Huma Qureshi – TBIP Tête-à-Tête

Huma Qureshi has been the talk of B-Town ever since her turn as Mohsina in Anurag Kashyap’s Gangs of Wasseypur. A turn followed up with the role of a small town doctor (Luv Shuv Tey Chicken Khurana) and an urban witch (Ek Thi Daayan). With an action film (D-Day) and another with Madhuri Dixit-Nene (Dedh Ishqiya) lined up for this year, she is now entrenched in what has come to be known as ‘New Bollywood’— new directors finding new ways to tell new stories; reshaping Indian idioms with influences from across the world. She is also amongst the new breed of actresses who are rank outsiders in the industry and defy conventional ideas of how a ‘heroine’ must look or dress. Huma is most comfortable in her own skin, her own body and her own clothes. And she is unwaveringly confident. Confident, but not arrogant. She loves living every bit of life that comes her way far too much to waste her time on arrogance and its upkeep.

On the Sunday we settle down to talk, the interview turns into a long, winding but terribly exciting conversation. We keep losing our way in the labyrinth of words we are setting up and then finding it again. With an uncommon mix of insight and honesty, Huma tears into every talking point presented to her. In this excerpt parts of her mind and journey are laid bare. Both of which are important because she is more than an extraordinary actor in the making. She is an extraordinary woman in the making.

 

 

An edited transcript

 

Where in Delhi did you grow up and where did you go to school and college?

So I grew up in this very, seemingly very boring South Delhi family. But I have a very interesting backgroundmy mom’s Kashmiri and my dad’s from Delhi. He’s grown up in the old parts of Delhi: Chirag Dilli, and Nizamuddin.

 

 

Did your mom live in Kashmir?

My mom lived in Kashmir. She was there till… she moved to Delhi when she was doing her college, and my parents were in love; and they had a very epic filmi romance where she got married to my father and then went back into the family. That sort of a thing. It was pretty cool that way. So it was very interesting growing up. Because I’d go to a normal, regular, South Delhi school, have really cool friends, you know, do all the cool stuff. And then when I had to go for the weekends to visit my grandparents, who lived in Nizamuddin basti. I had to wear a salwar kameez. I had to be a good girl. I had to be well behaved. I had to do my adaabs properly. And then all summer vacations we’re in Kashmir, when my grandparents were alive, my maternal grandparents.

 

 

And they lived in Srinagar?

Srinagar and also in Gurez. My mother’s from a village actually. It took some nine hours by bus and only public transport was allowed, so I still remember, the nine year old me, wearing a salwar kameez and I used to find it very uncomfortable, getting my head covered and travelling in a bus because private vehicles were not allowed. Because my grandparents were too old to travel and we used to stop at Rajdhani, this one mountain army check-post which is covered with ice throughout the year and it was one of the most incredibly adventurous journeys as a kid. Because it was crazy at that point of time in Kashmir.

 

 

That’s interesting. I had no idea that you had roots in Kashmir.

Yes, I still have family there. I go back. I’m very close to them. And it’s very interesting, you know, because politically also it was such a crazy time. Like I had cousins in my family who would say stuff like: “Oh Indians and dogs, go away.” Just to… because you know how cousins fight. And it was a very stupid, kiddish thing to say. But now when you look back, it was so interesting because we’re all from the same family. I just feel like it’s a part of my life, of growing up or I don’t know, whatever, which is so different from kids my age in Delhi.

 

 

Yeah, I can imagine.

Because I grew up with the regular Punjabis in Delhi.

 

 

Who don’t even know what’s going on in Kashmir.

Who don’t even know what’s going on outside M Block, GK (Greater Kailash) 1 market, which is okay. But then I don’t know. I guess from a very young age it taught me and my younger brother to fit in everywhere.

 

 

What were your early film watching influences and experiences like?

You know it’s very surprising, but… I wasn’t, like, how lot of people say, been a film buff forever, I was never really a film buff to be very honest. There used to be a cinema hall where I grew up in Kalkaji, in South Delhi, where I was born, called Paras. It was a single screen theatre. So I remember, very vividly, watching Jurassic Park there, watching all the 90s Madhuri Dixit, Shah Rukh Khan, Hum Aapke Hain Koun..!, those films.

 

 

Who did you go with?

I think my mom and my brother. The three of us were quite a … we got along famously. We liked similar kinds of things. We loved South Indian food. My father runs a chain of Mughlai food restaurants, but we used to always, whenever we wanted to go out, or step out to eat, we wanted to eat South Indian food.

 

 

Now the only theatre, among the old ones in the area, that still functions, is only Sapna.

Sapna is still functioning, and Sapna also I remember watching a lot of films in because I was then studying in Amar Colony. There was a tuition centre out there for your class 10th. We used to go bunk and watch films over there, but childhood cinema watching is Paras. And then we of course had a VCR at home, so we used to watch a lot of films. Like I remember we had(The) Wizard of Oz and we had Sholay and a couple of more like, you know, animation, Tom and Jerry type things, so I used to watch them on loop and I’d memorize all the dialogues. So I’d know all the dialogues. But I wouldn’t call myself a film buff, in the sense that I’d probably stay up at night and watch some films that were on television because I had to get up early in the morning so I was not allowed to watch movies very late. And like really random stuff like… it could be like Back to the Future or Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, those are the kind of films I really like. Those really fantasy, sci-fi kind of films. Those were the films we really enjoyed. Those were, I think, I guess all children enjoy when they’re growing up.

 

 

But the Delhi thing is not just to be obsessed with films but also a complete obsession with Bollywood. There’s a lot of Bollywood craze in Delhi…

People are completely star struck, you know. It’s like, I still remember having this really fun conversation with a friend of mine. When I had just moved to Bombay and I was doing advertisements, and they’d be very keen, because during every match break, they’d see me selling soap, or a mobile phone or something and they thought I had arrived, like: you come back and you are going to be like a celeb in like the Delhi circle. And I’m like: ‘No, that’s not the point, that’s not what I’m in it for.’ You know? But yeah Delhi, I don’t know why, but there’s this huge fascination with everything to do with Bollywood and the movies.

 

 

More than anywhere else.

I had a very simple upbringing that way. My parents were very particular about the fact that they wanted me to get an education. My dad’s not very educated. He started… he’s just, I don’t know what… eighth (standard) pass or something.

 

 

But there wasn’t that much emphasis on it back then, as there is now.

Correct. And he came from a really huge family, you know, like eight brothers. And he was the second eldest and he had to take care of the family business, so there was never really any emphasis on his education. But he is a very worldly wise man, and, in whatever he’s started, he’s a self-taught man. He’s my inspiration in a lot of ways. For someone without, lack of any formal education or whatever, he’s really managed to set up a business and run it and run a whole family and all of that with so much of integrity. That’s something I hope I can take back from him. So, for me, it was never about… movies were not a huge part of my growing up. There was too much on… I don’t know… there was a focus on family. Because I have a huge family, we have what’s like 150 immediate family members. And there was a focus on education. My parents were very clear.

 

 

I was actually going to ask you this. See, a lot of children grow up thinking okay, maybe I want to be an actor. What was the point when you started taking it seriously?

When I was in college.

 

 

Seriously enough to tell your parents?

It happened very quickly for me, and very suddenly. It’s like I was, in school, I was head girl, I was good in studies, I would play basketball, I would debate, I would do theatre also. There was no passion for something in the sense of ‘Oh my god, I want to do this.’ I think college changed a lot of things for me, because it really opened up me as a person. In school I had a very sheltered upbringing. I can actually tell you… like all my growing up years during school, I’d go to school, I’d come back… everything was very structured, everything was very sheltered. Like if I had to go somewhere, the driver would go drop me, pick me up, I’d go for some (sports or dance or music) practice, get dropped back. Weekends were with grandparents in Nizamuddin basti and for summer holidays, for 15 days, we’d go somewhere… to some hill station or whatever. But 15 days in that one-month period, we had to go to Kashmir. So till class tenth, or whatever, I had a whole road map sort of made, everything was just planned. College changed a lot of things. Like for the first time there was a lot of chaos in my life. Like suddenly there no structure to life anymore.

 

And there were lots of possibilities…

And there were lots of possibilities, and they were endless possibilities. I was suddenly member of a film society. I was watching a lot of films, I was debating here as well. I was doing theatre here as well… but suddenly there was a lot more independence as an individual. You know growing up as a Muslim girl in Delhi, who has a huge family, there are a lot of restrictions on your time. I had a very conservative upbringing. My parents didn’t want me to go out after dark. If I had to go out to friend’s house there was a whole procedure, to sort of ask for permission, and to negotiate how much time we could go for. Which also taught me how to lie at a very early age. Because you can’t always tell your parents the truth right? Because you still need… you just want to have fun right? So things like that. But college opened up a lot of possibilities and my interaction with the outside world really increased and suddenly I was doing so much more than just studying or going for classes and lectures and that was a time I also joined a theatre group called Act One.

 

 

You joined that in college?

I joined that in college. You know, suddenly I was drawn to the world of acting, theatre, into a lot of things and I realized this is what I wanted to do. Before that I was just this person, I probably knew what I didn’t want to do. Like: ‘Okay, I’m good at this, but this is not what I want to do,’ or ‘I’m good at that but that is not what I want to do.’ But I didn’t know what I wanted to do. There was no direction as far as that was concerned and the kind of person I am—I blend in easily wherever I go—I found it easy to do a lot of things but I did not necessarily enjoy them.

 

 

So did you have the conversation in parts with your parents, like you told them that I want to do theatre now or did you straightaway tell them that I want to be an actor?

See, I think they saw it that it was something that I was really passionate about, and I was getting appreciation for it. When I’d do a play I’d obviously call them for it and they’d come and they’d read the review in the paper. Or my college play, or the fact that I won some competition, or that we were travelling to cities to perform and people were inviting us. So they obviously saw that it was something I was good at. They also saw that it was something I was really passionate about. So you know how parents are… “Oh! It’s a hobby. It’s a passing phase. You know how student life is… ” and I was doing so many other things too. This was not the only thing. I was also heavily into student activism and if there was some workshop I had to go for it or if someone was doing a rally or a protest march I had to, sort of, be a part of it. You know how the Delhi University scene is. So I was one of those kids who was all over the place. So they never really thought that it was something I was taking seriously. I think the switch came when a friend of mine who was working in Mumbai as an assistant director called me for an audition, and he said: “There’s some audition happening and why don’t you test for it.” And I was, I remember, in Leh. I was on a holiday with my folks. And I said: “Yeah let me come back and I’ll come for like a weekend to Bombay and we’ll have fun, we’ll party, we’ll go out, it’ll be like a fun trip.” And I obviously told them I just have to go for some college work and I obviously fibbed my way through.

 

 

You were still in college?

I was still in college and I came to Mumbai. And, of course, I met this friend. I met the director of the film and I tested for it and it was a good indie sort of film. And the next day the producers called me and said: “You’re on for the part. Can you move to Mumbai and we’ll begin shooting in two months time.” And I was zapped. And I was like, really? A Bollywood film? So I’m going to be an actress? And I hadn’t told my folks. So it was like another thing.

 

 

But it always makes it easier when you have something and then you’re telling them rather than telling them…

But they thought I was being conned by people. They thought these were some fraudulent producers. They were like, why will someone offer a film to our daughter? Who is she? These people must be some crooks. Because parents have this notion about the big bad world of Bollywood and my folks, even now, they have no idea what I’m doing or what my brother’s up to. They’re just very happy that they see our pictures in the paper and we’re doing well, we’re not in want of any money. You know they’re just very happy with that. We could be cobblers, but as long as we’re happy they’d be okay with it. My dad, the other day I introduced him to Irrfan Khan and I said, “Dad, you know he’s my co-star.” And Irrfan met my father, and my dad’s like: “Arrey, I’ve seen you somewhere.” And I’m like, “Dad, he’s a very famous actor.” “No, no. I know but I’ve still seen him somewhere.” And I was like: “Can you please give it up?” And of course, Irrfan was very gracious and sweet he was like, “I think I also have met you somewhere.” So all of that. But that’s how disconnected they are. They don’t recognize people.

 

 

This is a very unique term to our industry: ‘the struggling phase.’ Whether or not you’re struggling, it’s called the struggling phase. What was it like for you? Because, also, it’s a very fascinating world right? The whole thing of auditions, and lots of people who want to be actors, and going from one audition to the other. I’m pretty sure you have tons of bizarre stories.

It was scary. I didn’t know what would have happened. Please understand I’m a middle-class, sheltered, Muslim girl from Delhi. Half my family lives in Nizamuddin basti. Half my family lives in Kashmir. My parents sent me to a South Delhi school, which is very cool, and I go to like a regular girl’s college and I’m interacting with students from all over Delhi University. But I’m still that girl who comes back home and is protected, is not allowed to go out after eight, is used to people talking to her in a particular way. And suddenly you come to Mumbai. And I was one of those stubborn kids. My dad told me: “If you’re moving here, I’ll give you one year.” We used to argue, we used to chat, we used to… every kind of emotional blackmail happened. And I finally told him: “See, I will do this at some point of my life. If you won’t let me do it I’ll do it when I’m 40, I’ll do it when I’m 60, but I will do it. But I’ll always regret that you didn’t let me do it when I wanted to, when I could have.” And my father—my mother claims that I have him around my little finger—so he obviously melted and said: “Fine, you go for one year. If it doesn’t work out, you come back. Do an MBA, study, go abroad, get married. Do what you want to do but do something sensible. This is not making sense to me. I don’t know what world you’re living in. You think it’s just upar aasman, neeche zameen and it’s just you (You think it’s just the sky, the earth and you). It doesn’t work like that.” And he probably was right from where he was coming from and I’m glad that I had sensible people around. They didn’t just say “accha go.” They tried to explain thing to me. It was also important for me to know how important it was for me to be… that this was my struggle period. That was my period with my folks where I had to sort of really understand: ‘Is this really as important for me to argue and to fight and to really convince them in a way?’ When I moved to Bombay it was one of the loneliest periods of my life. I’m a people’s person. I like being around people and I’ve always been around people. But I just shut myself off for one year, because I was scared. I felt like I had to prove a point back home.  I felt I had to do a certain stature of work because I had this idea of myself as an actor, and my parents come from a certain family and I didn’t want them to ever feel like: Oh my god what is she doing? This is so tacky. This is so embarrassing. And all those things were just pressures. No one put them on me but I just took them on myself. And it was so bizarre because I would get up in the morning, I’d get dressed, and I’d go for these auditions. And these auditions were—you know how it works—in these tiny dingy halls, in some obscure places and lanes I hadn’t even heard of. And I was new to Bombay so I didn’t even know. And I lived in a PG (a paying guest accomodation). My dad told me: “I’ll get you a car, I’ll get you a house.” But I was like: ‘I want to struggle, I want prove it to myself that, you know, you have these… you don’t want to make it… I don’t know… kids have these stupid things. Like I had this thing ki that I don’t want to take zyaada paisa (too much money) from my father. I’m just going to take this much, I’m going to stay in a PG. I’m going to rough it out. I’m going to save money on autos, I’m going to get dabba. I want to do it like how it’s done, how everyone does it. Because that’s how you feel it’s done, right? And I was depressed. I thought: ‘What is this?’ Because I’d go for these auditions and there’d be people who’d talk to you rudely and who’d think that you’re just some scum of the earth who’s just crawled out of somewhere. They’d say, “Achcha what’s your name?” And they’d be just very uncouth and you’d be like: ‘Why are they talking to me like this?’ And you’d be waiting in a room, like a tiny room, with 40 people, and you were obviously dressed up and you’ve done your hair, your face is dripping because it’s so bloody hot and you go inside and they give you some two lines to read, and they’re so dismissive of you. Most people don’t even give you the respect that you’ve come, and that you’ve invested your time. And I understand because it’s the bulk of numbers that they’re also sort of overwhelmed with. But for that individual who has just moved it’s just so weird. Thankfully I also met a lot of nice people who believed in me, who helped me without any sort of kickback or gain. They just helped me because they believed in me or they cared for me. And they still do which I’m so thankful for because those were the people who sort of made it easier for me to stay here or gave me some hope, or gave me some feeling that it’s not so bleak. But again, I’m not trying to paint a very… but there were some very depressing days in that one year.

 

 

It’s about the degree of detachment. If you can look at it with slight detachment it’ll be very funny. But if you feel like ‘Oh my God,’ if you let it get to you, then it can also be really super depressing. Like: ‘Oh my god, what is this nonsense?’

Correct. And I think the only remedy is to just look at it with a pinch of salt, and just feel like: ‘Oh my god, how retarded was that conversation?’ or ‘How retarded was that audition?’ or ‘What were those people thinking?’ or ‘What was I doing?’ You know because I’ve also gone… I’ve given horrible auditions. There have been places where they asked me some retarded shit… “Accha dance karke dikhaao (Okay, dance and show us).” So without music you are just dancing and someone’s recording you. And you are thinking: ‘Why am I doing this? What is going on?’ But it’s interesting, because now when I meet the same people, some of them remember me. Most of them don’t, because you were just somebody in the crowd. But I remember them and it’s interesting how that turnaround happens. I have very fond memories and I just think it’s life and it’s important to look at life in a very detached way and just to see how, sort of, it’s changing. Like my associations with places, Aram Nagar used to be one headache of a place, like… again those little lanes, those ajeeb (strange) places, it used to petrify me. Now when I come back here there’s another way I look at it. Possibly in another 10 years I’d look at it in another way. So it’s just that I guess. You just have to constantly change your associations with these places.

 

 

And you were doing ads, right? You started with doing ads?

I started off with ads.

 

 

So that would have been a nice sort of buffer, because you were at least making some money and you were…

Well the first ad I got paid for was five thousand bucks.

 

 

Right. Okay. Not so much.

And they didn’t give me my cheque for two months. I had to call them every day. I said, “Listen I don’t care for the money. I just want the cheque because this is the first ad that I have done. I’ll give you ten thousand rupees, just give me the five thousand ka cheque.” It was a good ad, because it was with a big star. It was with Abhishek Bachchan. It was for a big mobile company and it was a big production house. So yeah that was…

 

 

How many ads did you do?

