazing songs by Sahir and Khayyam, including ‘Parbaton ke pedon par’ and ‘Tum apna ranj-o-gham apni pareshaani mujhe de do’.
WR: We met on the sets of Shagoon. In the beginning I used to call him by his screen name, Kamaljeet, and sometimes just Kamal. When I got to know him better I called him by his real name, Shashi. He wasn’t very well known and was a relative newcomer. By the 1960s, I was in a position to help newcomers and was open to the idea of working with new actors and directors. Shagoon was Nazar’s first film as director. Before that he worked as Mehboob Saab’s assistant on Son of India and that’s how he knew Kamaljeet. As you know Mehboob Saab introduced Kamaljeet in Son of India.
Kamal was very shy and quiet. During the making of Shagoon, I sensed he was fond of me, but he said nothing. He sent me a big box of chocolates on Eid. My sisters and their children were living with me at the time and there were about fourteen or fifteen people in the house. When I saw the box, I said: ‘How sweet of him to send chocolates for us.’ My sister Sayeeda gave me a funny look and said: ‘You fool! They are not for us, they’re for you.’ [laughs]
Sometime later Kamal sent me a tall candle. We sisters were very fond of food. We decided to make a soup and soufflé, switch off all the lights and have a candlelit dinner. We settled at the table, ready for our meal, and although we tried everything, the candle just would not light. I said jokingly: ‘The candle is just like Kamal. Shy and reserved.’
NMK: How did Shagoon do at the box office?
WR: It flopped miserably; even Son of India had not done well and neither had his other films. When Kamal realized that in spite of working with Mehboob Saab, his career had not taken off, he thought it was better to give up acting and try something else. I think it was a very unusual decision because actors rarely want to quit.
Kamaljeet stopped working in films and went to London. I don’t remember what he did there, but a year later, he moved to Toronto where some of his Delhi friends were living. He settled in Toronto and opened some shops. Every winter he woul
d return to Delhi to meet his family.
NMK: What kind of business did your husband do?
WR: Shashi started exporting garments to Canada. He and his partner planned to open a restaurant in San Diego. But they had to put the idea on hold because Shashi needed to return to Bombay to oversee his garment factory as the production was not going well.
Whenever Shashi came to Bombay he stayed with his close friends Yash and Hiroo Johar. They happened to be close friends of mine, so the three of them would come over together. I knew Yash Johar from the days when he worked as production-in-charge on Mujhe Jeene Do and Guide. He was a very decent man.
One day when Yash and Hiroo had brought Shashi over, I noticed that he had put on a lot of weight since the Shagoon days, and I asked him jokingly: ‘You must have a Punjabi wife who is feeding you parathas and ghee.’ He laughed.
Sometime in 1972, I told him I wanted to open an Indian restaurant in Paris. Shashi said: ‘You know my partner and I are planning to start a restaurant in San Diego—why don’t we work together?’ A few days later, Shashi called and said: ‘I’d like to talk to you about something. Can I come over?’
I had this feeling he was very fond of me, but I thought he wanted to discuss my investing in a restaurant. I was keen on the idea of an Indian restaurant in Paris, but actually didn’t have the money to invest at that time. I decided that I would be open with him and explain the situation when he came over.
As we were having coffee, Shashi suddenly said: ‘I want to marry you. Will you marry me?’ It hit me like a bombshell. Did I hear right? I looked down. I didn’t know what to say. He was quiet for a minute and then said: ‘I asked you something. You didn’t answer.’ All I could say was that I needed time to think it over.
There comes a moment in life when we all think about settling down and having children. I was thirty-four, and to be very frank, my career was no longer at its peak because Hindi cinema as such does not have good roles for women over thirty. I wanted to get married and so I thought about his proposal.
Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 12