1970s sensation, Actress and Playboy “Bunny” Katy Mirza died recently in London on March 16th, 2017.

A young Katy, an aspiring graphic designer in 1972-1973, was working as a receptionist at the London Hilton Hotel when a Playboy Club employee saw her and asked her to audition. After meeting with Hugh Hafner, Katy became a Playboy “Bunny” in 1973.

Fame and stardom brought Katy to Mumbai. She featured in Ramesh Bhai’s Kasme Vaade, starring Amitabh Bachan and Raakhee. Katy played Ruby, a politician’s personal secretary, in the controversial film Kissa Kursi ka (1977).

Katy is survived by her son Feroz Mirza. Although remembered mostly as a sex symbol, she was a single mom who raised her son single-handedly and was a strong fighter and a positive person even when things looked very bleak. May her soul rest in eternal peace

I got this email from a gentleman Mr Mark Storer who is trying to get more information on his mother-in-law, who was an unknown Bollywood dancer/actress of 1940s. Perhaps her screen name was Sweet Segundra and real name Dorothy Frampton. Even though there is little hope, if you have any information on this actress, or if you have seen her in any Hindi films, please let us know too. Her face looks very familiar though. Here is the story

“I wonder if you could help me. I have been trying to find some information on my mother in-law who is now deceased.
She was born in Secunderabad on April 16th 1925, her name was Dorothy Frampton… move the story forward to mid 1940’s… i believe she was a Bollywood Dancer/Actress under the name of Sweet Segundra??? and other names?? She got married in Bombay around 1944 to Leyland Preston (Believed to be the Fire Chief Of Bombay???) and had a Daughter Bernadette Preston (1945).

I know that she mixed with the film-stars of that time and had a very extravagant life style. That is all i know. She left India around 1957. She may have been in movies up to that date.
My sister in-law Bernadette says that when they left India for the UK as she had a heart condition, the advertising hoardings still had pictures of her everywhere in Bombay.

Can you help as i have run out of ideas on how to find any more information on her.

Photo Caption – Music-director Hemant Kumar caught in a characteristic pose while conducting his orchestra for a film in a suburban studio.

“If the music-director in Indian films had his own little philosopher’s stone which Could turn all his compositions into song-hits, everybody—the producers, especially— would be very happy people,” says Hemant Kumar.

Proceeding to analyze reasons for the success or failure of film music (reasons, too, for the success of his music in “Nagin” which Filmfare readers voted Best of the Year), Hemant Kumar said:

“A music director has many problems, not the least of which is dealing with his producers. There are producers who do not understand what music is and how to use it in a film—where the songs should be placed and how situations calling for the use of music should be woven into the fabric of the story.

“Most producers are insistent upon having the final say in choosing the songs for a film and, frequently, their choice is not the same as what the music-director’s would be.

“And finally, I am not able to understand why the music-director must be blamed if a picture whose music has been settled in this fashion flops.

“If the producer says that such a picture flopped because its songs were poorly composed, he should realize that the fault is really his. He was the supreme arbiter of the music in the film, including the music for the songs!

“That, however, was not the case with Mr. S. Mukerji and the music in `Nagin’. When I came to Bombay, methods and requirements here were new to me. They were different from what I was accustomed to in Bengal. It was Mr .Mukerji who guided me.

“Before I began work on the melodies of ‘Nagin,’ he said, ‘Keep listening all day long to broadcast Indian film music. Keep listening for days and days. You will note a certain monotonousness in their melody. Then, when you commence work, do your best to avoid that monotonousness. Try for a different effect, try for the new.

“His advice started me on an altogether fresh line of thought. ‘Get different effects,’ Mr. Mukerji had said. I took his instruction literally and tried the ‘been.’

“To get natural harmonies proved difficult with the original instrument, so I resorted to the clavioline played by Kalyanji V. Shah, which afforded a more perfect blending of notes. I used other instruments, too, to fill out the harmonies. Some were played by Ravi, my assistant.

“For the rest, the basic lilt of the tunes in my music, my approach can be summed up in four words: Sweetness, Simplicity, Melody and Rhythm.

“On all the music of ‘Nagin’ we sat together; the lyricist Rajendra Krishan, Mr. Mukerji, Ravi, and I. And, only when we were all in complete agreement about each melody, were any of them finalized.

“In consequence, even in the early days of the making of the film, Mr. Mukerji was completely sure that the music would be liked by filmgoers and told me so. At the premiere of `Nagin,’ too, he reassured me. Not another soul had anything to say about the quality of the music!”

“What is a favorable film subject for music?” Hemant Kumar was asked
.
“The subject,” he replied, “should be one affording scope for music. It can be a musical, a costume or historical drama, a theme with a rural background.

“Such themes have an angle slanted towards the use of music. There will always be a certain amount of concentration of the music to provide effects, and the nature of the film’s subject also contributes to the success of this music.

“It is comparatively difficult to provide a song-hit in a social picture because the days of formula stories are over. Songs tinged with sadness cannot be said to appeal to the film- going public these days, and their only chance of serving a useful purpose might lie in films dealing with class-struggle, where they might achieve popularity and become hits.

“But with romantic subjects such as the costume drama, any music which brings out the unusual atmosphere of the film may generally be counted upon to furnish a hit and, under ideal conditions, even the mere humming of the music can result in a hit regardless of the use of any words — a song without words.”

In answer to the question whether a music-director should work under the same pressure as others engaged in the making of a film Hemant Kumar observed:

“I find that music which I compose and which still appeals to me after the lapse of a month turns out to have wide appeal. When a producer insists upon having his music completed in a short period of time, it is next to impossible to give of one’s best.”

Regarding his views upon the copyrighting of Indian music, this music-director says, “There is a school of thought which holds that there cannot be any copyrights to Indian music both because of its diversity and its universality.

“Thera are six basic ‘ragas’ and thirty-six basic `raginis,’ with thousands of variants (permutations and combinations). These have been in existence since Indian music began and those who claim copyright have to reckon with this fact.

‘But, in the case of film music, so far as the melody of the song and the lyrics are concerned, there can, and should be, copyright. For example, my song hit, ‘Na yeh chand hoga, na tare rahenge, in the film ‘Shart’ was used, with both the words and the music, in the Pakistani film `Sassi.’

“Neither the music-director nor the producer of the film can do anything about such things, though both are affected. With a Copyright Act to protect them, plagiarists could be brought to book and the practice stopped.”

Hemant Kumar also says, “I feel I owe much to my musicians, production chief S. Mukerji, playback singer Lata Mangeshkar and Director Nandlal Jaswantlal for my success in `Nagin’.” (This interview was conducted in 1956).

Noted music composer Wajahat Attre passed away in Lahore on Friday, May 26th, 2017.

Attre had been facing medical complications for the last few months, and was suffering from paralysis and heart problems. He was admitted to the Jinnah Hospital where he died. He has left behind three sons and a daughter.

A number of personalities from the world of entertainment attended Attre’s funeral, including singers Shaukat Ali, Anwar Ali, Ustad Ghulam Haider Khan and Qadir Ali Shagan, film director Shehzad Rafique, music composer Wazir Afzal, Radio Pakistan Sargodha Station Director Saleem Bazmi, film writer Pervaiz Kalim and poet Altaf Bajwa.

He was laid to rest at Miani Sahib graveyard. His qul will be held on Sunday at Imambargah Neelam Block, Iqbal Town.

Wajahat Attre was a son of renowned music composer Rasheed Attre. He was born in Puna, India in 1945. After Partition, his family migrated to Pakistan. He has composed music for over 200 films.

Saleem Bazmi told Dawn that although film Zarqa’s music was composed by his father Rasheed, one of the songs on the film’s soundtrack – ‘Raqs zanjeer pehen ker bhi kiya jata hai’ — was composed by Wajahat as his father died during the making of the film.

Attre has several popular film songs to his credit such as ‘Wagdi nadi da paani’, ‘Vay ik tera pyar menu mileya among other hits. Overall, he has composed for 3,000 film and non-film songs. The films that became popular due to their music composed by Attre were Mukhra, Chan Varyam, Naukar Woti Da and Ishq Khuda. Many a singer has sung songs composed by the eminent music director, including Madam Noor Jehan, Humera Channa, Saira Naseem, Shabnam Majeed, Saima Mumtaz and Azra Jahan.