Quite a few ads. In fact, I worked with some of the best ad filmmakers and some of the biggest stars while I was just doing ads. I worked with Aamir (Khan).

 

 

And Shah Rukh, right?

And Shah Rukh (Khan), and Abhishek (Bachchan) and I worked with Pradeep Sarkar and Shoojitda (Sircar), and a whole lot of big ad filmmakers. In that sense I’ve been very fortunate, I feel. Because I would just go for these auditions like everybody else and I remember the first shoot I did, I got paid like lousy money— five grand, ten grand, fifteen grand. But I always knew I was not in it for the money.

 

 

How long were you in Bombay before you started shooting for Gangs (of Wasseypur)?

About a year and half. Little more maybe.

 

 

And Gangs came your way, because you worked for an ad with Anurag (Kashyap) as well, right? Which was with Aamir (Khan)and Anurag (Kashyap).

Yes. I’d done an ad with Aamir earlier. So they told me, it’s another Aamir Khan ad but it’s Anurag Kashyap. I was like: ‘I’ll do it. Just tell me when I need to come.’

 

 

And did you audition for this role?

I have auditioned for every movie I’ve done. I’ve auditioned for every ad that I’ve done. Every single one, and they’ve not been easy auditions.

 

 

But I want to talk about your character, talk about Mohsina a little bit. What was your brief for the character and what did you bring to that character?

Mohsina. So it’s very surprising but I did not read the script for Gangs of Wasseypur. I was not allowed to read the script of Gangs of Wasseypur. Two people, me and Piyush Mishra, Anurag Kashyap banned us from reading the script. It’s a separate matter that I obviously sneaked a script from someone and I read it and I was devastated because I said, “There’s no role.” I said, “There’s nothing I’m doing in the film”. Because, it was possibly the least well etched out character. Like, for example, in the script, it was written ki Faizal and Mohsina go to the market. That’s it. Scene No. 42 is Faizal and Mohsina go to the market. Why do they go to the market? What happens in the market? Nothing. Anurag said, “I don’t want you to read the script,” and I was like, “But I don’t know what I’m doing in the film.” And I was feeling ki “Oh my god, am I going to be just like an accessory? Someone in the background? What is going to happen?” I had no clue. But he explained it to me later. He’s like, “I didn’t want you to over-prepare for it. I knew, being your first film, you would over prepare for it, and you’d be so excited and ‘Oh I’m doing this film!’ and you would kill the spontaneity and the realness of the character. I just wanted this relationship between this man and woman to be as real and as tangible as it can and as spontaneous.” So we didn’t read the script, we didn’t workshop, we didn’t talk about the script. We spoke about ourselves. I spoke about myself, my heartbreaks, my relationships, my struggle, my moving to Bombay, my getting the film. Just me as a person. Nawaz (Nawazuddin Siddiqui) spoke about himself, Manoj (Bajpai) spoke about himself, Richa (Chadda) spoke. We just spoke about ourselves as people and we just realized that we could look so dissimilar, we could be coming from different backgrounds, different social realities, but we were just people and we had similar experiences.

 

 

What is the brief he gave you? He just said, “Okay, this is a girl, she is from this town… ? Like what was your brief and how…

Yeah, she is this girl, and she is Mohsina. She watches movies. She’s in love with this man, and he’s the only one she cares about in the world. I’m telling you, I’m honestly telling you. I still remember the first day of shoot. I knew what the shot was. The shot was Faizal Khan is in jail and he’s coming out and the reception party is there and we’re sort of…

 

 

You’ve gone to pick him up.

We all pick him up and stuff. That was my first shot in the film. And that day I think something had happened, Anurag had to come back to Bombay for some work and he was expected to arrive by afternoon; and that shot, an assistant was supposed to take, and I was like really heartbroken— arre yaar my first film, my first shot, and the director’s not going to be there. So I was just getting ready, but somehow things got delayed, and by the time we were about to roll, and it was magic-like, and Anurag came back. And he was like, “Oh. Come, come, come.” He just told me ki “Just do your own make up and I want it to look tacky. I don’t want it to look as if you’ve done make-up. It should look as if this girl has done her own make-up.” So I understood a little bit: Okay, so this is what we’re doing. Then he came and he gave me this fake pair of Ray-Bans: “Wear this.” and I wore them. And I wore it, I looked at myself and he said, “This is your character.” I said, “Okay.” I don’t know why I said okay because I still didn’t understand what was going on. But I just looked at myself and said, “Hm.” But you know when you see an image of yourself, it’s also sometimes from external to internal, sometimes from internal to external. But sometimes you see that image, maybe it gives you a little something to work on.

 

 

Well, given that you had nothing.

And I was just there and we shot that scene and that’s how Mohsina happened.

 

 

Tell me more about relating to Mohsina.

So that’s how Mohsina happened. She happened little by little, there was no idea of ‘Okay this is what Mohsina is going to be and this is what we’re going to make.’ She just happened bit by bit. So what I related to about her… actually everything. You know, I guess when you play a character, you just stop fighting with yourself. You stop thinking: Oh she’s not educated. So? I’m illiterate about a lot of things. That’s okay. So, it’s just that. Okay, she’s in love with this man. I’ve been in love, fair enough. She’s ditzy. She’s a little vain. I’ve been ditzy in situations and I’ve behaved like that or whatever. I can be vain. But you know I guess it’s important when you’re trying to play a character, you have to stop fighting with yourself and that person. Just allow. And it is difficult at times because you also have these natural reactions to things. For example, I would say, ‘so’ or ‘actually’. But Mohsina can’t say ‘so’ or ‘actually’. But those are vocabulary things you have to fight. Otherwise, if you just allow her to be and don’t really question her too much I think it just happens. With Mohsina, it just happened. Her relationship with Faizal, it just happened. Actually what also helped me in Gangs of Wasseypur was that Anurag does not follow the classical mode. He shoots it in a very guerilla sort of a way. So as an actor you’re not worried about your angle, whether I’m catching the light or not. I think those things I’m learning now in my third or my fourth film. In Gangs, I was just being free. I didn’t care whether achcha mera (my) left profile… (was looking good) People ask me today, and I’m like: I don’t know. I think that they both look the same.

 

 

But the next two films you did were with relative newcomers— I mean, their first feature films at least. Kannan (Iyer) and Sameer (Sharma). How were their processes different?

Sameer is very different. What I love about Sameer is that he picks up the small things in life. He looks at the small moments. He’s not somebody, again, who’ll go with the ‘dhadang’ moment, or that he’ll try and dramatize something, because you know this is cinema and you need to. But he’s a great storyteller because he’ll pick up these small nuances that are there, which is what makes a film like Luv Shuv Tey Chicken Khurana. Like even today, you know, people watched it on DVD and they write to me or they message me or they write  to me on Twitter, and they love it because they find it so real. In that film what we’re trying to do is to show Punjab in a way you’ve not seen it before. For people, Punjab is loud clothes, loud make-up, loud dialogues, backslapping, and all of that. People don’t really know what Punjabi families are like, how they talk, how Punjabi women are. Everyone’s a caricature. And what Sameer consciously and violently tried to do is that he didn’t want to make a caricature of his characters. They were mad, they were quirky, they were all of that. But they were not caricatures, which is very important. Like possibly, if it was left to me, I would have played Harman as a very quirky, bubbly girl. But he told me all the time, he said, “No. She has great passion, she has great fire, she’s all of that but she’s not a caricature. She’s very real.” And when we went to Punjab, we obviously met a lot of people. I’d never been to Punjab before although I grew up in Delhi. But we went to Ludhiana. We shot in a place called Lalton (Lalton Kalan, a village in the Ludhiana district). We went to the house, we met people and then we realized this is the real Punjab. This is what we need to capture, this is what we need to get. So his process again was very different. He would… just like Anurag would just not brief me before a shot— but Sam would come before every shot and we’d have like a little moment and he’s saying, “Just make it real, just feel it. Just go where she’s going, or just… ” Because, also, if you’ve seen the film, there’s a lot of backstory, which just comes across in dialogues. You don’t go into so many flash cuts: Achcha! Tum mujhe tab chod ke gaye the, phir yeh hua tha, (You had left me back then, and then this happened). So all of that is felt. Yet it should be in the flicker of your eye, or in a gesture or in a smile or in something. That relationship should just unfold. Kannan, again, a very different process. Kannan is someone who I feel is such a great mind, and he’s so passionate about films. You need to have a conversation with him to really know how knowledgeable and how passionate he is about the movies. With him it was very different because I had spent the most amount of prep work on Ek Thi Daayan, because I was also the newest person, and it is a very strong character. It’s got lots of shades. It’s got this whole graph. So we didn’t want to get that wrong. So, I mean, sometimes we’d sit for hours and go over like each sort of scene, each line, sometimes each word. And Kannan’s Hindi is atrocious, because, you know, he’s South Indian.

 

 

I also wanted to ask you, the film begins with a disclaimer of ‘It does not want to stereotype women as witches.’ There was some controversy about it. Now the thing is, it is a work of fiction. It is a novel that existed beforehand. But at the same time, this is a culture where even today women in UP, Bihar and other parts of India are branded witches, hunted, burnt and killed. Of course it is up for debate whether a film like this can encourage that, justify that, or whether is it too removed from that. But how much does the politics of what you’re portraying bother you?  

I would not do something, which would sort of propagate violence against women or stereotype them. But I think there are two different things over here, which we are mixing up. One is you’re making a film for entertainment. You’re making a film which is supposed to entertain, and it’s a story. It could be story about daayans. It could be a story about magicians. It could be a story about aliens. It could be a story about a couple, a rom-com or an action film. I’m not saying, if I’m showing a bad cop in a film, that all cops are bad. Why are we saying that if I’m making a film about bad daayans, all women are daayans or all women are bad? You know, I feel we have a problem. We only want to show women as being good women, or virtuous women. The moment we give them power, the moment we make them evil, we have a problem with that. We say, “Oh my god, you are stereotyping them.” But my problem is why not? Isn’t there also a sense of empowerment in a way? We’re not saying we’re trying to change the way people think but if you commit a crime in a village in Bihar against a woman and brand her as a witch, you have to change a mentality. You can’t justify that crime and say, “Oh I saw the film and got influenced by that.” It’s a very stupid way of looking at it and it’s a very stupid way of us as a society shutting out that responsibility. Films are meant for entertainment. They are not upholders of morality. You cannot blame them for everything. But there is a responsibility. I’ll come to that as well.

 

 

No but actually, the question I was asking you is not… I was asking you how you make that decision for yourself.

I make that decision because I try and pick characters who are well rounded. I would hate to play a clichéd character who is only good or only evil.

 

 

No in terms of social responsibility, would you ask the director: “What is your vision? I need to understand what your vision is.” Or would you be like: “No, I don’t care about anything else. But I need to understand I’m not playing a character or being a part of a film which I feel is… ” Do you have to justify to yourself in your head? Do you feel like you have to get that justification from your director?  I know it’s a just a couple of films, but how would you approach it?

You know. You know what the intent is behind making that film. You always know as an actor.

 

 

Before you start?

You always know and are always allowed to ask questions, and you discuss. So you always know what the intent of the makers of that film is. Once everyone is in the picture is when you sign on the dotted line. It’s a team effort at the end of the day. I can’t be in a movie and make something out of it if we’re not on the same page; it doesn’t happen like that. It is a very collaborative, very close-knit sort of an effort. So I always knew what the intent was. I knew I was doing a film… because I’d never done a supernatural film… I wanted to work with Kannan, I wanted to work with Vishal Bhardwaj, I wanted to work with Ekta Kapoor, I wanted to work with the star cast that we have. They’re all fabulous. So I knew we’re not going to stereotype women and for me it was interesting to play a character which had so many shades and was so well rounded. I’m not just playing an evil woman. I’m not playing just a good woman. I’m not playing a rape victim and we live in these clichés unfortunately. Finally, I think we have such good writers and directors who are making and creating such well-rounded characters.

 

 

Complex characters…

Complex characters, real characters, tangible characters. And I think what was happening earlier in writing, especially for female characters, is that everything would be just one way of looking at things. She is upset, so she’ll always be upset. She’s happy, chirpy, so she’ll always be happy, chirpy. But that doesn’t happen in real life. You know I’m the most talkative person on the planet, but when I go to someone’s house, I’ll behave, I’ll be quiet, I’ll take time to open up, I’m not going to be the same person… It doesn’t happen. Only retards do that.

 

 

No, not even retards. Only Hindi film heroines are supposed to do that.

Even if I’m dying, I’m going to have lip gloss on. Arrey, I’m dying! It happens with me. I have also had to fight with a lot of my… actresses are always surrounded by this army of stylists and hair and make-up people. So I remember this one scene in the film for Ek Thi Daayan, I’m supposed to be in the hospital and my whole face is like smashed and I have scars and prosthetic. And I had two set of people working on me. Of course, one was my regular team of hair and make-up people and the other was the prosthetic team. And obviously my regular person, who does the glamour make-up and the beauty make-up, he was like “Oh my god, this is horrible, you’re looking… ” I was like, “That’s good, right? People should look at me and go like, ‘Oh my god, poor thing. She just got pushed by that witch and she’s going to die. That’s good, right?” He was like, “Just put some mascara”. I’m like “I can’t put mascara, I’m supposed to be dying.” “I don’t care if you’re dying, just put mascara”. And I had to fight with my own make-up guy because I was like, “Listen, I’ve grown up watching Hindi films and making fun of heroines dying with perfect blow-dried hair. I can’t do that myself. I would laugh at myself. So please, it’s anyways difficult enough, let’s not complicate this by putting mascara.”

 

 

What is your process? Are you more a studied actor, or are you more a spontaneous actor? I know it doesn’t have to be one way or the other but which way do you lean? Which is your comfort zone?

Honestly it depends on who I’m working with. It really does. I have started working on films… like Luv Shuv… I started working on it 15 days before we were about to shoot. So I didn’t have as much prep at that time. I’ve had prep work of almost four months, for Ek Thi Daayan, more possibly.

 

 

Yeah, but I was asking more in terms of how much research would you do? For example, how much do you need to know? How much do you need to know from the director, like: What is this person’s backstory or what is…

Everything. Actors should be mean to their directors. They should grill them, call them at odd hours, trouble them, they should ask all their questions before. I do. Trouble them as much as you can before you go on shoot. But when you’re on shoot, you should just trust them.

 

 

Tell me something have you noticed what ends up affecting your performance? It may not be visible on camera but you, yourself, as a person, have you noticed some things that ends up affecting your performance? It could be anything. It could be the weather…

Yes, I think it’s important to be in an emotionally stable state. It does happen that you carry some of your… you could have had a fight with someone or an argument or it could be bad weather. It could be anything. But I always try to remind myself that no one will remember what you ate that day for lunch or whether your car broke down, or whether you had an argument with your boyfriend. What they’re going to remember is the time that you’re on screen, so just make that count. And a lot of things happen. It’s so distracting on a film set. Initially I would find the whole process of even… I’m trying to get into a scene and it’s emotional and someone’s coming and fixing my hair, someone’s doing touch up and I’m just like: Just stop touching me. I’m trying to focus over here. And you realize film acting is so much about keeping your focus. I took to meditation for a while after that because I realized I was just getting so distracted on the film set.

 

 

What I also wanted to ask you is have you become a better critic of your own performances?

See, I’m very critical of my own performances. Like even in a scene, there are moments where I’m not happy when I see myself, because I know when I’m not real; and for me the only thing that matters is being real. And I know ki at this moment I didn’t feel it. I just said it because that was a line. I am critical because… and no one knows that, no one will notice that. Because you were there, you felt it or you didn’t feel it. So I’m very critical.

 

 

So the audience is watching it, for one and half hours. They’re watching it with popcorn. For them it’s a holistic thing. Unko ek line mil gayi, they love your performance, or they love the film. But you know it in a completely different way. You’ve done the scene probably 30 times, seen it, dubbed it, whatever— so it’s a different analysis that you have. But how good a critic do you think are? Or do you think you are too harsh on yourself? Have you found a balance where you feel like: Yeah now I’m more objective about my work. Well, you can never be really objective…

It’s very weird. For example, there are some so–called critics, and I’ve read their reviews about my work, and they don’t talk about my acting. They probably get into like ‘Oh she’s a little too chubby to be a mainstream heroine.’ But those are the so-called critics who get published and they write blogs and people read them and it affects public opinion, so therefore it’s important. But I’m reading the review and I’m like: Okay, so you discussed this and that’s all you noticed? I mean how myopic? That’s all you noticed? For me a critic writing about the fact that I’m four kilos overweight is akin to a rickshaw wallah saying, “Arrey, Emraan Hashmi ke picture mein ek hi kiss tha (Emraan Hashmi’s movie had just one kiss).” For me it’s the same mentality obviously and it’s really absurd. And I look at myself and I’m like I look fine. But I have issues with things where I look at myself and feel: ‘But that’s not real. I’m not feeling it. I’m faking it. I’m just saying this line, because it was written, and I had to say it and that was my mark and I had to hit it and my co-star was standing there but oh shit, I’ve messed it up.’

 

 

But what do you think is, right now, your biggest strength as an actor.

I’m just fearless I guess. Like a role like Tamara, I saw this film with a director and he said, “It’s a role a lot of people would probably be a little afraid to do, because it’s a tricky one.” It’s not mainstream again it is mainstream but it’s not mainstream, so people have all these ideas of how you should conduct yourself or the kind of roles you should be doing or I want to be seen in this light and this is who I am. I think, in that sense, I’m pretty fearless. I feel I have no baggage. I have no grandfather whose legacy I need to live up to. My father runs a kebab business in Delhi, so anything that happens is great. And for me I need to be happy with the work that I’m doing, and I’m very happy with the work that I’m doing, and for me it’s about doing something new. I don’t think of myself in terms of an image, or a brand, which actors tend to do, which is very unfortunate. Maybe it’s just too early for me to even think of these things and I don’t. I consciously don’t. For example, a lot of people told me when I signed Gangs of Wasseypur “Why are you doing Gangs of Wasseypur? It’s got 300 actors in it. You’re opposite Nawaz. Who is Nawazuddin Siddiqui? Because obviously Nawaz was not Nawaz then, he was just an actor. “Don’t worry, you’ll meet some people, I will introduce you. You will do one full mainstream heroine type role, rom-com,” and I said, “Of course, I’d love to do it. I love romantic comedies. I have grown up on a staple diet of romantic comedies and I would love to do it. But this has come to me now. Why should I not do it now because it doesn’t fit into the industry’s understanding of how you should be launched? I don’t care for it. And I believe fearlessness, that irreverence that I have as an individual, it serves me well. It keeps me happy. I would hate to be put in a box. I would hate to be like everyone else. I would just hate it.

