Last year, TBIP documented the work and lives of some of India’s best known ‘character actors’, through a series of photographic portraits and in-depth interviews. In the second part of that series, we present Alok Nath.

Alok Nath, 58, is one of Hindi cinema’s most recognizable ‘character actors’. A National School of Drama alumnus, he is well known for essaying the role of a kindly patriarch in many Bollywood films in the 1980s, 1990s and 2000s, among them the blockbusters Maine Pyar Kiya (1989), Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! (1993) and Hum Saath-Saath Hain (1999). Also, Nath has won acclaim for his turn as Haveli Ram in Doordarshan’s television series, Buniyaad.

Last December, jokes and memes based on characters played by Alok Nath—mostly on the ‘sanskaari’ (morally upright) and ‘kanyadaani’ (father of the bride) nature of his on-screen avatars—went viral on Twitter and Facebook, leading to the actor’s name trending on social media for no apparent reason, prompting online marketing case studies on the phenomenon.

The shoot and interview takes place at his apartment in Lokhandwala, Mumbai. We sit on velvet upholstered sofas in his sitting room, chatting about the highs and lows of his journey as an actor, interrupted occasionally by the snores of his pet Boston terrier sleeping on a chair nearby.

One of your first roles was in Gandhi. What were your thoughts while working on the movie with actors like Ben Kingsley, Roshan Seth, etc. Do you have any special memories of it? How did you get the role?

When I joined Hindu college, at Delhi University, I was very active in college theatre as well as in the Ruchika theatre group. I also kept doing television. After college I chose to take up acting professionally. My parents had wanted me to be a doctor—my father is a doctor—but they stopped interfering and left the decision to me once I took up humanities instead of science in college. After graduating I joined the National School of Drama in Delhi. I did three years there and even in my spare time and during the holidays continued with professional theatre and television in Delhi. Towards the end of my time at the National School of Drama (NSD), in 1980, Dolly Thakore from Bombay came to our school looking for actors for small character roles in Gandhi, being directed by the great Sir Richard Attenborough. We were told to represent the National School of Drama in the auditions and have a nice bath, wear clean clothes, shave, oil our hair… Getting the role or not was immaterial. Just to see Richard Attenborough in the flesh—he used to do theatre too and we were in awe of him—was a big high. When I met him at the Ashoka Hotel I was shivering. He looked me over and seemed to contemplate, as if he was buying a horse or cattle. His eyes were piercing into me and I was dying, frankly, because I wasn’t getting any reaction that revealed whether he liked me or not. He finally said, “Yeah Dolly looks good.” Dolly lead me into an adjacent room and said, “You’re on Alok. So this character is called Tyeb Mohammed, one of Gandhi’s associates and friends when he was in South Africa and involved in the coal miners’ agitation. So you got the role.” I said, “That’s great. But what do I do for it?” And she said, “See you look the role, that’s why Attenborough chose you.”

Later I realized I must have been chosen because I had that mean hungry look those days, the look of a frustrated theatre actor who is a committed revolutionary, a Commie theatre enthusiast.

She asked me “How much will you charge?” In those days, in television, for a play for which you had to rehearse for a week or 10 days and then record, we would get 60 rupees. Nobody had asked me what I would charge. I was just given whatever pittance and I took it. So I was like, “Madam Dolly…” Dolly was a nice looking young woman, very Westernised. And here we were, the lesser humans visiting a posh Delhi hotel, who had never been to a five star hotel suite, and my feet were like jelly but I couldn’t say that I haven’t done a film before so I don’t know how much to charge. Also I couldn’t say I used to get 60 rupees or she’d give me 100 rupees or something. So I just kept quiet. She finally said, “Okay will over 20 be alright?” I almost got a heart attack because I used to get 60 and now 20? Then she said, “Twenty thousand rupees. Should we close the deal?” My expression was like… I literally shat in my pants. I was like, “Yeah 20 is fine, it should be good.” And as I was calculating how much 20,000 rupees was, she took out a wad of notes for 10,000 rupees. “Here is an advance and you’re on.” And she made me sign some papers. So that was how I got Gandhi. I went out of the room, kept the money in my pocket, left the hotel, then took the money out and checked if they were real notes. I kept the wad under my armpits and the whole way back I took an auto-rickshaw (I used to travel by bus normally). I went home and gave the money to mom. My parents too were shocked. “Thank God you didn’t become a doctor,” they said. Because my father didn’t earn 10,000 rupees in a year.

You had only one film as a hero, Kamagni. Why were you not considered for the lead more often back then? Because I’ve seen younger photos of you. And…

Just say it. That I was good looking.

You were good looking. Why were you not offered leads?

Between Gandhi and Kamagni there were five to six years. I struggled in Bombay for almost two years and got nothing but constantly kept doing theatre at Prithvi Theatre with Mrs. Nadira Babbar, Raj Babbar’s wife. Raj, an NSD alumnus, had suddenly become an overnight superstar and signed some 30 to 40 odd films. That was also one of the reasons for this exodus of a lot of Delhi actors to Bombay. They wanted to get into the gold rush of cinema by which Raj Babbar, a Delhi theatre actor, had become a hero.

During that span of doing theatre in Prithvi with Nadiraji, a lot of film people used to come and watch our shows. I got some small roles in films. My first break was with Mr. Yash Chopra in a film called Mashaal with Anil Kapoor—it was also one of his first films—and Dilip (Kumar) saab. I played a journalist and he later gave me a role again in his film Lamhe and then I got a role in Aaj Ki Awaaz, a B. R. Chopra film.

Also, in those days the TV serial business had begun in a big way here. There was a serial made in Delhi called Hum Log, the first Indian soap. And people lapped it up like crazy. In the wake of that, more serials started getting made in Bombay. So 26 and 30 episode serials were being made. I started getting work in these serials starting with one by Basu Chatterjee, then by Nadiraji herself doing a serial and then Mr. Ramesh Sippy’s company making a serial on journalism, a caricaturist kind of show called Chapte Chapte. I played a cranky, grumpy editor, and then Buniyaad happened.

Buniyaad was a major milestone in my life which catapulted me into the acting space. I was compared to the greats of those times. The press suddenly put me on this pedestal and I got great acting offers but the condition of Buniyaad, also made by Mr. Ramesh Sippy, was that you had to give one year to them in which you would concentrate on this one show. With Buniyaad it was like I had gotten my voting card for Bombay, that read: ‘Alok Nath, Actor’.

And yet the irony of Buniyaad was I couldn’t do other work, so a lot of offers went rejected. And while people wanted to work initially, things changed. Let me explain. When I started Buniyaad I was 26-27 years of age and it started with me playing a young revolutionary, an honest, good looking guy, falling in love with a woman. Then we married, had children, they grew up, they got married, they having children and we became grandparents. All of this in one year. So in one year I lived 60 years of my life. In that one year the younger Haveli Ram, the character in the serial which got all these offers, was forgotten and at the end the image of a masterji, growing old, remained in the audience’s mind. The last shot of the serial, that has lasted in people’s memory, was that I am walking with two grandchildren into the horizon. An 80 year old man, balding, with white hair. That was the lasting image of Alok Nath.

Hum Aapke Hain Koun.. ! established you as a sort of household name. What was it like working on that film? Hum Aapke… also affected the tone of movies made in Bollywood in the nineties. Did you anticipate the effect that it had?

Before that was Maine Pyaar Kiya and even before that was Saraansh in 1983, produced by the same Rajshri Productions. In the early eighties I was doing doing a play at Prithvi called Sandheya Chaya. It’s about an old couple in their late 60s or 70s, whose children have left them for their work, staying abroad. And how they make friends with people who visit them, or the postman, or the next door servant or some person who’s dialed them by mistake. So I was playing one of the old couple and Raj Babbar was doing some Rajshri film. The people from Rajshri saw a performance. So the next day Mr. Babbar had left a message with the paanwalla asking me to call him immediately. We never had phones in those days so the paanwalla at the corner would take our messages and paid him a little extra in return. So I called Raj Babbar and he asked me to turn up at the Rajshri office.

When I landed up I was shown into a room and it was Rajkumar Barjatya, Sooraj Barjatya’s father’s room.

I introduced myself, saying: “My name is Alok Nath. Mr. Raj Babbar has asked me to come and meet you.”

He said, “Lekin par kyon (But why)?”

I’m amazed at this man. He has called me all the way from Juhu and he’s not even recognizing me.

A little agitated, I said, “Sir I am Mrs. Nadira Babbar’s actor. We have a group called Ekjute. Yesterday some people from your office came to see the play and then I got a call.”

He said, “You were in the play last night?” I said, “Yes sir.” He asked, “What were you doing in the play?” I was on the edge, also reaching the end of my patience. “Sir I was acting in the play, playing the lead.” He said, “Tum toh… lekin woh buddha tha (But, he was an old man)!” I said, “Sir, he was an old man, but I am a young man. I was acting in that play as an old man. But I am 25 years old.”

He finally recognised me, then said, “Good, good. But very sad.” He said he couldn’t give me the role. “This film we are making, we need an older man in this. But don’t worry Mr. Alok. We will always work with you.” So this is my history with Rajshri. I didn’t get that role, Anupam Kher got it. Bastard! He is just one year older than me. The only solace I got was that he must have been looking older than me. They gave me a small role in that film, a sadhu’s role. And since that film, I have worked in every film of theirs except Main Prem ki Diwaani Hoon.

Were you wary of getting typecast? Did you try to resist it?

I was aware of it, not much initially because initially there was the thirst of getting into the groove of films, being a part of this cinema world. I accepted what I was offered. Refusal would mean that the offers would stop coming, because it’s a small industry and people take offence if you refuse them.