For the last five years, Attre had been working with Radio Pakistan Lahore on contractual basis. Punjab Arts Council and Lahore Arts Council both planned to hold references in the memory of the late music composer.

Singers, actors and producers have all expressed grief on Attre’s death. Writer Pervaiz Kalim said that Attre had made a huge contribution to the film industry (Source – Dawn).

In my personal opinion the quality of his music is nowhere near the music composed by his father Rashid Attre (late) in 1950s and 1960s, but the tunes are very catchy and remain very popular.

“Tu je mere hamesha col rahwey” is a very popular song composed by Wajahat Attre for Punjabi film Sher Khan (1981) picturized on Anjuman.

Any lover of film music will recall the magical voice that sang those songs. It is that of Sudha Malhotra. She may not have reached the heights of the Mangeshkar sisters, but she has sung a whole lot of memorable songs, worked with every respected composer of her time, and held and sustained a position of no mean order in a film industry where many a good singer went down under for want of adequate backing.

Today, her voice is still in fine fettle and she still comes up with ghazal, geet and bhajan albums and continues singing in live shows.

Making her look back on her career is a little difficult, but with some cajoling, she begins, “I started my music career in Lahore as a child artiste for All India Radio and went on to do stage performances. Ghulam Haider saw me on stage and prophesised, ‘This child is going to become a singer of repute.’

“I remember very vaguely that I sang Noorjehan’s and Kanan Devi’s songs and I was so tiny that they had to make me sit on a table so for the audience to be able to see me. I was a real hit!” And then, after a pause, she adds, “In fact, most of my songs have been hits.”

The film connection began a little later. Sudha used to come to Mumbai to spend her vacations with her grandfather and, she recalls, “My aunt knew Anil Biswas and introduced us. Anilda heard me and gave me a song in Arzoo. The song was the popular number Mila gaye nain… After that, P.N. Arora, A.R. Kardar and others gave me singing assignments. But my base was classical music, in which I had trained. I learnt under people like Laxman-prasad Jaipurwala, Abdul Rehman Khan and Amarnath.”

Her career started very early and ended equally early when she got married (into the Motwane family of Chicago Radio fame) and quit films. But now, as she looks back, she says she’d never have quit if she got to live her life again. “But at that time, the film industry was not considered the best of places, nobody from decent families entered the line. So films were out,” she explains.

Now she says, “If I could relive my life, I’d never have given up my music. I’d have made sure I got the best of both worlds.” However, she didn’t give up singing and continued with it in her own vein.

In the time she was a playback singer, Sudha carved a strong niche for herself amidst talents like Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle, Shamshad Begum and Geeta Dutt, among others.

She says with justifiable pride, “Whatever little work I did is still remembered. The last song I sang was also one that I had composed myself: Tum mujhe bhool bhi jao to yeh haq hai tum ko. This song became immensely popular.” (The rest of the numbers in this film, Didi, were composed by N. Dutta). Film music fans might recall the picturisation of this song on Shubha Khote and Sunil Dutt.

Among the other composers she worked with were Jaidev, Roshan, S.D. Burman, Husnlal Bhagatram and others. In Kala Bazaar, when she sang Na main dhan chahoon under S.D. Burman’s baton along with Geeta Dutt and the song became an instant hit. “That was the time when lyricists and composers were so amazingly gifted that anything anyone sang used to stand out,” she says nostalgically.

She reveals, “Towards the end of my career, Sahir (Ludhianvi) gave me a lot of support. ” Kashti ka khamosh safar hai... was by him. As for that fabulous qawwali from the film, Barsaat Ki Raat, Sudha has some fond recollections. “This beautiful qawwali, Na to carvan ki talash hai… na to humsafar ki talash hai, took us a whole night to record.

It was always a pleasure to work with Rafi, Kishoreda and Manna Dey.

“In those days, we rehearsed so much, and did so along with the musicians. So if there was a slight error on the part of a musician, we’d have to do it all over again. So it was work which needed complete concentration. We recorded separately for the film and separately for the record, but the quality of the songs is so good that they are remembered even today. “I sing all my songs on stage even today and there is an audience for songs like Salaame hasrat kabool kar do (from Babur).

Among her personal favourites, she cites Noorjehan. “I loved the way she sang and I used to sing all her songs,” she smiles.

As for more contemporary names, she says “I like Jagit Singh’s voice and I used to like Mehdi Hassan very much. But nowadays, I don’t come across any singer who can touch me.” Incidentally, HMV has brought out an album, The Best of Sudha Malhotra.

Today, one sees her on television where she sings melodious ghazals and bhajans.

“The modern type of songs I don’t gel with and I don’t like this business of singing other people’s songs,” she says firmly. “I feel I’ve done my bit and now I’m singing for myself.”

She spends her time teaching music, but says, “I like to teach but not as much as I like to sing and I’m still looking for a student like myself!”

Then she adds softly, “I have been what you might call unprofessionally professional about my career. But music has been my life.” (As told to Lata Khubchandani in late 1980s or 1990s)

Real Name –

Profession – Music Director

Active Years – 1950s

Nationality – Indian

Religion – Hindu

Ethnicity –

Date of Birth – 1922

Date of Death – March 14th, 1967.

Debut Film –

Last Film –

Significant others in the Film Industry –

‘Classical music has suffered a huge loss because of Film music’ remarked Dhaniram, which surprised me. Till now many Music Directors had mentioned how Classical music had gained popularity by being represented in a simple way through Film music and I had expected a similar answer from him. But when he gave an opposite answer I asked ‘How come ?’

‘That is because those who are well versed with Classical music come to the Film world and die of hunger. That is why many people are least interested in Classical Music.’

Then I asked ‘What do you think is the reason for the bad state of classical musicians’.

‘As the persons with knowledge of Classical music know the basics of music very well they hardly resort to the cheap ‘copying’ of tunes from Western or other foreign tunes. They churn the Raag-Raginis to give valuable butter like unique tunes. The same is not at all possible for some & for them it is a terrible loss.

After learning the basics from Buteh Khan, Dhaniram had made his brother Omkarnath his guru. During those days Dhaniram used to sing for Aakashvaani Delhi. This was around 1935. After that in 1942 he started working as Music Director for ‘Song Publicity Organization’. He became the Music Director for ‘HMV’ Lahore in 1945. It was there that he started his career by giving music in ‘Papiha Re’.

During the time of partition , Dhaniram left the films ‘Kaalidas’ and ‘Mera Desh’ incomplete and went to Delhi. He started working there as a Music Director.

‘In the year 1955 (?) I went to Bombay’ as told by Dhaniram. Here he started getting one after another Films. ‘ B. R. Chopra’s ‘Sholey’, A.V.M’s ‘Ladki’, ‘Dhuan’, ‘Daak Babu’, ‘Shaahi Bazaar’, ‘Shaahi Chor’, ‘Baaje Ghungroo’ and dubbed Films like ‘Matwaala’, ‘Mahavath’, ‘Taqdeer’, ‘Aankh Ka Nashaa’ & ‘Ladki’ were some Films through which I could showcase my talent. However only the audience can say if I have been successful in my attempts or not.’

‘Surely the audiences would give witness to your success. Just tell me now something about the audiences.’ My words were ‘Do you know what the Audience likes ?’

‘We cannot measure the likes of the Audiences. Just understand that whatever fascinates the mind becomes their favourite.’

Around 42 years ago Dhaniram was born in Secunderabad. It was a huge surprise that he developed an interest in music. He was so much lost in his passion for music that he didn’t realize how he overcame the difficulties. In 1932 when he came with his Father to Shimla he remained there only. He learnt music till 1935 from Buteh Khan. Then when he took an oath by singing and composing, then he had dedicated his life to music. He has given such gems like O. P. Nayyar. Dhaniram was Nayyar’s Guru for many years. Vinod who had given music in a Punjabi Film ‘Chaman’ was also his disciple. Sabita Banerjee lent her voice for the first time under Dhaniram’s composition. It was in the Film ‘Aankh Ka Nashaa’.

