Written by Salim-Javed: The Story of Hindi Cinema’s Greatest Screenwriters

by Diptakirti Chaudhuri

  The most protracted build-up of an action sequence in a Salim–Javed film was in Kaala Patthar, where both Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan) and Mangal (Shatrughan Sinha) were presented as diametrical opposites, shown to be getting increasingly angry with each other, and finally pitted against one another in a pitched battle. Incidentally, this fight (which happens just before the interval) is preceded by two near-skirmishes between the two heroes, both triggered by insignificant things like a matchbox and a cup of tea. Both incidents are diffused in the nick of time by Ravi (Shashi Kapoor) but it all adds towards the explosion of the final showdown.

  Not all of Salim–Javed’s orchestrated fight sequences were serious, though. In Don—a film where the mood was more light-hearted—Vijay/Don taunts villain Shaakaal (played by Shetty) repeatedly in a police van. By now the audience knows a fight is coming, which will facilitate the gang’s escape and bring about the climax, and it is brought on by a series of wisecracks made about Shetty’s supposed cowardice.

  In Deewaar, Kaala Patthar and Trishul, as in a few other films, the initial fight is the biggest action sequence of the film; the first two do not even have a ‘resolution fight’ at the climax, and the one in Trishul seems distinctly tamer than the ‘ambulance’ scenes. As macho heroes became more and more popular in the late 1970s and 1980s, this became a template for action films, where there was always a fight scene to introduce the hero or set him up as one.

  Film writer Jai Arjun Singh talks about Deewaar but it could well be about some of the other Salim–Javed classics when he says: ‘The movie’s power draws as much from its silences as from its flaming dialogue, and the writing of Salim–Javed, in conjunction with Bachchan’s incomparable performance, take it to heights Indian cinema has rarely touched since. The power of Deewaar lies in its ability to make us feel the tragedy rather than present it to us all gift-wrapped on a platter.’

  Having said this, Salim–Javed did popularize the genre of Hindi film where the ‘fight scene’ was no longer a pre-climax formality in which the bad guy is given some half-hearted punches as punishment before being taken away by the police. Since most of their scripts were based on the premise of revenge, they brought in the concept of what film historian Kaushik Bhaumik calls ‘proportional justice’.

  Bhaumik gives the example of Yaadon Ki Baaraat where the violent manner in which the villain Shaakaal is killed is similar to the brutal way in which he murdered the heroes’ parents. He meets his end near a rail track, a setting reminiscent of the one where the parents are murdered and the three brothers get separated. Even in Zanjeer, Vijay’s parents are shot dead by Teja on the night of Diwali, the firecrackers drowning out the gunshots. When Vijay arrives at Teja’s den to take revenge, it is yet another Diwali night.

  In a way, the blood and gore of destroying Gabbar’s hands in Sholay is also an instance of ‘proportional justice’. Gabbar cuts off Thakur’s arms, and he in turn, orchestrates the retribution in which Gabbar’s hands are rendered useless. The sudden appearance of blood in that scene seemed to underline the completion of this quest for justice.36

  By and large, the anger of Salim–Javed’s heroes was the result of some serious psychological hurt that was as violent on a mental level as their action sequences were on a physical level. Be it the tattoo in Deewaar or an ‘illegitimate father’ in Trishul or a distant father in Shakti, the resulting psychological violence inflicted on the hero returned to wreak vengeance and this translated into extremely violent action scenes whose impact was far greater than the screen time they occupied.

  In many films this impact was further heightened by the intensity that the writers’ favourite—Amitabh Bachchan—brought to the fight scenes. Salim Khan says, ‘Amitabh Bachchan is physically very weak in real life but he projects aggression amazingly well. When most heroes pick up a gun, they look as if they don’t really know how to handle it and the gun may go off accidentally. But when Amitabh picks up a gun, it seems that he really means business.’

  At a time when the industry had given up on Bachchan, Salim–Javed were the only ones who kept their faith in him. And coincidentally, it was a fight scene in which they noticed the actor for the first time. Bachchan recalls, ‘I had a fight scene in Bombay to Goa where I fight while I am also chewing a gum. I get punched in the face, roll over and get up, still chewing gum. Salim–Javed had found this scene quite impressive.’ A cursory fight scene in a not-so-successful film was what hooked the writers and inspired them to tie their fortunes to that of a struggling actor. And eventually their gamble paid off: the actor became Hindi cinema’s first action hero and Salim–Javed were ‘credited’ for bringing in a wave of action in Hindi films.