When I was in it, I was doing it with all my honesty. By the time I realised no yaar, I think I’m on the wrong bus, I could not change things.

There were some offers, but they were not out and out different. A good man turning villain in the end, at the climax, so people will not think that he’s a villain— those kinds of roles. But even they did not work with the audience. The films worked, but I didn’t get any recognition, so I was stuck in this scenario where I would do only goody-goody roles, older roles, big brother roles, the uncle, the father, now the grandfather… It’s ok. It’s paid my bills, I’ve bought my own house, my car, I had the courage to get married, have children, give them a good education. At the end of the day, the creativity got a little dejected but survival was funded by these films.

In Hindi cinema it’s not just an actor but also a role that gets typecast. What have been the characteristics of the traditional Indian father? Is that image changing today?

A father is a person who is always looked upon as a positive person from the hero’s point of view because we have an Indian tradition of following in your father’s footsteps. So if the father is good the hero is good and the hero is always good so that means the father should always be good. If the father is bad then there are influences of that in the hero which get corrected during the process of the film. Goodness prevails. But the father figure is mostly pujya. Pujya matlab (Pujya means) a respected person. Whether he is poor or rich he is listened to, his values are cared for, his directives are obeyed.

But now, also, over the last decade our cinema has gone through a lot of churning. The whole genre of filmmaking has changed in which the family has suddenly taken a back seat. There’s less of pitaji or bauji or babuji, and more of ‘mom-dad’. The ‘Yo!’ kind of generation has emerged. And the generation gap between children and their parents doesn’t seem to show much, even literally, because of facilities such as beauty products, various options in clothing, technologies like hair weaving etc. So the parents look young and happening now, which is a kind of role I don’t fit into.

Also the heroes of the last two decades have now become fathers, though they still want to be heroes. But unfortunately their children have become heroes too, so they have had to graduate to fathers. So automatically those fathers have taken up more cinema space and left little for outsider fathers like us.

Finally, there are ‘lesser parents’, for subjects where parents are not really required. Here they are just like furniture in a film, with small roles. Maybe just passing by or with two or three scenes. Or they’re shown in albums or photographs, things like that. So, often, parents are now not an integral part of Indian cinema.

You once mentioned some particular mannerisms or thought processes that you may have that make people cast you as an older person? What did you mean?

You can’t defy age, though I did do so in the opposite direction. I played father to heroes elder to me. I’ve done almost 500 films till now in my 30 to 35 years in Bombay and almost 95% of them have been in older roles— older than my present age. And I have never said no to a film. The only film I refused around 20 years ago was one from Madras. I was asked to play Mr. Jeetendra’s father to which I said nahin (no) yaar, this is too much. He must be about 15 years older to me.

You also mentioned in an interview that you had certain goals when you came to Mumbai but you hadn’t achieved what you set out to do. If you could re-do your innings as an actor, what changes would you make to it?

In any sphere of life you have to have a goal post and you have to aim well to score. Anybody who comes in at an early age, wants to become a star, a hero. When you brush or shave in the morning there’s nobody better looking than you. You’re the ultimate. You’re Don Juan. I also came in thinking like that. But your dreams get shattered slowly, till you realise you need to face the world, face reality. This is it, accept it or leave it. At this one stage of life you’re a beggar so you can’t be a chooser because it’s a question of survival. In addition you have your family’s baggage: What the hell, you’ve left us! You’ve gone to Bombay to become a hero! What’s happening? No news! Nothing’s happening! Everybody’s shining, you’re not shining!

You get frustrated, you’re in a foreign country and you lap up the first opportunity just to prove to somebody back home that: No, no. See, that show is coming, or that film is coming. Watch. It’s me. So in doing so you accept a little defeat thinking that if you prove yourself in that little role maybe in the next film the same people will say, “He performed well, he’s a good man. He behaved well while shooting, let’s give him a better role.”

And things keeps improving too but, in doing so, time passes. To relive the past, to recycle, to change goal posts, is not easy. Obviously anybody would want to be a star, live young like a hero, sing nice songs, dance with beautiful girls, fall in love with them on screen, different women, different films, different directors. That karishma (miracle), that aura, the almost demi-god feeling… that I missed.

Bollywood can limit actors like yourself and yet you have been a part
of it for many years. What keeps you going?

With acting the biggest reward was that it was my hobby which turned into my passion and then my passion turned into my profession. And it’s paying you, with money, recognition, adulation, love and respect from the audience. The money makes it a very cushy life that way.

You’ve done work recently with well known online comedy groups. What was it like exploring this new aspect? Also, did your newfound spurt of fame on social media affect your life in any way?

Comedy is not an integral part of an Indian household. We don’t laugh too much or too often unfortunately. There is a lack of humour in our lives. When I was in school, in the initial stages of theatre, I used to do a lot of comedy in school functions because you are young and your audience is young. There was laughter, gaiety and even more slapstick, bizarre and over the top comedy.

But then seriousness happened to me, age happened, so the comic aspect of my personality got buried. People think: He’s a serious bugger, he doesn’t laugh much, he doesn’t make people laugh much.

So with people making fun of me in the social media what can I do? It’s good! It takes a lot of work to squeeze out something funny from a serious wood like Alok Nath. Why take offense? I laugh at jokes made on other people.

Now my daughter, who’s studied filmmaking abroad, was working with AIB (All India Bakchod). One evening, she seemed very serious. “Papa, they’re making sketches and caricaturish stuff on you and Kejriwal. I don’t think I’ll be assisting them on this one.” When I asked why she said, “They’re making fun of you. You’ll be saying funny things to him and your voice will be speaking from your portrait.” I said, “So what? So much of that has happened already (on social media).” She said, “Yeah but doing it to your own father, I’m not feeling quite good about it.” I said, “That’s your call. But it’s your work. I’d say go ahead and do it.”

Then I said, “Suppose I do it? Instead of the portrait, if I was there? Then would you do it?” She immediately called those people: “Hey my dad says that you can take him.” And they went crazy. Really? Alokji will do it? Then they called me and thanked me. I went and shot it and I enjoyed it. It went viral, got some 35 lakh views. Then some other company called Gray made some jokes, some rap songs to promote some project. Then the 9X people, Comedy Central, Channel V… So I said, chalo karo (come lets do it). That hidden bug of comedy is coming alive so let’s give it a different shape. I’m enjoying it.

Meena Kumari needs no introduction. As a matinee idol and diva of the mid-twentieth century, and despite her untimely death in 1972, at the age of thirty-nine, she remains a legendary heroine of what is known as the golden age of Hindi cinema. It’s not for me to elaborate that point.

However, not many know that she had a way of her own with the pen as well. Soon after her death, Gulzar sahib arranged for Hind Pocket Books to publish a collection of her poems. I chanced upon this slim paperback volume at the Howrah Railway station the same year and have had the pleasure of dipping into that now more than moth-eaten prize paperback for over three decades.

What struck me most about the poems was their amazing immediacy, their power to take you in without any fuss and bother. Plain as conversation Meena Kumari’s poems strike an uncanny intimacy or rapport with the reader. Her imagination hovers over a wide range of subjects from the very personal and idiosyncratic to the more objective though equally heartrending, as expressed in poems like ‘The Dumb Child’ or the ‘Empty Shop’. Hers is an art without artfulness. The sheer audacity of her statements is the raison d’être of her poetry. Her unadorned, screaming verse reminds me of snatches of Donne, Firaq, Wordsworth, and Ghalib. This is not to say that she is anywhere near the dizzying heights scaled by that august fraternity. Her poetry is slight, casual, a kind of intermittent adventure or a holiday she allowed herself from her self-consuming stardom.

As a poet she resembles her screen persona, coming across as a wayward, sensuous, sacrificial lamb kind of woman. Her imagery is soaked in the immemorial customs and traditions of an ageless India. Her voice is very often the tremulous, quavering voice of an invincible Indian woman in the direst of straits. She writes the poetry of ‘some natural sorrow, loss or pain/that has been and may be again’, of ‘some old, unhappy, (not) so far off things’, if you know what I mean. The overwhelming impression one is left with after reading this poetry is, in Firaq’s unforgettable words, ‘Maine is aawaz ko mar mar ke pala hai…’. She is a poet because she has an inimitable personal voice.

I never planned to translate her into a language she would have thought so far removed from her field of light. I used to see the odd poem of hers translated into English in lifestyle magazines or poetry journals. Initially I translated some as an experiment and after several readings I began to feel that there was something of the cadence and clarity of the original in those random translations. So I decided to translate as many as I could. It was very kind of the poet Jayanta Mahapatrara to have published a number of these translations in his journal Chandrabhaga (12/2005) with the kind permission of Gulzar sahib. It’s a strange coincidence that translations of some of Gulzar’s own lyrics appeared in the same issue of Chandrabhaga as well.

In trying to put these translated poems together in a volume I hope to contribute to conveying another image of Meena Kumari which deserves as universal an acknowledgement as her immortal image as the queen of the Bollywood firmament of yesteryears. Her flirtations with the pen are as seductive as her universally celebrated femininity and resourcefulness as an iconic Indian woman actor in film after unforgettable film for nearly three decades during which she could slip with ease and spontaneity from the role of a skittish Miss Mary to that of the soulful and haunting Pakeezah.

A chameleon actor she is, equally spontaneously, a ‘chameleon’ poet.

—Noorul Hasan

Ma’zi aur Ha’l

Har masar’rat

Ek barba’d shuda gham hai

Har gham

Ek barba’d shuda masar’rat

Aur har tariki ek tabah shuda raushni hai

Aur har raushni ek tabah shuda tariki

Isi tarah

Har ‘ha’l’

Ek fana shuda-ma’zi hai

Aur har ‘ma’zi’,

Ek fana shuda ha’l

Past & Present

Each happiness

Is a devastated grief

Each grief

A devastated happiness.