Let’s hear in his own words what all he has to do to make tunes for a song. ‘First, think about the situation and then get lost in the deepness of the words in the song. I do attempt to be in synchronization with what the Lyricist has penned. When the mind gives the nod I wrap the tunes around the words.’

‘This means that you don’t give your tunes to write a song?’

‘I have not tied myself in such instances. Many a times when the tunes have been created first I have given the Lyricists to write upon that. But I do believe that the Lyrics should come first and then the tune.’

Dhaniram was inspired by the Folk music of Punjab and Uttar Pradesh. He had not only learnt music of all states in India but also western music.

According to him audiences are happy to hear new tunes and newness can only be brought by experimenting (This interview was conducted by Devdas ‘Kusum’ for Filmi Sangeet Magazine, contributed by Sudarshan Talwar).

Filmographies might not be 100% accurate or complete because of various reasons including artistes with similar names

Date – March, 1978.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Nargis, Krishna and Raj Kapoor at Pran’s daughter’s Wedding (1978)

The ‘Aag’ between them may have died down long time ago, but all the same it was a ‘Sangam’ of sorts between Nargis and Raj Kapoor. The ‘historic’ event took place at the reception thrown to celebrate Pran’s daughter’s wedding. There were other occasions in the past when the two celebrities had been present, but they’d always taken great care not to cross each’other’s paths. On this night however, it may have been a conspiracy of circumstances that brought them aamne samne. Those who witnessed this memorable scene, promptly went into a nostalgic flashback of ‘Pyar hua, ikraar hua’, yet not a trace of emotion showed on the ‘greatest love couple of the fifties’. It was admirable the way they pulled off the situation with reserve, grace and dignity. Special credit, of course, went to Mrs. Krishna Kapoor who was the most relaxed of the trio.

What kind of a relationship did you share with Dev Anand? Were you in love with him? What went wrong?

Oh my. isn’t this old hat by now? When Dev and I parted company (after a beautiful relationship), I didn’t raise a hue and cry. I could have done so — got publicity out of it! Like Anju Mahendru did after her break-up. And it probably would have made international news, you know! By talking about our ex-relationship. I didn’t want to hurt his image. And Dev is VERY image-conscious, let me tell you. So I kept quiet. I had always looked up to him in our association. We were so close to each other—that I think I almost worshipped him. To the extent I was totally dependent on him and in return I gave him my total obedience. Like he just had to say, sit down, I’d sit, if he said stand up, I’d stand! That’s how I felt about the man! It was an implicit trust and faith I had in him, and in our relationship. When the break came—all of a sudden I was out in the cold—naturally I was hurt, angry, disappointed, bitter maybe. But that’s all in the past now…..

Is it true that you were offered Zeenat’s ‘Hare Rama’ role? Why did you refuse it?

Yes, I was offered the role. In fact, it was, to quote Dev himself, “written and conceived” for me! But I simply couldn’t visualize myself playing Dev’s “sister”. Not after the kind of relationship I’d shared with him. I couldn’t bear the idea, and I frankly explained my feelings to Dev. I even told him that the public after having been fed with stories about our Great Romance, would never accept me as his sister on the screen. I remember when Sunil and my aunty Nargis married, people literally abused them because the mother-son images of ‘Mother India’ were fresh in their minds. I feared the public would react similarly if Dev and I tried to pass off as brother-sister. But Dev would not understand my point. He tried to persuade me a lot to accept the role. “Zaidi, I want you in my film”, he insisted. So I suggested that he give me the heroine’s role—I know it was an inconsequential role but at least it was the romantic role. But that he refused. He said that I didn’t look ‘pahadi’ and that Mumtaz suited the role. Does she look any more ‘pahadi’ than I do to you? Well, I refused the sister’s role.

Did you say that Hema and Zeenat owe their succccess to you?

Yes. It was a flippant remark, no malice intended. All that I meant was that I had refused the two roles that catapulted Hema and Zeenat to their big successes. Producer F. C. Mehra had offered me the role opposite Raaj Kumar in ‘Lai Pathar’. He showed me Bengali version of the film and I fell for the role. It was almost settled that I would play it when I was told that Raakhee, the second lead in the film, would get top billing to me. I didn’t like it. You see, at that time ‘Gambler’ with me as the heroine was running at the theatres. Raakhee’s first film ‘Jeevan Mrityu’ had been released for morning shows! So on what count were they giving me lower billing? I thought it wasn’t fair so I gave up that film.

When I refused the ‘Hare Rama’ role, it was me who recomended Zeenat to Dev for that role. I’d seen her in ‘Hulchul’ and ‘Hungama’ and thought she wasn’t much in those films—the roles were such of course. I felt that she would fit the ‘Hare Rama’ role like a glove. But Dev wasn’t very keen. He said she was Ralhan’s discovery and that she had a “very hard face”. I don’t know what made him change his mind eventually. One fine day, I found out she was IN and I was OUT!

Why do you think your career didn’t get off the ground? Who do you blame—yourself or Dev?

Blame? What’s the use of crying over split milk? Mavbe I was to blame because I had left my career almost entirely in Dev’s hands when we were together. There were so many good roles I didn’t take because I was a Navketan camp girl and Dev didn’t encourage me to take outside roles. Like ‘Saathi’ (the role went to Simi), ‘Dastaan’ (the role went to Bindu). Dev wanted me to be the heroine in ‘Guide’ and ‘Tere Mere Sapne’ but both fell through. ‘Guide’—because Dev thought I didn’t know dancing (of course I do!) and ‘Tere Mere Sapne’ because Vijay Anand wanted Mumtaz for the film.

Is it true that Vijay Anand didn’t approve of your close relationship with Dev?

I don’t know about that. All I know is that Vijay and I couldn’t ever adjust mentally to each other. Temperamentally too. We didn’t like each other from the start. I think it started when I was offered the heroine’s role in ‘Jewel Thief’. Vijay Anand took a fresh screen test of me and rejected me! Till today I have this curiosity to ask him, if I ever meet him, what he found wrong with me. Even when he used to visit the sets of ‘Gambler’ he had this habit of making me uncomfortable. He used to make me feel like a fool in my own eyes. Once I even told Dev to request Vijay to keep away when I was shooting on the sets. And Dev told me, “I know how you feel, Zaidi. When he’s around he makes me feel like a fool too!” I think it was Vijay’s superior attitude that bugged me. I didn’t ever work with him. I could never have.

How do you cope with the frustration of not having succeeded as an actress?

For some time when my career seemed to stand still, I moped around the house! Then one day I decided to shake myself up and get out of this inactivity. That’s when I remembered a shelved story which my father had written so many years ago with Nargis, Nimmi and Dilip Kumar in mind. I unearthed it and got down to working on it—right from scratch. It kept me busy. What’s more, I was my own mistress and I’ve enjoyed putting my heart and soul in it.

Is it true that Vinod Mehra ditched you in favor of Rekha?

Oh, no, I’m so bored with Vinod Mehra and Rekha!! Actually I don’t know how I got involved in this triangle. In fact, I didn’t like Vinod when we first met. It was only when we were working outdoors for a film that we got to know each other and became great pals. But no romance in the friendship! Vinod used to drop in at home whenever he felt like it — and all of us–Vinod, our friends, my sister Shahida would go for drives and movies. It was all great fun. But Vinod and I’ve never gone on a single ‘twosome’ date as such! In fact, what I liked best about him was that he never tried to get fresh with me! So you see there’s no question of his ‘ditching’ me. Nowadays he doesn’t drop in like before. Says he’s busy, doesn’t find the time …..

Somehow you’ve got yourself a reputation as a hard drinking, chain-smoking, man-chaser. Can you explain it?

Help! How on earth did I get such a wicked, wicked reputation? No, I’m definitely not a man-chaser. I’ve never chased a man in my life—never will. It’s below my dignity and not flattering to my ego. Besides I firmly believe it’s the man who’s got to do the chasing. Chain-smoking? Impossible. Hard-drinking? Impossible. Except a little brandy sometimes when I’m off-color.

How would you describe yourself?

I’m a self-respecting, God-fearing person, a misfit in the film crowd, and a believer in destiny (This interview was conducted in 1973).