 

 

Put yourself in a box, and start to feel like main yeh nahi kar sakti, main woh nahi kar sakti (I can’t do this, I can’t do that)…

Yeah, because now I am… For example I did an interview yesterday and they were like, “Oh now you are finally glamorous.” And I’m like “Finally glamorous ka matlab kya hota hai? Matlab main koi mar thodey hi gayee thi (What does ‘finally glamorous’ mean? I mean I wasn’t dead all this while).” I speak in English, I wear regular clothes.

 

 

Also I thought Mohsina was very glamorous.

She was, but you know she was this desi girl. “And then you did Harman, they spoke Punjabi and Bhojpuri. They wore salwaar suits. When will we see you in dresses?” And I’m just like, “Listen, I’m not insecure about wearing dresses, or that I can’t speak English. You can’t take away who I am from me. It’s a character I’m playing.” So I am not thinking of myself. Just because I’m playing Mohsina, I will not become Mohsina, or if I’m playing Tamara, I will not become Tamara. I think in this country what we need to do is understand that there are actors and there are characters you portray and they are not the same. I’m playing Tamara— doesn’t make me a witch. I’m playing Mohsina— doesn’t make me get married to a gangster. I’m just saying…

 

 

I certainly hope not…

…I’m not mad.

 

 

How have you sifted through the praise that’s coming your way? Which ones have you let matter? No, you don’t have to say which ones you haven’t let matter, but some praise that you have allowed yourself to enjoy.

For me the biggest compliment is when someone tells me that you are watchable on screen. Because I’ll tell you, ultimately what matters— it doesn’t matter what you look like, or what you wear. Of course it’s a visual medium so you have to look nice in a certain way. But for me it’s important that the audience is connected to you. It matters to me. Did you get the boy or not? Did you kill the bad guy or not? It matters (to the audience). Your objective as a character on screen becomes the audience’s objective. They want to see, they are connected to you. You could be a waiter, you could be anybody, but it matters to them— what you think, what you feel. And what happens to you.

 

 

Have you allowed yourself…  you are three films old, you’ve been an actor for a very long time, but you’ve been a star for a shorter period of time; have you allowed yourself to indulge in that experience of stardom?

Yeah, but you know I love it. I have to admit, I love it. I find it very amusing how people treat actors.

 

 

Stars, you mean…

Stars. Okay. I don’t consider myself a star…

 

 

Woh toh matlab whatever the going definition of a star is. That you are, of course, right?

But I find it very amusing how people treat stars. It’s like they’re touch-me-nots. And I’m a very expressive person so I’m like “I don’t like this tea, yaar.” So everyone goes crazy. “Oh my god, she doesn’t like this tea!” I’m sorry. I just expressed I didn’t like it. If you could change it, it will be nice, but I don’t want a scandal because I didn’t like the tea. Or if I don’t like a film, or I don’t like a book. So you have an opinion, and you’re used to talking a particular way…

 

 

And there’s a lot of weight on your opinion, suddenly. Because, “She does not like that film.”

Yeah suddenly, yeah! I find it so pressurizing. I’m just a person. I don’t know everything. I don’t have to… people call me, “So the government has put this new tax. What do you think?” I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it. Suddenly your opinions are so important, your likes-dislikes are so important.

 

 

But have you allowed yourself 5 minutes of enjoying it? Or have you not had the time?

No no. More than five, trust me. I love it, I love the adulation, I love that admiration. I love it when people like my work, I love it when people ask for pictures, and for autographs. I love all of it. And also it’s new. Maybe at some point people say that’s very annoying, but I’m loving it because that’s what you’ve always wanted. I love the look when people recognize you— a lot of people recognize you but they’re a little shy to approach you. I love all of it. I love all the perks that come with being famous and being popular. It does give you a lot of freedom in terms of what you can do… money, all of that. I love all of it, and I’m enjoying all of it but there is this other side to me also which likes being anonymous. I like switching off and then going for little holiday somewhere where nobody knows me and I can just do random stuff. Sometimes, you know, I go to someone’s house and I’m just being myself. But then everyone will start, and you notice that they’re noticing you and that just makes you a little conscious and it makes you behave politely or quietly, or just…

 

 

Or act extra normal. Then you’re like, why should I act extra normal?

Yeah exactly,

 

 

How has your relationship with your own body and beauty changed over the last four or five years?

A lot, actually. I grew up with all the insecurities that any person, any girl growing up would have. I had a boy-cut (a very short haircut) for the longest time ever. I had been tomboyish most of my life. Now I behave more like a lady, in certain situations, not always. But I have grown up with boys. There is a certain freeness that I’m used to, a certain way in which I’m used to conducting myself in. I had short hair. I used to dress like a boy. I used to wear my brother’s clothes all the time, even in college. I used to think I’m not very pretty. I’ve grown up thinking I’m not very attractive. Because I always had friends… Delhi girls, you know, they are always dressed up and it’s always about boys and parties and that was never my scene.

So I had all those issues yaar. I thought I was fat. I thought I was ugly. I thought I was too boyish. I thought boys wouldn’t like me. And I was one of those assured girls who just think that they are too smart or too cool to worry about boys. I was one of those. But I had a difficult time. It’s only once I got acceptance as an actor—and this is kind of crazy—that all the compliments started coming in about how people thought I was beautiful and all of that. It took me a while to even accept that, because you’ve had body image issues, and you’ve had issues about how you look, and we all do. I thought I had crooked teeth, just randomly. These are just things, you might not agree, but these are phobias or these are things that you have in your head about yourself and you realize that people don’t see them and it’s only in your head. I guess being in Mumbai and being independent changed that for me, a lot.  I always felt when I was in a larger group or with my family, I was always trying to hide. And I guess because of the upbringing, the conservative Muslim upbringing, I always didn’t want to look attractive, didn’t want to look pretty. Because sexy girls are not nice girls. Nice girls are always shy and coy and quiet. It’s always safer to be that because you don’t stick out. You don’t stand out. And I think moving to Mumbai, being independent, it definitely changed a lot of things. Getting my own house, getting my own car, it gives you a certain amount of just being assured that it’s okay. It’s alright. That changed a lot. And it’s kind of crazy because now I’m in a profession where everyone can say anything about me and just say so because I’m in the public domain. They can say what they want to or about me, and it’s interesting because now it doesn’t matter anymore and it’s so ironical.

 

 

What about fashion? Is that something you enjoy, or is that something you don’t give a shit about?

I enjoy it. It’s also new for me. I’ve been, like, tomboying up.

 

But see dressing up and fashion are two very different things.

Completely, but I’m also a tomboy who is in the process of transformation. I’m in the middle of it as we’re speaking. So now suddenly I have these hair and make-up people and these stylists who want to work with me because my movies are doing well and they keep sending me their work. And photographers who want to click me. And I don’t know what works because for me it’s all uncharted territory. So I don’t know if straight hair looks good on me. I don’t know if red hair will look good on me.

 

 

But as long as you are having fun and not agonizing all the time.

Yeah because everyone thinks long hair is good for heroines, so we’re going to have long hair. This works for me, so I’m going to safe dress like this. But it’s about having fun at the end of the day and about experimenting. I love experimenting, I love being around people, and saying: “Let’s try it out.” Of course I fear, like anybody here. I don’t want to be written badly about. And there is this huge… some underground fashion police, who are just out to just sort of claw you out. So I don’t like being written badly about. It’s not nice to see a bad picture of you on a write up saying “Oh my gosh, what was she thinking?” But I don’t kill myself over it. My managers get more worried about it: “Oh my god! What happened!” And they’ll fire my stylist.

 

 

But poor things, it’s their job.

But that’s their job. I read it and I’ll be like: ‘Hmm. We should fix it, we should not do this again and then, okay, step number two.’

 

 

If you take it seriously, because a lot of the fashion police is really like…

They are very nasty.

 

 

More than nasty, I don’t know if they have a sense of fashion either.

I think they have their favourites, and I think they are these really sort of depressed men and women. I picture them like this. So whenever I read a bad write up, I’m like: ‘Hmm.’ So I went to this event like two hours ago, and it’s already on the net, and there’s a whole write up, and they’ve dissected my whole look. They are some caustic, really depressed people, who have no life, who have no friends. They are sipping coffee, they have dark circles, in some underground dingy basement, uploading my pictures and dissecting it.

 

 

How much do you feel your career could turn on how you look and present yourself? Beyond a basic, of course. You can’t let yourself go…

I think it does depend on that a lot, unfortunately or fortunately. I don’t know. But see its about, there’s one thing going for a red carpet appearance when you have to put your best foot forward and you have to dress a particular way. Then there’s something called a personal style. I might like grey slacks and oversized t-shirts, and that’s just me. That’s what I am most comfortable in. But there is again this whole social space that we move around in, that we party in and which we associate ourselves in and all of that. And people do watch you at times. And somehow, like I said, it’s not even the lay people but even people from the industry. They’re constantly judging you on how you’re conducting yourself as a star or not. Are you conducting yourself as a fashionista? Are you conducting yourself as the next big thing or not? And it boils down to your hair and make-up, what you’re wearing, the car you’re driving, the cell phone you are carrying; unfortunately, but it is true. Because these are the little signals that you send out to people who are, sort of, placing you in the social hierarchy. I don’t know the right or wrong of it, but it happens.

 

 

But the point is you are constantly aware of a gaze and you are acting for some gaze or the other.

Exactly. There is a gaze, there is a constant gaze, you cannot deny it. I guess when you sign up for it, it’s a part of it. It’s a part of the whole deal. You will be subjected to a 24 hour scrutiny. People will know exactly what you’re up to. It depends on you. Whether you want to put your best foot forward all the time, whether you want to be under their scrutiny, whether you want to be the most fashionable actor or actress in town, or you don’t care. But then you also have to be prepared for the consequences because people will label you, because they’re just dying to label you. They are not happy until they have labelled you. Either you have to be the next Madhuri Dixit, or you have to be the next Nutan, or you have to be the next Kareena Kapoor. They are not happy until they have figured you. They don’t like vagueness. They don’t like chaos.

 

 

We were talking about women and roles. A lot is changing of course. The kind of roles that any of you are doing right now are a far cry from what women used to do. But is enough changing? Does it bother you sometimes that there are still not enough roles for women?

I’m very busy. I wouldn’t say I’m spoilt for choices, but I have enough on my plate to really keep me busy. I have people who already are thinking of me or tweaking roles or writing for me. I find that a huge compliment. I signed Ek Thi Daayan, before Gangs of Wasseypur was released. It doesn’t happen or it doesn’t happen often. Because I remember the cinema I grew up watching, all of us have grown up watching, and I see the cinema now while I’m working and I hear stories about how things were, and how things are. For me it’s important that change is happening and we’re a part of that change. I can’t sit back and not take responsibility, no matter that I’m a very small part of the entire pool but I think all of us are making a change happen. I was talking about Konkona (Sen) the other day, or Kalki (Koechlin), for me these women are as important as Vidya (Balan) and Priyanka (Chopra), because they’re not conventional but they are constantly pushing the envelope. Someone like Vidya Balan, I mean, the fashion police went after her. I have so much respect and admiration for her, because she is the only commercially legit substance, and yet you just don’t know how to put her in a box… she’s everything. Or even Priyanka Chopra. She’s glamorous, she’s beautiful, she’ll do a Saat Khoon Maaf, she’ll look aged, she’ll do whatever. And they are strong independent women who are making these choices for themselves. I’m a nobody. I came from nowhere. I just dropped in and I had acceptance. I can’t complain about anything. I’m working with some of the best film makers, and I feel honoured and privileged because I know any big star in the country today would want to work with them, and I’m being chosen for films and interesting parts. It is overwhelming. But it’s beautiful and it’s fascinating because I feel I’m in the middle of things. I go back home, my brother’s also an actor (Saqeeb Salim), we discuss our work and…

 

 

You guys stay in the same place?

We stay in the same place. He started off with the Yashraj film that he’s doing, Karan’s short (Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh, Bombay Talkies). I started out with Anurag Kashyap’s film (Gangs of Wasseypur) and I’m doing a film with Vishalji (Bhardwaj). So we come back and we’re just discussing… And it’s so amazing because, for me, we live under the same roof, but everything’s happening.

 

 

And also you’re part of a very diverse range of cinema.

Exactly. And Saqib and me, we are very similar people. We have very similar likes and dislikes, we like similar kinds of films. We’ve grown up together watching the same kinds of movies and being fans. But it’s so interesting that we have that range to pick and choose from and work in at the same time.

 

 

And that both of you have made it. This probably does not happen unless you are a dynasty

We’re the brats who have come from out of town. We are the migrants.

 

 

Have you also learnt by watching performances of other actors? On screen, not just in front of you…

I have and I still do. Kate Winslet, Marion Cotillard, Ryan Gosling, Leonardo (Di Caprio)… and these are like the contemporary actors we’re talking about. Because it’s also interesting for me to see their body of work, as it’s happening. For me it’s interesting what a Ryan Gosling…

 

 

It’s exciting, right?

It’s exciting because we are also living in similar times. Although different industries but similar times. So for me it’s very interesting to see a Ryan Gosling’s career path. He’s doing a Drive, he’s doing a Blue Valentine, he’s doing Lars and the Real Girl. He’s doing all these films and he’s doing it today. Often when you look at earlier stars, I feel they are a different reality. They have a different social thing happening.

 

 

And you get it but you don’t get it.

You get it but you’re like it was a different time, the economics or whatever was different, so it doesn’t apply today. But someone like him, it’s so fascinating to watch his career path and the choices he’s making. Or even Leonardo. I still feel after a Titanic, he could have still been a heartthrob. But in Django (Unchained), he plays a monster in that film. A monster. And it’s so amazing to see him. Or even like a George Clooney, or a Matt Damon, or a Ben Affleck and just the kind of films that these guys are doing. I love these actors who are doing these things because they are producing, they are writing. So these guys are very inspiring in that sense, because I feel they are also contemporaries in a way, but they’re not looking at even the Hollywood formulaic way of doing things. They’re constantly inventing ideas, pushing the envelope, directing, writing…

 

 

Name an actor or an actress, from any generation, dead or alive, whom you’d like to have a conversation, either about the life they led or their acting. It could purely be about the….

Any of the yesteryears stars, from Bollywood.

 

 

Name one.

There are so many. Like a Parveen Babi, or a Smita Patil, or any of these wild reckless stars, because I just love the stories. I really feel today’s stars are also very boring. Everyone is so diplomatic and politically correct and intelligent. I just feel like they lived their lives with so much of passion, with so much of flair, and I love that. In a way they broke rules, they did crazy things, but there was so much of honesty and passion in what they were doing. I find people today a little more proper and maybe a little more artificial. They always want to be right, and not say the wrong things. I find that very fascinating. I just want to know what made them tick, or the choices that they made, or the affairs that they had, or the torrid relationships… It’s just everything. It just seemed like a more exciting time to live in and I love the old Bollywood stories.

 

 

I’m going to come back to a question of this whole New Bollywood thing which you’re a part of— the Vishal, Anurag, Tigmanshu (Dhulia) thing. It’s very exciting because it’s like what it was when (Harvey) Weinstein and when Sex, Lies, and Videotape came. It’s that part of the industry for us. And you are there. You are part of that. You called it the “Gangs of Aram Nagar” once. I was reading this in one of your interviews, and I thought was quite funny. And yet it’s a small, intimate group. As an insider, what is the energy now? Because the energy that’s there now, will not be. When (Quentin)Tarantino becomes mainstream, that whole thing doesn’t remain, right? So you’re at that very unique point when it’s all sort of just happening. When Gangs of Wasseypur is going to Cannes and there’s this whole fermentation. I don’t know if you’ll have any observations, because you’re right in the thick of it, but if you have any…

When I was shooting for Gangs of Wasseypur, I think, Udaan had gotten a lot of awards that year, and Anurag was very happy. He was like, ‘Udaan won this, Udaan won that.’ Dabangg also released and it also earned a lot of money and won some award as well. And he was really happy and, because one was his friend’s and partner’s and the other was his brother’s, he was very excited about how the films were shaping up. So I was like, “Now, who will you fight with?” and I was pulling his leg. “Now there is no one anymore left to fight with. Now you’re the new mainstream.” So I don’t really know. I think what’s always exciting is to keep agitating, is always to keep pushing things. Someone once said: “I’m always with the opposition, no matter who the government. If I’m a Leftist, and the Left government comes up I’m going to oppose them as well.” Because that’s the only way in which you truly bring about change, you truly keep evolving. I guess complacency, whether it be for the newer lot or the new wave or whatever you want to call it, or the existing… whatever… it’s death, yaar. You can’t say this is it because there is no ‘it’. There can be no ‘it’. If you had the Sex, Lies, and Videotape then, you have this other new breed of things that’s happening right now. And it’s very hard to, right now, put a finger and say: Okay, this is what’s happening. But it’s exciting. People know something is happening. You can just sense it. It’s like a taste in your mouth. Sometimes you don’t really know whether it’s sweet or salty or it’s sour or…

 

 

Tell me something. Is Bombay home now? Or do you still long to live in Delhi?

Bombay is home. I don’t think I can live in any other city in this country apart from Bombay. There is a lot that Bombay has which is so beautiful and so unique. A sense of independence, a sense of security, especially for a girl. I didn’t think that I would ever rent out a place of my own. When I first came to Bombay, I still remember, I rented out a place. I bought a mattress and a bottle of water. I said, “I’m going to live in this house now.” And my friends were scared. “How can you live alone?” And I’m not used to living alone. I never lived alone.

 

 

But Bombay makes you feel like it’s possible.

It is possible.