And each darkness is a raped light

And each light a raped darkness.

Likewise

Each present

Is an annihilated past

And each past

An annihilated present.

Aaj ka Insan

‘Ideal insan’ kitabo’n ki

Zakheem jildo’n ke waqt khurda safhat ki

Mahdood dunia mein muqaimad hai

Woh

Bahar ki dunia mein qadam nahin rakh sakta

Bas,

Apne boseeda workon ke jharokhe se

Tumhen dekhta hai

Ishar’e karta hai

Aur

Tumhen aziat mein jhonk deta hai

Man Today

The “ideal man” is imprisoned

In the closed world

Of the time-torn pages

Inside the hard covers

Of books.

He does not step out

Into the world

Just

Peers at you

From the cracks

In his tattered pages

And says

“Go to Hell”.

Suhani Khamoshi

Kabhi aise pursukoon lamhat bhi ayenge

Jab

Mai’n bhi usi tarah so jaungi

Woh khamoshi

Kitni suhani hogi

Maut ke ba’d

Agarche mahaz khala hai

Sirf tariki hai magar

Woh tariki

Is karb – angez ujale se

Yaqeenan behtar hogi

Kyonki

Mai’n

Un zindagion mein si hun jinhen

Har subah nihayat qaleel si raushni milti hai

Um’meed ki itni – si kiran ki

Sirf din bhar zinda rah saken

Aur jis din

Yeh raushni bhi na mil saki to – ?

Enchanted Silence

There will be a day

Of such tranquility

I shall instantly go to sleep

That stillness

Will be so enchanting

Even though

There is just a void

After death

Nothing but darkness

But that darkness

Should still be better

Than this precarious light

For

Mine is one of those lives

Lit by a measly light

Each morning

Barely enough

To last the day

And the day

Even this light plays truant

Then…?

Ghazal

Tukr’e-tukr’e din beeta, dhaj’ji-dhaj’ji ra’t mili

Jiska jitna anchal tha, utni hi saugat mili

Rimjhim-rimjhim boondo’n mein, zahr bhi hai aur amrit bhi

A’nkhe’n han’s di dil roya, yeh ach’chi barsat mili

Jab chaha dil ko samjhe’n, han’sn’e ki a’waaz suni

Jais’e koi kahta ho, lo phir tum ko ma’t mili

Mate’n kaisi ghate’n kya, chalt’e rahna aath pahar

Dil-sa sathi jab paya, bechaini bhi sath mili

Honto’n tak aate-aate, jan’e kitn’e roop bhar’e

Jalti-bujhti a’nkho’n mein, sadi si jo ba’t mili.

Ghazal

The day passed in fragments, followed by a tattered night

As far as you can spread your cloth, that’s your share of light.

The pattering raindrops are honey too, are poison

What a monsoon! My eyes were smiling, my heart cried

Whenever I try to hear my heart, there comes a mocking laugh

As though someone were saying: look, you’ve been defied.

Despite defeats and betrayals, I press on undeterred

When your heart is your companion, agony is your right

It took so many different forms before it could be spoken

The utterly simply thing in your cold yet smouldering eyes.

Chalo…

Chalo kahin chale’n

Ghoomti hui sarak ke kinare

Kisi mor par

Raushni ke kisi khambhe ke neeche baith kar

Bate’n karen

Chalo, kahin chalen

Apne-apne mazi ke

Nuche ghute gharaudon se doo’r

Kisi sookhe nal’e ki pulia par baith kar

Bate’n karen

Chalo, kahin chalen

Darawne jangal ki andheri pagdandion par

Ratjaga manayen

Zindagi ke har marhale par bahas karen

Jhagren

Dher sari bate’n karen

Chalo kahin chalen

Chalo kahin chalen

Chalo!

Let’s Go

Let’s go somewhere

To some edge of the revolving road

And sitting

Under the shade of some

Pillar of light

Let’s talk

Let’s just go somewhere

Far from the ravaged shanties

Of our past

Just sit on the culvert

Of some dry canal

And talk

Just let’s venture out

And sitting on the pathways

Of the forests of the night

Let’s spend the entire night

Discussing all the imponderables of life

Quarrel

Talk our hearts out

Just let’s go somewhere

Come on! Be a sport

Let’s go.

Excerpted from Meena Kumari the Poet: A Life Beyond Cinema, courtesy of Roli Books. You can buy the book here.

Also read Inhi Logon Ne, on Meena Kumari and all that was lost with her here.

“Life’s like a play; it’s not the length but the excellence of acting that matters.”

Sulabha Deshpande, 76, has been a founder member of the Marathi theatre groups ‘Rangayan’ (with theatre director Vijaya Mehta and her husband Arvind Deshpande) and ‘Awishkar’. Sulabha and Arvind Deshpande and playwright Vijay Tendulkar were also at the centre of the ‘Chhabildas Movement’ in Marathi experimental theatre during the 1960s and 70s. Her most memorable theatre performance has been that of Benare, the protagonist of Tendulkar’s landmark Marathi play Shantata! Court Chalu Ahe. She essayed the same role in its film adaptation. Deshpande went on to act in several other mainstream and parallel Marathi and Hindi movies, during the seventies and eighties, such as Shyam Benegal‘s Bhumika: The Role (1977) and Kondura (1978), Saeed Akhtar Mirza‘s  Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyoon Aata Hai (1980) and Govind Nihalani’s Vijeta (1982), and Tezaab (1988), Ghar Ho To Aisa (1990) and Raja Ki Aayegi Baaraat (1997). Her last appearance in a Hindi film has been in English Vinglish (2012). Deshpande is soft spoken and she says her memory isn’t as sharp as it once was. Yet, as we go over the past at her Mahim flat, with the rain falling hard outside, she recounts the most amazing stories.

How did you begin acting?

My father (Vasant Rao Kamerkar) was a recordist with HMV. So, in a big hall at our home, we used to have rehearsals for songs and plays, which he would record. From when I was four years old, which is when I had begun to speak, I would enter that space and perform after the rehearsals. But my first ‘proper’ role was in school, in the seventh standard. There was a play written by a teacher in which I was cast as a small child. After this I did a play in my first year of college, for a festival.

Did you do only Marathi theatre, when you started out, or Hindi theatre as well?

Both. At first I worked in Marathi theatre. My first work in Hindi was Andha Yug, with (theatre director) Satyadev Dubey in 1964. That was for the theatre group Nandikar’s theatre festival in Calcutta. Four days before the play the actress who was playing Gandhari (a character from the Mahabharata, also in this play) left it, so P. L. Deshpande suggested my name to Dubey. That was the first time I met Dubey. He came to my house and said, ‘You have to do it in four days. You have to leave today.’ I said no at first, because my four year old son was ill. At that time Arvindji (Arvind Deshpande), my husband, used to work in experimental theatre too, which there’s no money in. This was reformist theatre, in a way. He said, ‘Go, because Nandikar’s is a very big festival in Calcutta and this team is representing Bombay and that too in Hindi.’ He would take leave from office to take care of our son. So, in four days, I prepared myself for the role of Gandhari. There was tremendous applause at the festival. After this I did two or three more Hindi plays with Dubey.

What was your first professional play— in Marathi or Hindi?

That was in Marathi: Shantata! Court Chalu Aahe. I had done work on two state level plays before this, but they were for amateur competitions. Even they happened quite late, because I was a teacher for 15 years in the Chhabildas Girls’ School, where I had studied as well. Incidentally, this was one of the reasons why our group was later able to get Chhabildas Hall, for 18 years, to rehearse our plays. That’s how our theatre movement came to be called the Chhabildas Theatre Movement.

Coming back, 1967 was when work began on Shantata… (Vijay) Tendulkarji’s play. It was supposed to contest in a government competition (the State Drama Competition, Maharashtra). It was an unusual play for its times, but it won an award for best play and I won one for my role as Benare, the central character. In about four months, appreciation flowed in from all over the country.

Shantata… has a story behind it. After Vijayaji (Vijaya Mehta) left the theatre group Rangayan because of her marriage, Arvindji eventually came to be in charge of it. He did two or three plays and this was the last one. He said to me, ‘There’s no money, in this field, but there is this government competition. We have good actors. Our writer is also good. So if we win a place in the competition, we will get award money and with that we can do more work.’ There were 77 people (in the group) in all, and their finances weren’t in a good state. Vijay (Tendulkar) wasn’t in a good state of mind then either. His elder brother was ill. But everyone insisted that he write and send in something, so he wrote the first act. There wasn’t much to it— no drama.

So in the 21-22 days the show was supposed to take place in, Tendulkar would write all night and Arun Kakde, who stayed next door to Tendulkar, in Vile Parle, would come in the morning, before the milkman arrived, to deliver bits of the script to Arvindji. Arvindji would work on these bits in the evening after his office hours, make notes, prepare them for the next day’s rehearsal. At night he would explain the characters to me. By the end of it I remembered everyone’s lines and knew all the characters. I wasn’t scared of doing the main role.

But what I found really challenging was that Benare, my character, doesn’t say anything throughout the play. She is not heard. She just sits there. In fact, in the final courtroom scene, the judge says: ‘You have 20 seconds. Say whatever you want to say.’ And even then, for twenty seconds, Benare says nothing. Yet Arvindji said that just one look would explain everything about Benare’s history and her life. It’s okay if she doesn’t speak, he said, she can speak with her mind.