Date – January, 1954.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Merry hostess at her son Bulbul’s birthday party was actress Sumitra Devi, in the sequined sari, seen tending guests Trilok Kapoor and the Kishore Sahus.

Real Name –

Profession – Playback Singer

Active Years – 1950s

Nationality – Pakistani

Religion – Islam

Ethnicity –

Date of Birth –

Date of Death –

Debut Film –

Last Film –

Miscellaneous Info – Salma Begum sang few songs for early Pakistani films including Hamari Basti (1950), Aagosh (1953) and Shararey (1955).

“You are the first one to ask for my version of the things I have been accused of and given me the opportunity to explain,” said Premnath as he sat there in the get-up of Ravana for a mythological film at Basant Studios. “This is what the journalists have made me out to be-a modern Ravana,” he continued. “But not a single gossip writer has had the courtesy to get my version. They sometimes see something happen and write about it, sometimes they just hear of something I am supposed to have done and write about it with the usual mirchi—masala. Is it fair ? I ask you.”

As he said this, Premnath looked a very different type of man—a far cry from the violent eccentric he is made out to be.

“But what have you to say to the charge usually made against you that you are always mouthing four- letter words, always drunk, always come late on the sets ? Surely, not all this is a figment of the gossip-writer’s fertile imagination,” I said.

“Look, you people went on writing about my drunken behavior. You said I always come late and drunk on the sets. I admit I do drink, but I have never let my work suffer because of that. Ask anybody ! Not a single producer can complain that I stopped work because of my inebriated state. Do report about my drinking-that is part of your duty. But I have now stopped drinking for almost three months, yet not a single paper has written about it.

“Whenever a producer has come to sign me, I have always put my cards on the table. In spite of this, they sign me. I belong to the minority of actors who do their homework and only then come on the sets. How many have cared to spotlight this thoroughness of mine ? I am not boasting, but isn’t this much due to me ?

“Writing against me is nothing new. Even in the days of Barsaat, one of the Delhi vernaculars used to write all kinds of rubbish about me. I remember its reporter once came asking me to help him out with Nimmi’s telephone number and address. Not only did I give it to him, I also told him that Nimmi had a special code to sort out the faaltu callers from the genuine ones. Nimmi had told me about the code when talking of the nuisance fans made of themselves at times. But the next thing I knew was an item in that very vernacular, saying I was having an affair with Nimmi and our code was two bells at the door ! What do you call this kind of journalism ? Result :

“Madhubala, with whom I was then having a hectic romance, was furious with me for double-crossing her. Nimmi, too, was hurt, as she thought I was spreading a vile rumor about her.

“Again, every paper without exception has written that Bina Rai, my wife, became a nervous wreck because of my ill-treatment. What they do not know is that this sort of psychosis runs in the Rai family and is hereditary. Any other man in my place would have either committed suicide or thrown out his wife. I did neither. Because I am a believer in Destiny and know what is written in one’s fate cannot be escaped. I let even my kids grow up in the same house as Bina. Today, they are not only old enough to look after themselves, but are well on the way to becoming successful actors.

“When I married Bina, I had some eighteen films going with Madhubala. But I gave up all eighteen, though I knew I was hurting Madhu, because I believed that if I am married to someone else, I had no right to let myself in for temptation. I admit it—I know I am not above falling prey to the situation. I did not want anything to start between Madhu and myself—at least not after marriage. So I made a clean break. Then, after many years, Madhu and her father came to me for just one film that they were producing themselves. I did sign for that film opposite Madhu, but Fate willed otherwise. For no sooner was the mahurat of Pathan performed, than Madhu fell ill and Mumtaz had to take her place.”

“All this is very well, but how do you defend yourself in the case of Kamasutra ? All sorts of things have been said about the movie and you.” I was not letting Premnath off easily.

“Look, when I made the film, there were no sexual scenes in it. No doubt we had some very torrid kissing scenes—me and Faryal, who plays my wife in the film. But the film was then called The Beloved India. It was later changed to Kamasutra and the sexual scenes were added with a stand-in—as was evident to any trained eye. Once again, the same Delhi vernacular wrote all sorts of hogwash about my disgusting acting. That without seeing the movie.”

“But you were never the center of controversy in your lead days. In those days, you had your affairs quietly and more discreetly. Why is it that today you are attracting so much attention ?”

“Well, even in those days, Baburao Patel and his Filmindia wrote rabidly critical things about me, but those days Filmindia was the only powerful film journal. Now every other magazine has to dish out something exciting. But tell me have you seen any other actor use his ‘exile’ as well as I did? Immediately after my disastrous tenure as a producer, I gave a voluntary insolvency declaration and wound up my production concern. Not because I owed money to anyone and wanted to run away from my responsibilities-no, I did not owe anybody a single pie. But I found that to keep a production concern going, I had to find money. According to my horoscope, I knew I was going through Shanti Dasa and could do nothing profitably. So I wound up my business and went away to the Himalayas, where I studied our scriptures and also did three documentary movies. Here they are !” said Premnath.

” I did not sit at home bemoaning my fate. I knew the right time had to come for my fortune to take a turn for the better. Only when it came did I sign Johny Mera Naam. Though it may sound vainglorious now, I knew beforehand my fortune would change with this film. I was getting offers even before Johny, but according to my kundali, nothing would work until the opportune time. If the Lord willed my exile, He also willed my return. But these things are beyond today’s gossip-writers, who can see only the spicy side of film life and care for no other quality. So I show them only that side of my personality which makes sensational news. Now tell me, who is more to blame: me, who has a better side to my personality, or you who want to see only the ‘evil’ in me?”

Premnath strode majestically back to the Ravana sets, leaving me to wonder who was nearer the truth—this enigma of a man who has a way of explaining everything away, or the gossip writers who have a nose for news?

Maybe, Bina would have quite a different story to tell. And since the truth must lie somewhere between Bina and Prem, I suppose we will never really know what soured up the first Hollywood- style romance in the starry history of our cinema (Interviewed by Girija Rajendran in 1976).

Date – 1950s.

Related Category – Pakistani Film Industry

Caption – Nighat Sultana and Kamal in incomplete Pakistani film Chori Chori.

Year – 1961

Language – Urdu

Country – Pakistan

Producer – Q.Zaman

Director – Munshi Dil

Music Director – Safdar

Box-Office Status – Hit

Cast – Jamila Razzaq, Sudhir, Ilyas

Miscellaneous Information – The film had few sequences in color, making it the first partially colored film of Pakistan.

This new Pakistani release commands attention as being the vehicle for introducing color into local films and perhaps nobody is more conscious of this fact than the director, veteran Munshi Dil. A minor proof of his extreme cleverness is that the film opens with a color sequence and ends with a color sequence; if you want to see the colors, you have to see the whole film. A hard bargain.

Those who think that they know all about the legend of ‘Gul Bakauli’ under-estimate the writer’s (Munshi Dil) ability to ‘discover’ new details. Mercifully, however, he is content with only a few surprises. The flower is most probably a flower, Bakauli is a fairy because she occasionally displays wings; and Tajul Maluk a prince who must get the flower to restore the eyesight of his father. The story moves all right. Tajul Maluk’s brothers go in search of the flower but lose their freedom over `chauser’ to Dilbar, the prostitute who lives in a palace. But she cannot deceive Tajul Maluk because the cat over whose head the lamp is placed is but a stuffed skin (to be fair, it resembles a cat), and he can dispose it of simply by asking for a proper lampstand. However, the prince and his companion must proceed towards their destination. They just walk into the cave of the jin who guards Bakauli’s garden. In the cave there is a statue the sight of which reminds the prince’s companion of the need to fall in love. The jin is also there but he can see only what the director wants him to see. However, it transpires that the statue is really the cousin of Bakauli turned into plaster by the jin because she would not love him. While a love triangle develops in the cave, Tajul Maluk can wander into Bakauli’s garden and accomplish his mission of getting the flower and Bakauli’s ring with the help of a jin. (This jin is apparently without a master and it is only at the end of the film that one finds him attached to the court of Bakauli’s father). On his way back Tajul Maluk falls a prey to his brothers’ intrigue. That results in a trip to the under sea world, the purpose of which is a lecture on conjugal propriety. This the prince delivers with the fire of a born demagogue, and then returns to the surface. Meanwhile his brothers have reached home and restored their father’s eyesight with the stolen flower.