 

 

You know your twitter profile says that you like to write. What do you like to write?

Oh! I should change that. I haven’t written in a really long time. But I used to, mostly for myself.

 

 

What?

Anything. Short stories, poetry. I have even written some scripts, chota mota. I’ve even made one of them into a short film with a friend of mine. I’d written a short story long time back and then this friend of mine, he’s an ad filmmaker now, but we both were starting out and there was no work, and those were the struggling days in Bombay. We used to get really bored and sit in coffee shops and be like, nothing is happening. He was an assistant director then. His name is Vivek Das Chaudhary. He’s just started his first film, a week back. He’s shooting in Bombay… in Delhi. So we used to just sit and be like: What the hell do we do? So we got a little bit of money from here and there. He got a friend’s camera. Someone gave us some stock. We shot it on film. So, did things like that. And then an editor was a friend, so we pooled that in. So it was just like a project. We haven’t even showed the film to too many people. It’s something to be proud of, because now all of us are doing something in our lives. There’s another girl with me in the film, she won the National Award this year, Usha Jadhav. Vivek has just started his film. The cameraperson of the film is a huge cameraman in ad films right now. I think he is also about to start his first film— Tapan Basu. So it was very interesting for us, because we were just friends. We used to just hang out and not have any work to do and faff around. So I wrote a story. I acted in it also, got another girl to act in it. Had no money, just got a camera, went to town somewhere, shot near the station. So things like that. I like doing things like that.

 

 

And what about reading? Is that something you used to do more of? Do more of now?

I used to obviously do a lot more of. I have a decent library at home. I read anything. I’ll pick up something.

 

 

Are there any writers that you keep going back to?

I like reading autobiographies. I find them most interesting. I guess primarily because most of them are so similar, if you actually remove all the sheen and the facts and the figures. It’s about people with passion, with a drive, no matter what the odds could be. It could be an illness, it could be a broken family, it could be alcoholism, depression, anything. But it’s always about your spirit. And I find that so fascinating whether you read a political biography or an athlete or anybody… and it’s so interesting. I find autobiographies, at the moment, very fascinating, but they keep changing.

 

 

What do you think are the modern day challenges of a man-woman relationship for our generation, irrespective of whether you’re an actor or not? I guess in urban India. Things would be very different in rural India.

A lot. Just the way we date, we woo. It’s very different, I guess, because we are a practical generation. A lot of it has to do with status.

 

 

Also the way women are changing.

Also the way women are changing, faster than men. Suddenly we’re not just in the traditional roles. We are far more well read and well travelled. We don’t have so many morality issues associated with us anymore and men probably don’t know how to deal with it. A lot of men can’t deal with single, independent, free-thinking, cosmopolitan women. Suddenly it’s too much for them to deal with. And I don’t blame them, because there is no precedent for them to look at to get hope or inspiration or… they just cannot deal with it. And also, I guess, women don’t know what they really want.

 

 

That’s a very defining feature of our generation.

I mean when I was 19, I just wanted to get married and just have kids. I thought I was in love with this guy and I thought, this was it, and I wanted to get married and have children. I was 19. And now when I look back, I was like: Oh my god! What was I thinking? What was wrong with me! What the hell do you know when you’re 19? But I guess, today, my career is the most important thing. I’m not in a relationship. I’m not in love. But would that have been better? I don’t know, maybe.

 

 

I think it’s also about what we want, because it’s also the generation… we also grew up on loving Shah Rukh Khan in Darr, so we wanted…

We wanted mad, passionate romance. Yeah, but I’m just saying, I like somebody I can just be with. Where I don’t need to pretend. And I still feel despite all the practicality that I have acquired, and how sensible I have become, that I’m not afraid to show someone my real side.

 

 

See that’s different, and letting yourself go and be crazy in love. Would you allow yourself to be crazy in love?

If I find the right guy. See that’s the tricky part. Because even though you may, the other person is not always…

 

 

What if the other person was not? Would you allow yourself to be in a one-sided crazy passionate…

No.

 

 

Yeah I guess not.

No. No. It’s too traumatic.

 

 

But is it worse now with your relationships being written about or the non-relationships being written about, or the scrutiny? Does it get worse or is it actually the same? The challenges related to it remain the same?

It is worse because people think that because you’re an actor, you are a commodity. You are not a person. They can write what they want about you. You don’t have a family, you don’t have relationships.

 

 

But what about dating? How does dating become more difficult?

It does become more difficult, because: A) Like I said before, tabloids think that there’s far more interesting stuff happening in your life than what’s actually happening. You know that’s one part of it.

 

 

Thank God…

Well yeah. It’s always like: I’m having too much fun, I’m partying every night. Not! But it is difficult. Like I’ll tell you the peculiar situation I am in. I’m new in this town so I’m a new girl in that sense. The friends I have or that I have made are all work related. I don’t have school friends or college friends that I grew up with. All my friends are back home. When I go back home, they are leading their normal lives. When I meet boys in Delhi, they’re just enamoured by the fact that you’re an actress. So you don’t know whether someone really likes you or they just want to be seen with you, or they just want to go back and say, “You know what? I went out for coffee with her, I went for a date… ” or something. So you don’t really know. You come here and it’s different because all the people I meet are work related. So even if I have to be in a relationship, it’ll have to be someone from my circle of people. I guess even when I’m talking to someone or if we’re about to start something, or not or whatever, there’s so much of chatter about it. So there’s no normal thing that can happen. Like for example, I like a guy and I’m at a party, and I’m talking to him, and we’re just talking, and getting to know each other because that’s how people get to know each other, right? And twenty people are just looking at you:“Oh!” And even before anything has happened, they’ve imagined everything. You probably just nip it in the bud. I don’t know. But the good thing also is that if you can keep your sanity, if you can be a little level-headed about it, you always can tell the difference, between real affection and not.

 

 

That you can.

That you always can.

 

 

What is it that you’re looking forward to most in life right now?

My work.

 

 

Okay if you could control it, how would your life play out?

I don’t want to control it.

 

 

Okay so then basically you’re saying that you would want it to be full of unexpected turns and surprises.

I’m the mad girl from out of town. I’m the irreverent girl.

 

 

And you want it to stay that way?

I want it to stay that way. I don’t want so much control. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

 

 

Do you long for the structure that you grew up with?

No, I don’t. I like the chaos I’m in right now. It keeps it exciting. It keeps me on my toes. Because right now I feel there is just these endless possibilities. I’m like a child in a candy store and everything is so bright and so colorful and so inviting. I don’t know what I really want.

 

 

And it’s okay…

But I want everything, and everything is attractive. And it’s okay, not to know. I just want to look around, see what’s going on and then maybe decide, or not. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I don’t know how long my career will last. But I’m not even worried about it. I’m a girl who’s here from out of town and she’s new and she’s meeting all these people and she’s getting to do what any girl would want to do and I’m just having fun.

 

 

Play It Back

The past is not a foreign country but it is certainly largely undiscovered. In TBIP’s History Corner we bring to you stories, characters and anecdotes from times that must not be allowed to go away merely because they have gone by.

 

He was so passionate about music that he would break into song and sing along to the rhythm of a water pump, or the hum of his car’s engine. Such are the stories that Rajib Gupta has heard about his grandfather Pankaj Mullick. A legend and pioneer in Indian film music, Pankaj Mullick’s (1905-1978) legacy ranges from bringing playback singing to Indian cinema and introducing Rabindra Sangeet (songs written and mostly composed by Rabindranath Tagore) in films, to creating AIR (All India Radio) radio programmes that are still talked of.

 

Mullick was born and brought up in a middle class family in Calcutta. His father Manimohan Mullick was a Bada Babu (officer) with the British Administration. His mother Monomohini Mullick was a housewife. He showed an inclination towards music from a very young age, picking up songs and singing from the age of three. When he was ten, he started his formal training in music under Durgadas Bandyopadhyay. He went on to learn Rabindra Sangeet under Dinendranath Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore’s grandnephew.

 

Mullick’s tryst with composing music began with the All India Radio in 1927, when it was still a British company known as the Indian Broadcasting Company. His composition of the radio programme Mahishasuramardini is among his most famous works. It first aired in 1931 and continues to play on AIR even today. “It has actually become a part of Bengali culture. It is still broadcast today,” says Gupta. The programme plays at daybreak, every Mahalaya, marking the beginning of Durga Puja.

 

His ‘music class’ on radio, named Sangeet Shikshar Ashar, a programme that was on air for almost 47 years, introduced and popularized Rabindra Sangeet among its audience.

 

***

 

In his first few years as a composer, Mullick collaborated with his colleague Rai Chand Boral in radio and in cinema. Their work on radio caught the attention of New Theatres, one of the biggest Indian film producers of the time. New Theatres invited Mullick and Boral to run their music department and they agreed. This was their first step into the world of Indian cinema.

 

They started with composing music for two Bengali silent films—Chasher Meye and Chor Kanta—in 1931. They also conducted the live orchestras for the shows of these films. The same year, they composed music for their first talkie, Premankur Atorthy’s Dena Paona (also a Bengali movie).

 

Mullick and Boral worked together on around 20 films. Their first commercial hit was Nitin Bose’s Chandidas (Bengali, 1934). The trio of Bose, Mullick and Boral would go on to create history in Indian cinema. Through interviews with his grandfather’s contemporaries, Gupta has pieced together how an ‘accident’ changed Indian film music forever. “The director of the movie (Bose) had come to pick him (Mullick) up to go to the studio together. There was an English song playing next door and the director thought that my grandfather was singing it. When he came out, he asked: ‘Were you singing that?’ My grandfather said, ‘No.’ But the voice sounded very similar to my grandfather’s. So he (Bose) said, ‘You do something. Start singing the words without putting your voice in.’” This was the seed of the idea that would introduce playback singing to Indian films. At their studio, Mullick and Boral refined this experiment and playback singing was used for the first time in Indian cinema in Bose’s Bengali Bhagya Chakra (1935), as well as in its Hindi remake Dhoop Chhaon, which released in the same year.

 

Teri Gathri Mein Laga Chor from Dhoop Chhaon:

 

It was with the film Mukti (Bengali, 1937) that Mullick went solo as music director. The film’s music broke new ground, using Rabindra Sangeet in film music for the first time. At the film’s narration, director Prathamesh Chandra Barua heard Mullick hum a song and insisted on using it in the film. Says Gupta: “He (Mullick) said ‘These are words by (Rabindranath) Tagore, but the music is mine.’” At a time when Rabindra Sangeet was actually restricted to a closed, elite circle, Barua insisted on using the song in his film. “Till then nobody had ever sung Tagore’s songs, in public, to their own tune. It was not allowed,” Gupta says. “It was very seriously protected by the Tagore family.”

 

For permission to use Rabindra Sangeet, Mullick met Rabindranath Tagore. According to Gupta, Tagore was so overwhelmed after listening to the song that along with granting permission for its use in the film, he also suggested a few others. Tagore set tune to as many of his poems and lyrics as he could during his lifetime, but gave Mullick the honour of setting tune to the rest of them after his death.

 

Pankaj Mullick sings Diner Sheshe in Mukti:

 

***

 

Mullick usually sang for the songs he composed himself. When he worked with other singers, they were well-known names like Kundan Lal Saigal, Pahari Sanyal, Kanan Devi and Uma Shashi. His experiments with music extended to pushing the boundaries of classical music. Calling him the forefather of popular music today, Gupta says: “There were definite elements of classical music (in his songs) because they were grammatically quite correct with ragas and raginis. Yet, while he derived from it, he didn’t stick to the classical genre.” Mullick began using western instruments like the English flute, violin and double bass. “He wanted to make the sound different without moving too away from the melodic character of Indian songs. He did not take the western sound structure. He stuck to the Indian sound structure.” In the song Duniya Rang Rangili from Dharti Mata (1938) Mullick incorporated Western musical elements like harmonization and counter-melody.

 

For film music historian Pavan Jha, Mullick was a visionary. Pointing to his work in non-film music, he says: “A favourite of mine is Yeh Raatein, Yeh Mausam, Yeh Hasna Hasaana, a song written by Fayyaz Hashmi. The way he has used the orchestra, and the composition for it, it was very ahead of its time.” He adds: “People say it was O. P. (Omkar Prasad) Nayyar, but it was Pankaj Mullick who first brought in the famous ‘horse-cart rhythm’ (a rhythm created out of the sound made by a horse-cart in motion), to Hindi film music.”

 

Pankaj Mullick’s Chale Pawan Ki Chaal from Doctor (1941):

 

O. P. Nayyar’s Piya Piya Piya Mera Jiya Pukaare from Baap Re Baap (1955):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6c1H59dL62E

 

Pankaj Mullick’s contribution to Indian cinema was not confined to music. He was also an actor, playing lead roles in films such as Mukti and Doctor. However, music remained his first love. He composed and sang classics such as Piya Milan Ko Jaana from Kapalkundala (1939), Yeh Kaun Aaj Aaya Savere Savere from Nartaki (1940), Aayi Bahar and Chale Pawan Ki Chaal from Doctor (1941), as well as songs from his private albums- Tere Mandir Ka Hoon Deepak, Pran Chahe Nain Na Chahe and Yaad Aayi Ki Na Aaye.

 

His other famous compositions include Tu Dhoondhta Hai Jisko from Yatrik (1952) sung by Dhananjay Bhattacharya, Main Kya Janu Kya Jadu Hai from Zindagi (1940), Karun Kya Aas Niraas Bhai from Dushman (1939) and Do Naina Matware from Meri Bahen (1944), sung by K. L. Saigal.

 

Mullick became one of the country’s most respected and sought after music directors. But, unlike his contemporaries who moved to Bombay as the Hindi film industry set its roots there, Mullick continued to work from Calcutta throughout his life.

 

For Real

TBIP’s documentary film recommendation

R. V. Ramani describes his film, Nee Engey? (Where Are You?) as an impressionist ethnography of the puppet theatre tradition in some of the southern states of India. He tracks both the performances and the lives of the puppeteers— painting a haunting picture of the neglect of a tradition and the difficult lives of the puppeteers. The filmmaker casts a gentle, deeply respectful and totally subjective gaze on his subject. For me, as audience, this is what accounts for the rigour and depth of his engagement with his subject.

The filmmaker overlays his own preoccupations with cinema, over his exploration of this ancient art form. The curtain on which the shadows of the puppets get animated and dynamized is also the sort of curtain cinema brings alive in theatres. This is where Ramani allows his ethnography to become impressionist. Nee Engey? penetrates that white frame to seek out images, sounds and stories that belong to the shadow puppet tradition and are also the basis of a cinematic tradition.

The manner in which the performances are filmed are not inscribed with a sense of loss, or despair over the fact that the tradition is fast disappearing. The gaze of the filmmaker is one of complete surrender to the performer and her/his performance. The bhav, or the emotional depth of the performances, spill onto the framing of the lives of the performers. The white curtain of the puppeteers and the frame of Ramani’s film connect in a continuum. One does not become the victimized/ valourized subject of the other.

Dusty, abandoned puppets are held against the light streaming through the doorframe of a hut. The same door frames the performer’s daughter dancing to a film song. The filmmaker’s gaze is without judgment. There is no attempt to validate one performative form and condemn another.

This is not a lament for a vanishing form nor is it a pamphlet demanding the resurrection of a dying art. Nee Engey? is a 152 minute film that allows the audience to undertake an incredible journey.

On Needlepoint: Philip Treacy

On Needlepoint is a series on Fashion and Films, because ever since they were introduced to each other by Glamour, they’ve maintained a deep and exciting friendship, collaborated fruitfully, gotten up to mischief and given us more than a couple of exquisitely dazzling moments in history.

 

Philip Treacy, 46, is the man who single-handedly changed the meaning and destiny of the hat.

 

Graduating from the Royal College of Art, in London, in 1990, Treacy set up a workshop in the basement of the late, iconic Tatler Style Editor (later Fashion Director) Isabella Blow’s London home. From there he went on to design hats in collaboration with some of the world’s best designers, such as Karl Lagerfeld, Valentino, Ralph Lauren and Donna Karan. Treacy has won the title of British Accessory Designer of the Year, at the British Fashion Awards, five times, and been awarded an honorary OBE—an order of chivalry that stands for ‘Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire’—for his services to the British fashion industry, by Prince Charles.

 

He has designed hats for some of the best known movies, such as the Harry Potter films. Also, Sarah Jessica Parker’s hat for the première of Sex and the City. 36 of his hats were worn at Prince William and Catherine Middleton’s wedding— including the military pillbox hat worn by Victoria Beckham and the now infamous ‘fascinator’ donned by Princess Beatrice of York.

 

But Philip Treacy’s hats transcend conventional notions of propriety. Whether it is the stunning telephone-shaped headpiece, with a removable handset, that Lady Gaga wore on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross, or simply a ‘B-l-o-w’ sculpted out of feathers on Isabella’s head, they are always more than ‘headgear’. They are news. They are characters. They tell the most fantastic stories.

 

In this interview the world’s greatest milliner talks about his adventures with art, design, fashion, pop-culture and Hollywood. He tells us stories that involve the likes of Grace Jones, Michael Jackson, Baz Luhrmann, Alexander McQueen and Elizabeth Taylor his subtlety and humility belying his incredibly extravagant and witty designs. 

 

 

An edited transcript:

 

 

Okay, I’m going to start with a very basic question. You have single-handedly changed the meaning, the perception, the destiny of the hat. Tell me what drew you to hats in the beginning? Did your fascination for them predate your time at the National College of Art and Design?

 

It didn’t, really. I kind of just started then. You know, I studied fashion design, and I liked to, sort of, try to make a hat as well, and I made one hat one time from an old vintage hat. But the straw was very good— and so I said to my teacher that I’ve made a hat. And she said she’d like to see it, so when I showed it to her she bought it. So I thought: Okay, that’s a result. So it’s just something… the physicality of making something from nothing. Which is the essence of what hat design is really about, because you’re starting, you’re working with a two dimensional material and you’re turning it into three dimensions. The physicality of doing that is what’s interesting.

 

 

Yes. You know, which brings me to the fact thatboth in the way that you make your hats and in the way they shape upit’s also a form of artistic sculpture. So I really wanted to know about the influence of (Salvador) Dali and the surrealists on your work, because that’s always intrigued me. And any other artists of course that might have inspired you.

