by Connie Haham
The exact time of each show was not listed in the cinema guide. I tried to gauge my arrival to coincide with the second Sunday showing. Of course, since I was using European time logic, I miscalculated. My initial error was to suppose that the first show would actually begin as announced, at 2:30 p.m. In fact, I later learned, a 2:30 show could begin any time between 2:30 and 3:15. My second mistake was to suppose the film would be two hours long. In reality, it lasted almost three hours. Finally, I did not take into consideration the intermission time, as I had never seen a film with a twenty-minute break that allowed the audience to stretch their legs and eat samosas. The sum of my faulty assumptions led me to arrive before the intermission of the first show.
I need not have worried about the proportion of men to women in the audience. Entire families filled the screening room. The seats were wooden. I managed to find one of the two vacant ones on the front row, and for the next few hours, I more or less stopped breathing. In spite of some 15 ‘No Smoking’ signs posted around the hall in French and in English, cigarette smoke enveloped the audience in a thick haze. Normally, I would find any sort of enjoyment impossible under such conditions. A part of me (my lungs) wanted to head immediately for fresh air, but another part of me was instantly enthralled. My lungs lost.
I had not the slightest idea what was happening in the story. The characters were many and confusing. I thought the one called Salma was several different women because in one scene she was singing and dancing, in another scene, working as a doctor, in another, being chased into the house by her tyrannical father, in another, wearing a black robe and veil, in another, working as a seamstress with her husband. There was a rich man who became poor and a poor man who became rich. There was a mother who started out with tuberculosis and then spent much of the film blind until a miracle restored her eyesight. The miracle took place in front of a statue to which the Muslim Akbar was singing, something that I found unthinkable, given my previous exposure to Islam through the Arab world. The one called Anthony was unmistakable even in all his disguises, but I could not understand how he sometimes could be so tough and sometimes so silly, even stupid. He seemed to be involved in all sorts of illicit doings, and yet on Sunday he was all dressed up, playing the organ at church. I think that following the story would have been impossible in any circumstances, but my confusion was confounded because I saw the second half of the film first and, likewise, because the French subtitles were not at all synchronized. I could never be sure if what I was reading was what was being said, what had just been said, or what was about to be said.
I would not have been capable of retelling the story after I left; nor did I understand why the characters on screen had acted and reacted as they did. However, my perplexity did not dampen my spirits. On the contrary, it further kindled my interest. And the song, dance, colour, and comedy enchanted me, even left me bubbling for days. I felt I had reentered the magic world that cinema had represented for me as a child when I had wholeheartedly participated in each film, leaving myself behind for a few hours in order to live fully with the characters on the screen. I knew that I had to see more such films, both for the pleasure of the viewing and also to satisfy my curiosity about the logic of the genre.
As I tried to grasp what I had seen, naturally enough, I made analogies with what I already knew. Thus, Amar Akbar Anthony seemed to be a mixture of Shakespearean comedy with unlikely chance meetings and situational turnarounds, of Elvis Presley fight-sing-and-dance films, of Yiddish stories with touching mother-son scenes, of cowboy or gangster bad-guy sequences, of Tarzan-style rope swinging to save those in danger, and of a Three-Musketeers spirit of camaraderie—the whole spiced with what I supposed to be a very Indian view of mystical healing and religious tolerance.
Seeing Amar Akbar Anthony proved a lucky encounter. I could have happened upon some violent, plotless, badly acted film and never wanted to see another Indian film again. Thanks to Amar Akbar Anthony, I was back at the Avron Palace the following week to see Trishul. Fascination flamed. And I decided, as I later learned millions of others around the world had done, that the actor who had played Anthony in Amar Akbar Anthony and Vijay in Trishul was absolutely electrifying. Studying the film posters, I deduced his name to be Amitabh Bachchan.