Tendulkar, however, didn’t like that she didn’t say anything even at the end. So there was a big fight between them (Tendulkar and Arvind), because 21 days were nearly up and everything had to be ready. And, with two days left for the play to open, he had nearly finished the third act but still hadn’t given in the end. The way things stood then, the play would have had to end after Benare’s 20 seconds of silence. So, when Tendulkarji came to see the rehearsal, everyone shut him in the hall in which we were rehearsing in. Arvindji said, ‘Write the end and only then come out. Till then we’ll do the rehearsal outside.’ After half an hour, or 45 minutes, Tendulkar came out and gave it to him, and left without saying a word. We thought he was angry, but that wasn’t the case. The truth was his elder brother had passed away, and he was grieving. Even then he wrote it. In fact, I also knew the play really well by the date of performance because Tendulkar had explained everything to us as well, right down to the movements…

Shantata! Court Chalu Aahe went on to be translated into 13 languages. We made it in Hindi. And then someone took on the play for 100 shows. Then we did 150 shows. And then Rangayan shut down and a new theatre group called Awishkar was begun by us. I had suggested the name, in fact.

What was the first film you did?

Shantata… in Marathi. That was the first Marathi film. The second film was in Hindi. And that was Shantata… as well. They had taken a loan from NFDC. Dubey was to direct it. In the beginning I refused to do the main role because I felt the heroine had to look good. ‘Who told you that?’ Dubey said. I said, ‘I’ve seen it in so many films. Heroines are chosen this way. And you have taken a loan for this play. Me playing the lead would be okay for an experimental play but not for a film because you’ll have to pay this loan back. I’ll give you some names, they do good work, and they look good too.’ But both the names I gave him said they wouldn’t do it and Dubey was in a fix. So I agreed.

Govind Nihalani was cinematographer on Shantata… and you’ve worked on other films of his later on. With him as well as with Shyam Benegal. How did those roles come about?

Govind Nihalaniji was a part of Arvindji‘s and my circle. We were close friends. We were all at a party, once, at Juhu Hotel. Govindji, me and Amrish Puri were talking so that both of them were looking at me and I was facing the buffet table. Now, when the waiter came he put paraffin into the fire under one of the dishes on the buffet, to heat it, and it exploded into flames. My face and Govind’s back were burnt.

Govind had just arrived in Bombay then and didn’t have anyone in the city. So he stayed at our home for one and a half months, recovering. Shyam Benegal’s Kondura had started filming, at a village near Madras and Govind was a cameraman on it. He left for the site once his back was okay. I was avoiding work still. Though my face was mostly fine, my eyebrows had been burnt and I was uneasy about getting back on stage or screen.

Shyam phoned, asking me to come there. Govind said, ‘Come. You can just enjoy yourself with us.’ Once I reached there Shyam said, ‘Call the makeup man.’ When I asked why, he said: ‘Did I call you here to eat for free? I’ve called you for work.’ I said, ‘You know, you can see my face, how it is… ’ Shyam still insisted on getting my make up done, and immediately after took a picture and showed me. ‘Can you see any difference? No, right? I need Sulabha just as she really is. Come. Let’s start work.’ So that’s how I ended up acting in Kondura. Shyam later said he had really wanted a very natural look anyhow.

You directed a children’s film called Raja Rani Ko Chahiye Pasina.

I used to direct children’s plays. This was one of them that Tendulkarji had written. It was a Marathi educational play that was later translated into Hindi. So V. Shantaram saw the play and said, ‘I want to make a film based on this play. Will you do it?’ But I had never directed a film so I took a month or so first, to figure how to adapt it from theatre to film. It had to be like the play, but it couldn’t be exactly like it. So Tendulkarji and I reworked the script. The story is that the king and the queen don’t have any children. And someone says it’s only when you sweat that you’ll have a child. So they want to sweat and to be able to do so they travel, search for the answer… in the end they learn that without work it’s not possible to sweat…

We went to Shantaram’s office. It had huge doors and there was his famous cage(a golden cage with a parrot in it)outside the office. Shantaram looked at the script and said, ‘However you want to do it, go ahead.’ And on the first day, when we took the first shot, he was watching us from his office on the first floor. It was very sunny and he had this flat hat which he sent down to me. So I wore the hat and began work. Someone took a photo of me in that hat. Someone also said, ‘You are wearing V. Shantaram’s hat. You are making his picture. So now we need to salute you too.’

You have worked with Smita Patil in several movies. What are your memories of her as a co-actor or as a friend?

Smita wasn’t exceptionally beautiful but she was very attractive. She was seedhi saadhi (simple) and didn’t really bother about how to be stylish, how to dress. But she was a fantastic actress. Her parents were social workers and right from childhood she wanted to help whoever she could. Her mother had told me of an incident from when she was a nurse and Smita was four or five years old. Smita had heard about a woman in the hospital in which her mother worked, who had had a third daughter and so no one was coming to see her (because she had given birth to yet another daughter, instead of a son). So Smita’s mother had made tea and Smita kept a portion of it separately. Her mother asked whom she was keeping it for and Smita told her about the woman who had given birth to a third daughter. She was crying about this. So she went to visit the woman with her mother.

In Pet Pyar aur Paap, she was playing a garbage collector. On set there was a hut and the garbage that piled up outside it was very dirty. Smita put her hand in it and I said, ‘Don’t do that. There’s no place to wash your hands. You want to do your work well, fine, but don’t put your hand in dirt.’ She said, ‘Sulabha Tai, do you know where the director is standing? Right in the middle of a puddle, because that’s where the camera is. He’s going to take a shot of me. I shouldn’t be complaining.’

The last film I did with her was Bheegi Palken. After my last scene in the movie with her was done, as I was leaving, I noticed Smita searching for something frantically. She said, ‘I had kept my mangalsutra here and now I can’t find it.’ Her shot was ready and waiting so I gave her my mangalsutra, saying she could return it whenever we met next. But after this she fell ill. I went to see her in the hospital and I remember there was a bottle there (near her bed). I asked her for what it was and she said, ‘Cough medicine.’ I said, ‘But you don’t have cough.’ She said, ‘I don’t have a cough, but I’m not getting any sleep that’s why I’m taking it. It’s good if I can get some sleep.’ I remember saying, ‘It’s not good at all. You’re having a child. Don’t do this.’ I knew there were personal problems she was going through, even though she didn’t tell me herself. She used to drink a lot of the cough syrup, and then sleep. Then her son Prateik was born. He was only 10 days old when she passed away.

After she was gone, I got a phone call from her mother. She said, ‘Smita has left something for you— tied in a cloth. And on that she has written your name.’  I had forgotten about the mangalsutra by then and said, ‘There was nothing of mine with her.’  But she said, ‘Your name is written on it, so it must be something.’ She gave it to me, I opened it, and in the cloth was my mangalsutra.

Your last Hindi film role was in English-Vinglish. How did that come about? Also, your character was different from the typical mother-in-law that we see in the movies. Do you feel women are getting more interesting parts in mainstream Hindi cinema?

There are lots of different roles nowadays for women. Gauri (Shinde, the director) just said: ‘I have faith in you, and there should be one Marathi (actor) in this film (because the central family in the film was a Marathi family). It’s a small role.’ But there’s no such thing as a small role. She never told me what to do. She just told me about the role and the scene. Everyone likes this film, I feel, because everyone relates to it in some way. And true— I’m a different kind of mother-in-law in the movie.

What has been your most challenging film role so far?

I got a call from NFDC about a Kannada film where the director (Vasant Mokashi) wanted me for the main role. That was Gangavva Gangamayi. It won 16 awards. The character I played, the lead, was an old woman. I didn’t know one word of Kannada and I wasn’t comfortable. I said I couldn’t do it in the beginning. After four days the director came to my house. He said, ‘Please do it.’ I said, ‘How can I do it? I don’t even know the language, and you want me to do the main role.’ He said, ‘This story has been written by my father. It’s won an award. My mother said, ‘Give this role of Gangavva, to this Marathi actress that I’ve seen. She should do it.’ I don’t know why my mother said that and what work of yours she’s seen. But I’m doing this for her. How many days will you take to learn to speak the language?’ I told him it would take me two months, but first I would need the script and to find a lady who can speak both Marathi and Kannada.’ So they found a professor who knew Marathi and Kannada very well. The crew wrote my lines in Devanagari and they recorded them for me so I knew how to say them. I, on my part, worked hard at all of this for one and a half months. But I still didn’t have any confidence. I told them during the shoot, ‘Next to the camera, there must be a light cutter (a black sheet on a stand, to cut out excess light while shooting) with my lines and cues written in big letters. I won’t read it, but I need the confidence of knowing that that is there.’ They agreed to this.

I remember there was a big scene, where my character says something very angrily. While talking, I looked from left to right, and the camera was on a trolley. It was moving from a long to a close to an extreme long shot. After I had finished, the cutter had to be moved between shots. But while doing the next shot I realized that there was no cutter there. And so I got nervous and forgot my lines and began to speak in Hindi. And the people who were watching started laughing because they didn’t know that I was Maharashtrian. Whatever they had heard till then was in Kannada— so they thought I knew Kannada. Then the director made everyone get out and did a tight close up.

I had said to the director at first that I’d do it but they’d have to get a good artist to do the dub. So they had arranged for a big Kannada actress to do it. But then I tried to do the dubbing myself. After listening to it for one or two months they said, ‘Sulabhaji’s done very well. Her voice can be used.’

Now, I did another film and there was a Kannada actress working on that. And she said to me, ‘Haven’t you heard, a Maharashtrian actress has won an award for a Kannada film. I haven’t seen the film but the actress who played the role of Gangavva, she’s Maharashtrian. And still I got second place.’ She didn’t know I was the same actress.

During my interviews with Dev Anand for the book I was writing, the octogenarian star used to often talk about his friendship with Hollywood stars and his love for western cinema. Kirk Douglas, James Stewart, Shirley MacLaine, he had met them all. He admired Charlie Chaplin. He had discussed the possibility of an English film with David O. Selznick, but the latter died suddenly. What he liked about Hollywood was the glamour. Stars, he often said, should be stars. They should have mystique and style and not be seen to be just like everyone else. “Why should stars advertise soap or cement?” he used to say. That larger than life glamour was reflected in his own films and his own persona.

