Year – 1960

Language – Hindi

Country – India

Producer – Shobhna Pictures

Director – Shobhna Samarth

Music Director – Snehal Bhatkar

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Helen, Nutan, Tanuja, Agha, Gulab, Iftekhar, Kaysi Mehra, K. N. Singh

Miscellaneous Information – Nutan sang in her own voice including two popular duets with Geeta Dutt and Hemant Kumar – Yaroun kisi sai na kehna and Lehroun pe lehar.

Shobhana Pictures’ “Chhabili,” as frivolous as its title suggests, is a light comedy whose sole aim is to entertain.

Produced and directed by Shobhana Samarth, the story, which is set against the backgroup of a luxury liner, tells of the escapades of a teenage stowaway, who boards the ship to escape the monotony of her boarding school. The various passengers, including a notorious smuggler, provide the props for this lively tale.

The script moves at a brisk pace and kudos for this should go to Omkar Saheb, writer of the screenplay, as well as to the writer of the dialogue.

The production values are good and Krishan Saigal’s photography is commendable.

Snehal Bhatkar’s music is adequate, but he would do well to avoid plagiarizing popular western tunes in his future work.

Newcomer Tanuja, another talented offshoot of the Samarth family, steals the show in the pivotal role. She has a flair for comedy and is a welcome addition to the roster of our screen artists.

Nutan impresses as Tanuja’s lovely sister in the film. Kaysi Mehra, another newcomer, who plays the male lead, makes an impressive debut.

K.N. Singh, as the ship’s handsome captain, gets a welcome change from his usual “heavy” roles, while Gulab overacts in her role of the coy smuggler. Iftikhar, Dhawan, Agha, and Helen are satisfactory in the support.

Real Name –

Profession – Actress

Active Years – 1950s – 1960s

Nationality – Indian

Religion –

Date of Birth –

Date of Death –

Debut Film – Teerth Yatra (1958)

Last Film – Perhaps Private Life (1983)

Significant others in the Film Industry – Adarshlok (Director/Producer, Husband)

More Information – Jaymala was introduced by Adarshlok in Jeevan Yatra (1958). The title of the film was later changed to Teerth Yatra. Jayamala mostly appeared in B-Grade Mythological/Adventure films produced by Adarshlok including Durga Pooja, Harishchandra Taramati, Spy in Rome etc. It looks like she also produced [ and starred in ] several films including Harishchandra Taramati, Sampoorna Sant Darshan and Private Life. She married Producer/Director Adarshlok and appeared in many of his films.

Filmography

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

Real Name –

Profession – Actress

Active Years – 1950s

Nationality – Indian

Religion – Hindu

Date of Birth –

Date of Death –

Debut Film – Sitara (1955)

Last Film –

Significant others in the Film Industry – Sheela Samtani (Sister, Character Actress), Koshi Samtani (Sister, Character Actress)

More Information – Film-makers have no definite method of finding new faces. A new face may be discovered anywhere and any how. It is usually the discerning eye of the veteran pro­ducer which is most successful, and this is how the three Samtani sisters, Sheela, Hiroo and Koshi, who made promising debuts in Film­istan’s “Abe Hayat,” came to be discovered —without even knowing they would get film roles.

The girls were attending a wedding re­ception at which Director S. K. Ojha, on hobby bent, filmed the ceremony. Later, when direct­ing “Sitara,” Ojha felt he wanted scenes like these for the film. Into the picture went some of the shots he took at the wedding.

The Samtani sisters featured prominently in them and some producers at the premiere of “Sitara” talked more about the three beauti­ful girls than about the picture. Frantic in­quiries were made, and one fine morning the sisters had a messenger from Filmistan knock­ing at the door of their flat.

After overcoming family opposition, the girls signed a contract with Filmistan.

On her first working day at the studio, Hiroo, , found herself the victim of a case of mistaken iden­tity.

No sooner did she don her make-up and get into her costume, than she was conducted to the set by one of the studio staff and made to stand before the cameras. The lights were switched on and work commenced.

Hiroo was at a loss to know what to do, because she did not know the scene. The as­sistant-director was deferentially asking her whether she had her dialogue lines with her.

Hiroo said no, which astonished the as­sistant, and the confusion continued until Bina Rai, who was playing the lead in the pic­ture, arrived on the set. Everyone had mis­taken Hiroo for Bina Rai whom she resembled very closely.

Filmography

“Dont ever run away from things. You have to face facts,” Debaki Bose once told me, the man to whom I was introduced by Prithviraj Kapoor, who gave me my first break.