 

I mean, surrealism is interesting. I haven’t been particularly influenced by Dali. But there are some ‘Dali-esque’ things like, you know…

 

 

The lobster hat…

 

Lobsters or Lady Gaga or Isabella Blow, but I really just like to sort of start with a blank page and a pencil and see what comes up. So I don’t really reference lots of different things, it’s always really about kind of the personality of the person, or the imagined person.

 

 

Yeah. Okay, so that’s interesting. So you’re saying that it’s not intentional quotation-ism, it’s not intentional referencing; it’s all the various influences that you like flowing into…

 

Yes, because that’s how it really works. Because you will go to… you will see… You know, we live in a visual world. So subconsciously it can come out later, but I don’t really do things like go to museums to do research because I prefer to take it from inside my head.

 

 

Sure, but was it a period of art that you like for itself?

 

You mean surrealism?

 

 

Yes, the surrealists.

 

Well you know, surrealism and hats have been a very important genre because of (Elsa) Schiaparelli or… it’s just… it’s entertaining. Which is what a hat is also. It’s entertaining.

 

 

Outside of your design, what kind of art do you…

 

I love Andy Warhol and Leonardo da Vinci and… lots, I mean lots but not… I like very beautiful things. And there’s something unbelievable about Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings or drawings. So it’s not all about Damien Hirst— I like what he does, but, you know, art has been going on for thousands of years, so it’s not all about modern art, but I do like… I love photographs. So I collect Clarence Sinclair Bull images from the twenties, because he was the MGM (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) photographer. And one time when I was in Los Angeles I came across these incredible photographs in a junk shop. They didn’t know who it was and I was like— I’m sure that’s Greta Garbo and then I checked it out and so… I collect photographs. But I’m lucky to be able to collect photographs of my hats by the best photographers in the world, from Irving Penn to Bruce Weber, to… it’s all about a photograph, it’s… hats come about, you know, they’re evocative of another time.

 

 

Yeah, and they get a second life in photographs. 

 

Well, kind of. Movies and photographs are probably my biggest influence, because they are… You know, Hollywood, early Hollywood, invented contemporary glamour.

 

 

Yeah I was actually going to come to that. But before that, just a small question. When worn, your hats are also akin to performance art, you know. So they combine with the wearer to become a sort of performance art. If you were to pick one of these two terms for your work, which one would you pick theatrical or cinematic?

 

Cinematic.

 

 

Cinematic. Why would you pick cinematic?

 

Because theatrical is… it has kind of put-down connotations. Whereas I think about them in a cinematic way, and I develop them in a cinematic way, and when I’m making or developing the whole thing I can see what’s happening clearly— so I know where the beginning and the end is. I know when it’s finished. So I’m drawing with materials.

 

 

That’s very interesting to me because I remember reading an interview of yours where you spoke about a client of yours who said to you that you don’t merely sell hats, you sell dreams. And that made me think of how filmmakers are actually usually called dream merchants, and I was going to ask you about your cinematic inspirations. Filmmakers, or films, that really get you going. They may not translate literally into the work you’re doing…

 

Yes. I think kind of early Hollywood films are the most interesting for hats because at that moment directors knew how to light a hat. And so it wasn’t just blasting white light, it was dramatic. So shadows, or illusion, or allure, or what it was suggesting, whereas today directors aren’t used to them, and don’t light them properly. Because they don’t get it. So they don’t understand that it’s interesting not to reveal everything, which is what a hat can do. But most directors are afraid of hats now.

 

 

Are they? Why would you say that?

 

Well, they just don’t know how to light them. Whereas the early Hollywood movies, they allowed them to… in black and white there were just more contrasts.

 

 

That too, yeah. Maybe it’s also the way they look at hats. I mean maybe hats need to be looked at slightly differently from the way you look at clothes maybe, because you have to see it as an extension, as a part of the face.

 

It’s armour for the face. You know, many people think that people that wear hats are trying to show off. But actually it’s a protection. And people always presume that people that wear hats are extroverts and want everybody to look at them. When in fact—because I make hats for lots of those people—I understand that they gain their power from a hat. So they feel… when you’re wearing something beautiful then you feel good.

 

 

Yeah, I know what you mean.

 

So hats are actually empowering for women. And it’s about how it makes you feel. You know, designers have no power today to dictate what fashion is. Because at one time you know, designers would have the colour of the season or the cut of the season or the look of the season. And now it doesn’t really exist. There are, sort of, trends that exist for magazines. But people… the power today is with the consumer. And so people are more confident in themselves. So you cannot say that one particular thing is the most fashionable at the moment, because it’s a world of choice.

 

 

Yeah and fashion is no longer prescriptive. That’s very interesting. But you know, you designed for the Harry Potter films.

 

Yes.

 

 

And I wanted to know what fresh excitement and challenges costume designing for films brought to your life.

 

Well, it’s a moving picture. So it’s interesting the detail that— the amount of detail that goes into movies. I’ve been lucky enough to go on Tim Burton’s sets for Sleepy Hollow, and another one, and it’s amazing. And then last year when I was in Australia… What’s the man who did Moulin Rouge?

 

 

Baz Luhrmann.

 

Baz Luhrmann. So he invited us to visit the set for The Great Gatsby and he showed us some footage and, it’s incredible…

 

 

That must have been incredible.

 

It’s just delicious. Feast for the eyes.

 

 

Those are both directors that I wish you’d work with. I wish they worked with you.

 

Well, they have big personality, and they bring personality to their movies.

 

 

And they’re both so different.

 

And they’re both so different.

 

 

I think they’d both be a good fit with…

 

Yes, I’d love to. But fashion doesn’t cross over that much into film. But I’m interested to change that.

 

 

Also because what you do is not merely fashion. But would you like to do more of costume design? Can you think of a film already made that you wish you’d designed?

 

Yes, I think some of my biggest cinematic influences are (Federico) Fellini, and I love his movies and when I saw Juliet of the Spirits, I didn’t understand it, but I just thought there were just all these mad women trekking around in the wildest looking hats, so, you know… and (Fellini’s) Casanova— the movie’s extraordinary. I mean I love the fact that he spent the whole budget in the first two minutes of the movie, sinking a ship. And, you know, I believe in all those kind of people that are ‘extra’. Because they… it has to be like that.

 

 

Is he one of the people you would have liked to meet, if he…?

 

Yes. He had an amazing sense of costume or, you know, really unhinged looking people in his movies.

 

 

Yeah. You know, this is something you touched upon earlier. I remember you saying somewhere that what brings a hat to life is the personality of the wearer.

 

Hm.

 

 

Now I was wondering you have the most diverse list of iconic clientele. How do you synergize your creations with personalities as diverse as a Kate Middleton and Dita Von Teese and Sarah Jessica Parker maybe in the middle somewhere? And what do the personalities bring to your inspiration? I mean we began talking about that earlier, when you said that it grows from the person you’re making it for.

 

Yes, well it’s interesting to make hats for… some people are more interesting than others. And people who wear hats have that little bit extra. I mean, you know, Lady Gaga’s not boring, or Sarah Jessica Parker. They’re kind of larger than life people.

 

 

But yet, in very different ways.

 

Completely different ways. And it’s just that, you know, what you would make for one, you think about the person. You think about their personality, where they’re going, what they’re wearing it to. And also, you know, these people are entertainers, and I’m entertaining on their heads. So it’s more fun to make a hat for Sarah Jessica Parker going to the Sex and the City première than it is to make a hat maybe for Sharon Stone going to a première of her movie. It doesn’t really work. It’s just that Sarah Jessica Parker embodies that… you know, the character she plays loves fashion. So it was fun to do that for her.

 

 

So would you say it’s more instinctive, that you know these people and then you sit down with a pen and paper and then it’s just…

 

It’s a little bit like visiting a psychiatrist when you come and have a hat made. Because I am trying to understand: A) What you don’t, do not, want and B) How to help you to… um… how to make you happy with that hat. But I don’t… it’s just… just from talking to somebody I can learn. So it’s not an interrogation…

 

 

You mentioned Lady Gaga, and how your work is such an integral part of her expression. As it was once with Isabella Blow’s persona.

 

You know, she’s a kind of twenty first century pop version of Isabella. She’s a commercial version of Isabella.

 

 

I was going to ask you if you see any similarities in the way that both these women use design for self expression. Or any differences.

 

Yes, well, what’s interesting about Lady Gaga is that she’s not… A) She’s very talented and very young, but B) She’s not trying to be the beautiful girl, like other pop star girls are. They’re just trying to be beautiful whereas she has a different version of that.

 

 

She’s not trying to be pretty.

 

Yes, she’s not trying to be Cindy Crawford. Because she’s not. But she is on the edge. And what’s interesting is that it’s a commercial phenomenon because people… they like it. They like her. There’s something attractive about her.

 

 

Yeah, and very intriguing.

 

And very intriguing.

 

 

She’s brought mystery back onto the pop culture sphere.

 

Yes. Well there are a lot of… kind of… pop people, you know…

 

 

But you know, mystery had gone out of that arena entirely. The aura, the mystery, which is such an integral part of even early Hollywood that you mentioned there was an air of mystery.

 

Yeah well, it’s also boring, all those people, because they all look the same, and they’re all wearing the same dress, and they’re all wearing the same hair, and it is supposed to be entertainment. They are entertainers and we’re looking to be entertained. So some people entertain better. But what she has in particular is that she can sing. You know, pop stars that can sing are a revelation these days, because many can’t.

 

 

You know you’ve collaborated with some of the most exciting design houses in the world, be it Chanel or Armani or Alexander McQueen of course.

 

Yes.

 

 

I was wondering, given how individualistic and distinct your own sense of style is, how these collaborations worked for you?

 

I kind of get into their zone when I work for them. So, they expect a lot. So they don’t just want any old hat. It has to be something that’s never been seen before, that’s totally revolutionary, and that’s original. And originality is a currency that I have to work with, because they expect that.

 

 

So you’re saying it also becomes a challenge that you enjoy, that you need.

 

The challenge is frightening and exciting, because that’s the… it’s supposed to look easy. It’s supposed to be effortless but in fact it’s not. And that’s why there have been so many kinds of fashion casualties, because it’s very stressful. I have a different thing, but they have ten collections a year every two months— something like that. There’s just too much, and too many clothes, and too many… you know, it’s been taken over by corporate-ness. It’s not about creativity, it’s about corporate… Well, those big, kind of corporate cannibal brands.

 

 

Well, you’ve seen that change come in. 

 

Yes, yes. I mean everybody’s a designer today. Everybody is an artist. And everyone is an expert. And I think that’s good in one way but in another way it just means that there’s a lot of things, a lot of clothes, and you don’t know whether it’s kind of… cheap can be expensive and the expensive can look cheap. So it’s all… it’s just a lot.

 

 

I’m sure there are plenty of examples, but can you think of any one particular collaboration that you really, really enjoyed with a designer?

 

I kind of enjoy every collaboration because you have to, otherwise you don’t… I mean some are more stressful. It’s very easy to work with a very strong designer. It’s very difficult to work with a mediocre designer because they don’t know what they want and you don’t know what they want. Whereas I’ve been lucky to work with the kings of fashion, because I can get into what they want. I can deliver it. It’s exciting to work with all of them. You know, working with Ralph Lauren was really exciting because he’s just completely the opposite of what I’m about. So when they asked me I thought he was joking. I was like: Me? And Ralph Lauren? So I went to see him and I took him, at first, some kind of quite conservative looking hats. It was like the X factor, and he was not getting it. And then I said okay, let’s show you something else, completely different. And he wanted something modern. But probably my most interesting collaborations have been with Alexander McQueen.

 

 

Yes, what a match-up.

 

So he had something completely exceptional because you didn’t really feel the commerce when you worked with him. Because it was always excellent, always completely different to last time and always original. And the energy around his shows, which were performances. Because you know, when you show, it’s a performance, and models are performers. Models are the unsung heroes of fashion because it looks easy, well everyone thinks it’s easy, but in fact it’s actually quite difficult to project that.

 

 

And would you say Alexander was also one of the most demanding out of the designers you’ve worked with?

 

Yes. Because there just wasn’t an option to… I mean, I just couldn’t pitch up without something incredible. He’d really try you out, without meaning to, but his passion for it was… I just couldn’t disappoint him. So sometimes he’d want a bird made out of wood, or he’d want the maddest things. The strength of the hats and the strength of the clothes— it worked. Because he was a very strong clothing designer, and my hats are very strong, and he wasn’t afraid of them. So put together with the girls and the make-up and hair, it worked. Whereas on some other designers it just wouldn’t be right. It’s fun to work with people that are fearless.

 

 

Yes, because that brings that quality to your life for that period as well, I imagine.

 

And also, you know, everybody always says, “Who’s your favourite person,” or “Who do you like better.” You can’t say. Karl Lagerfeld, he’s a trip. And Valentino… they’re all different, completely different, people. And they’re extraordinary.

 

 

Are you planning to write a book someday?

 

Um… No.

 

 

I hope you do.

 

But I’ve got a lot of interesting experiences with all of them at a very young age, so I was intimidated by all of them for many years. And as you get older you are less intimidated.

 

 

Your return to London Fashion Week this year was hugely successful, but also the hat doffif you pardon the punto Michael Jackson. Now two questions here. Did you ever design for him?

 

No. Well, actually, I have a hat that looks like a ship, a sailing ship, and he tried to buy it twenty years ago when it was in this window in Bergdorf’s (Bergdorf Goodman) in New York, and he offered twenty five thousand dollars for it. But I only had one ship. And even though I loved the idea of it going off to Neverland (Neverland Valley Ranch, Jackson’s home) I didn’t. So I loved that he wanted it. But he was an exceptional entertainer. He was the greatest entertainer of the twentieth century, really.

 

 

Easily.

 

Well, he was also a visual entertainer, so he had tricks that he was very clever with. Like his glove, or the style of his clothes. You know we had all his clothes in my studio for about a month before the show. And the energy that emanated from them when you’d walk into the room was interesting. His trousers, those black trousers with the white stripe that he’d perform Billie Jean in. It was amazing to see those things. They’re like pop relics.

 

 

He really worked the medium. He knew the medium and worked it, he was incredible. But can you think of any other instances where you’ve used your work in this way to reinvent something from…

 

Grace  Jones

 

 

Oh yeah.

 

I worked with her for many years. And she was one of the first entertainers I worked with. We’ve known each other 15 years, and I art-directed some of her concerts for her, and would do her shows with her… She’s a delicious nightmare, but she’s also a wonderful person. But an extraordinary entertainer. She is exciting to work with. I went to New York a couple of months ago to do her show at the Roseland (Ballroom) in Times Square. And Grace is an unpredictable character, and she’s fearless, so she isn’t afraid to take chances. Because that’s what’s interesting about all these people, they’re… Yes, they take chances. And some people don’t. But I’ve always ended up working with and being attracted to the ones that are on the edge.

 

 

Yeah, well I’m sure it’s rewarding to do that.

 

It is. It’s interesting.

 

 

You touched upon this earlier, you said you love early Hollywood cinema and you said you love Fellini. What else do you personally like watching, when you go home what would you pop into a DVD player? What would you like to watch?

 

Um, I don’t really care. Any kind of rubbish, really. It’s entertainment. But I like beautiful movies, like (Luchino) Visconti, or unusual movies, documentaries… I particularly like… have you ever seen that film Ludwig?

 

 

Yeah.

 

So, that’s incredible. I mean we’ve learned so much from movies like this. They transport you into another world, really.

 

 

Have you seen any Indian cinema at all?

 

I’ve seen a few, yes. But I haven’t seen a lot. But I like that sense of exuberance, because it’s transportive. It’s not… it’s pure entertainment.

 

 

Can you recall anything you’ve seen which might have been from India?

 

Numerous kinds of Bollywood movies on TV or whatever. But I like the simplicity of the approach. It has got a different kind of approach to every other culture’s cinemas, because it’s enthusiastic, and it’s uplifting.

 

 

Yes, and it’s extremely enduring. It’s the one thing that connects all of India. You know, it’s lasted in its original form forever, which is incredible.

 

Well it kind of links very well with those early Hollywood films we were discussing, because they were to entertain and to uplift, in times when there was much economic strife. So a movie has the power to do that. Because we all want to be somebody else at different points in the day or week.

 

 

Yeah, I think Bollywood’s never quite taken its focus off that one primary goal of upliftment and just, you know, pure entertainment.

 

And exuberance.

 

 

And exuberance. Yeah, you’re right about that.

 

And so it has more connection with Baz Luhrmann than it would with something else. Because his is a kind of Bollywood approach as well, because it’s extra. You know when we went to see the set of The Great Gatsby, and they were filming that day, on the way when we were going there, I thought: Why is Baz Luhrmann making The Great Gatsby? And then when he showed us the footage, I thought it’s his version of The Great Gatsby. So it’s just incredible. The most incredible things happen in the movie. And it’s a feast.

 

 

It’s a feast.

 

Yes. And visual feasts are probably my favourite parts of movies.

 

 

Yeah, that would be a great way to describe it. I read somewhere that you gave away twenty five hats to Elizabeth Taylor once. Clearly, you must have been charmed.

 

Well she’s a mythological movie star. And she’s just always been there. And she was there before Madonna, J.Lo (Jennifer Lopez), all those people. She invented celebrity extravagance. And she was completely spoilt from when she was a very young girl. And she liked a lot. And she loved extra. More diamonds, clothes. So I was on a shoot one day, and I got a phone call to say, you know, Elizabeth Taylor’s assistant is on the telephone, and she wondered if you would make Elizabeth Taylor a hat pin. In twenty years no one’s ever asked me for a hat pin. So I thought, okay. So I got back—somebody got back to her—and I said ask her does she want a hat to go with the hat pin? And she did. We went to see her in The Dorchester (London) and she was extraordinary, because I was expecting a very, very difficult person, which I’m sure she was capable of being. But she was really charming and she talked a lot about her movies and about Cleopatra, and she showed me all her diamonds. And she ordered a cocktail waiter to come up to the room and make us cocktails. So it was like more than I’d even expected. And then we did a show for her, on her, with the bathroom mirror, and she was entertaining and wonderful and loved it all and kept asking me, over and over again, which hat she can have. So I thought it’s too boring to tell Elizabeth Taylor which hat she can have. Because it was exciting. She was the ultimate… she was the ultimate celebrity. And so I gave her all the hats. I just thought it’s too tacky saying you can have this one. Because it was inspiring, for me to meet her.