But I think there was more to it than just notions of stardom or the dazzle of Hollywood. He admired the West for its modernity. For Dev Anand was the quintessential modern man, on screen and off. He was an urban and urbane man, from the debonair manner in which he carried himself to the films he made. His films were always set in the city, in an industrial urban landscape, rejecting implicitly the traditional and the conventional. Indian films in the 1930s and 1940s were pegged mostly around mythological, historic or nationalistic themes, often focusing on and glorifying the village. In their manner, mores and technique, the films of Navketan, Dev Anand’s production house, sought out new ideas and values that could have belonged anywhere, not necessarily in the rooted Indian context. For instance, Navketan’s first film Afsar, released in 1950, is a social satire based on Russian dramatist Nikolai Gogol’s The Government Inspector. The second, Baazi (1951), Guru Dutt’s directorial debut, falls squarely in the genre of early Hollywood noir. The city became Navketan’s milieu.

Making urban-centric films in the 1950s was a brave decision. Newly independent India was a predominantly rural nation. Gandhi had said India lives in its villages, which was taken to mean that that is where the country’s policy emphasis should be. The sub-text was also that the village was an idyllic society and the repository of Indian values while the city was alienating, cruel and, most damningly, a Western construct. Rich and exploitative capitalists lived there, who were out to cheat simple and good-hearted villagers.

Raj Kapoor, along with K. A. Abbas, made Shree 420 on that theme and Bimal Roy’s film Do Bigha Zamin brought this out even more starkly. The trope remained with filmmakers for years, well into the 1970s and beyond.

Dev Anand and his brothers, Chetan and Vijay, were not of that mindset. They saw the city, with all its good and evil, for itself. It was the sole protagonist of the Navketan films, which did not resort to using village life as a foil. Elder brother Chetan Anand and Dev had been to Government College, Lahore, an elitist institution which was steeped in Western mores. Chetan’s wife Uma Anand came from a highly Westernized family of Bengali Christians and her father worked in the college; life centred around tea parties and tennis matches. The ICS (Indian Civil Service) was thought to be the natural home for Chetan and he went off to London to prepare; when he did not make it, he joined The Doon School, one of India’s best residential schools, to teach. Young Dev was in the same Westernized, or more specifically, Anglicised mould.

Navketan always remained off the beaten path and Dev Anand and his brothers must take the credit for this. The earlier Bombay Noir black and white films—Baazi, Taxi Driver (1954) etc.—and the later colour films such as Guide (1965), Jewel Thief (1967) and Hare Rama Hare Krishna (1971) were equally bold in their conception and execution. Besides being completely city-centric (Taxi Driver was possibly the first film to be shot completely outdoors in Mumbai), the early Navketan films were unique in that Dev Anand played a kind of anti-hero mostly, with shades of grey to his character. For years afterwards, he continued to play such characters—from House No. 44 (1955) in the fifties to Jewel Thief and Johny Mera Naam (1970) in the sixties and after. Even though he often turned out to be the good cop, his character pretended to be a crook. The heroines in their films too were different from their peers. They were not clingy, weepy or traditional as heroines were likely to be in that era. Often, they were ambitious. In the first Navketan hit, Baazi, the heroine is a doctor; in Taxi Driver, she is a hopeful singer who comes to Bombay to try her luck; in Nau Do Gyarah (1957) she is someone who has run away from home to get out of a wedding. This tradition continues right up to Jewel Thief, Hare Rama Hare Krishna and Heera Panna (1973). More remarkably, the “vamps” or even heroines were not embarrassed about their sexuality and no one gave preachy lectures about that. In B. R. Chopra’s Gumrah, for example, the rich housewife who yearns for a former lover is suitably chastised by her husband for her waywardness; contrast that with Navketan’s Guide. Here, Rosie the dancer leaves two men—one of them her husband—who disappoint her, and makes her own life. Guide is bold even by today’s standards; adultery is still a subject that makes Indian filmmakers nervous.

Guide is worth examining in some depth, because it is a landmark film not only for Navketan but also in the annals of Indian cinema. There is of course the English Guide and the Hindi one, but the former remains nondescript and unseen and is not worth discussing (I have seen it, but it is little more than a curiosity, a novelty rather than a serious film).

When Dev Anand with his typical enthusiasm decided to make the film, he chose to pull out all stops, getting Pearl Buck involved. He flew to meet R. K. Narayan and impressed him with his energy. Soon the film shoot was up and running but it became clear that the initial plan of shooting it bilingually at the same time would not work; the two directors could not see eye to eye. When Chetan Anand, the director of the Hindi version left to make his own film (Haqeeqat), Dev Anand asked his younger brother Vijay “Goldie” Anand to direct. He flatly refused, pointing out that the subject was not in conformity with Indian attitudes. How could they show an Indian heroine (who needs to be purer than the driven snow) having an affair, whatever the motivation? In the book the hero, Raju guide, is an unscrupulous man who seduces Rosie soon after he meets her. Rosie is an unsatisfied wife whose husband is more interested in statues than her. Even so, why would she stray? After Dev Anand prevailed on Goldie, the latter shut himself in a room for a few weeks to write a new script with a completely new angle to the story. This version had a few plot twists— a scene that justified the adultery and the desertion by the wife and then, subsequently, a new ending which was more cathartic and satisfying.

There was redemption and closure, which are very important in Hindi cinema. Guide is not without its flaws, but remains a great film. Its story, its scale and even the routine song and dance are handled with great sophistication. Watch the song Tere Mere Sapne, which is shot at dawn in just three shots. Or the superb Aaj Phir Jeene Ki Tamanna Hai, which fully expresses the newfound freedom of the heroine. The film works even today.

Navketan did not only make great entertainers and classics and many of its latter films were poorly conceived and made. Dev Anand became a parody of himself eventually and his latter films were unsuccessful because he had lost touch with a younger audience and didn’t seem to get that. In films like Love at Times Square (2003) or Mr. Prime Minister (2005) or Chargesheet (2011) he appeared as he would in his youth, in colourful mufflers, suede waistcoats and denim jackets. He was trying hard through these films to reinvent the cinema of Navketan but, sadly, failed to reinvent himself. His films became by him and about him; he had become the institution.

He had, however, had a great run as a star and, until the end, remained one. In Navketan films (and in other Dev Anand films too), the individual faces the challenges of life in a non-complaining way and with a smile. Almost all early films he made had him singing a happy-go-lucky song about facing life in a cheerful manner: Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke (Nau do Gyarah); Chahe koi khush ho chaahe gaaliyan hazaar de / Mastram ban ke zindagi ke din guzaar de, (Taxi Driver) and, of course, Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya (Hum Dono), which was written for him by his friend Sahir Ludhianvi, and became his personal anthem.

My intention in writing my book was not only to celebrate the wonderful films they made but also give Navketan—and all those who worked in it—its due. The directors, actors and technicians, the musicians and lyricists, were among the best in the industry. Technicians, such as V. Ratra, who was cinematographer for most of the well-known Navketan films (from Afsar and Baazi, to Hum Dono, right up to Jewel Thief and Chhupa Rustam, in 1973). Their works delight us even today. Also, who can forget all those songs, beginning with Tadbeer Se Bigdi Hui Taqdeer Bana Le in Baazi (written by Sahir Ludhianvi, set to music by the legendary S. D. Burman), to Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya (again a Sahir lyric, composed by Jaidev) to Dum Maaro Dum in Hare Rama Hare Krishna (written by Anand Bakshi and composed by S. D. Burman’s son R. D. Burman)?

I was pleasantly surprised to see the phenomenal media coverage of Dev Anand’s death, two years ago, on this date. That an 88 year old actor, long forgotten by everybody and whose name means nothing to the younger generation today got wall to wall coverage for days on television and in the newspapers says something about him. It shows that Dev Anand was the original cool hero who would have been a hit with the youth of any generation, including the current one. Dev Anand engendered the carefree Shammi Kapoor and the current crop of actors too owe a lot to him. Vijay Anand has a huge following among the next generation of Indian directors, like Sriram Raghavan and Sudhir Mishra. Navketan translates into ‘new banner’ and, true enough to its name, it unfurled a banner that was radically new for its time.

The writer’s book on Navketan, ‘Cinema Modern: The Navketan Story’ is available here. 

White Russian for Jeff Bridges as ‘The Dude’ from The Big Lebowski

40 ml Ketel One Vodka

20 ml Homemade Arabica Coffee Liqueur

40 ml Fresh Cream spiced with Cinnamon, Cloves and Star Anise

Garnish: Lightly-Toasted Whole Star Anise

His Dudeness’ drink of choice is given a quality makeover. We use the bartender’s favourite vodka, Ketel One, along with a homemade 100% Arabica coffee liqueur and spiced fresh cream. The ‘weight’ of Ketel One marries well with the fresh cream and homemade liqueur for a substantial and ‘fat’ drink.

In an old-fashioned glass, add some ice cubes, slowly pour the vodka and coffee liqueur, gently stir, and top up with fresh double cream pre-whisked with cinnamon, cloves and star-anise. Garnish with a lightly toasted star-anise for a spicy nose.

Martinez for Daniel Craig’s James Bond from Skyfall

40 ml Tanqueray No. Ten Gin

15 ml Rosso Vermouth

5 ml Maraschino Liqueur

2 dashes of Orange Bitters

Daniel Craig has brought a darker, moodier and grittier side to the James Bond films and with Skyfall it’s about time we updated his signature drink to something more befitting. We use Tanqueray No. Ten Gin, an export-strength (47.3%) gin with a unique full-bodied character, Rosso Vermouth, a dash of maraschino cherry liqueur and a little orange bitters to create a deeper, more intense experience to Bond’s classic martini. Shaken and not stirred, of course.