Subsequently, I’ve tried not to run away from situations in that ornery, delightfully cussed thing called life. Physically, of course, I never had to. I always had shamefully good health. Whenever our films needed a hefty villain to be knocked down by an onrushing locomotive, to hurtle down six floors after a fracas amidst water tanks on the terrace or to stand between handsome young heroes (nice boys smelling faintly of shaving lotions and caramel biscuits) and their screen love, receiving blows on a square jaw, the word has gone forth for good old K. N. Singh. Physical courage is all right, but I was thinking of that much-neglected thing— the human mind.

Debaki Bose held me by my hand and spoke to me when I was trying to run away from a screening of the rushes of East India Film Company’s “Sunhera Sansar,” my first film. I played a doctor in it, appearing in three or four scenes. Every actor knows that doing a long stretch of walking in front of the cameras is the worst possible ordeal for a newcomer. The camera is a harsh, relentless observer—a one-eyed monster all eyes for the smallest gaucherie. And why only an actor? Off-camera, how many men can walk manfully, unself-consciously, in the full gaze of a roomful of watchful people? The doctor in “Sunhera Sansar” had to walk across from one room into another. I must have done it well, for everyone was jubilant (“so much like a doctor,” they gushed) and I really don’t know why I tried to run away when the rushes were screened.

I came to films (a profession where we revel in breaking rules and regulations) from an unlikely source: a law-minded family. At about the time I should myself have been boning up on Salmond, Dicey, or the Indian Penal Code, I found myself in Calcutta (U.P. is the family home), leading the life of a young man of leisure. Plain thinking. High living. Beer and small talk in the evenings at the club. In my circle came some film men. Eventually I got to know Prithviraj Kapoor. One evening years later, when on a casual occasion, I thanked Prithvi for starting me on my career, he quietly walked up to the electric switch on the wall, turned off the light and turned it on again. “You see, there is a bulb here and current. I merely brought them together. And so with you.” It was very generous of Prithvi to put it that simply but all the same I owe my career to him.

At the East India Film Company’s studio, I knocked around the laboratory, settings, script and directorial departments for a while before playing the doctor in “Sunhera Sansar.” Gul Hamid was the hero in the film—a Pathan who had more manners than a U.P.-ite to the manner born—and Menaka, Ram Pyari and Mazhar Khan were in the cast. There was a wonderful team spirit in films then and I began to love the career that lay ahead of me.

Intellectual Gymnastics

Photo Caption – “Baghban” directed by A.R. Kardar, is the film Singh rates highest. He played a villain in it “but the violence was not physical but subtly mental.” To this role and film, Singh ascribes his “continuance” in films.

In Calcutta, I did five films. In “Hawai Daku,” my second film, I played, for the first and last time in my life, the hero—a pilot. After “Milap”—in which I did a brief role as a prosecuting attorney against Prithviraj Kapoor on the defense, a role which I suppose was interesting because of my family’s legal background—A. R. Kardar brought me to Bombay, cast me in “Baghban,” directed by him for Mr. Y. A. Fazalbhoy’s General Films. It is this role and film to which I owe my continuance in films. It was a villain’s role but the violence in it was not physical but subtly mental. I was cast as an evil-minded engineer who woos the heroine. I didn’t have to flex my muscles but had to do a lot of intellectual gymnastics. There was a scene in which the “bad girl” of the film (played by Yasmin) throws a dagger at me, a real one. The blade grazes me and sticks quiveringly on a bit of wood behind, making a scratch. Sneeringly, I tell her, “See, even my blood is white.”

“Villain” K. N. Singh was shown as crashing into a locomotive in New Theatres’ “Anath Ashram” and dying (the first time he died on screen). A violent end may be just the thing for a screen villain but worth pondering is the fact that all great crooks while they live never get into any sort of a scuffle. It is beneath them, they prefer to scheme.

The second time I died on the screen was in Hindustan Cinetone’s “Apni Nagaria” (titled “Mud” in English), directed by Dada Gunjal. I remember this film because it was the first anti-capitalistic film ever, based on a script by S. H. Manto—a fiery leftist writer.

In “Ek Raat,” the first production of Shalimar Pictures and the first directorial venture of W. Z. Ahmed, I played a bad man always smiling, with never a frown on my face. Prithviraj was the hero of the film.

I am younger than Prithvi by 3 years, but in a subsequent film, “Ishara,” produced by D. R. D. Wadia and directed by J. K. Nanda, I had to play Prithvi’s father, and not quite an affectionate father at that. I had, of course, always regarded Prithvi as my mentor and so this role called for a tremendous mental change. The film, incidentally, marked the screen debut of two well-known heroines, Suraiya and Swarnlata.