  As they say, it is all written!

  A Political Awakening of Filmi Proportions

  ‘Independent India presented itself as a mixed economy, partaking of both socialism and capitalism. But, argued [economist Jagdish] Bhagwati, it had failed on both counts. It had grown too slowly to qualify as a “capitalist” economy, and by its failure to eradicate illiteracy or reduce inequalities had forfeited any claims of being “socialist”’—Ramachandra Guha in India After Gandhi, quoting a work published in 1973

  One of the elements of 1970s Hindi cinema was how mainstream films built in political commentary as part of the natural dialogues of characters. For example, even in a comedy like Khubsoorat (1980), Rekha’s family—who speak only in rhyme for large parts of the movie—refers to Y.B. Chavan’s exit from Indira Gandhi’s Congress in one of their breakfast-table ‘conversations’, after reading the newspaper. In Andaz (1971), there is mention of a college strike on the matter of ‘border disputes with Mysore or Madras’—again issues that were live in the 1960s.

  Strictly speaking, none of these political references were linked to the story in any way but they were an interesting way of bringing in some present-day relevance to the goings on in the film. Salim–Javed did not restrict themselves to merely mentioning political events in passing; rather they made strong comments about them, which revealed their consciousness regarding the state of the nation.

  In Haath Ki Safai, a random passer-by reacts to a petty theft by saying, ‘Din dahade chori? Yeh government nahin chal sakti . . .’lix Written in the early 1970s, this was a direct comment on the state of the country and was a throwaway line, with no connection to the plot. Such a political statement is unimaginable today. Even if it gets past the censor board, there is likely to be an avalanche of protests from the parties in power.

  The 1970s were a turbulent decade and problems were aplenty. Unemployment had reached record levels and fresh graduates were not finding any work. The public distribution system had collapsed and food availability—especially for the poor—had become a major problem. As a result, there had been sharp increase in crime—most notably, smuggling and black-marketeering. Simultaneously, the Licence Raj and associated protection of interests led to disproportionate assets in the hands of a few, and that increased the gap between the rich and poor significantly.

  Salim–Javed touched upon each one of these everyday issues to include a strong message in their films. The situation was normal, the lines were very well constructed, and together this made the overall message memorable. Salim Khan says, ‘Vitamin tablets have to be made palatable by a coating of sugar or something similar. Whatever our message was, we put it in a capsule of song, dance, action and entertainment. And this is how cinema has been.’

  Unemployment was the issue that most affected Salim–Javed’s core constituency—the youth, the demographic with which the Angry Young Man had the maximum resonance. Add to that their personal travails of having to find work and you hit a raw nerve. While the film industry was completely different from the regular corporate sector, Salim and Javed both had to go through endless meetings with producers to find work in their initial days.

  One of the common refrains found in their films was acknowledgement of the hard labour—mental and physical—that a job hunt was. In Trishul, Vijay a
sks Geeta what she is doing (after being fired from R.K. Gupta’s company) and she replies, ‘Jo kuch nahin karte, woh kamaal karte hain . . . aajkal main kamaal kar rahi hoon.’lx In Chacha Bhatija too, Sundar says, ‘Kaam dhoondhna bhi kaafi mushkil kaam hai’lxi—indicating a high degree of sympathy for the ranks of the educated unemployed.

  The other element that the writers touched upon was work experience. Employers wanted experienced candidates but the graduates fresh out of college could not get any till they found a job. In Shakti, Vijay goes for a job interview and explains his lack of experience with rather obvious logic, ‘Agar insaan ko kaam nahin milega, toh use experience kaise hoga? Yakeen kijiye, main yeh kaam kar sakta hoon.’lxii Even a minor character like Sachin’s in Trishul echoes the same sentiment during an interview. In both cases, the ‘heroic characters’ (Kulbhushan Kharbanda and Shashi Kapoor, respectively) take a call to hire them on the basis of their confidence.37

  The final—and probably the most frustrating—angle of a job search that they depicted was how the Indian concept of ‘sifarish’ brought an insidious nepotism into the corporate sector. In Deewaar, Ravi is the perfect candidate who seems capable and has all the necessary qualifications, but just as he is about to be given the job, a phone call from ‘general manager sahib’ tips the scale in favour of an unseen brother-in-law. In a later scene, Ravi decides to apply for a job in the police force but without the ‘sifarish’ of his future father-in-law who is a senior police officer. In Trishul, Sachin also gets a job in his fiancée’s family-owned firm without any ‘sifarish’ and states that quite proudly. This is a reflection of Salim’s and Javed’s personal beliefs, for neither man ‘launched’ his children in the film industry, letting them find their own way instead.