Combine all the liquid ingredients in a mixing glass, add plenty of ice and shake for 45 seconds. Strain into a chilled coupette or cocktail glass.

‘Storm in a Teacup’ for Tom Hardy as Charles Bronson in Bronson

60 ml Ron Zacapa Centenario 23

Fresh Homemade Ginger Beer

4 dashes of Angostura Bitters

Garnish: A 3 to 4 inch chunk of Lightly Toasted Cinnamon Bark

Tom Hardy’s performance as Britain’s most notorious criminal is a powerhouse acting performance and deserves a drink to match. We use Ron Zacapa 23— an exceptional Guatemalan rum, created from only the first pressing of the cane followed by Solera blending, fresh homemade fiery ginger beer and lashings of spicy Angostura bitters. Instead of the traditional highball glass, in our version of the Dark and Stormy, we use a teacup that is inspired from the scenes in Bronson where the protagonist is shown serving or drinking tea in prison.

In a teacup filled with ice cubes, pour in the rum, followed by the ginger beer. Lash with Angostura bitters and stir. Serve with a big stick of toasted cinnamon on the side.

‘Pai Mei’s 5 Point Palm Exploding Heart’ for Uma Thurman as Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill 2

60 ml Don Julio Añejo Tequila

1 bar spoon Fresh Grenadine

3 dashes of Grapefruit Bitters

Garnish: Tangerine Twist

Inspired by the final act of Kill Bill 2, which sees Tarantino at his very best with electric dialogue whilst Bill sips tequila, this drink is a perfect tribute to the ‘5 Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique’ that Pai Mei teaches Beatrice Kiddo, and via which she finally kills Bill. Grapefruit bitters give an exquisite twist to the luscious, almost brandy-like aged Añejo.

Shake lots of ice, 60 ml of Añejo, a spoonful of grenadine and 3 dashes of grapefruit bitters for 45 seconds and serve in a coupe. Garnish with a grapefruit or tangerine twist.

Pink Gin for the cult Steve Buscemi as Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs

90ml pre-chilled Tanqueray London Dry Gin

4 dashes Angostura Bitters

Garnish: Lime Peel

Here’s a straight drink for Steve Buscemi’s straight-talking Mr. Pink—”You wanna fuck with me, I’ll show you who you’re fucking with.”—an upsizing of the classic drink with a serious measure of Gin and ample bitters, so the man doesn’t have to complain about Pink sounding too tame (“How ’bout if I’m Mr. Purple?”) ever again.

Don your coolest black suit, put on Baker’s ‘Little Green Bag’ on the record player really loud, crack open an icy bottle of Tanqueray London Dry Gin, and stir an extra large measure with lots of Angostura Bitters into a martini glass.

Garnish with lime peel, rubbing it first on the rim. Don’t use ice, and don’t tip the bartender for this one, please.

The ‘Hepburn Martini’ for Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s

12 fresh Mint leaves

45 ml Ketel One Vodka

7.5 ml Green Crème de Menthe Liqueur

7.5 ml Dry Vermouth

45 ml Sauvignon Blanc Wine

7.5 ml Sugar Syrup

Garnish: Small to Medium Sized Pink Lily

The brightest star ever to shine in Hollywood deserves a complex drink to match the flirtatious sparkle that Audrey brought to the screen. We partner Ketel One vodka with an equal measure of crisp Sauvignon Blanc wine, minty crème de menthe, a little dry French vermouth, fresh mint leaves and just a little sugared sweetness, just like Audrey herself.

Lightly muddle (just to bruise) mint in base of shaker. Add all the other ingredients, shake with ice and fine strain into a chilled tall glass. Garnish with a lily or orchid stem inside the glass, facing the guest, and a tall straw.

Tim Judge

One of the most famous incidents in Hindi film history is the story of how Ashok Kumar became a star. How his name was actually Kumudlal Kunjilal Ganguly and how he was a mere lab technician for Bombay Talkies when Devika Rani Choudheri, the talented ‘first lady of Indian cinema’, eloped with an actor called Najmul Hasan, deserting both the film in which they had been cast as leads as well Himanshu Rai, Devika Rani’s husband and Hasan’s employer, and the founder and head of Bombay Talkies, India’s legendary film studio. Also, how Sashadhar Mukherjee, Ganguly’s brother in law who worked at Bombay Talkies then (he was later to become a renowned filmmaker in his own right), convinced Devika Rani to return, sans Hasan, and suggested Ganguly as a replacement for the male lead. And how Ganguly was chosen and re-christened, and how the film, Jeevan Naiya, was released in 1936.

A lot has been known and written about Ashok Kumar since then. As about Devika Rani, the brilliant co-founder of Bombay Talkies who ran the studio after Rai passed away. But there is one person involved in this incident whom we don’t really know anything about— Najmul Hasan, the actor Devika Rani had eloped with to set this sequence of events into motion in the first place. The actor who, in writer Saadat Hasan Manto’s words, “had decided to pull away the leading lady from the celluloid world to the real one”.

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To begin with, the spelling of his name remains a mystery. It has been written as ‘Najmul Hasan’, ‘Najam-Ul-Hasan’ and ‘Najmul Hussain’ in different accounts. Bhaichand Patel says in his book Top 20: Superstars of Indian Cinema that Hasan, a tall handsome man, was “descended from Lucknow nobility” and that he had “signed for a string of films” with Bombay Talkies. According to Pakistani journalist Munir Ahmed Munir, who interviewed him shortly before he passed away, Hasan was studying law, but did not finish his studies as he moved to Bombay. There is no record of whether he did this to join the movie business, but in the city he met Himanshu Rai who persuaded him to star in Jawani Ki Hawa, Bombay Talkies’ first, Hasan’s too.

Directed by Franz Osten, the movie is a whodunit about a woman (Kamala, played by Devika Rani) who elopes with her childhood friend and lover (Ratanlal, played by Hasan) on the day of her marriage. The couple escapes the city on a train. While on board, her father catches up with her and demands that she marry the man he had sought for her. A murder follows. The film’s plotline bears many similarities to the Agatha Christie mystery Murder on the Orient Express which had just been published, in 1934.

In a prototypical case of life imitating art, Hasan and Devika Rani, who had fallen for each other’s charms during Jawani Ki Hawa, eloped to Calcutta by train during the shooting of their next, Jeevan Naiya (1936). Writes Patel:

“To the world, Bombay Talkies- with its great scripts, talented actors, and high technical quality, seemed one of the most successful studios in India. This image of success, however, covered the personal costs of running such an intensive film factory; strains and cracks were beginning to take place within. Rai had become a workaholic, desperately trying to balance finances and productions, some of which flopped in the market. There was also gossip that his young wife Devika was having affairs. True or false, Niranjan Pal alleged that Devika had become close to her co-star while shooting the film Jawani Ki Hawa.”

Sashadhar Mukherjee and Himanshu Rai eventually tracked the couple down to Calcutta’s Grand Hotel and Mukherjee convinced Devika Rani to return. Hasan stayed on in Calcutta. Manto writes: “He was left to join the ranks of those who are fated to be deserted by their beloveds for less emotional, but weightier political, religious or simply material considerations. As for the scenes he had already done, they were trashed.”

In Calcutta Hasan joined New Theatres which had made a name for itself by launching singer-actors and crafting musical hits in the 1930s. It had among its ranks legends such as K. L. Saigal, Kanan Devi, and Pankaj Mullick. The growing prominence of multi-talented performers, not just in New Theatres, but also in other renowned production houses of the time like Pune’s Prabhat Studios and Calcutta’s Madan Theatres meant that Hasan would have a tough time making his presence felt.

Playing second lead to co-stars like the majestic Prithviraj Kapoor in the reformist drama Anath Ashram (1937) or to K.L. Saigal in Dushman (1938) didn’t help. His performances weren’t particularly lauded or praised. Yet he was a part of two of the bigger musicals of his era: Kapal Kundala (1939) and Nartaki (1940). Kapal Kundala didn’t do well. Nartaki, a costume drama set sometime in the 16^th century, was one of the highest grossing films of the year, but it didn’t to do much for his career either.

It is during his time in Calcutta that Hasan is rumoured to have had a roaring affair with another leading lady of the 1930s— singer and theatre actor Jahan Ara Kajjan, known at the time as the ‘Lark of India’.

Born in Patna, Jahan Ara was a Madan Theatres employee. Information on her life, and the chronological order of her filmography, is hard to find but Shirin Farhad and Laila Majnu (both 1931) seem to have been among her early prominent films. A veteran of the Urdu and Parsi theatre circuits, she made for a formidable team with another singing star of the period— Master Nissar.

Shirin Farhad, which was released just two months after the path breaking Alam Ara, was twice as successful as the latter, with 17 songs sung by Jahan Ara and Master Nissar themselves. Jahan Ara was also a part of Bilwamangal (1932), the first ever Hindi film which was shot in colour and sent abroad for printing. Her Indrasabha (1932), the operatic-themed rendition of the Urdu play Inder Sabha, originally written by dramatist Agha Hasan Amanat, was a stupendous hit with a record 70 songs.

Described by film historian B. D. Garga as an actress whose “spectacular beauty was her wealth”, there are accounts of Jahan Ara having been a poetess and owning two tiger cubs. Also that, along with actress Mahjabeen, she was a regular at the city’s coveted Calcutta Club.

Jahan Ara passed away in 1945 at the young age of 30. Her last film to have been released while she was alive was Bharthari (1944). Two other films she did—Jadui Putli (1946) and Tiger Man (1947)—were released after her death.

