Manmohan Desai's Enchantment of the Mind

by Connie Haham

  Manmohan Desai was as energetic talking as filmmaking. His boisterous enthusiasm whipped contagiously through the room as he added rhythm and emphasis to his speech by raising his arms, beating the air and slapping the back of one hand against the palm of the other. Finally, he punctuated his sentences with a nervous tick, drawing his forefinger assertively under his nose to the accompaniment of a loud sniff. He spoke at such a rapid clip that it was often difficult to catch each word, but when he decelerated, his intonation became eloquently lilting. His voice was that of a much younger man, and in 1984 at 46, when he broke into song, one could easily have divided his age in half. By his own admission, he was no diplomat. His rage at his pet peeves was unapologetic, uncompromising, and easily provoked. Lord Krishna, school, and art films were a few of the subjects that sparked his fury. If he was not one to mince words, neither was he one to economize them. He often repeated himself to embellish a story or to drive home a point.

  This is Manmohan Desai’s story as he told it:1

  My father was a film producer. He made films between l93l and l94l. He made about 32 films, mostly stunt films.2We had our own studios, but he died at the age of 39, due to a ruptured appendix. The irony was that there was no penicillin, but penicillin was discovered one month after he died. We had a very big bungalow in Versova, with a fleet of cars and servants. My mother, my brother who died (Subhash) and my sister and I came here (to his office in Khetwadi). I was about three or four. We came back to just nothing. My father had two or three films on the set. He died suddenly with heavy liabilities, debts. So my mother said, ‘No, I don’t want to live with debts.’ She sold the bungalow, sold the cars, everything. We paid off the debts and we stayed in these four rooms here on a meagre Rs. 500. She fought like a tigress while we were growing up. She didn’t sell the studio. She said, ‘That’s my monthly income; I must have some money coming in.’

  Then in l955 when my brother was an assistant production manager at Homi Wadia’s, he decided to become a full-fledged producer of mythological films like Sati Naag Kanya and Janam Janam Ke Phere. Then he made a historical film with Babubhai Mistry, Samrat Chandragupta (starring Bharat Bhushan and Nirupa Roy). I was in school. Instead of playing cricket as school captain, I was chasing girls, so I failed in the second year there. My brother gave me a chance as an assistant director under Babubhai Mistry, my guru. I learned under him. He was a master special effects man, and is even now. But to do special effects, you have to have patience. I didn’t have patience then. I didn’t learn special effects; the technique is slow and tiring. A pity, because it would have helped me now. But I did learn direction. I learned the importance of being precise, how a director must prepare his scene to the last detail and then go on the set. I assisted him in Samrat Chandragupta and Bedard Zamana Kya Jane in l957.

  In l959 I got married. My wife (Jeevanprabha Gandhi) lived just across the street. It was a love marriage. She used to smile at me from the window. She was Marathi. My family was Gujarati.

  So my brother said, ‘I’ll give you a chance as a director. Who do you want in your film?’

  I said, ‘I’m a great fan of Raj Kapoor and Nutan.’ …I was only 22.

  Raj Kapoor said, ‘Okay, he’s your brother. Fine, but can he direct? I’ll see him for a couple of days, and if not, Mr. Desai, we’ll change the director.’ Fortunately, my brother didn’t tell me I was under trial. I would have been nervous. Instead, I shot with great confidence. I still like the title song Chhalia, a very lovely song. After I shot it, Raj Kapoor was so pleased. He said, ‘Oh, you’re on!’ That film was made in l960 and was very well acclaimed by the press. That’s the only film of mine that has been acclaimed by the press. It did fairly well, but it got crushed under Mughal-e-Azam which was released at the same time.

  The next film was my brother’s Bluff Master with Shammi Kapoor and Saira Banu. My brother became too ambitious. He announced three or four big projects with Dilip Kumar and others. Bluff Master was delayed because of all sorts of problems, artistes and so on. My brother had to compromise and release an almost unfinished film. It had some good sequences though. The ‘Govinda ala re’ dance is remembered to this day. I shot it on the streets here in Khetwadi. The police as well as the local ‘dadas’ (dons) helped me to control the mobs who all wanted to touch Shammi Kapoor. But it didn’t click. Once the film failed, my brother failed too. He was insolvent. Here they say nothing succeeds like success. That was in l963. I had no work. I would sit at the window waiting for some producer who would come and sign me. I wouldn’t go knocking at doors. I had too much self-respect. Someone asked me to direct a Dara Singh mythological. But my wife said, ‘No, we’ll wait. Someone else will come.’