  Since employment was hard to come by at the time, an alternate career in crime was the natural fallout for many youth. However, Salim–Javed chose to look at both sides of the coin and the circumstances in which a citizen becomes a criminal. Their view was that there were bigger criminals around, operating within the legal framework. Haath Ki Safai’s Raju—when being released from prison—gives a short speech about how god-men, businessmen and politicians are all stealing from the people but only the pickpockets get caught.

  Thieves in Salim–Javed films were honourable people. ‘Choron ke bhi ussool hote hain’ (in Yaadon Ki Baaraat) became ‘Choron ke hi to ussool hote hain’ (in Majboor), hinting that these were good people who had drifted into a life of crime due to extenuating circumstances.

  And how extenuating these circumstances could be was explained in Deewaar through a long but gripping sequence in which police officer Ravi shoots down a thief only to find that he had stolen a loaf of bread to feed his hungry family. When Ravi goes to meet and apologize to the thief’s family, the boy’s father (A.K. Hangal) describes in detail their miserable life but also maintains that nothing really justifies crime—‘Hindustan mein hazaron log bhookhe marte hain toh kya sab chor ho jaye?’lxiv—thus summarizing the writers’ point of view. Ravi shoots down another criminal in the climax of the same film, who also had justifications for his crime but could not be forgiven either.

  In the same scene in Deewaar, the thief’s mother appears on-screen for one dramatic outburst where she curses the black marketeers who hoard food grains and are driving the prices up artificially. This issue of food distribution, along with the associated problem of adulteration, cropped up many times in Salim–Javed’s films. In Chacha Bhatija, as frustration mounts in the long line of people at a ration shop, the hero Shankar arrives and berates the owner—‘Tum logon ki tijori mein rakkha hua paisa nahin gina ja sakta, magar garibon ki jism ki pasliyaa zaroor gini ja sakti hai.’lxv (And being the hero that he is, he vows to give up his own black-marketeering racket in movie tickets right then and there.)

  This issue of hoarding and adulteration comes up again in Chacha Bhatija when Shankar says, ‘Dekh raha hoon ki sethon ke dilon mein lalach aur garibon ke chawal mein kankar badhte hi jaa raha hai.’lxvi In fact, ‘chawal mein kankar’ is a metaphor that returned again and again in Salim–Javed’s films—even after their separation. In Arjun, the hero bites into a ‘kankar’ in his food. And in Mr India (where the film’s mood was lighter), there is an entire factory of adulteration with different-coloured ‘kankars’ for different food grains. But it was always a message of hope because in the end the bad guys got their just desserts. As Kabir says at the end of Immaan Dharam, ‘Aaj ka Hindustan black marketeers, smugglers aur jamaa khoro ko ab ek pal ke liye bhi bardaasht nahin kar sakta.’lxvii

  ‘Saathiyon, agar is waqt meri awaaz un malikon tak pahuch rahi hai to wo sun le . . . humein yeh shikayat nahin hai ki unke drawing room ke guldaan phoolon se kyon saje hain. Humein yeh shikayat hai ki humare aate ke canastar khaali kyon hain? Humein yeh shikayat nahin ki yeh koyle ki khaaney unke liye sona kyon ugal rahi hain? Humein yeh shikayat hai ki humare hisse mein sirf raakh kyon aati hai?’lxviii

  With this speech, given by labour leader Anand Verma (Satyen Kappu) at the beginning of Deewaar, Salim–Javed presented the rich–poor divide starkly and created the anger that they would use time and again.