Najmul Hasan’s last film in pre-Partition India was the Hindi version of the 1942 bilingual Meenakshi. He acted in a handful of films after migrating to Pakistan, one of which—Heer Ranjha (1970), a Punjabi film—was a huge hit. But even here Hasan had only a supporting role (he played Heer’s father). Other films during this period were Aashiana (1964), Doctor (1965), and Mirza Jatt (1967).

He died in Lahore in 1980. Film historians are sketchy about further details on his life. Raju Bharatan, when asked about the actor’s time in Pakistan remains noncommittal with a “he was nothing great there either”. S. M. M. Ausaja, when asked about Hasan, says, “Why him? He was a bad actor and isn’t worth writing about.”

Yet he was one of eight yesteryear stars interviewed by Pakistani journalist and writer Munir Ahmed Munir for his book Out Of Date. “It is regrettable that our movie industry has failed to establish a fund for those who were once great and famous,” Munir quotes Hasan as having said to him. “Men like Sadiq Ali, one of the renowned heroes of his time, who spent his last years begging.”

Also Read: Birth of an Industry. On Bombay Talkies, the rise of India’s first ‘star’, and film families that still hold sway. 

When I look back and think of why I really undertook the project of authoring a full book on the graphics of Satyajit Ray, what comes to my mind foremost is the fact that, much before this book, I edited and compiled a collection of Bengali and English essays on this subject way back in 1995. That book was released at the opening of the first ever exhibition of Ray’s graphics in Kolkata, curated by Ray’s son—artist and filmmaker Sandip Ray—and coordinated by me, at the Oxford Bookstore Gallery. The driving force behind both ventures was Snehanshu Mukherjee, the architect responsible for the new look—that persists till today—of the Oxford Bookstore Gallery.

That book, a bi-lingual collection—penned by artists such as Paritosh Sen, Raghunath Goswamy, Purnendu Pattrea (then editor of Bengali journal Desh), Sagarmoy Ghosh (then editor of Anandamela, the Bengali children’s magazine), Debashish Bandyopadhyay from the Anandabazar Patrika (one of the most widely read Bengali newspapers) and a host of others—addressed various aspects of Ray’s graphic design aesthetic. The hugely enthusiastic response from readers for this book, titled The Art of Satyajit Ray/ Shilpi Satyajit (Bengali for ‘Satyajit, the Artist’), prompted me to think of a larger and more serious project on the subject. Thus began my journey towards creating Looking Beyond: Graphics of Satyajit Ray. En route, I delivered a lecture-demonstration on Ray’s Graphic Designs, also titled ‘Shilpi Satyajit’, at the Satyajit Ray – Jasimuddin Festival in Dhaka, Bangladesh. The enthusiastic response to that lecture was very encouraging and egged me on towards the completion of this project.

What I have tried to accomplish with this book is to make readers aware of Ray’s own journey, as an artist, from graphic designer to filmmaker. An aspect of Ray’s creativity, which often remains relatively overlooked, is his life and work as an ad-man. I have written in the past on Ray, O.C. Ganguly, Makhan Dutta Gupta, Dr. Ranen Ayan Datta, Raghunath Goswamy— all of whom worked under the great designer Annada Munshi to bring about an essentially Indian element to our advertising creations. Instead of being lame imitations of the West, our advertising created its own niche in the world of graphic art. Such contributions form a very important part of my book.

For a detailed analysis of Ray’s illustrations, book covers, cine posters—all aspects of his graphic design work—I conducted in-depth interviews with Sandip Ray, artist Sibsankar Bhattacharya and O.C. Ganguly, which provided me with valuable material and insight on the hows and whys of Ray’s art.

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I would now like to refer to some images from my book, displayed here, which will provide us with visual clues to navigate Ray’s vast body of artwork.

It is in my book that a logo design of Margo Soap, taken from the now extinct Bengali art journal Sundaram, has been republished for the first time. Ray was a fantastic calligrapher. He learnt from none other than the great artist Nandalal Bose. Here, Ray used thick brush lines to create this ornate logo.

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One little known fact is that, while Ray was working as an ad-man at D. J. Keymer and Co., Dilip Kumar Gupta, popularly known as D. K., established the Signet Press in 1943. Books published at the Signet Press marked new milestones in the history of Indian publishing. Ray was one of the principal artists entrusted by D. K. to decorate and design books published by Signet Press. D. K. also explored new territories in culture writing by bringing out a literary newsletter Tukro Katha, in which the then budding litterateurs Premendra Mitra, Sunil Gangopadhyay, Shakti Chattopadhyay, Buddhadeb Basu were written about. Discussions on Bengali literature as a whole, including poetry, was the most salient feature of Tukro Katha. It was in Tukro Katha that Ray wrote about his experience of shooting the film Aparajito, in Benares, or Varanasi, in a piece titled ‘Baranasir Diary’ (a diary from Varanasi). The illustration we see here shows us how dexterously Ray used ‘perspective’ (the technique used to represent a three-dimensional world, which is what the human eye sees normally, on a two dimensional surface) in a lot of his illustrations. Using thin croquil nib, he creates these sensitive lines depicting a scene in Varanasi. He was greatly inspired by the work of the famous photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson. His own cinema influenced his illustrations too. This illustration has a singularly cinematic look about it, if we inspect it closely.

It was, in fact, the art of illustration that led Ray to become a filmmaker in the first place. When D. K. entrusted Ray with the design and illustrations for the abridged version of Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay’s famous Bengali novel Pather Panchali, Aam Aantir Bhempu (Pather Panchali was actually published as a trilogy. Aam Aantir Bhempu, or ‘the bugle fashioned out of a mango seed’, was the second in the series), Ray thought of making a film out of the book.

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The book jacket of the translation of Jim Corbett’s book Man Eaters of Kumaon— Kumayuner Manushkheko Bagh, designed by Ray and published in 1950, is one of my favourite wrap-around book covers. Here he makes novel use of the idea of a tiger’s skin print for book cover. A bullet seems to have entered the book (and the skin) and gone out of its back. The difference in the size of the two holes—the one behind is a larger hole, being torn wider by the bullet (a bullet’s exit hole is always wider than that at the point of entry)—tells us a lot about Ray’s eye for detail. Also, the way he uses the striking colours of the tiger skin and the classic use of space— exploiting the format of a book cover as a ‘whole’ to create a visually arresting design, is remarkable.

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Ray, as a designer, looked around him to draw inspiration for his art. In the years he spent at Kala Bhavan, Santiniketan, under the guidance of stalwarts like Nandalal Bose, Benode Behari Mukherjee and Ramkinker Baij, he became acquainted with the beauty and sensitivity of classical and modernist Indian art per se. As a student he visited the Ajanta-Ellora caves and the Konark Sun Temple to absorb and assimilate the best of classical Indian art. It is also interesting to note that his companions during these journeys were art scholar Prithwish Neogy, Artist Dinkar Kaushik and the famous Tamil playwright, theatre director and art director Na. Muthuswamy. As Ray himself tells us, Neogy taught him how to ‘look’ at a picture. It is this essentially classical Indian influence that comes to the fore when we look at the book cover of Raj Kahini (The Royal Tale). He uses thick but sensitive brush lines to increase the feel of Indian miniature paintings from Rajputana, or Rajasthan, as Abanindranath Tagore writes about the tales of Rajput warriors in this book. This was a special attribute of not only Ray, but his contemporaries, such as Khaled Chowdhury, Raghunath Goswamy or Ranen Ayan Datta, as well. These artists evoked the essence of a book through its cover design. The reader immediately gets a feel of what he or she is about to encounter on opening a book.

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Through the book cover of Badshahi Angti (The Emperor’s Ring) designed in the late sixties, Ray introduced us to Feluda, the young detective he created in the line of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Since this is the first full-length novel in the series to be published in the form of a book (and not episodically in a magazine), Ray keeps the faces of the detective Feluda and his cousin and assistant Topshe in the foreground. The basic facial features of the two had been well illustrated by Ray, and the duo soon made their place in the hearts of children and adults alike through these illustrations as much as for the stories themselves. An interesting feature about this book cover is the way Ray uses perspective to depict the city-profile of Lucknow, where the story is set. We can see how he employs the technique of ‘foreshortening’ (used to create the illusion of an object or objects receding quickly into the distance, or background) for the horse-drawn carriage, the motorcars and the row of houses flanking the two sides of the road. This use of perspective brings to mind Satyajit Ray the still photographer, who had taken an enormous amount of photographs, besides sketching profusely, when he had gone on tours of Ajanta-Ellora or, in his later life, on his trips abroad where he was sent by his advertising firm D.J. Keymer and Co. It should also be known that it was common practice for Ray to create completely new designs and illustrations for his stories when they were published as books. Badshahi Angti was initially serialized in the pages of the children’s magazine Sandesh, for one whole year in 1966, while Ray was editing it. Sandesh, founded by Ray’s grandfather Upendra Kishore Roychowdhury way back in the early 1920s, was practically a family magazine for him. In its second phase Ray’s father Sukumar Ray edited it, but his untimely death led to the magazine’s demise. It was in 1961 that his friend, the poet Subhash Mukhopadhyay, gave Ray the idea of reviving Sandesh.

The point I’m trying to make is, even if Ray had already created and published an illustration to accompany his writing in Sandesh, he could easily take the liberty of changing or modifying it to better suit the pages of the book when the work was published as a whole.