I began to see one or two films every week. Some films I saw again and again, each time they were programmed. Gradually, the stories that had seemed so exotic that I had had trouble following them began to make sense. I could guess in advance the reactions the characters were likely to have. The element of repetition from scenario to scenario made the stories more understandable but also removed some of the initial pleasure of the discovery. It became clear that quality was uneven in Indian cinema. I became more discerning, my tastes more defined in actors, directors and scriptwriters. I reached a point at which I would not see just any film that was playing. But I tried never to miss an Amitabh Bachchan starrer, a film with Raakhee, a film scripted by Salim-Javed, or any film made by Ramesh Sippy, Yash Chopra, or Prakash Mehra. A visit to London brought me in contact with a slightly more highbrow Hindi cinema. Seeing Junoon was a new and passionate experience. Afterwards, I made a point never to miss a Shyam Benegal film at film festivals I attended. The uncertainty of the subtitling led me to study Hindi. Little by little, on video and at the theatre, I became acquainted with classics such as Diamond Queen, Mother India, Shree 420, Awaara, Gunga Jamuna, Pyaasa, and more. I found them all interesting. But Desai’s films, I slowly realized, held a very special attraction.
Initially, Manmohan Desai’s name was not a drawing card for me. After all, I had seen only his Amar Akbar Anthony. A few months later I watched Dharam-Veer, unaware of who had directed it. The period, the costumes, and the style were unlike anything I had seen to date. Throughout the viewing, I felt the story was being told on two levels at once—in dead earnest and with tongue-in-cheek. I laughed and enjoyed the film, but I also felt a bit puzzled, as though a key necessary for understanding was just beyond my reach. Studying the publicity poster outside after the show, my glance fell on Desai’s name and the key clicked in the lock. Of course, I thought, here again was that same speed, that same colour and liveliness, that same marvellous sense of humour, and that same theme of fate first separating and then reuniting a family. Though Dharam-Veer seemed unique, it nevertheless carried marks of the guiding hand responsible for Amar Akbar Anthony. Manmohan Desai’s name went on my list of directors to watch for. Still, I thought, his films were not worthy of serious consideration. They were too much fun.
One day Sholay was billed with Amar Akbar Anthony in a double feature. I preferred to see Sholay: first, because I had already seen Amar Akbar Anthony three times while I had only seen Sholay twice, and second, because Sholay, I felt sure, was a more estimable film. The schedule at the Avron Palace was extremely flexible. What was programmed for 2:30 often ran at 6:00 and vice versa. So it is that I saw Amar Akbar Anthony by chance for the fourth time and missed Sholay. My reaction at the beginning of the film was both disappointment and a bit of scorn. After all, Amar Akbar Anthony was nonsense. No matter that I had shaken with laughter the first three times I had seen it. Sholay, on the other hand, was dramatic and thus important. We cry at the end when Jai dies. Obviously, sorrow weighs heavier in the balance than mirth.
It was not until several months later at the end of my fifth viewing of Amar Akbar Anthony, when I was still laughing, still having my fancy tickled and still seeing details I had missed in earlier viewings, that I realized what some geniuses of the medium had already learned: comedy well done has a nobility of its own. A film with a serious content may actually take less effort to make into a success because of the basic bias of the public who enjoy a good comedy but who refuse to respect it as highly as a good drama.
By now, I have seen Amar Akbar Anthony more than twenty times and listened to its sound track at least fifty times. The initial joy remains. It is this joyful response that has led me to explore Manmohan Desai’s work ever
more closely, to view all of his films, to travel to India’s Hollywood—Bombay as it was still called in 1984—in order to interview the director himself and to see him at work. Finally, it was the continued enthusiasm I felt over my discoveries that prompted me to write this book.
Paris, 2005
manmohan desai
the filmmaker, the man
khetwadi
Manmohan Desai was born to Kalavati and Kikubhai Desai on 26 February 1937, the third child in the family. Though his roots were Gujarati, Desai’s home was always Bombay, a city that he loved and that he often portrayed on screen. He was four years old when he began living in his much-loved Khetwadi neighbourhood.