The story rolls on . . . Tajul Maluk wins the love of Bakauli but soon, discovers that she is a subject of Raja Inder. This King punishes her by turning her lower half into plaster. Dilbar comes to dance on flames and there is no reason why the King should not grant her wish (which is nothing but reprieve for Bakauli). But Munshi Dil thought otherwise. He has been in the game too long to forget that his audience is all, Muslim. Bakauli will have her freedom but not before Noor Jehan’s singing of a prayer has demolished the idols around.

This is the story. However, the events have secondary importance in Director Munshi Dil’s scheme; the first thing is his methods of presenting theatre on celluloid. One cannot fail to observe it, each and every frame is stamped. The way he simplifies matters is simply staggering. What are the characters after all but like loose clay in the hands of the director. And he works according to a system. The first thing a character must do is to introduce himself or herself. Then there are the requirements of box-office elements — comedy, romance, speeches sense and nonsense all are apportioned footage. Whoever the characters may be they have to follow the footage allocation. And what is experience worth if one cannot turn a jin into a clown and the clown into a giant-killer! One cannot ignore the very deft use to which Munshi Dil puts his knowledge of Agha Hashr’s plays and Shauq’s ‘masnavi’. The camera ? He condescends to its use without hiding his disdain for it. And any way who cares for black-and-white photography in a film half of which is in colors? It is indeed astounding how firmly his technique has repulsed the assaults of time. Some credit, however, must, go to the public, those great patrons of 1919 vintage.

The film has a respectable cast — most of the players are veterans in their fields. They do not fail their fans — color cannot spoil them and they all dress well. The one without a costume is Nazar and the only thing left for him is to act which he does, much better than he has been doing lately. The public will, of course, laugh at all the funny things (which the film has in abundance) and enjoy the dancing and singing; the menu is made for them.

It is with peculiarly mixed feelings of pleasure and pain that I recall my memorable roles: pleasure in that I lived fully and made the best of the opportunities offered to me, pain in that I can no longer do the things that I have done or play the roles that I have played. Arm-chair memories are always nostalgic—the satisfaction of having achieved something is nullified by the inability to do more.

I cannot think of the past without acknowledging my debt to the institution and the people who made me and to whom I owe much of my success. There was the Bombay Talkies for which we worked and of which we felt we were a part. This sense of belonging to an institution or a place is no longer there; today things are like a bazaar—the deal over, we go our respective ways.

Among producers to whom I owe most are the late Himansu Rai and the veteran showman Mr. S. Mukerji. It is from them that I learnt my first lesson in how to present myself to the camera, how to understand the subtleties of a character, a situation, a piece of dialogue, how to identify myself with the character I am portraying. From Ashok Kumar I learnt the virtue of applying myself seriously to my work, to untiringly rehearse each shot till the best possible result is achieved. Ashokji’s deep sincerity, his capacity for hard work and his great gift as an actor in catching the mood of the moment left an indelible impression on me. I tried to acquire these qualities, qualities which are so essential for an artiste.

Recalling memorable roles is re-living thrilling moments from films like “Chaya,” “Jailor,” “Kangan,” “Bandhan,” “Jhoola,” “Ghar Ki Rani,” “Shaheed,” “Awaara,” “Maa,” “Basant Bahar” and, coming nearer to the present, “Batwara,” “Kanch Ki Gudia,” “Aas Ka Panchi,” “Hum Dono” and “Gunga Jumna.” Of these, the most successful in which I played the leading lady were Bombay Talkies’ “Jhoola,” “Bandhan” and “Kangan.” The themes of these films were not outstanding nor the characterisation bold. The dialogue was down to earth, with little or no rhetoric. And yet, somehow, they had an inexplicable beauty about them which touched the deepest recesses of our hearts and made us want to see them over and over again.

Photo Caption – Studies in moods from two different films. Above left: Leela Chitnis in “Jailor”; picture alongside: in “Kangan”.

Of these three much-talked-about films, which celebrated jubilees throughout the country, the serene beauty of the character of Geeta, the heroine of “Jhoola,” appealed to me most. Geeta was very much like a character picked out of Jane Austen: there was very little in her that could be termed loud or dramatic. It was left to me to breathe life into her, to understand and interpret the delicate shades and intricacies of her character, to interpret the working of her mind so that her behavior and utterances were charged with meaning. I had to shut my mind to everything but the character I was impersonating, and to put passion and a pulse-beat into what were seemingly undramatic happenings. To see drama in every-day life and to enact it so that others might see it requires histrionic talent as much as anything else.

Another, though much later, film in which I played one of my memorable roles was “Shaheed.” One particular scene I shall always remember. Dilip, who is playing my son, is in prison—sentenced to death. Chandra Mohan, who is playing Dilip’s father, and I go to the prison to see our son for the last time. I am required to be brave, not to shed a tear and still be a mother!

I go to him. We make small talk; we smile. Deep within us, we know the tragedy that is about to overtake us. In the end the warders come to part us. Chandra Mohan nudges me and begs me to keep it up.

I take leave of my son and, accompanied by the warders, walk out. But it is too much for me. I burst into a hysterical cry, and rush back and cling to the iron bars that separate me from my son.

Photo Caption – Leela Chitnis’s motherly concern for her son Dilip in Filmistan’s “Shaheed”. “The presence of Dilip was as much a challenge to me as my role,” says Leela Chitnis.

Even before I acted this scene I knew what it demanded of me. Here was drama—naked, full of the holiest and fiercest of all fires, a mother’s love for her son. I had to be brave— for my son’s sake. But I had to be a mother, too. I rehearsed the scene in my mind innumerable times, when I was in the midst of people and when I was alone—closeted in my room. I knew that this climactic scene depended on me: on the perfect switch-over from assumed bravery to motherly fear. And the fact that Dilip was playing my son was an incentive to me to put over by best. Dilip was still new to Films, but his immense acting ability was there for all to see. He was as much a challenge to me as my role. And I knew that here was a moment I dare not fail.

My role of the mother in “Awaara,” though not as dramatic as in “Shaheed,” was still a great one. Youthful Raj Kapoor, who made this film, had already earned a name for himself with his “Aag” and “Barsaat.” I had known him well from the time he was a happy-go-lucky youngster who, as Assistant Director of one of the films in which I played the heroine, was full of fun and frolic. But even in those carefree days, he was one of the most hard-working and conscientious persons I had come across. I was therefore thrilled to work with him.

My role in “Awaara” was spread over a long span of time: from the time I am a young wife and expectant mother, then discarded by her husband who wrongly suspects her of unfaithfulness and thus having to earn a living for her son and herself, to an old woman who is eventually accepted by her husband when, finally, the misunderstandings have cleared.

A role like this, which encompasses a period of years and shows the actor in different stages of life and reacting to different situations, is no mean challenge. Not only does it demand a tremendous capacity to adapt oneself to changing circumstances, but it also requires of the actor width and dimensions. Thus, in “Awaara” I begin my screen life as a happy bride, loved and adored by a husband who is well-placed in life. This is followed by the birth of a son and my husband’s suspicion that I have been unfaithful to him. I am thrown out of the house, to suffer the harrowing experience of struggling alone in a cruel world to eke out a living. Troubles mount up and the climax comes when I discover that my son has committed theft. Though it is only a piece of bread that he has stolen and at a time when I am very ill, the crime is unthinkable. I get up in a rage and beat him, and keep beating him till I feel faint. This transformation from a sick and affectionate mother to one mad with anger required a lot of rehearsing before the desired result could be achieved.

Photo Caption – A touching scene from “Maa,” directed by Bimal Roy. Here Leela Chitnis is attending to her son, played by Paul Mahindra, after the latter had been beaten up for his misdeeds by his younger brother.