  A producer would ring me up and say he was coming. Then he wouldn’t show up. So two years went past without any work. It’s a tribute to my wife how she managed to run the house with our little savings. Whatever little ornaments we had were sold. But Sunday at 6:30 p.m., I had to see an English film, even at that time. So she would go to the theatre and get tickets for me on Tuesday. Then we would go together by bus to see that film on Sunday. She struggled. She ran the house beautifully. She never made me feel that I had no work and we were broke. Somehow, she managed to get two square meals on the table.

  Then Shammi Kapoor offered me a film called Budtameez. We had worked together in Bluff Master, and I liked him and he liked me. I was told to finish doing the film that someone else had started, that it was about thirty days’ work and I would get Rs. 500 per day. When I saw the incomplete film, I didn’t like it, so I reshot the whole film without taking any additional money from the producers.

  For four or five years I had no work, except for three days’ shooting in maybe two months. That was when I wrote the script for Raaj Kumar. Then Ramanand Saagar came to (work on) the film, changed the script, and wanted his name put on it. But I got the money. Budtameez did fairly well. There was a comic in that film. Mr. Kamal Mehra, who liked my work as a director, and produced the film Kismat. I still like that film very much. I put a lot of hard work into it. I feel it has the best action climax ever in any Indian film. The climax involved boats, helicopters. We were working waist-deep in slush, among snakes and one day I thought we were all going to drown. We had come to a place off-shore where we were knee-deep in water. Suddenly, the tide started coming in, first up to our waists, then up to our necks. Babita’s father was there cursing, ‘You’re going to kill my daughter!’ There was only one boat, so only two or three people could leave at once. Fortunately, the water didn’t rise any more, and we were able to get out okay. It was an exciting fight scene on the water, and it was exciting to shoot it.

  That film did fairly well, and I got Sachaa Jhutha, thanks to Kalyanji Anandji who were with me in Chhalia. My brother gave them breaks. My brother gave lots of people breaks. He made them music directors. He made me a director, Babubhai Mistry a director. So Kalyanji liked my story idea, and he recommended me to the producers. I wrote the whole script right here with my wife. Sometimes, if I was stuck, we would take the bus to Malabar and sit under the trees. From ll.00 a.m. to 5.00 p.m., I would sit there. My son was small. He would play. I would sit alone or with an assistant just to toss ideas. I didn’t have a writer then. Those were struggling days. I gave the dialogue writing to Prayag Raj. That was for Sachaa Jhutha. It was made fast and became a big hit. I did some novel things in it like presenting a dog in a courtroom scene. There was the character of the sister too. A whole song, partly happy, partly sad was dedicated to her. When the hero sings ‘Meri pyari beheniya’ all the brothers and sisters in the audiences must have laughed and wept. Rajesh Khanna had a double role in the film. He was just becoming a big star in those days and I gave people two Rajesh Khannas for the price of one.

  I didn’t work hard enough on my next release Shararat. I couldn’t develop the situation of a village girl impersonating a city girl well enough. Mumtaz was also just about okay in the role. The film flopped so fast that no one realized
it had come and gone. Then came the Nadiadwalas. They had seen the climax of Kismat. They were fascinated by that climax. In l97l, I was signed up for Bhai Ho To Aisa. Both the film and I went up like rockets. My original teacher Babubhai Mistry helped me to picturize all those tricky scenes with cobras. The film also had an interesting plot dealing with two brothers.

  Then another Nadiadwala brother signed me for his film Raampur Ka Lakshman. The lost-and-found stuff was there again. It was a hit. The film had catchy music. Shatrughan Sinha had a powerful role. Daboo (Randhir Kapoor) was also very young and fresh then. I used to insist that he should act like his father did in Shree 420. That’s because I admire the way Raj Kapoor used to look and act. If it was possible, I’d try to make everyone, all character actors, even Manmohan Krishna, act like Raj. For the Nadiadwalas, I did Bhai Ho To Aisa, Raampur Ka Lakshman, Aa Gale Lag Jaa. Parvarish was the last one.