 

 

Yeah.

 

And she was warm and friendly, and funny, and talked about her costumes and how she would know this character, or would know the scene, from looking at the costume. So, you know, costumes are very important to movies.

 

 

Yeah, well at least they used to be.

 

Yes, there’s an amazing exhibition at the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum) in London, at the moment, of Hollywood costume.

 

 

Really?

 

Yeah, it’s incredible. It’s one of the best exhibitions I’ve ever seen.

 

 

Is it? It’s going to be on for a while?

 

Yes, it’s on for a few months.

 

 

Who other than her might be some of the most intriguing film personalities you’ve met? Or you would have liked to meet perhaps?

 

Well, I know it’s a cliché, but I love Marilyn Monroe. Because she was probably one of the best illusions ever. She was her own… She invented that. I remember seeing her as a child on TV and thinking who is this crazy woman? But it’s a performance, so it’s like she was the performance.

 

 

She invented the character, she wrote the character, then she played the character.

 

Yes. And also she… Some people the camera loves. The camera loves certain people, that’s why they’re… Some people just come out better than, even more than, they do in real life. And she sure knew how to work a camera. She loved having her photograph taken. That’s why there are so many photographs of her.

 

 

It would have been incredible to meet her.

 

Yes. I mean, you can see how exceptional fame is damaging to people, because it’s a very strange experience to have people… you know, if you’re ultra-famous…

 

 

Yeah, and to give in to that, which she did. It takes a lot of courage, I imagine.

 

Yes, but also everybody all over the world, they think that fame is the ultimate acquisition, and everyone’s on reality TV, everyone is on (The) X Factor or Big Brother because everyone wants that. And what’s amazing is that nobody ever says it’s okay if you get that, it’s not that great. I know many very famous people, and they have quite reclusive lives, because it’s quite weird. Can’t go out…

 

 

Yeah, and also can’t tell what’s real and what’s not…

 

Yes, and you know, it’s unhinging.

 

 

Yeah, when you look at Monroe she’s definitely set an example of how unhinging it could be.

 

Yes, because it’s a heady experience to get everything you want.

 

 

Also then suddenly to realize that everyone else has a stake in your life. It’s no longer yours. To wake up one day and, say, X number of people own a part of you because you’ve lent yourself out like that.

 

Yes, and it’s a job to perform well.

 

 

But that’s interesting because you know, in a way because of what you doeven though you’re an artist yourselfis you have ringside seats to this parade of fame.

 

Yes, it’s like reading a book. When you make something for somebody you really meet that person. If you just shake hands with them at a party you don’t really meet them. But when you make something, work with them, and make something for them, you really meet…

 

 

It’s a lot more visceral.

 

It’s a lot more interesting, because you really meet the person. And the scary monsters of the world are usually the nicest. And the nice ones are sometimes scary. So it’s interesting.

 

 

Yeah. You said in an interview that if you could pick an actor to play you in a film it would be Brad Pitt…

 

No, I was joking.

 

 

You were joking.

 

He’s gorgeous.

 

 

Of course, he’s gorgeous…

 

Yeah, some people have a light and that’s why some people have an extra something that makes them interesting and attractive.

 

 

For me that would be (George) Clooney.

 

Yes, he’s the most charming man. But you know, people like David Beckham, he’s extraordinary.

 

 

So let me ask you seriously. If you could pick any actor dead or alive, to play you, who would you pick?

 

I really find that so frightening, the prospect of that.

 

 

That someone would have to take on your persona…

 

Yes, which is going to happen.

 

 

…or interpret it.

Yeah. Soon. And I’m not really concerned who that person is to be honest with you. People do always think of themselves being played by somebody, but actually I couldn’t care less as long as they do it well. I’m more interested in who’s playing the other characters.

 

 

If a film were to be made on your life and you could pick three different directors to interpret itbecause I’m sure every director would interpret your life very differentlywho would you pick? Which three directors? Again they could be dead or alive.

 

Um, God. Baz Luhrmann? Or, well… I mean, it depends. (Alfred) Hitchcock?

 

 

I was wondering if you’d…

 

Yeah, his thing was extraordinary.

 

 

Yeah. So Hitchcock and Baz Luhrmann.

 

Yeah.

 

 

Would you be interested in seeing maybe how a completely different director from a completely different genre like Woody Allen would interpret your life?

 

Oh, I love Woody Allen.

 

 

Is there anything else you’d like to try your hand at, other than what you do? Professionally I mean, not in a ‘hobby’ sort of way…

 

Well we live in a world of design and shape, and everything has a shape, and everything has a form. So I’m open to anything, really, that I like.

 

 

Would you consider making a film yourself?

 

Yes. I am at the moment. But I can’t talk about it.

 

 

Are you directing it? Can you say that much?

 

No, I’m not directing it, but…

 

 

You’re involved.

 

Yes, in the creative aspect.

 

 

But would you like to go on and direct a film?

 

I find it interesting. New challenges are what makes you go around.

 

 

What sort of a film would it be?

 

It would be beautiful. I believe in beauty and elegance. Everyone has a different point of view. You know, designers are control freaks because it’s a point of view.

 

 

Yeah, but what about any genre, would it be a love story, would it be a spaghetti western…?

 

No, it would be… it’s… it’s about Isabella, the movie.

 

 

Yeah, no, I’m saying if you were directing a film.

You know, there’s so much choice. I wouldn’t know where to… I haven’t given it serious thought.

 

 

No, I was asking you to think of something off the top of your hat.

 

Um, well, it would be… Fashion films are very difficult to pull off because they’re always overdone and the characters are always overplayed and clichéd. So actually fashion is much funnier than how it’s portrayed. Because you know, it’s full of quite unusual characters.

 

 

I for one would be very grateful to see a really good fashion film.

 

There isn’t, it’s very hard to… you know, very difficult to…

 

 

Can you think of anyone that you’ve remotely enjoyed?

 

Um, no. Because they’re all a bit… (The) Devil wears Prada was… it’s much stranger, the industry, than how that was played, and that was a very successful film.

 

 

That was also Meryl Streep. 

 

Yes, but, for example, Robert Altman who did Prêt-à-Porter,and he’d just done The Player before that, was alarming— because it wasn’t great. And so it’s quite a hard thing to pull off. Because the fashion business is much crazier than it actually comes across as in the movies, it’s just… they overplay the people usually, and make them too much of extra.

 

 

Well I hope you do make a fashion film, and I hope you make biopics and I also really hope you do consider writing a book.

 

Thank you.

 

 

Thank you.

 

 

The Name of the Rose

Everyone loves to tell the tragic tale of Rosy, Malayalam cinema’s first actress. In piecing together various narratives of her life, TBIP finds what is missing is her own voice.

 

When journalist Chellangatt Gopalakrishnan first wrote about Vigathakumaran, Malayalam cinema’s first film, all he knew about its leading lady was that her name was P. K. Rosy. Vigathakumaran, meaning ‘the lost child’, was first screened in 1928 at Thiruvanthapuram, Kerala. Gopalakrishnan’s first article on it is said to have appeared in 1968. In his subsequent investigation of the film, and the fate of its director J. C. Daniel, Gopalakrishnan did not find much else about Rosy save that she was “a poor woman who didn’t know the ABCs of acting,” and that she still “performed with great ease”.

 

The fact that Rosy, a Dalit woman, had portrayed a Nair—a higher caste—on screen had caused a furore among the pramanikal, the town’s elders, then. She was chased away from Thiruvananthapuram by a mob. With the help of a lorry driver, who later married her, she escaped to Nagercoil. The lorry driver happened to be a Nair. So, ironically, Rosy led the rest of her real life as the Nair woman she had dared to play, right up to her death in 1987.

 

In the years since she was first written about, in accounts of her life put forward by film historians, filmmakers and her relatives, other names for Rosy have emerged: Rajamma, Rosamma, Rajammal; each indicative of a period in her life.

 

Yet, despite several retellings of her story, the life of Kerala’s first actress remains shrouded in mystery. The controversies and debates raised by Celluloid, a recent Malayalam feature film directed by Kamal, based on the making of Vigathakumaran, has brought these discrepancies to light.

 

 

The Names

 

Another journalist, Kunnukuzhi Mani, has been credited with being the first person to try and dig out the truth about Rosy’s life, including, but not restricted to, her involvement in Vigathakumaran. “It was at N. N. Pillai’s theatre seminar in 1968 or 69, I think. Kambisseri Karunakaran (journalist, actor and politician belonging to the Communist Party of India) told me about Rosy, a poor woman, a grass-cutter, who acted in the first film. I started investigating from then. Kambisseri gave me the information. He asked if I would do an investigation on this. I was a reporter then, an editor for the paper Kalapremi.”

 

Kunnukuzhi met Rosy’s relatives and talked to them. He also spoke to J. C. Daniel’s relatives: “I went to Nagercoil. His siblings were there. I asked them about it. That’s how I found his house in Agastheeswaram (Tamil Nadu).”

 

After his conversation with Daniel, Kunnukuzhi came back and wrote his first article on Rosy in Kalapremi in 1971. Since then he has written about her in several Malayalam magazines such as Chithrabhumi, Chandrika, Tejas, Samakalina Masika.

 

Celluloid shows Rosy as a Dalit Christian woman named Rosamma. This is based on Gopalakrishnan’s description of her. But, according to Kunnukuzhi, Rosy’s real name was Rajamma. “When she came to work in the film, J. C. Daniel made it Rosy. And then (in Nagercoil) she changed it to Rajammal.”

 

On the basis of the information he collected, two documentaries on Rosy have been made— The Lost Child and Ithu Rosiyude Katha (This is Rosy’s Story).

 

Ithu Rosiyude Katha: 

 

 

Early Years

 

Rosy was born into a Pulaya family in Peyad, Thiruvanathapuram, which was then a part of the princely state of Travancore. Her nephew Kavalur Madhu says her father passed away when she was very young. “When he died there was no one to look after them,” he says. “They were just two small kids and this woman (their mother). So we brought them to our house in Kavalur. This must have been between 1920 and 1925. Ours is a family of farm labourers. So they stayed with us.”

 

Her relatives remember her affinity towards the arts from when she was very young. In Kiran Ravindran’s documentary The Lost Child, Rosy’s cousin Madhavi recalls how fond she was of acting in plays, and how insistent on going for rehearsals at the kalari, the traditional training school for the performing arts.

 

“She had studied Kakkarashi (folk) dance drama when she was young,” says Madhu. “So she used to go to perform in these plays.” It was a time when, mostly, men played women’s roles. Acting was considered a profession for licentious women only. “So when she was asked, our grandfather did not allow for it. Those were the circumstances,” Madhu remembers. “But she went anyway, without the permission of our grandfather.”

 

She joined a drama company in Thycaud, Thiruvananthapuram, and stayed with them. According to Madhu, it is from here that Rosy went on to act in Daniel’s film.

 

 

What Happened That Night

 

In Celluloid, J. C. Daniel, played by Prithviraj, is shown having a difficult time getting an actress for his film. He finds Rosy, played by the young singer Chandni, when Johnson—the actor who plays the villain in Vigathakumaran—takes him to watch a play in which she is acting.

 

Rosy was cast opposite Daniel, who played the protagonist, in the role of the Nair woman Sarojini. According to an article written by Kavalur Krishnan (another nephew of Rosy’s) in Chithrabhumi (September, 2005), Daniel changed her name to Rosy “because the director felt that he didn’t want the name Rajamma but a (glamorous and anglicized) name like Ms. Lana, from Bombay (who was supposed to play Rosy’s role, but who had made too many demands that couldn’t be met).”

 

Krishnan adds: “But Rajamma didn’t know (when she was shooting for it) that the film would be shown to the public.” Rosy shot for the film for 10 days and was paid a daily a wage of Rs 5.

 

On November 7, 1928 Vigathakumaran was screened at Capitol Theatre at Thiruvananthapuram. Madhu says: “The film was released, and the pramanikal came to see it. Now, in south Travancore, it was a time when untouchability was practiced stringently. A person from a lower caste couldn’t even walk on the road at the same time when someone from a higher caste was on it. Those were the times in which she went to act in films.”

 

Celluloid shows Rosy being invited to see the film. “But Daniel had not invited her to see the film,” says Kunnukuzhi. “He himself said that to me. There would have been problems, because she was a Dalit woman, and so she had not been invited.” According to Madhu, despite not being invited, Rosy went to the screening with a friend. An eminent lawyer of the time, Malloor Govinda Pillai, had come to inaugurate the film. “He said that I will not inaugurate this film until she is removed from here,” says Madhu. “So Daniel asked her to watch the next show of the film instead.”

 

So, says Madhu, Rosy waited outside the theatre. “A Dalit woman acting as a Nair angered the pramanikal.”  But what really sent the already disgruntled audience into an uproar was a scene that showed Daniel kissing the flower on Rosy’s hair. In outrage, they demolished the screen. “She was chased away (from the area),” Madhu says. She fled to Thycaud, and took refuge in the building of the drama company there, where she used to work. “The mob came to Thycaud to set fire to the building,” says Madhu. “And she had to run from there too.”

 

But Kunnukuzhi contradicts this version of the events. “There was a ruckus and they (the audience) destroyed the screen. A mob came to her house and began throwing stones at it. Then two policemen, whom Daniel had requested the Royal Court of Travancore to send, arrived on the scene. Eventually the mob dispersed. On the third night, after the film had opened, her house was set on fire. They had a house in Thycaud poremboke bhoomi (poremboke bhoomi means ‘unregistered wasteland’). When the house was set on fire all of them—the family members—managed to get out of the house and ran away from the area, to save themselves from the mob.”

 

Many years after the incident, when Kunnukuzhi spoke to Daniel, “all he knew was that she had escaped. He didn’t say much else.”

 

Whichever of these versions is true, Rosy had, after either sequence of events, run towards Karamana. “Near the Karamana bridge, it was quite late at night, she saw a lorry come by,” says Kunnukuzhi. “It was from the Paiyyar Company (a transport company from Nagercoil, now in Tamil Nadu, then also part of the princely state of Travancore). Kesava Pillai was the driver. She stood in the middle of the road, raised her arms and cried for help. So Pillai took her onto the lorry and they went back to Nagercoil (where the lorry had come from). That night she was presented before the Nagercoil Police Station and the incident was reported. Then he took her home.”

 

Keshava Pillai and Rosy got married. This, no one doubts. Accounts vary on whether or not Rosy was Pillai’s first wife. According to Kunnukuzhi, Pillai was not married when he met Rosy: “He was from a Nair household. He was kicked out because he married her.” Madhu, on the other hand, says that Rosy was Pillai’s second wife: “He had a wife and family in Neyyattinkara (now in Kerala), but he abandoned them.”

 

The couple moved to Otapura Theruvu in Vadasery, Nagercoil. Rosy adopted the name Rajammal. Ammal is a suffix that denotes respect, often attached to the names of women belonging to higher castes in Kerala and Tamil Nadu. The couple lived as Nairs.

 

 

The Debates

 

“There are a lot of mistakes in the film (Celluloid), even though it did get awards,” Kunnukuzhi says. “In those days, in Capitol theatre, there were no chairs. He (Kamal) shot it with chairs. I wrote about this in Mathrubhumi. In those days there were only ‘floor tickets’ (for seating on the floor). There was Bharathiamma, a native of Kuzhithura (in Kerala). She passed away recently. She has talked about this fact in Kiran Ravindran’s The Lost Child. She was 12 when she came with her father to Capitol theatre to watch the film. They watched it sitting on the floor.”

 

But the film’s portrayal of Rosy raises the question of whether or not she was ever called Rosamma. This fuels pre-existing speculations about her life— Was Rosy a Christian? Did she have a Christian stepfather?

 

Krishnan, another nephew of Rosy, claims to be the only one alive, besides her two surviving children, to have met Rosy in person and spoken to her. He vehemently denies that Rosy had ever converted to Christianity. “Her mother’s name was Kunji, father’s name— Naanan, older sister’s name— Chellamma, younger sister’s name— Sarojini. Her name was Rajamma and her brother’s name was Govindan. When you look at all that, how can you say she was Christian? Who said she was a Christian? We don’t know who said these things. My grandfather’s family has traditionally been Hindu, belonging to the Ayyankali Sabha (the Ayyankali Sabha had several Dalit communities. Rosy’s family was of the Pulaya community).”

 

Kunnukuzhi had long discussions on this with Kamal. He insists Rosy was never converted to Christianity. According to him, it was her father who was Christian. “To send Rosy to study, he converted to Christianity at the LMS Church. That was the basis on which children were given education in those days. No one else had converted. Her mother lived as a Hindu.”

 

Ravindran, who made The Lost Child, is not sure. “When her father converted to Christianity, his name became Paulose,” he says. “He may have changed her name to Rosamma. I don’t know about that well enough.”

 

Madhu on the other hand says that Rosy’s father had passed away when she was young and that it was Rosy’s stepfather who was Christian. “He was a cook for the Church priests. He is her stepfather, not the real one. That is how ‘Rosamma’ came to be. That is what Daniel took and changed to Rosy.” According to Madhu, the whole family had converted to Christianity, “but only for a short time (till the stepfather worked with the Church).”

 

Vinu Abraham, Celluloid’s screenplay writer, and the author of the book Nashtanayika from which the film has been inspired, says that his research found that Rosy’s family had converted. To explain this, he provides a sweeping generalization: “Because, in those days, the Pulaya community used to convert to Christianity.”

 

Madhu brushes aside these statements. “The people talking about it don’t know anything. Kunnukuzhi doesn’t know anything. They are from outside (of the family). We are the ones who know about it.”

 

Madhu then goes on to contradict himself by disagreeing with another family member as well: “My relative Kavalur Krishnan is the one telling Kunnukuzhi all this. And Kunnukuzhi must have told Vinu Abraham.”