Perhaps, I played my greatest role of mother in the film “Maa.” As I had the central role, there was immense scope for acting; no hero or heroine to take away or share the honors with. The mother I was asked to portray was the epitome of Indian womanhood, with silent suffering and a great sense of duty towards her husband, sons and members of the family. The last scene where the mother goes blind through old age, through suffering, poverty and hard work, was very touching indeed. Her son from whom she has been estranged for so many years, from whom she has not heard a word and knows nothing about his well-being or whereabouts. whether he is dead or alive, returns. She is scrubbing the floor of the zamindar’s house when she hears the voice of her son call out, “Maa.” Her son back! Could that voice really be her son’s? What if it is not? A thousand fears haunt her mind and she is too frightened even to hope. This was a great scene to act: to act the old and sick and blind, to bring exhaustion into your limbs, into your whole being, is itself very exhausting.

“Maa” brought me unstinted praise from the critics. The film critic of “The Nagpur Times” wrote: “I cannot think of anyone else who could have played the difficult role assigned to her in `Maa’ so admirably … In the role of the `Maa’ in this film, Leela Chitnis in some sequences is at the height of her inimitable, completely unself-conscious histrionic form…” And “The Times of India” reviewer wrote: “Unglamorised and unsung, Leela Chitnis gives a portrayal in B.T.’s `Maa,’ which can rarely be approached by any other piece seen on the Indian screen so far. Hers is a portrayal that comes nearest to the world-famous Academy Award performances and, if ever any Indian artiste can lay a claim for nomination to that turkey of all acting honours, it is the veteran heroine of yesterday and the screen mother of today, Leela Chitnis.”

Hyperbolic praises, perhaps, and more than I really deserve. Be that as it may, I am happy to say that I have achieved something, however little. Awards and prizes I do not care for. But I do care for my audiences, and it is encouraging to know that I have not let them down. The fact that I have become a successful screen mother compensates for the roles of yesteryear, now beyond my reach. One who has lived a full life is bound to feel nostalgic. I have reasons to feel nostalgic, but nothing to be bitter about (By Leela Chitnis – 1963).

Year – 1952

Language – Hindi

Country – India

Producer – Naya Sansar

Director – K. A. Abbas

Music Director – Roshan Lal

Box-Office Status –

Cast – David Abraham, Raj Kapoor, Nargis, Agha, Achla Sachdev, Jankidas, Badri Prasad, Om Prakash

Miscellaneous Information – The film had few sequences in color, making it the first partially colored film of Pakistan.

“ANHONEE” makes no pretention to technical brilliance or production grandeur. Its very modesty makes it a welcome change from the fantastic dreams in celluloid that fill cinema houses these days. It reflects the sincere effort of a writer to tell a down-to- earth story and of a director who presents it competently. Happily, both are merged in the person of K. A. Abbas and the result is an engrossing, thought-provoking film.

“Anhonee”, “the impossible”, tells us that what is seemingly impossible may be only a paradoxical twist of destiny. It is environment and not parentage that makes a man what he is. That was the basic theme of “Awara”, too. In “Awara” it was portrayed through the life of a boy. In “Anhonee” it is delineated through the medium of two half-sisters who bear a startling resemblance to each other.

Roop and Mohini are the daughters of the same father but they are poles apart in their upbringing, outlook and character. Roop is reared in an aristocratic atmosphere. while Mohini is brought up as a dancing girl. The conflict between them when they meet accidentally is heightened when both fall in love with the same man. Then comes the sudden, rather the most delightful, turn in the picture. It is revealed that Mohini, and not Roop, is the lawful daughter of her father.

“Anhonee” is an example of a deftly written and well-planned screenplay, where the songs, dances, and humorous interludes have some bearing on the main current of the story and contribute to the tempo of the film. Even the kiss, which is the first allowed by the censors in any Indian film in recent years, has a significance for it is that fateful kiss that wipes out the artificial mole on Mohini’s cheek and reveals to the hero the disconcerting fact that the girl he has just married is not Roop.

Om Prakash, the noted comedian, fails to excite laughter and he is just a hideous black-mailer in the film. Agha, too, just jumps in and out for no apparent reason. Nargis as the “bad” girl offered excellent material for some gripping entertainment, but the costumes she dons for the role are out of harmony with her personality. Camera angles, too, fail to do justice to her. The all-important dance number where, as Mohini, she performs to her own shame, exposing herself to the contempt of the sophisticated society she finds herself in, fails to rise to the expected climax.

The worst job, however, is done by the music-director for “Anhonee” has the most unmusical music ever heard on the screen. The beautiful words of four well-known lyricists are ruined by the uninspiring music which is still further spoilt by poor orchestration. The playback singers seem to suffer from a bad attack of ‘flu. But despite these drawbacks Anhonee” is entertaining. In it, Nargis is at her best both as the temptress and as an innocent, self-sacrificing woman. She acts with gusto and gives one of the most convincing performances of her career. Equally forceful is Raj Kapoor, who in this film is altogether different from what we are accustomed to see him as : a comedian with a streak of the slap-stick in him. In “Anhonee”, he is handsome and sober and impresses cinegoers with his ability to give a convincing portrayal of a serious role.

I rather think I come up with a memorable role when I don’t shave. I have hit it off with a hirsute chin from “Pardesi” to “Parakh.”

Today, I suppose, I dare not show up on the sets unshaven. “Hell, Moti,” people are apt to say, “you are growing old!”

But to talk seriously of my “memorable” roles….

I have survived three heart attacks, three thromboses of the heart, one of the brain, an air crash, a near drowning—and several rotten films. There have been films and films. The bad ones failed but I never failed as an actor. That’s why I have survived. To each role I have given of my best.

Take my very first film, “The Lure of the City.” I was a greenhorn playing the hero opposite Sabita Devi. Was I dumb on the sets? I was—I really couldn’t talk. I kept “seeing” the camera. They packed up for the day in desperation. Sabita’s mother sensed my discomfiture, sent her daughter to talk to me, to put me at ease. I made it a point to go round the studio, meet and know everyone—I shook a lot of hands—thus putting myself entirely at ease. Then I was all right. Never again did I “see” the camera on any set.

Next. I did a stunt film—”Silver King.” I had to fence. “Can you fence?” asked the director. “No,” I said. “Not with a sword anyway. But with a pen, yes.”

Isn’t the pen mightier than the sword?

Then we fenced some, the director and I— using pens!

“Now for the real thing,” the director said. “You can learn fencing. You can do it in a day. It has been done before. We can do it again.”

I hired a Frenchman to teach me fencing. Back on the sets, what did I get to fence with? A hell of a sword weighing over six pounds! I balked. I could hardly lift the thing. “Go on, go on.” urged the director. “Of course, you can lift it. We have done it before. ”

All I had to do for the scene, I discovered, was to come down a staircase. Yakub, playing the villain. and a number of his “henchmen” were to be in the hall. I had only to flash the sword once and the villains, by cinematic magic, would drop!

For this, all the bother of learning fencing!

For the same film, I was supposed to jump into a river that used to flow somewhere near Andheri and “rescue” a drowning woman. “Is the water deep enough?” I asked. “Yes, yes,” assured the director. “Go on, jump, we’ve done it before, we can…,” he hurried me.

I jumped. Almost near the water, I saw it was a very shallow river. What I was heading for was not the “rescue” of the woman but the breaking of my own neck. I did a quick somersault before I hit water and saved myself.

Then I had to grab a chandelier in a palace hall scene—grab it and swing on it to land on a balcony. We landed on the floor —I and the chandelier which, of course, had been insecurely fixed.

“Don’t worry,” the director had said. “We have done the chandelier scene before, we can do it again.”

That’s how they did things …

How I do things, how I act, is by not acting at all. I just live a role. In “Pardesi” I play a youth who is a victim of amnesia. I got into the role so much, I hadn’t recovered my memory for some weeks after the shooting was done. Similarly for some time after “Arman,” in which I played a blind youth, was completed, I could not see aright.

“Jagirdar,” “Such Hai,” “Pardesi,” “We Three” and “Mastana”—the last based on Chaplin’s “The Kid,” in which I play a man (of unkempt chin!) who adopts a child and has to go to court when the child’s parents rediscover him—are among the films I remember as memorable.

I was not greedy. I did two or three films a year and was happy. It helped that only good stories from writers like K. M. Munshi were chosen for filming, by companies like Sagar Movietone and New Theatres. But I never fussed about roles. Even if what I got was a brittle role I was confident of breathing life into it. This I do by my own power of improvisation. The power I draw from my study of life around me, of human nature.