  I made Dharam-Veer on the biggest scale ever. It also turned out to be my biggest hit though it was slaughtered by the censors during the Emergency. I know a certain section of the industry was behind this, but who cares; they couldn’t stop its success. Dharmendra’s father was so pleased when he saw it that he said, ‘Maine mere bete ko khilaya, pilaya, bada kiya, issi film ke lie.’ (I fed and raised my son just for this film.)

  I directed Chacha Bhatija from Salim-Javed’s script because Dharmendra asked me to. I had plenty of problems with these so-called storywriters. I like to be left alone, but they always wanted to poke their noses in. The film’s strongest point was its exciting climax.

  Desai rejected the notion that his success was related to the general upswing in the film industry in the seventies. Continuing to look to the past, he explained his theory of the importance of destiny:

  From 1970 everything has gone my way. But in 1967 I wrote a film called Vaada. I still feel it was the best script ever—based on Fanny. It was with Shashi Kapoor, Saira Banu and Jeetendra. But the producer didn’t have money, so after eight reels the film was shelved. Had that film been made in l967 when I started, I could have struck limelight then, but you can’t fight destiny. Eight reels of my best script of my life were blocked. Now it’s too late. After that, many other films based on that idea came along: boy (Shashi Kapoor) and girl (Saira Banu) are in love; they get married secretly. The girl’s father doesn’t approve. The boy is swept away in a river, an accident. Then he goes on the other side of the border to Pakistan. He doesn’t think he’ll ever come back. The wife thinks he’s dead. She bears his child. She doesn’t know what to tell people. Another man (Jeetendra) who wanted to marry her earlier offers to marry her now, ‘I’ll give the boy my name. You stay in my house as my wife. I won’t even touch you.’ Jeetendra raises the boy till he is seven or eight years old. Shashi escapes from Pakistan, returns to find she has married. He wants to get out of her life. The wife doesn’t know what to do. Jeetendra and Shashi are in the army. Jeetendra comes to know about Shashi and Saira. So Jeetendra says before he gives his life, ‘Go, your wife is waiting.’ The last scene is a cortege. Saira and Shashi are standing watching as the body of Jeetendra is taken away. The little boy is there. He gives a salute. Beautiful triangle. If that had been made then, I would have been a success then, but nothing happens before its time.

  ...I had a very tough time between l960 and l970, the ten worst years of my life. That’s when my wife stood by me like a rock. A great lady she was. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife than that… . She said, ‘Don’t give up films.’ And I used to think up ideas in the night. I couldn’t get to sleep. I’d wake up my wife. I’d wake up my son. ‘Please, look, I made up this idea. Here’s a plot.’ She would hear me for two hours. She would say, ‘Now it’s late, Manmohan. Go to sleep. Okay? We’ll hear it in the morning.’ I am what I am because of her. She prayed for me. She stood by me. Very possessive. Naturally, since we had a love marriage, I wasn’t supposed to monkey around after marriage. But I did. She didn’t like that. But she looked after me and my home. She was very loyal to me, very faithful, looked after every need of mine.

  Now I realize… . There’s a saying: you know a person’s worth when he’s not there. Why a person? Any object, for that matter. You only know when it’s not there. Now I think she might have been my spinal cord, my backbone. I never had to bother in my house whether anything was there or not. So I miss her. Now my spinal cord is my son... I suppose all filmmakers are womanizers in a way. Anyway, I don’t like to be a hypocrite and say I’m a person of virtue. No. But just one vice! Others have plenty. I used to say to my wife, ‘Look, in the film world, people drink, smoke; they gamble; they go to the races. I don’t do all that. I only womanize.’

  She said, ‘That’s no excuse.’

  But my weakness is like my father’s. My brother died in August, l983. He was elder than me by six years: cirrhosis of the liver. So I always told him, ‘We have divided the vices in our family.’ He never womanized. He only drank—cards, races, smoking—no womanizing. I suppose any man who thinks, who works mentally, he needs a diversion. Alcohol is not a good diversion. I feel alcohol benumbs your nerves in the long run. So I don’t take refuge in alcohol, nor in gambling. I don’t like to lose. I’m a bad loser. So I said, my only refuge is womanizing. But I used to get in trouble with my wife.