 

Says Kunnukuzhi, about Madhu, “He is her relative. Yes. But it is only recently that he has come out into the open saying that he is her relative. I asked him about her several times but he didn’t know a thing.”

 

And so it goes on.

 

The Inheritance of Rosy’s ‘Shame’.

 

In the myriad narratives of Rosy’s story, the silence of her children is the most conspicuous.

 

No one can ascertain how much they actually know about their mother. “She didn’t talk about it with anyone. It is said that there was an agreement between husband and wife (not to talk about it),” says Kunnukuzhi. He says that Rosy had five children, three of whom have passed away. Her son Nagappan Pillai and her daughter Padmaja are alive. Kunnukuzhi spoke with Nagappan once. “He lives as a Nair, so doesn’t talk about this too much. I have talked with him on phone. Then he had agreed to everything. But now he won’t talk. Because he says it causes family problems.”

 

Madhu says that Rosy didn’t give her children too many details about her past. Also: “They do know what happened. But they don’t want to say that she was like this (a Dalit who was Malayalam cinema’s first leading actress).” Why? “Nagappan has married into a big Nair family from Alappuzha (Kerala). If he says that his mother was a Dalit, then the marriage would be in trouble. That is why he won’t talk about this. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with this. They (the children) grew up in different circumstances. They say: ‘Please leave us alone. Don’t involve us in any of this.’”

 

Vinu Abraham concurs: “In Nagercoil she could never reveal her real identity because she lived as a Nair. Her son doesn’t want to reveal that she was a Dalit, that a Dalit was his mother— he will never admit to that.”

 

Abraham says that when he asked Nagappan about Rosy all he had to say was: “I don’t know. I only know my mother was a Nair woman. That her name was Rosy, that she was a Pulaya lady, that she was an actress— all this I’m hearing from you. It is totally news to me.”

 

Yet, with the release of Celluloid, Nagappan is likely to be asked about Rosy again, many times. The secret shame of this Dalit who played an upper caste has been resuscitated, even after her death. Malayalam cinema’s first lady, a Pulaya driven to become a Nair, by a sequence of events that were set into motion by those who were enraged at her playing a Nair, has been resurrected on screen, 75 years after she had first appeared on it. And with this has been bared the scar of a wound that may have been inflicted long ago, but which refuses to disappear. Not with a change of name and caste. Not with the passage of time.

 

 

On Celluloid, again.

 

Kamal calls Celluloid a biopic that has been treated in places with fiction, “But I haven’t changed incidents or history. I have presented it as I know it. The portions of his (Daniel’s) life or Rosy’s life that we don’t know about— in such places I have fictionalized the account for the sake of the film.”

 

For Kamal, the film was about J. C. Daniel’s life. “The connection between Rosy and Daniel was over once the film’s shoot was complete,” he says. Also, the confusing details of Rosy’s story have stopped Kamal from delving deeper into it: “So we don’t know what the facts are. Maybe she didn’t want to tell people that she has acted in a film. I have taken what I can from history. I have never said that everything in the film is a real fact.”

 

Ajith Kumar A. S., a filmmaker and writer on Dalit issues, believes that Kamal’s excuse, about Rosy not being the main character of the film, does not hold because she is there for more than half of the film. “He has shown her, not just as an actress of the first Malayalam film but as a tragic character, treating her with extreme sympathy. She becomes representative of caste.”

 

Rosy’s submissive representation bothers Ajith: “She is shown as someone who feels that she doesn’t deserve anything. She is the only one shown bearing the burden of caste.” And Daniel becomes the uplifter. Ajith finds it particularly disturbing that the film looks at casteist issues as vices of the past and, in the same vein, conveniently casts Rosy in the mould of a tragic actress of the yesteryear.

 

Filmmaker Rupesh Kumar, another important voice on the Dalit discourse, agrees with Ajith: “Kamal in his cinematic text, through camera angles, through script representation, through directorial representation, through various cinematic techniques, effectively sidelines Rosy’s character.” An important question, according to Rupesh, would be how Kamal, as a male director, views Dalit femininity. “Considering the physical environment, the geographical environment and the working class atmosphere in which this Dalit woman lived, there is no way she would have been this submissive. That is my personal inference. If this cinematic text had been produced by a Dalit—male or female—her representation would have been very different.”

 

“I made it (Celluloid) the way I thought it would have been,” says Kamal. “It is not only Dalits who have the right to portray how she would have been. I did it from my point of view. If they object to that, it’s fine. I have nothing to say to that.”

 

 

***

 

In March this year, Director Devaprasad Narayanan has announced plans for another film on the life of P. K. Rosy.

 

Meanwhile, the commemoration of P. K. Rosy continues.

 

At the muhurtham (a ceremony held when the film went on the floor) of Celluloid, in September last year, Kerala’s Chief Minister Oommen Chandy said, “I have received a request to honour Malayalam film’s first actress Rosy by instating a film award and I am pleased to announce that the state government is all for it.”

 

The address by Jenny Rowena, Associate Professor at Miranda House, at the P. K. Rosy Memorial Lecture held in Jamia Millia Islamia, echoes the sentiments of Ajith and Rupesh Kumar. She said: “Mainstream discourses… enhance the progressiveness and castelessness of their present with this new and attractive museum piece called P. K. Rosy.” Rowena encouraged those present to understand the social context in which the harassment that Rosy faced arose— and to question whether anything has changed at all.

 

The debate and discussion that has emerged among filmmakers, academicians and writers, against the backdrop of Celluloid has propelled Rosy’s tragic personal story into becoming the nucleus of a larger sociological discussion that examines the interrelationship between caste, gender, society and cinema.

 

Cinema especially. That white screen on which ‘Rosy’ was projected, and which was torn down. Which made her an emblem for many things. Women’s rights. The caste struggle. And also, for cinema itself.

 

For films and film journalists and film historians have told and retold the story of Malayalam cinema’s first heroine in many voices, and many versions, which provide us with an array of narratives to choose from in order to reconstruct the life and times of Rosy.

 

Yet what continues to remain untold is Rosy’s story in her own words. The story she took with her to her grave. What stands out in the various reports, written and cinematic, on Rosy’s life, despite so many of these being produced before her death, is the absence of her voice, her version.

 

While the films on Rosy’s life were made after she had passed away, even the journalists who have researched and written about her—while she was alive—have never met their subject. More than three decades after Vigathakumaran released, Chellangatt Gopalakrishnan had gone looking for the place where Rosy’s house had stood. He had taken directions from J. C. Daniel. He found a hut near where her house had been. He spoke to the old couple in the hut. They said that they didn’t know what had become of her. He writes: “The old lady spat in hatred… ‘Must have died. What will you get from finding about that shameless woman?’ The woman got angry and went back into the hut.”

 

Even Kunnukuzhi, said to be the first person to know and write about Rosy, possibly the one who has researched and written on her the most, never met her in person. “At that time, there wasn’t much information on her or where she was,” he says. “It is only after the year 2000 that we came to know. We hadn’t known where in Tamil Nadu she was. I went four to five times and looked around in Nagercoil but couldn’t find her. We knew she had gone to Nagercoil but we got the complete details (of her address) very late.”

 

Kunnukuzhi found out finally from her nephew Krishnan, who had met her and stayed with her in Nagercoil. Kunnukuzhi, along with some others, had organized a memorial service for Rosy. “There was a seminar,” he says. “Krishnan came and spoke there and that is how the details started to come forth.”

 

Krishnan, not Rosy. For emblems do not speak. They are tired, and resigned.

 

filmflam

filmflam is a new monthly column on the most exciting things to do with the movies online: photographs, art, writing, blogs, websites, trailers, films, tutorials, archival material. Our custom-made curation of cinematic coolth. 

 

Of undeserving kings and the problem with Patriot Games

More than thirty years after he made The Maltese Falcon, the legendary John Huston adapted a Rudyard Kipling short story about two British soldiers serving in India who leave the army and the country to head to the neighbouring—and, indeed, interestingly named—Kafiristan where they plan to crown themselves kings. In The Man Who Would Be King, Sean Connery and Michael Caine star as the two sacrilegious anti-heroes, while Christopher Plummer plays Kipling himself and our very own Saeed Jaffrey shows up as Billy Fish, a most quotable local character. It’s a rollicking entertainer, but only on reading the immaculate screenplay (by Huston and Gladys Hill) a couple of days ago did I realise how well the film stands up even without those great leading men being so marvellous. Great, great words. Here’s a scene I’ve always loved, and here’s the link to the whole script.

Speaking of short-story adaptations, here’s a look at Mobius Trips, Mukul Sharma’s mischievously named short story that was recently adapted into Kannan Iyer’s Ek Thi Daayan. As I said in my review of the film, the screenplay falters significantly in the second half when the film sadly moves away from the beautiful what-could-have-been ambiguity of an enchanted world viewed through a child’s eyes and descends (quite literally) into a rabbit hole crowded with cliché. Published on his own blog, here’s the eeriness as Sharma—the man who wrote that fascinating Mindsport column in the Times Of India, and Konkona Sen’s father—first saw it.

With the newspapers so full of a certain man all set for his own coronation, it is a fine time to revisit Rakesh Sharma’s searing documentary on the 2002 Gujarat Riots, Final Solution. The 2003 film was immediately banned in India, and then distributed through a pirate-and-circulate campaign which encouraged everyone who watched it to make copies and spread it further. You can read more about the film here. Final Solution is a harsh indictment of Narendra Modi’s government, and should be watched as soon as possible— before it is yanked off YouTube as well:

George R. R. Martin always knew which bad guys were worth being villains, as is more than evident by this fan-letter Martin, at 16, had sent to Marvel supremo Stan Lee. The Game of Thrones creator loved his comic books, and it’s most amusing to see which villains he considers worthy of the Fantastic Four—a comic he clearly loves—and which are the weak foes he believes deserve “eternal exile”. Off with their heads, eh George?

“If you’re going to invite me to a dance, you gotta let me dance.” This and other awesome assertions are thrown up during an afternoon where the late Dennis Hopper, easiest rider of all—and the first choice to play the tip-loathing Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs—swung by at Quentin Tarantino’s place to share a conversation while the director was editing Pulp Fiction. The entire conversation can be found here, and it’s gold. Tarantino compares Pulp… to Monty Python, Hopper throws up Satyajit Ray when talking of Éric Rohmer, and the two clearly love each other’s work. As a bonus, here’s the Sicilian scene in True Romance that QT wrote and Hopper dazzled in, alongside Christopher Walken.

Over on Twitter, @clownasylum pointed me to this 1990 interview in which Steven Spielberg talks about how he regrets passing on Rain Man— to go ahead and do Indiana Jones. It’s a Barry Norman interview, so you should naturally go see the whole thing. It also reminded me of just how Spielberg is a true virtuoso of the close-up, which this smashing video essay justifiably dubs the director’s signature stroke. Amazing.

And finally, paanch. (No, not that one. But here you go.) No, I speak of five short films that come from the Anurag Kashyap stable, fast turning into a school for talented youngbloods. The five films here, in my order of preference, have been made by Neeraj Ghaywan, Anubhuti Kashyap, Vasan Bala, Shlok Sharma and Gitanjali Rao— but I implore you to watch them all. Collected back to back thus, they make for very intriguing viewing, and I can’t wait to see each of them making features. Peddlers, Bala’s film that earned plaudits at Cannes last year, should be hitting theatres within the next two months.

~

Oh, and do reach out with your movie effluvia: I’m @RajaSen on Twitter. Add a hashtag #filmflam to your links. Happy clicking, and may the broadband be strong with you all.

Chronicle of a Friendship Unforetold

Aparna Sen on her friend Rituparno Ghosh’s quest, journey and cinema

 

I first met him in the late 1980s when he was 20 something and a copywriter at Ram Ray’s advertising agency Response. Ram, an old friend, called me up one day. “I’m sending a young chap across. Writes rather well. Can you find some time to listen to a film script he’s written?”

 

So that was how Rituparno Ghosh came over to our Alipur apartment one morning in 1986, a slightly plump, curly haired young man in jeans and T-shirt, with huge glasses on, bright eyes shining behind thick lenses, a far cry from the style icon that he had developed into later.

 

Ritu ended up becoming not only a close friend, but also someone akin to a brother.

 

The script he read out was about Radha and Krishna. A bit over-lyricized I felt, but extremely detailed and very well written. I knew straightaway that the young person sitting across the room from me was a major talent, knew without a doubt that he would go far. What I did not know was that he was already a star of sorts in Ram Ray’s copywriting team, and had created lines like “Boroline Chirodin” for Boroline and “Tawker Aapon Jon” for Margo soap. I asked him if he would like to collaborate with me on my scripts and he agreed readily.

 

We never did collaborate after all. Every time he came, we would end up chatting. For hours on end. About everything under the sun. Films, poetry, Tagore, Satyajit Ray, Bergman, Kurosawa, the Tollygunge film industry, Uttam Kumar, Soumitra Chatterjee, my experiences as an actress… We enjoyed these sessions hugely! So much so, that soon he began to accompany me to shoots, to poetry recitals where I sometimes performed, to rehearsals of stage plays that I was then acting in, and even when I went shopping. Or we’d simply hang out at home, swapping story ideas for future films. Sometimes he would help Konkona, then a little girl, with her Bengali grammar or he’d sit with me through a script narration. Afterwards, we’d discuss the merits and demerits of the script we’d just heard. He always had something very insightful to say, and I benefited greatly from his sharp intelligence, often turning down or accepting a film offer on the strength of his comments. And, of course, we read our own scripts out to each other, although he was far more prolific than I was. I had heard many of his scripts long before they were made into films— Hirer Angti, Unishey April, Dahan, Ashukh, Khela (then titled Nalok), Titli, Chokher Bali…

 

Ritu had said to me once that if he had a piece of blank paper in front of him, he felt an insatiable urge to fill it up with words. In later years, he had once gone to a film festival where the hospitality was terrible. He found himself in a hotel room without food and with no money to buy a meal. There were packets of coffee, however, and an electric kettle. He made himself endless cups of coffee and, in order to distract himself from thoughts of food, drew out the notepaper supplied in the room and started writing. That was how the script of Ashukh got written. I felt that his facility with words was both a blessing and a curse, and told him as much. Interesting and well-written dialogue came so easily to him that he tended to make his films verbose unless checked. He would often fall in love with the dialogue he had written and continue a conversation between two people endlessly and effortlessly. I often played the role of conscience with him and he insisted that I do. This was one of Ritu’s qualities that I never tired of admiring. He could take criticism with an open mind and never held a grudge. If he didn’t agree with you, he would tell you so to your face. I believe this happens only with people who are perfectionists and who have a strong self-image. It is only when artists are unsure of their ability that they become defensive and vulnerable to criticism. In any case, our friendship was too important to both of us to risk jeopardizing with intellectual dishonesty. If I lied to him to spare his feelings, he would know instantly, just as I would with him. This was part of our comfort zone with each other. We knew that we could always be sure of brutal frankness. I think our respect for each other would have been diminished had it been otherwise. So I told him about something Satyajit Ray would do as an intellectual exercise— use dialogue in a scene only if it were impossible to communicate an idea through visual means. After that, both Ritu and I would keep trying to do this in our own scripts, even though we didn’t always succeed.

 

Ritu also had an insatiable curiosity about everything. In my case, he was curious about the saris I wore, my hairstyles, my make-up, my interior decoration, my relationship with my daughters, everything. I realize now that he was then a director in the making, soaking up every experience around him like a sponge. I happened to tell him about my guilt because I couldn’t give my daughters enough time, and that my elder daughter had once said, “I kept waiting for you to find time, till one day I discovered that I had grown up!” I realized how intently Ritu had been listening to all my confidences the day I first heard the script of Unishey April. He had put those exact words in Debashree’s mouth: “Tomar jonye wait korte korte I grew up Ma.” People go to film school to learn film direction. I don’t think film direction can be taught. You can learn about framing, lenses, lighting, photography, editing, and so on— but in order to be a director, you have to take your lessons from life itself. Ritu was doing just that.

 

Hirer Angti, Ritu’s first film, was produced by the Children’s Film Society. Shabana Azmi was then heading it, so Ritu asked me to write a letter of introduction for him to Shabana. He came back to Kolkata not only with the contract for the film tucked firmly under his belt, but he had also laid the groundwork for a lifelong friendship with the Bachchan family during his trip to Mumbai. That was another one of his many wonderful qualities— his personal charm. He could bond effortlessly with almost anyone and this stood him in very good stead in his career as a filmmaker. His relationships with people may not always have been entirely free of trouble, but his charm was not facile; Ritu was genuinely interested in people—how they lived, how their minds worked—and his sensitivity, combined with his considerable intelligence, allowed him to get to the core of almost anything, be it a human being or an idea.

 

In later years he had earned the reputation of directing his actors minutely, sometimes even asking some of them to imitate him. But I never saw that side of him. Although he was a very good actor himself, in Unishey April he left me largely to my own devices. Of course, I knew the screenplay inside out. In many senses it had become mine as much as his after our endless, detailed discussions about it. Interestingly, Ritu asked me to decorate Sarojini’s (my character in the film) bedroom set. I now realize that it was a director’s device to get his actor to identify with the character— an acting workshop of sorts. Unishey April forged a strong bond between Ritu and me. We took the script to one producer after another, with me promising to act free of cost if only they would fund the project. It never ceases to amaze me that all of them, without exception, turned us down. How did they not realize its worth, being in the film business? At that time a friend called Renu Roy had suddenly got hold of some money. She suggested that she and I form a film production company and that I make its first film. But by then, I was determined to get Ritu’s film off the ground, come what may. Finally Renu, Ritu and I jointly formed Spandan Films and used the money to produce Unishey April. Most of the actors acted free of charge and everyone helped, as they often will in the case of a first film. The film won the Golden Lotus at the National Awards, and the rest is history.