In 1984, neither Khetwadi district nor Manmohan Desai’s street was marked on the map of Bombay. The tourist bureau had never heard of it. In most parts of the city the taxi drivers, too, gave a blank look when shown the address of MKD Films and suggested trying another driver. But Khetwadi was not inconveniently located, hidden or inaccessible. Only a short walk away was the bustling Grant Road, well-known to the movie-going public for the many theatres that lined it. On the sidewalks, here more than elsewhere, vendors hawked film-related wares: picture postcards of film stars, booklets of film songs and dialogues, and even box loads of photos taken on film sets. Khetwadi was on the back streets, protected from this hustle-bustle. On Dr. Bhajekar Street was a large building marked Jeevan Complex. In 1984 it was still in very mediocre condition. Later it was entirely remodelled so as to exude the air of wealth that one would expect from the office and lodgings of a successful film producer. Even in 1984, the already refashioned two-room ground-floor office with its marble floors and walls provided a sharp contrast with the surrounding neighbourhood. Yet the air conditioning and the inner luxury did not create a fortress effect. Desai was not cut off from the outside. Indeed, he was constantly glancing through his windows at the street beyond, taking note and gathering inspiration. His street looked not unlike Kishanlal’s in Amar Akbar Anthony. ‘Khetwadi may not be the centre of the world,’ he said, ‘but from here I can see the joys and sorrows of the middle class; mainly Gujaratis and Maharashtrians live here.’
The word ‘office’, for many people, brings to mind desks, chairs, maybe bookshelves, file cabinets, and typewriters or computers. Desai’s office was nothing of the sort. A door opened from the hallway into a medium-sized white room. The workspace was a huge semi-circular couch-bed covered with a white sheet and elevated on a platform, with cushions against three walls. Desai was attached not only to the neighbourhood, but also to that room.
Right from the time I was nobody, I used to sit here and make scripts. My wife Jeevanprabha used to bring some snacks for me to eat. Since that time I’ve been working on all my scripts here. This room is very lucky. Many hit songs were made here as well as the scripts for Vaada, Aa Gale Lag Jaa, and Roti. For my son Ketan’s script we are stuck at a certain stage, so I said, ‘From Monday we’re sitting here, from morning to evening.’ Writers now tend to want to stay in five-star hotels while they work on scripts. I say, ‘Okay, but when you get stuck, you come back here.’ This is where I lived as a boy.
Not only purely creative work went on in his ‘lucky room’. Business had to be discussed with financiers. Reports on earnings needed to be heard, practical problems solved, many and sundry questions answered. During the remodelling of Jeevan Complex, Desai was called upon several times each hour to make decisions about the quality and colour of the tiles and fabrics to be used. Quickly and assuredly, he chose simple colours and careful harmonies.
At lunchtime, a tray was wheeled out; work slowed but did not stop; discussion continued between Desai and his assistants about matters at hand. With lunch over, however, work came to a halt. It was naptime.
After lunch I must have an hour’s nap. I can go to the next room and take my nap. That’s a dirty habit I have. Even when we’re shooting, I have a quick lunch and for forty-five minutes I have my nap. By the time I give my shot to the cameraman, I say, ‘Look, don’t get ready for half an hour. Take half an hour for lighting the shot so I can finish my nap.’ I must have my nap because otherwise I feel disgusted after five o’clock in the evening. I don’t go to sleep. I close my eyes, have my forty winks, and I feel very fresh after that. Then if they make me work up to 9:00 p.m., I don’t say a word… . That’s how I function. Let me shut my eyes for half an hour. Then I’m a king again. Otherwise, I’m very irritated, very jittery, dull.
From the ground floor one could take an elevator upstairs, the two-floor walk up being sometimes impossible for Manmohan Desai who had, more than once, injured his legs or his back while playing cricket. Secretaries and clerks were busy at desks. Typewriters and file cabinets created the atmosphere of a more traditional office. This was the paperwork area. Agendas were studied. Information was stored. Desai seemed more comfortable in his ‘lucky room’ downstairs.