  Desai continued to remember the past and to describe his working habits during the seventies when he was full of pent-up energy:

  Up until l976 I could shoot at 6:00 in the morning. In the evening I’d go to my room. My wife used to be there. I’d have my bath. I’d sit, talk with her. Early dinner and try to be in bed by 9:00 p.m. so I could get up at 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning and be there at 7:00. But now I can’t get up in the morning like I used to.

  And I used to direct more films at a time. When I made Amar Akbar Anthony, I had Parvarish on set, Dharam-Veer, Chacha Bhatija, Suhaag—five films on set I had, and all five clicked. But after my wife died in April, l979, I lost interest in work outside. Now that my son wants to direct, I’m going to start a second film in March (Allahrakha; the other being Mard). Otherwise, I’m not taking work from outside, working for another producer. At that time I had to prove some things to my wife, ‘Look, I’m somebody.’ Now I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. I don’t feel like doing more. I’ll work on my scripts, work on my music. My needs are not more in life. I want to make one film a year. That’s it. At that time I used to do scripts, shoot, do editing. I had five films on the floor. I don’t know how I did it. My greatest period was l974, ’75, ’77. Even if I had fever, I would work on the set. I was shooting almost every day. In the studios there are two stages, one set for one film, the other set for the other film. When the shot was ready, I’d go. I used to run from one stage to the other with my assistants. They (the films) all clicked. That was a great period in my life. My mind was so alert. I was shooting two films simultaneously.

  They were all laughing, saying, ‘How can you do this?’

  I said, ‘Look, I’ll do it.’ What I didn’t do between l960 and l970, I made up for, I think, between l970 and l979.

  Speaking of the period after his wife died, he said:

  I didn’t give up films, but I lost the incentive. I lost that killer instinct. It’s only my son Ketan, who kept me going. And he told me, I remember, the very night my wife died, ‘Dad, the interval of your life is over. You’re an expert scripter. Your second half has always been good. Now the second half in your life begins. You will fight back. You’re not going to quit films. You’re not going to lose that killer instinct.’ He goaded me into working. I went on making films, only due to him. He’s everything now to me. He’s my inspiration. He’s my love. All my life is only Ketan and nothing else

  Asked about his position as a movie mogul and his attitudes towards the film industry organizations, he said:

  They don’t call me to the council meetings because I can’t stand the groupism there. They talk crap. They want to kill the small producers. Everybody has a right to make
a film. Who’s fighting for the film industry? No one. Each one cares for himself and nobody else. If you want to be the leaders of the film party, then it’s your duty to look after every single producer, whether he’s small or big. They have a caucus there. I can’t stand that caucus. I refuse to go there.

  ‘You people backbite about me, try to pull me down, use your influence in Delhi to ruin my films. Beat me at the box office,’ I said. ‘That’s where it counts.’ So far they can’t touch my record (my films). So that’s what hurts them most.

  ‘The man doesn’t join our group. He doesn’t join our clan, doesn’t join our parties; he keeps on churning out films.’ Now they’re saying, ‘We don’t understand why Coolie is running like this.’ Keep on thinking why. Sit at home. Take a textbook, and sit down and find out why. Study. Go. I’m here. I’m in my house. I’m working. I’m scripting, or I’m scripting or making songs. No sense going with these chaps. They backbite, drink at parties, abuse each other. Why waste my time there? They’re not going to help anyone else. So I said, ‘Okay, I’ll help myself. Forget it. Instead of wasting time on boozing and races and all that, I’d rather spend time working.’3

  My only love is cricket. That’s how I fractured my leg six months back. I got out of that and now this disc problem. My whole frustration is that I can’t play cricket in the evening!!

  Desai went on to talk more specifically about the importance of the box office:

  I always say the box office speaks the loudest. Why are Spielberg and Lucas known as the box office kings? Why? They have got three super-duper hits behind them. Why does nobody talk about Ingmar Bergman? Maybe you critics talk about him. Who’s interested in seeing Alexander And Fanny? I’m not! I’ll see Spielberg because I’ll get to learn something: how they rake in at the box office. And believe me, it’s no joke making a box office record. There are 300 Hindi films being made in the country every year. Only three or four are going to click. We’ve always been amongst them. All aim at the box office. Why can’t they all do it? To beat the box office is not a joke.