  And they depicted it in rousing language. In Chacha Bhatija, Shankar resists the attempts of the rich to destroy their slum with the following words: ‘Garibon ke jale hue gharon ki raakh ikkathi karne aaye ho, taki apne seth ki chandi ke bartanon ko ghis ke aur chamka sako?’lxix

  The resentment among the general public at the yawning gap between the top and bottom strata of 1970s society was repeatedly reflected in many of their scripts, right from Haathi Mere Saathi to Haath Ki Safai to their more famous films.

  This whole nationalist stand comes together exceptionally in Kaala Patthar, a film that highlights pretty much every aspect in which India had failed to become a truly socialist or a truly capitalist country.

  Dhanraj Puri (Prem Chopra) repeatedly expresses his disgust for the poor and their living conditions (though it is his company’s policies that are keeping them in misery). As the rich oppressor, his disregard for the lives of the miners comes across when they discuss incurring a potential loss of Rs 40 lakh if they consider the safety of four hundred miners. Puri tells his accountant, ‘Saxena, tumhara hisaab itna kamzor hai mujhe pataa nahin tha. Yeh bhi nahin jaante chaalis lakh char sau se bauht zyada hai.’lxx And follows it up with his description of the ‘ideal miner’, one who is not brave enough to raise his voice: ‘Humare kaam ka wohi mazdoor hai jo maraa maraa jiye aur sar jhukake sab sehta jaaye.’lxxi

  On the other hand, we have Vijay who is forever ready to take up the cause of the miners. In one scene, Vijay compares the mines to a giant python that swallows the miners and sucks them dry. Vijay confronts Puri several times in the film but he—as an aftereffect of his earlier experiences—is forever pessimistic about the long-term welfare of the miners.

  If Vijay is the face of the angry miner, engineer Ravi is the sympathetic technocrat no less concerned with their fate. In some scenes, his speeches are reminiscent of Deewaar’s Anand babu and though he is part of the ‘management’, he nevertheless intervenes on behalf of the workers and wins them a positive wage settlement.

  The third crusader in the film is Anita, a reporter who writes a scathing report about Puri’s mines, proposing that they be nationalized. In a conversation, she presents the benefits that miners working in nationalized mines get and through her, the writers make clear their idea for a welfare state.

  Kaala Patthar’s overall message was a direct consequence of its setting—a coal mine—and the true story on which it was based. Salim–Javed essentially believed in socialist principles and wrote a script that revolved entirely around their belief that industry practices, if monitored and regulated by the government, could ensure a basic lifestyle for all, which, in turn, would have a cascading impact on society, and India would awaken to a better tomorrow.

  As Deewaar’s Ravi says, ‘Subah to uss din hogi jab har kisi ke paas kaam hoga, ghar hoga, koi footpath pe nahin soye
ga . . .’lxxii

  Women of Substance

  ‘Badkismati se mujhe baatein karna bilkul nahin aata’lxxiii —Inspector Vijay Khanna to Mona in Zanjeer

  W ith this one line, Amitabh Bachchan killed any hope of romance for his Angry Young Man avatar, heralding an era of violent action as the main draw for Hindi films. Salim–Javed’s scripts were the starting point of this period and, indeed, romance was not their main focus. Film historian Kaushik Bhaumik says, ‘With their films, women became less important as there were very few women characters. Most of their films have women in peripheral roles. Hindi cinema lost touch with women in the 1970s because it was completely centred around Bachchan and the audiences all turned male.’

  Film critic Sukanya Verma counters this by saying, ‘Even if not always central to the story, the girls stood out in many of their movies. Look at Hema Malini’s feisty acrobat in Seeta Aur Geeta, fearless tangewali in Sholay, no-nonsense, poised businesswoman in Trishul or Zeenat Aman’s vendetta-seeking heroine in Don, Parveen Babi’s independent, unapologetic young woman engaged in a live-in relationship in Deewaar or Waheeda Rehman and Rakhee in Trishul, these women are no wallflowers. Strong doesn’t always mean vocal.’

  Apart from some very memorable women characters, Salim–Javed managed to bring some interesting twists to romance in their scripts. For viewers brought up on saccharine-sweet romances, the writers brought in a very different, almost matter-of-fact sort. For example, Rajesh Khanna was not his usual flamboyantly romantic self in Haathi Mere Saathi. There was a distinctly humorous tinge to his courtship. While proposing to Tanuja, he avoids the usual stars-and-moon metaphors of Hindi cinema and makes a joke about it instead.