 

I saw Ritu through many stages of his, sadly, short life. He was initially a slightly effeminate boy, but no more than that, at least not on the face of it. He still hid the fact that he was gay, although it obviously pained him to hide it from those he loved. I remember badgering him to get married and even threatened to look for a suitable girl if he couldn’t manage to find one himself. He brushed my suggestions aside lightly enough, but I was puzzled at the sadness on his face. A few days later he gave me a book of poetry to read, gifted to him by a male friend. “You do poetry recitals,” he said, “ …you might find something interesting here.” After he had left, I started turning the pages. On the flyleaf were inscribed the words “to you, from me. Understanding dawned. I never badgered him again. But that incident broke whatever barriers of inhibition had existed between us. I became his confidante, and he mine. He began to tell me about his relationships, about the pain of the sexually marginalized, about his loneliness, about his desire to be accepted for who he was.

 

Gradually, as he became more and more successful as a filmmaker, he started becoming increasingly open about his sexuality. He discarded his jeans and t-shirt in favour of long flowing kurtas and handpicked scarves. He lost weight and shaved his head, looking beautifully and elegantly ascetic— a Buddhist monk in designer clothes. But he was shaping his mind too, not just his exterior. He had always been an avid reader and an early riser. Now he disciplined himself into spending those early morning hours reading and writing. He delved deep into Rabindranath Tagore who had always been an inspiration for him, developing a greater understanding of the androgynous quality of Tagore’s writing. He also loved the Mahabharata from which he had chosen his name—Rituparno—rejecting the name Shouroneel that his parents had originally given him. The androgynous characteristics of Shikhandi, Brihannala and, to some extent, Chitrangada in the Mahabharata fascinated him. His last fiction film Chitrangada was inspired both by Tagore’s play of the same name, and by the episode of Arjun and Manipur’s warrior princess Chitrangada in the epic he so loved. In a masterstroke, he envisioned Kamdeva, or Madan, of Tagore’s play as a plastic surgeon who transforms a male Chitrangada into a feminine and desirable woman, and then he went on to use that section of the play as a metaphor for a transsexual choreographer’s desire to become a woman through a sex re-assignment surgery. He also started acting in these roles himself, thus effectively blurring the line between fiction and real life. Without sending out a message, within quotes, as a lesser filmmaker might have done, Ritu managed to bring the hitherto marginalized into the domain of the mainstream, to an extent.

 

Ritu cannot be seen simply as a filmmaker. Indeed, I am not a hardcore fan of all his films, some of which I find more decorative than deep. He must be seen in totality— as a conglomerate of his films, his writing, his considerable scholarship, his eccentric lifestyle and his sexuality. It is as if he were creating himself from scratch in his own laboratory— right from the point of choosing his name to becoming a formidable filmmaker who flaunted his trans-sexuality with fearless aplomb.

 

Ritu’s presence was magnetic. His absence is no less powerful. It will take a long time to get used to it.

The World Is Not Enough

Turkish basilicas, English estates, Russian republics, the Al-Qaeda and the Buckingham Palace. Chako tells you how Bollywood usurped everything.

 

Early 2000, Bollywood was on the cusp of a revolution. Not so much in terms of storytelling, but in terms of location. It all started when Shah Rukh Khan landed in a helicopter at the gorgeous Waddesdon Manor in Buckinghamshire in what is now a Karan Johar classic. As a sensible member of the audience giving in to the usual suspension of disbelief (more than usual— this is Bollywood), we thought: ‘Okay. He’s getting off a helicopter and visiting an English castle. This looks lovely, nicer than anything used before in our movies. ‘

 

Till he said, “This is my childhood home.” That’s when some of us went, “Huh?” Anyone who said, “Okay, that makes sense,” we stopped talking to. Waddesdon Manor, once home to the Rothchilds, became a dividing line for our cinema.

 

Rudimentary research tells us that: “Waddesdon Manor is a country house in the village of Waddesdon, in Buckinghamshire, England. The house was built in the neo-renaissance style of a French château between 1874 and 1889 for Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild (1839–1898).  The Baron wanted a house in the style of the great renaissance châteaux of the Loire Valley. Once his château was complete, Baron Ferdinand installed his extensive collections of French 18th-century tapestries, boiseries, furniture and ceramics, English and Dutch paintings and Renaissance works of art.”

 

But not in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, the mega Bollywood epic where it served as Amitabh Bachchan’s character’s home, referred to as the family home, which his son, played by Shah Rukh Khan, walked out of in a huff to establish estrangement and subsequently reconciliation (apologies to the four people who haven’t seen it). As for the few students of English stately history who are also Karan Johar fans (a niche demographic), they might have been thrown by the fact that Amitabh Bachchan makes a reference to having bought it after being successful in business (clearly so successful that they gave him an Austrian Barony and an English estate), not to mention the family dining room he enveloped in late renaissance art (maybe this Indian family, instead of putting the usual deceased dadas and nanis on the wall, were fans of Leonardo Da Vinci, Napoleon Bonaparte, Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, French pastries, Jacques-Louis David— that ilk).

 

It didn’t end there. Blenheim Palace, a 15th century castle of the Duke of Malborough and, subsequently, the Churchill family estate for 300 years, served as the site where Kareena Kapoor and Hrithik Roshan went to college. A college where one could drive in, in red Ferraris, and do choreographed dances with semi-dressed Uzbek women. Naturally, the existence of real colleges in that country (um, Oxford? Cambridge perhaps?) did not get in the way of this fictitious one, which looked like a far more fun place to study (and dance). In fact, if this college from Mr. Johar’s imagination had existed, perhaps the Churchill family would have ditched their Oxford ambitions and converted their family home into this place.

 

Another “Huh?” from Indian audiences would have made sense, except what was happening was impossible to undo.

 

The revolution had begun. Through the nineties, Bollywood had slowly begun abandoning gritty Bombay slum locales for Switzerland. Lamhe-esque love stories popped up across rolling Swiss hills. The gritty Bombay slum would make a comeback, thanks to art house auteurs (Anurag Kashyap, Danny Boyle) showing our movies to the world, but that would be years later. For Bollywood, pretty women bouncing around the Alps in nightclub attire projecting sexy, while freezing and begging for the director to say cut, was the decade. Then the early 21st century began. Karan Johar appeared as a behemoth force. He began by making his characters live in this massive castle, and the game changed. Suddenly, as the decade went on, the Swiss became passé. Our songs were shot everywhere. New York, London and Sydney became the backyards of every romantic comedy. Most Bollywood heroes and heroines had cool professions in these cities— fashion magazine editor in New York (Preity Zinta in Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna), chef in Sydney (Saif Ali Khan in Salaam Namaste), rich daddy’s boy in London (every other film).

 

The locations expanded— Istanbul (Mallika Sherawat dancing in Guru, shaming the Ottomans with her moves), Machu Picchu (the one and only Rajinikanth dancing on it in Endhiran or Robot, shaming the Incans with his moves), Ipanema Beach in Rio (Dhoom 2, Bipasha Basu shaming Brazil’s transsexuals with hers, no easy feat), the bars, and women, of the new Russian republics (nearly every movie has them as assorted extras, dancers, hookers, bartenders— also, Uzbekistan, a former Soviet republic, is a favourite), the streets of Bangkok (Sanjay Dutt has played a Thai policeman, which says less about him and more about the Thai police recruiting process).

 

Bollywood went to the world with such aggression that it felt like, at some point, the world would run out of locations to offer.

 

Lord Macaulay had once said, while making a point about why British India would wipe out Indian culture, that history was whatever was written by the victors. The way history seemed to be turning out, the victors had reversed— the Bollywood producer paying to rent Blenheim Palace by the day seemed to be re-writing history. The fictional use of a piece of British history would end up being watched by way more people than visitors to the actual Blenheim palace. In due time, with enough rentals, and audiences, the fact that the Duke Of Marlborough had anything to do with it will perhaps be forgotten for a universal assumption that Kareena Kapoor went to college there. It could perhaps someday be the site for a Karan Johar museum— may the Churchills rest in peace.

 

Naturally, with locations around the world comes a certain license to adapt it to your fiction. Hollywood does it all the time. Tom Cruise speaks an Arabic he’s invented as Ethan Hunt (Mission Impossible 3). In the Bourne franchise, Matt Damon can get across Europe as a fugitive simply with a Volkswagen mini and good looks (which, in Matt Damon’s case, is perhaps possible). In Roland Emmerich’s The Day After Tomorrow, when the planet is getting snowed over and they’re showing different world cities deluged, there’s New York, London, and a place called ‘New Delhi Bombay’. In Independence Day, the Will Smith mega-hit, aliens seem to be able to fly from New York to Washington in about three seconds (airlines should learn something from this).

 

So far, nothing wrong you think. Creative license and geography go hand in hand. However, once Bollywood started taking over the world, we took it one step beyond Hollywood. We started making it our world, on our own terms. We were the new Macaulays. History will remember whatever geography we created.

 

Take this for example. Race 2 showed Istanbul (as usual). The villain’s character (played by John Abraham) lives in the Hagia Sophia (a basilica, practically a part of the Great Palace of Constantinople) and parks his Lamborghini outside it. It’s like the equivalent of a Bond villain living in Rashtrapati Bhavan and saying, “Yeh mera ghar hain”. As an aside, the plot involves stealing the Shroud of Turin, (yes Jesus Christ’s shroud) to sell “in the black market”. To figure this plot out, without the help of any drugs, is not recommended, so I’ll stop here, except to say that I’d love to see the black market for holy Christian relics. Who buys and sells? Priests? Nuns? Bandra people? Mel Gibson? Maybe that’s why the Pope resigned. He saw Race 2.

 

Moving on, the Buckingham Palace and Wembley Stadium are now used in films way more than any Indian stadium. In Housefull (spelt thus), a central, final, climax involves putting laughing gas in the air-conditioning vents at Buckingham palace so the royalty run around laughing/going crazy. The Queen is giggling. Long Live the Queen.

 

In a lovely situation of the story made to fit the environment, if a CIA agent is needed, they’re conveniently Indian and Hindi speaking. Same for a Pope, a Brazilian police inspector, a Spanish diving instructor, a New Jersey school teacher, pretty much any professional who shows up in any part of the world in any new-age Bollywood film. There’s usually an element of surprise registered by the lead actor (“Aap Indian hain?”) before casual acceptance. Genius.

 

In a John Abraham movie I saw, he was on a boat in Lake Geneva, clearly landlocked because you can see the other side, but that doesn’t bother him because he delivers this line of dialogue: “I am coming to India by sea. Be ready.”  Another intelligent use of the world was when the filmmakers Abbas Mastan bought the rights to the robbery film The Italian Job, whose story—as you may have guessed even if you know nothing about anything—climaxes, in, um, Italy. The brothers said, “We’ve bought the rights to (The) Italian Job. We are calling it Players. It is set in Russia.” So, without Italy, what story had they bought? Just ‘the job’? The Hollywood studio that got that cheque must have had a good laugh.

 

The greatest work of geopolitical appropriation so far, however, has been Kamal Haasan’s Vishwaroopam (and I don’t mean the media furore). Kamal Haasan transforms from an effete New Jersey dance instructor to a macho RAW Agent (great cover) and is invited by dint of his knowledge and strength to work alongside the FBI, to stop a New York nuclear attack. Because one can just be invited like that, as if it’s a 13 year old’s dance party. The nuclear attack is stopped by placing a microwave on top of a nuclear bomb (I hope Einstein and Samsung are listening). Osama Bin Laden’s cave has a rather welcoming open-entrance which the Americans can see from their helicopters (take that Zero Dark Bigelow). In a brilliant move—that makes complete sense only if you live in a mental asylum—to create a decoy from the real terrorist attack (yes, the microwave), the bad guys unleash radioactive pigeons over New York City that have uranium droppings, so that the entire Manhattan security apparatus goes nuts chasing these pigeons. You would have better luck building your own iPhone with straw and sheet metal than you would figuring out the logic behind all of this.

 

However on top of this mélange of global brilliance, sits the character played by Rahul Bose, Omar, an Osama henchman blinded in one eye by counter-terror attacks which also left him with a crooked face that Omar portrays in a way that would be scary only on Monsters, Inc. Omar is able to fly in and out of the US in a private plane while getting a bird’s eye view of the micro-nuclear-wave (my term) attack he’s about to unleash. Clearly, his private plane is not running into the same immigration officers Shah Rukh Khan’s plane is.

 

Earlier, when asked by a French aid worker in Afghanistan whether he speaks English Omar responds with, “Yes I can, woman!” giving off the air of an Arab patriarch from a Tintin comic. Also, in a brilliant piece of advice, he tells another Al-Qaeda character, “How about some attacks on London and New York?” to which the response is: “Good idea.” For an organization whose entire reason for existence is attacking the centers of the western world, you would think they would have thought of this earlier. Or perhaps daily? No wonder they’re losing the War on Terror to the CIA.

 

When the nuclear New York attack fails to detonate from his cell phone (these damn microwaves!), Omar shows his phone to his assistant, complaining about signal. If you thought you had signal problems, clearly the Al-Qaeda are no better. And theirs is probably pre-paid.

 

I really wish the world was what Bollywood creates and not the way it is.

 

I read somewhere that space travel is being contemplated and Richard Branson might open up aircrafts to the public, to travel there. Now that Bollywood has had its fill of this planet, perhaps space is the next frontier. I cannot wait for the film where Amitabh Bachchan casually points at Uranus and says, “Yeh mera ghar hain,” or Kamal Haasan shows up on Saturn, runs into an alien, and asks: “Aap Indian hain?” To which the answer, naturally, is “Haan”.

Cover image courtesy NASA

TBIP Take

Name Place Animal Thing

 

Movies take us to places where we have never been and perhaps will never be. Sometimes movies insist on telling us where to go—Switzerland, a particular spot in Goa, Spain—and we go faithfully. We complain but we go. We make fun of the movie which has a handbag as a central character but we still go. Is it a natural and inevitable progression that movies will also tell us how to book discounted tickets to the places we have never been? The new Ayan Mukherjee film Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani seems to think so, gleefully promoting an online travel company at every chance it gets.

 

***

 

The protagonist of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani Bunny aka Kabir Thapar (Ranbir Kapoor) works in the crew of a Fox Traveller show. The central crisis of the film, apart from Pritam’s music, is Bunny’s attraction to Naina (Deepika Padukone) a girl who loves staying put as much as he loves moving. Naina is a doctor. Bunny’s old friend (Aditya Roy Kapur) owns, and struggles to run, a bar. Does Bunny’s old gal pal Aditi (Kalki Koechlin) have a job? It’s not clear. She does have a really warm, loving relationship with a bumbling, non-suave yet destination wedding type groom (Kunaal Roy Kapur).

 

This is the old social circle into which Bunny returns to have very tepid emotional crises before the denouement in which Naina teaches him that together is better than alone. While all manner of logic dictates that this movie needs a humungous wedding (and who is to quarrel with that?), it really didn’t need so much humungous wedding and could have had a whole lot more of its young, moderately interesting and deliberately non-melodramatic characters. What is it like to be these people with these lives? We never know. It is as if they wandered in from another set at Mehboob Studios and decided to stay for the wedding out of politeness.

 

Movies have a way of turning foreign places and foreign lives into postcards. The odd thing about a movie like Yeh Jawaani… is that it turns the familiar into flattened postcards as well. From the hotel room interiors of the wedding Naina’s defence of all that she loves sounds like the script of a 30 minute show that Fox Traveller may run next week: DDLJ at Maratha Mandir, Mahendra Singh Dhoni at Wankhede, mutton biryani

 

***

 

The first third of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, when the protagonists go on a trip to Manali, is a rather tragic reminder of DDLJ (Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge), the mother of all rail romances. It begins at the station. Where DDLJ’s Simran began her ditzy career by dropping a bra, Naina brings along a Ganesha of dimensions which makes you suspect that she is as new to piety as she is to trekking. This is going to be annoying, you suspect and in many ways, it is— the random insertion of vampy, clueless girl, Naina’s stunned expression when faced with anything new, or worse, ‘cool’.

 

In other ways Yeh Jawaani’s Naina and Aditi are products of their times as much as Simran was a product of her time. Naina is competitive, fit and has not a trace of coyness. She doesn’t drink because she doesn’t drink but when it’s freezing halfway up a mountain she has no problem asking for a swig or two. Aditi stays friends with Avinash long after she has fallen out of love with him. To our shock, the movie also passes the Bechdel Test (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bechdel_test) by dint of Naina’s one affectionate recounting of her friendship with Aditi at the wedding.

 

I have a renewed affection for Deepika Padukone (and decreased nostalgia for Simran) after encountering her calm Naina. This despite the earliest segments in which she and director Ayan Mukherjee seem to have confused “focused medical student” with “in need of focused medical attention”.

 

***

 

Aurangzeb promised to be a movie that took us to a specific place too: the dark, jewelled navel of Gurgaon. And what a great name! An evil Rishi Kapoor! With the rather excellent and hirsute Arjun Kapoor! And Amrita Singh’s sleeves!

 

Alas, Atul Sabharwal’s juicy, messy script seems to be a television series accordioned into a feature length Yash Raj production. The whole point of a double role movie, the moment when one twin becomes the other, when Sita becomes Gita, when Manju becomes Anju, is skimmed over in half a scene with the not-badtameez Arjun Kapoor walking into Amrita Singh’s office and taking charge. N. Srinivasan showed more bloody-mindedness than Arjun Kapoor in this scene.  Prithviraj Sukumaran does yeoman’s service with one lip-curling expression and flips from one camp to another. Somewhere there is also an exchange of dialogue which ends in “Tera baap mera baap hai.”

 

Most annoyingly, we get as much of a sense of Gurgaon as we get of Nainital. What I now know is that when Arjun Kapoor is a twin separated at birth and goes to Nainital he likes to wear V-necked sweaters.

 

Unless otherwise told, assume that all Hindi movies are in Bombay, a film critic once told me. And we were quite content to go to these movies without places. And on the rare occasion we went to Darjeeling or Switzerland or Goa, we went as tourists with no compulsion to do anything but go boating and wear monkey caps.

 

Newer movies feel the compulsion to answer the old question: main kahan hoon? Dibakar Banerjee thus became the Prince of Place (even though he really did Shanghai us that one time shamefully).

 

Newer movies shove place at us the way they market item numbers. The same way they sell air tickets. Book Now! Discount! And then surprise, the ticket is cancelled, we are still in Bollywoodland.