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Ray also did the illustration for Priyamvada Devi’s Bengali story Panchulal. This is a very interesting work. Panchulal is based on the famous children’s story Pinocchio. For this sketch Ray draws liberally from the pat art and wood-cuts of Bengal. He uses thick brush lines reminiscent of the Kalighat pats. What I really love in this illustration is the exaggerated beard of the old man, drawn in the fashion of an animation still, and Panchulal climbing the beard to reach the old man. The difference in the scale and size of the man and the little Panchulal is another interesting touch. In fact Ray was an avid enthusiast of animation art. He encouraged me often to go to the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, to learn animation. So this particular illustration I always see with an animator’s eye, and I love it for the extremely beautiful brush strokes Ray uses to Indianize the foreign tale of Pinocchio, rooting it in Indian artistic traditions. Also, Ray uses here the style of drawing used by another great artist of his time, Makhan Dutta Gupta, though he also breaks away from his style in some places.

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Another famous Ray creation, which all his fans are very fond of, is the scientist Professor Shonku. When creating the character of Professor Shonku, Ray took cues from his own study of the sciences, and science fiction written throughout the world. But he used his own imagination finally to create a peculiar and very original fantasy. The elements that make up Professor Shonku are as fantastical as they are laced with humour. The stories lead to discoveries such as the ‘Anaihilin Pistol’ (that you can use to make someone you’re not pleased about having around just disappear), or a device to capture ghosts, or a time-machine. In this particular image, an illustration for the story Professor Shonku O Khoka (Professor Shonku and the Little Boy) what is most exciting is the wonderful interplay of light and shade. The filmmaker and cinematographer (he often handled his own camera) in Ray shows itself here. The story is about a child who is suddenly transformed into a highly knowledgeable person, uttering great scientific theories. In this illustration Ray uses very thin, lovely lines on paper-white to create the features of both Professor Shonku and the boy. The exquisite effect that we see in this illustration, due to its exploiting of both negative (the space around the subjects of the image) and positive space (the space used up by the subjects themselves), marks it as one of Ray’s best illustrations. Another point which I feel should be made about this illustration is the cinematic point-of-view we see here. The filmmaker Ray seems dominant within the sub-conscious (or was it consciously done?) of the illustrator Ray.

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Among other artistic creations, Ray also undertook the task of designing new typefaces in English. In the sixties a type foundry in Florida requested him to design these typefaces for them, one of which of which we see displayed here. He actually designed four typefaces, ‘Ray Roman’, ‘Holiday Script’, ‘Daphne’ and ‘Ray Bizarre’. Here we see the ‘Ray Bizarre’ typeface. Artist Paritosh Sen has written about how designing a typeface demands not just immaculate design skills but also enormous reserves of patience. The artist/ designer comes to a conclusive design after trying out innumerable options. As I mentioned earlier, Ray honed his calligraphic skills, guided by Nandalal Bose, when he was a student at Kala Bhavan, Santiniketan. And he believed in experimenting widely when designing a letter, or a full logo, for a product or film. This naturally reminds me of the fantastic logos he designed for his own films, such as Nayak or Kanchenjungha or Seemabaddha. Also, the experiment with just three Bengali letters, year after year, for each issue of the Bengali journal Ekshan, edited by Nirmalya Acharya and Soumitra Chattopadhyay. Or the logos he designed for West Bengal’s film complex Nandan,or for Patha Bhavan school. Even the Sandesh title designs could be cited here. Ray had said in an interview (carried in its entirety in Looking Beyond: Graphics of Satyajit Ray) to veteran journalist Nirmal Dhar that if he had the time he would have designed Bengali typefaces too.

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1961 was the year of Rabindranath Tagore’s Birth Centenary, and Ray designed a lot in this year, including the page from the Tagore Centenary Year Calendar, sponsored and published by India Tube Ltd., that can be seen above. For this picture, Ray put together intriguing visual elements, that he took from Tagore’s autobiography Jeebon Smriti, within a circular image. The young Tagore used to learn wrestling, and so the young boy is shown clinched to a wrestler at the centre of the image. The artist’s eye for detail can be seen in the dog sitting in the foreground or clothes on a clothesline, and dumbbells of sorts, called Mugur in Bengali, painted in the background. This is an important image in Ray’s career as a graphic designer, because it is an image where both the painter and the filmmaker in him emerge, almost as one. The way he uses flowing lines to outline his figures, and his figure-drawing (the drawing of the human form) in general, is very accomplished. Also, seen as a whole, it has a cinematic quality to it: the scale and the size of each object and person, as he has painted them, varies, as the camera-eye, or the Kino-Eye, may have seen the scene. The dynamism of the imagery, a moment of movement frozen for eternity, would appeal, again, especially to an animator, and so it does to me. The image reminds one of his documentary film on Rabindranath Tagore which he had made in the same year.

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The illustration for Baksha Rahasya (The Mystery of the Box), also a detective novel in the Feluda series, is yet another example of how cinematic Ray’s illustrations were. The view of a man typing out a manuscript and the detective duo—Feluda and his assistant and cousin Topshe—smaller in size, in yet another skillful use of foreshortening, creates a great sense of depth within the illustration which seems to have been thought of in terms of seeing the scene through the eyes of the movie camera. Also the typewriter is drawn in wonderful detail, with all its elements etched out clearly. Ray uses thin as well as thick lines of the pen to bring out details such as the man’s hair and the outline of his profile. Another important aspect of this illustration is the way he uses paper white to create an impression of volume, within a human body bound by lines. This illustration is the original, drawn for the Feluda novel Baksha Rahasya published in the Pujo (Durga Puja) Issue of the Bengali magazine Desh, and we can see the instructions given by Ray to the block-maker in red, in the left hand corner. Also notice how he has sketched the folds of the man’s shirt, within the outline of his profile. The artists who Ray learnt from taught him that outlines, by themselves, are dead things. He learnt from his Mastermoshai (teacher) Nandalal Bose how to catch the rhythm of life within the outlines, so the figure comes alive to our mind’s eye via even a line drawing.

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The poster design created by Ray for the film Joi Baba Felunath (The Elephant God, 1979)—dimensions: 30 by 40 inches—is another interesting example of how he exploited both positive and negative spaces within a format. Here, paper white is the colour of the lettering, with black in the background. Notice the incorporation of a pistol that is being fired within the title-design. Joi Baba Felunath is, once again, a crime-thriller-cum-adventure woven around the detective Feluda. So, to prepare his audience for this visual treat, he brings in just one potent visual element and nothing more. Also fascinating is the use of colour, how he exploits the contrast between black, red and white to demonstrate sparks and the effect of firing a pistol. Yet it gives nothing away of the plot at all, stoking curiosity about what the black space may comprise. The way Ray uses lettering in this poster makes me think of how excellent it would have been if he had designed Bengali type-faces too.

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One of the books that haunted Ray for years, and which he finally made into a film of the same name in 1984, was Rabindranath Tagore’s novel Ghare Baire (The Home and the World). I was fortunate enough to be present at the shooting of this film, as an observer in his unit, and the experience of seeing the great master at work is unparalleled.

The film is about the heroine Bimala’s (played by Swatilekha Sengupta) coming out of the zenana-mahal to the outside world and her entire experience of falling in love with the revolutionary Sandip (played by Soumitra Chattopadhyay). This is a novel set against the freedom struggle for India’s Independence, especially the violent or ‘terrorist’ segment of it. The poster of the film was designed by Ray and executed and finished by his artist son Sandip Ray. Its dimensions are 30 by 40 inches. The symbolic flames of the freedom struggle, probably felt to be burning throughout the country back when the novel was set, are depicted within the logo where flames form the outline of a Bengali vowel. What appeals to me most is the silhouetted figure of Bimala, and her elongated shadow, against the doorway. Ray epitomizes the ‘coming out’ of Bimala from her world inside the house through this image. What is especially clever is the way Ray uses the stained glass in the arch of the doorway; immediately setting the story in the late-Victorian era, around the period in which Tagore set his story.

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The costume design by Ray for the four ministers, as well as the Clerk, or Peshkar, of the Diamond King’s Court for the film Hirak Rajar Deshe (Kingdom of Diamonds, 1980) is a very interesting example of how Ray pre-designed almost every visual detail of his film. He has drawn the four ministers’ figures complete with the colour-scheme of their costumes, including their head-gear. Another interesting feature of this visual scanned from his own kheror khata, or red notebook, is that he had attached fabric or textile pieces to be used for the actual costumes, so that the person making the costumes would have an idea of exactly what Ray had in mind when he designed them. This is also telling of what Ray could achieve when he did colour illustrations. They are his ‘film graphics’, in a way, and give us a clear picture of what the characters in the final film will look like.

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The entire task of creating this book has enriched the visual designer and animator in me, creating a sense of what graphic design can be at its best, when executed by a true maestro.

I see this book as a homage to a maestro I have seen and exchanged words and ideas with very closely over the last ten years of his life. One hopes too that the book, with many more images, including works by great masters like Nandalal Bose and Annada Munshi, besides those by Ray himself, will be a feast for the eyes— a visual treat.

Images excerpted from Looking Beyond: Graphics of Satyajit Ray by Jayanti Sen, courtesy of Roli Books. You can purchase the book here

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.

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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:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6O2caypxZpI

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:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBX8DpQ95fg

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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):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0gVG7tCPwo

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.

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.

In happier years in Bombay, Manto was also a film journalist and a radio and film scriptwriter. As an insider in the Bombay film industry he had a ready window into the lives of the brightest stars of those times. 

Here, Mahmood Farooqui reads what Manto had to say about the devastatingly handsome actor Shyam, a close friend of Manto’s, who, if not for his untimely death at 31, could have been one of Hindi cinema’s biggest stars. 

Image Courtesy – SMM Ausaja (Private Collection)

Audio Production – Raghav Suthaud (Oijo!)

Also Read:

The Narcissus of Undying Bloom. Saadat Hasan Manto on his likely and unlikely encounters with the actress Nargis.