Let me illustrate this improvisation. In Gemini’s “Mr. Sampath,” based on R. K. Narayan’s novel, I decided to play Mr. Sampath, with his lack of attachment, his desire merely to live his life as he wanted to, not as an extraordinary person, but precisely as an ordinary person.

Earlier Mr. Vasan, the producer-director, had insisted on showing me two reels of a Tamil film made on the same theme. I thought it was slow—it rather gave me a headache.

Then I gave Mr. Vasan a “taste” of how I would prefer to play my role. When the Hindi film was finished and well received, I suggested to Mr. Vasan that we do a sequel, “Mr. Sampath Goes to the U.N.O.” depicting the impact of Mr. Sampath on bungling politicians and vice versa.

In Bimal Roy’s “Devdas,” I played Chunilal who assists Devdas in his downward path to self-imposed degradation. Now Chunilal in popular fancy is a cheap boon-companion, a procurer. But I thought Chunilal was a human being too. That if he was not all white, he was not all black too. That if he walked the dark alleys instead of the sunlit avenues, it was because he had lived, suffered, and found direction lacking. There is an illuminating bit of dialogue in the film in which Chunilal first recoils from taking Devdas, even despite his request, to Chunilal’s “haunts.” On this note I played the character—I hope, successfully, memorably.

Now to come to a role that has more personal implications than the others. Visualize a man with a semi-bald pate, wire frame spectacles perched precariously on his nose, a tooth-brush mustache. He has an air of ineffable sadness and, inside of him, he is full of goodness to the world—a world which hasn’t been all good to him, in which he finds ultimate dignity only in death.

His name is Motilal, too. I play him in “Chhoti Chhoti Baten,” the film I have labored much to put together bit by bit.

This is my most recent role but the one I have wanted to do longest. In visualizing the Motilal of my film, a suburban philosopher, a man who is silently asking himself, “Where is peace?” and is led on from corner to corner, I have borrowed of myself, of many echoes from all my yesterdays.

It is a temptation to call this my most memorable role but I won’t. For one thing, you—the movie fan—have not had a chance to see it on the screen. When I recall something as my “best” I want you, too, to be able to remember, to see a little glow light up inside you, to say “It’s so.” And then perhaps I don’t really care to cite one single element in a mosaic of experience as memorable.

When people ask me how old I am, I say, “153”—adding my real age to the 100 odd films I have done. For long I was a romantic hero (even singing my own songs) and it was when I stopped being such a hero that I became an actor.

But I really don’t know if I care to call some of my roles “memorable” … On the screen and off it i like to live for today, this moment. To each occasion I want to give of my best, forget and pass on to the next. Something becomes memorable when one’s mind keeps returning to it lingeringly but I like to keep mine looking ahead—impatient of past achievements, eager for tomorrow. It has been a long road I have taken, bittersweet, with many milestones. But milestones are good on a road—who wants to carry them permanently on one’s neck ? (This interview was conducted in 1963).

There is an adage which says that every man has two minds and that they are eternally engaged in conflict. With different people, these minds assume different forms. In my own case, they are influenced by the double role I play in my profession— director and producer. The director in me is always in conflict with the producer and for more than twenty-five years this conflict has gone on and continues even today.

This conflict springs from the very nature of film making. For making films is not a single-track effort. In it combine two forces always at conflicts–art and industry. Art in my case is represented by the director, the industry by the producer.

As a director, I have always been eager to break conventions, to experiment with new ideas, to achieve perfection in art regardless of its cost. Once I am on the sets, I am not satisfied with anything less than the best.

It happens so many times that I shout at the production department people for not getting the things I want. I forget then that I am also the producer and have to provide them with the money to buy the things which I want as a director. And so, in the evening after the shooting is over, persons from my staff come and remind me of the fact that I had told them not to buy the things. At such times, I am compelled to remember the conflict between director and producer in me.

The producer in me is a practical man. He requires the director to make pictures which will be box-office successes and yet not entail heavy cost. The producer in me is naturally frightened when the director in me becomes interested in new ideas and begins to make a film which, traditionally, has little box-office appeal.

And so the conflict goes on, from the moment the story is conceived until the picture is released and has done well at the box-office.

This conflict is as old as “Gopal Krishna,” my first silent picture. I was then not alone as producer of the picture. I had partners and a major clash in me came in 1930, when I made a historical titled “Swarajya-Toran” (The Flags of Freedom).

The film depicted some episodes from the life of Shivaji which had a parallel to the national movement of those times. The director in me got the better of the producer in me, and I made the picture only to find it banned.

The producer in me then blamed the director in me for rash indulgence in sentiment, and there was in consequence a compromise and the film was toned down for the censors so that it could be released and the expenses of its production recouped. So “Swarajya-Toran” became “Uday Kal” (The Thunder of the Hills) and was released. It did well at the box-office and the producer in me was happy that the picture did not fail.

Later, when the talkies arrived and we shifted our headquarters from Kolhapur to Poona, we decided to produce “Amrit Manthan”. This was the picture in which I tried to make what I believed would be the first motion picture of the industry’s talkie era.

The Indian talkie was static. It was much like a stage play, with just talk, talk and more talk between the artistes. In attempting to make a departure from the stage technique, I, as the director of the picture, thought of many innovations, including extra-large close-up of the villain’s eye. This close-up required special lenses, while the picture entailed considerable cost.

The director in me was all for the experiment; the producer in me uttered warnings. It was only when the director assured the producer that the experiment would bear good results at the box-office that the latter yielded.

And, though as a director I had never given the producer in me cause to worry (for all my pictures have recovered their cost), every new picture has meant a conflict of two personalities.

It may, perhaps, be because I am one of those directors who do not like to make the same type of picture twice and is always out for new themes and treatments, which is also the reason why, when people tell me that I will not be able to make another “Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje,” I am tempted to tell them that I would not make another picture like it. I would make a picture altogether different in the handling of color.

This is probably another reason for the constant conflict between the producer and the director in me.

When I signed a partnership deal with Balgandharva, the famous stage artist who played female roles, and decided to make a film biography of the saint Eknath, using the theme of untouchability which was then topical (Gandhiji had undertaken his memorable fast as a protest against the separate electorate for the scheduled castes), and putting Balgandharva in the title role, little did I realize how much these decisions would bother me.

While making the picture, the producer in me felt worried because I had cast Balgandharva in a male role and had chosen a controversial subject which would antagonise orthodox Hindus and keep them away from the box-office.

The Bombay Censors made the business more difficult by refusing to certify the film. They also objected to the title “Mahatma.” Shantaram the producer, who had also to safeguard the interests of Balgandharva, his partner, rated Shantaram the director for inviting all this trouble. I had therefore to make changes in the picture and alter the title to “Dharmatma” and, happily for Shantaram the director, the theme proved popular and even the orthodox Hindus liked the picture.

Still, he forced the producer Shantaram to break off his deal with Balgandharva when the latter insisted on playing female roles, which Shantaram the director refused to allow at any cost.

There was also an occasion when the director in me had to accept a challenge from producer Shantaram and his partners in the Prabhat Film Company over the casting in “Tukaram.”

While I was editing “Amar Jyoti,” Damle and Fatehlal, who were to direct “Tukaram,” were taking screen tests for the film’s principal role. One of the persons tested was Vishnupant Pagnis, who appeared to me to be the right person for the role. At my suggestion, he was selected and the rehearsals began.

But after a fortnight Damle and Fatehlal felt that my choice was not happy. Pagnis, accustomed to playing female roles on the stage, could not overcome his feminine mannerisms and, when I saw this at the rehearsals, I knew they were right. But the director in me would not accept defeat.

I took up the challenge and put Pagnis through some gruelling rehearsals. There was a time when Pagnis, himself, too, felt that he could not do the role, but as the rehearsals went on he gained confidence. One evening I told Pagnis that he would pass the test one hundred per cent the next day. The following morning, Pagnis came to the rehearsals bursting with confidence. He almost came up to expectations and I told him he was one hundred and twenty-five per cent good!