Nighttime came and work went on. It was January 1984. Downstairs, a music session was about to begin in preparation for the MKD production Allahrakha, the first directorial venture for Desai’s son Ketan. Music director Anu Malik was on the harmonium. Two other musicians backed him up, one on the drum, one on the strings. Manji (as Manmohan Desai was affectionately known), Ketan, Anu Malik, and the man who supervised the tape recorder filled up the semi-circular couch-bed. Anu Malik introduced a tune and several lines that he had been preparing. He sang with a big smile and the kind of bubbling energy that appealed to Desai. Desai himself was lying down; his back was bothering him again. He wore casual Indian dress, shoes off, rings on his fingers, a twinkle in his eye. Doctor’s orders were soon forgotten. The enthusiasm and the energy conveyed through the tune soon brought him to sitting position. He began clapping, singing along, gesturing qawwali-style with his hands and arms, and predicting the song would be a smashing success. One by one, the participants added a word, a line or a musical swirl. Desai added his own and okayed others. The volume mounted. Hyperbole was in the air. ‘Super!’ ‘Great!’ ‘Terrific!’ ‘I’ll pay anything to have this film made! People will be standing in line just to see this song!’ The overstatement and the passion that characterized Desai’s films were to be found in their making.
Desai had no doubt given an outline of the story situation to Anu Malik in their last meeting. He now explained the setting in greater detail. Ketan added a suggestion to further build up the scene. The words and the music were inseparable. At the starting point was the cliché, but as the group played with the sounds, intricacies were added; variations and elaborations soon brought originality and individuality. Several more lines to the song were developed. A look from the harmonium player or from Desai gave the strings or the drum permission to stand out for a few moments. ‘Ah, ah, wah, wah!’ (Bravo!) The whole room was in movement. Another verse took form. Then it was back to the chorus, ‘Kasam na dena, o-o-o! Kasam na lena, o-o-o! Kasam denewale kasam tor dete hain.’ Everyone seemed to savour the sounds and to delight in rolling them about in their mouths.
During a tea break Desai elaborated his theories on film music:
I must always like a song. But for a good song, there’s always a situation. The situation comes before the scene and doesn’t force the scene. Naushad, before 1960, made the greatest music ever, the simplest possible tunes. I want a song for children, a song my granddaughter Pooja will sing. I want to make a song so strong, so appealing that people will forget themselves and start throwing money. I want simple words so that even those who don’t speak Hindi will understand. I am inspired by Raj Kapoor’s films, his style of music. I like accordion music. I like his style of tunes, simple. I believe a tune should be so simple that even a man who doesn’t know how to sing can hum a tune. That’s a hit song… . That’s his forte. I wish I had learnt the piano because if I had, I could have composed the music for all my songs. Anu Malik is working on Mard, a very bright boy. He’s like a man charged, and I get the best out of him.
Then Desai gave his down-to-earth tran
slation of the chorus that had just been created, ‘Promises are bullshit. Don’t take them. Don’t make them.’ Tea was over. Work began anew. Desai introduced another situation he had imagined for his film. Anu Malik offered several possible tunes. A tune could spark a word; a word could trigger a tune. The enthusiasm and the volume quickly mounted again. Vibrations were bouncing off the marble and the mirrors on the walls. Desai neighed like a horse or added other sound effects that provoked images of the scene taking shape.
Finally, it was late. Everyone was anxious to return home. Principally, the group had been working on two songs during the evening. Neither was completely finished. The tape recorder would act as a memory and give the starting point during the next music session.
beginnings
Manmohan: his name literally meant ‘mind charmer’—‘Man’: mind; ‘Mohan’: enchantment, charm. It was a fitting name considering the enchanting fantasy that he brought to the screen. Manmohan Desai himself saw his name in a different light and found it appropriate for other reasons:
Manmohan is one of the names of Krishna. My father and mother must have given me the name because they knew I’d turn out a womanizer; they gave me the correct name. Once I told my wife that if I womanize, it’s not my fault. My father gave me the name Manmohan, that Charlie who had one thousand gopis—women— around him. So if I have a couple… . She said, ‘That’s no excuse!’
While at one moment Desai was ready to use his namesake’s activities as a rationalization for his own behaviour, at other moments he vehemently lashed out against the lord he considered to be unworthy of worship:
Krishna! He’s no god! He left Rukmani for Radha. Why glorify a man who has a mistress, who was a womanizer with all those gopis! And he won the whole Mahabharata war by cheating, by deceit, treachery. I have no respect for Krishna. He makes my blood boil. I’ve talked to pundits, but they can’t answer my questions about Krishna!