Till then I had made no social picture. So, when I decided to make “Duniya Na Mane,” based on a novel in Marathi, I wanted to make it a real social picture, not just another love-story dressed as a social. So I deleted in the film version whatever of “romance” there was in the story original.

The director in me exulted, though the producer thought it was foolish to eschew romance and jeopardize the film’s chances at the box-office. During the making of the film, this perplexing question posed itself to me often.

The same problem again arose in ‘`Aadmi.

Even after its release, the critics chided me for not ending on a happy note by marrying Kesar to the policeman. Others blamed me for not glorifying frustrated love and giving the filmgoer stark tragedy.

Both such developments of the story were considered by me during the making of the picture and, had I compromised with myself, the producer in me would perhaps have been satisfied. But it would have been only for the moment, for the very purpose for which I was making the film would have been defeated.

Similarly, when I decided on “Shakuntala” as my first independent production for Rajkamal, the conflict arose in a sharp manner. “Shakuntala” had been brought to the screen twice before and had been a failure both times. There was no point in bringing a “flop” to the screen again.

But the director in me believed that the subject had great artistic possibilities, if I presented Kalidas’s meek Shakuntala as a militant heroine in the last portion of the story.

Would it be right to make this departure from the classic? Would it be worthwhile to stake my reputation on a story which had flopped twice? These were questions posed Shantaram the producer by Shantaram the director and they continued to agitate me throughout the making of the film. But Rajkamal’s “Shakuntala” was a success and I was able to tell Shantaram the producer to hold his peace. After this I continued to experiment without interruption from him, made the symbolic film “Parbatpe Apna Dera” and later donned the actor’s mantle in “Dr. Kotnis.”

In “Dr. Kotnis,” and also in “Parchhain,” the conflict became triangular. At war within me were artist, director and producer. But, in all these conflicts, it was mostly the director in me who now had the upper hand.

Whenever Shantaram the producer questioned things, the director in me retorted that he had no business to doubt me, since so far I had not made pictures which had run him into losses. Even “Surang” and “Subah Ka Tara” earned their cost and more.

The conflict, however, reached its peak during the making of “Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje”. Shantaram the producer was skeptical about so many things. The idea of making a Technicolor production at a time when color pictures were failing seemed unsound. On top of it, my insistance upon having my own technicians, music-director and unknown stars further reduced box-office chances for the film.

Not only Shantaram the producer but also producer friends of his urged him to take known stars and a popular music-director. The stakes were high, and the producer and director in me argued long and earnestly with each other. But, because of his experience and reputation Shantaram the director won and the result is now before you.

The producer in me should at last be satisfied. Backing up his director, he spared nothing to make the picture the phenomenal success it became at the box-office and he has every reason to be happy and satisfied. He need worry no longer about what the picture had cost him.

Yet the producer in me does not like Shantaram, his director, to be any longer idle. Three months have passed since the release of “Jhanak Jhanak” and Shantaram the director has not been working. He feels he has earned a rest, but the producer in me is goading him to resume his shooting of “Shahir Prabhakar” and counting production days lost by him.

It is a never-ending conflict which is inevitable and, though I sometimes feel that I should not shoulder the double burden, I feel that, but for this double responsibility, I would not have been able to make films of so many diverse kinds. No other producer would have given me the opportunities and freedom I have enjoyed.

But, as a creative artist, I occasionally feel oppressed by practical business considerations and even wish that the industry were nationalized so that, like a true artist, I can go on making pictures without feeling I also have a producer’s responsibilities to myself.

But even a State producer will not give me the latitude I receive from Shantaram, the producer in me, and in spite of the never-ending conflict I am happy to be both a producer and a director (This interview was conducted in 1956).

Photo Caption – Gifted singer Geeta Dutt and her husband, producer-director-actor Guru Dutt, caught in a reflective mood by photographer Harbans Chadha.

THE artist’s first love… having put pen to paper with such enthusiasm, I now feel a slight pang of misgiving. Isn’t the subject too big?

Why did I think of it in the first place? Instead of keeping it a mystery till the end (or even beyond), let me confess at the outset that the idea first struck me when I began to plan the triple birthday celebrations which we hold every year on July 9—of my husband Guru Dutt and of our two sons.

I thought: Our sons are young enough to rejoice over the usual birthday presents— but what gift can I give Guru? It must be unusual, one which would evoke memories, touch chords, kindle new lights from the past.

And then I knew… This is it.

The artist’s first love is his work. It is as simple as that, really, when everything is boiled down to the essentials. It appears to be the final explanation of the mystery of all artistic and creative endeavour, be it painting, writing, film-making, dancing or singing.

Yet it is not as simple as that. From where does the inspiration come which causes those divine fires in the creator, fires which result in his frenzied seeking after artistic perfection? Where indeed? This question often strikes me when I watch my husband at work. I never cease to wonder at the devotion with which he works, his passion for perfection, the zeal which makes him forget people, circumstances, and the mundane, everyday realities. And I asked myself: “What is the secret of this frenzy? From where does it come?”

In my own life I have tried to find the answer. Ever since I was a little girl, I was restless to sing and dance. I remember when I was thirteen or fourteen, I attended school in the day, and in the evening gave singing and dancing lessons to other girls! It was not the money I got for teaching them (ten rupees from each) that counted so much as the fact that I was very enthusiastic about inspiring others with a passion for singing.

As for myself, I sang and sang, seeking to give expression to my inner self. At that time we were staying at Dadar (in Bombay). Beneath our apartment, there was a dance school which music director Hanuman Prasad occasionally visited.

There was a knock on our door one evening. It was a stranger asking for my father. He was ushered in and my father asked what he wanted.

“Every evening for the past several days,” he said, “I’ve been hearing a girl singing here. Who is it? She has a beautiful voice.”

“My daughter,” my father said.

The caller was Hanuman Prasad himself. Ultimately, he persuaded my father to seriously consider my taking up the career of a playback singer.

This led to my singing a duet or two in “Bhakta Prahlad.” Then I went on to Filmistan, where, after my singing in a couple of films, Mr. S. D. Burman took me up to sing in “Do Bhai.” The song was “Mera sunder sapna beet gaya,” and my rendering of it so pleased him that he made me sing all the songs of that film.

They say that fame and career, won after a hard struggle, are more satisfying than when they are acquired comparatively easily. I do not know. Personally, I have no tale of bitter struggles to tell. The “Do Bhai” songs became hits, and paved the way for me.

However, lasting satisfaction arises only from having done the work in hand well, to the best of one’s ability. So I have more of a sentimental attachment to some songs than to others, irrespective of whether they become hits or not.

And that brings me to the most important phase of my life, the day one artist met another.

Mr. Burman had been signed to compose the music for “Baazi,” and he sent word to me that morning to report for rehearsal at the Famous Cine Laboratory and Studios at Mahalaxmi.

My father and I drove to the studio and parked the car in the compound. He got out, saying he would inquire where the rehearsals were being held, while I sat in the car. A few minutes later, a young man came up and said:. “Come. I’ll take you to the rehearsal room.”

He spoke Bengali, and I took him for one. Not knowing who he was, however, I was a little reluctant to go until his manner-reassured me.

We went upstairs to where Mr. Burman was rehearsing, and at the first available opportunity, pointing out the young man, I asked, “Who is the Bengali gentleman?”

“He’s not a Bengali!” Mr. Burman laughed. “But his name is Guru Dutt. He is the director of ‘Baazi’. Don’t you know him?”

We were introduced.

Subsequently, I sang all the songs of “Baazi” and after that of “Jaal,” both of which were directed by Guru Dutt. Then he launched into film production: “Baaz,” “Aar Paar,” “Mr. and Mrs. 55,” “C.I.D.” and “Pyaasa”—I sang in all of them.

We met for the first time during the making of “Baazi” and it was three years later, during the making of “Baaz,” that we were married. From “Baazi” to “Baaz” it was just a matter of dropping the “I”—and converting it into “We”…

Which brings the discussion full circle, and perhaps much closer to the mysterious force which lies behind artistic inspiration. It comes, I think, from the deep, hidden springs of the emotions, from the inner depths of the heart and soul, from the shedding of the “I” and merging it with the larger “We.”

It comes, finally, from life—and love (By Geeta Dutt – 1958).