They call me “uncle” on the sets—it started when a young leading man who had befriended me (he later died in an accident) committed some misdemeanor. I pulled him up and he apologized saying, “Uncle, I won’t ever do it again”—and Uncle has seen the day when many bright young things made their entry into films. In “Jwar Bhata,” Dilip Kumar and Mridula made their bow. I played a police officer in the film. (Generally, I am the criminal!) Every role has its physical as well as mental characteristics. A man’s profession leaves its stamp on him physically, too. For, example, a police officer has a distinct walk, a certain external presence. I used to visit courts and watch the stars there in action— these include police officers—and it has been a great help to me in playing any type of role connected’ with the law.

I used to play in mythologicals too—a celestial Commander in Chief in “Vidyapati” and Duryodhan twice, in Baburao Patel’s “Draupadi” and Baburao Pendharkar’s “Maharathi Karn.” I was in M. Nazir’s (he was the first actor to turn producer) “Laila Majnu.” I played Laila’s father (Swarnlata was Laila). I had to hit Nazir, playing Majnu. I said we had better skip that. He insisted on being slapped, I obliged and put him out of work for two days.

Director Was Boss

Talking of assault, I am reminded of the director being the absolute boss on the sets in those days; today it is often the director who is the most directed person on the sets. Debaki Bose habitually carried a menacing cane with him and Amiya Chakrabarty once slapped Devika Rani.

Photo Caption – K.N. Singh played Dilip Kumar’s elder brother in “Halchal”. It was a villain’s role but Singh has played on-the-right-side-of-the-law roles, too, for example, that of a police officer in “Jwar Bhata,” which, incidentallly, is noted as Dilip Kumar’s debut-maker.

In K. Asif’s “Halchal,” I played Dilip Kumar’s elder brother. I remember the film because Balraj Sahni, in prison for political activities, had a jailor’s role. Police used to escort him from the jail to the set and back in the evening. At pack-up time, we used to joke with Balraj, inquiring, “Going home?”

In “Sitara,” which Mr. Ezra Mir made in 1938-39, I played a villain’s role—a very brief, but much acclaimed, one.

There is a little coffee table at my home with inset pull-outs of wood on all four sides. When you draw one of these out, all four come out. A blue-eyed youngster, son of a man I am greatly attached to, used to drop in and amuse himself by doing so. Years later this boy signed me up for a role in a film he was producing and directing. It was Raj Kapoor. I was so amused, so proud, that Raju was going to direct me in “Barsaat.” My role in the film was that of Bholu, a man so ugly outside no girl would marry him but seething inside, so to speak, with simplicity. In Bholu, Raj Kapoor had conceived a character of high voltage, a man with a wide mental graph and I enjoyed playing it. “Awaara” was even more tickling because Raju directed not only me but his father Prithvi. It was in this film that I got involved in actual fisticuffs for the first time.

In “Baazi”, directed by Guru Dutt and produced by Dev Anand’s Navketan, I had an interesting role: the proprietor of a hotel with a Jekyll and Hyde personality—a domesticated father of a daughter in his schizo and a gambling den boss in his phrenia! This was a real meaty role—I rank it with the “Baghban” role.

After “Baazi” there were some films—like “Mehlon Ke Khwab,” “Chhabili” and “Fantoosh”—where I got “sympathetic” roles but in the main I got carried away in the stream of villainy. In my most recent role, in Dev Anand’s “The Guide,” I am Velan (a South Indian name), not a villain. Velan starts no fights, in fact he tries to stop one, and gets his head almost smashed! (This interview was conducted in 1963).

A quiet little girl is Meena Kumari, a girl gifted with a pastoral beauty behind which lies the practical, mature mind of an artiste who has won success the hard way.

Meena Kumari is often called the “Cinderella of the Indian films. It is probably because she has known hard times. It may be because ill-health and bad-luck have dogged her footsteps. Or is it because she has so often played the part of the waif? Again it may be explained in her conspicuous absence at social functions and parties which somehow frighten unsophisticated Meena.

Whatever the reason Meena Kumari has always had the largest slice of sympathy from the film industry. For is she not the plainest looking, plainest speaking of glamour girls of the Indian screen?

But let no one misjudge her capacity. A fifteen-year apprenticeship from that day when she appeared before the camera has matured her as an artiste. Moreover she has an excitingly photogenic face —the sort that cosmetic manufacturers dream about for their advertising campaigns. And with it goes the light, lithe figure that appeals so to the present generation of filmgoers. And so at the age of 19, walking surely towards fame, Meena Kumari finds herself with two significant and much talked-about films, “Footpath” and “Baiju Bawra”, in which she has played the feminine lead, on the verge of completion. She has been signed to play the leading lady in Bombay Talkies’ “Koh-i-noor” to be produced in Gevacolor. More contracts are pouring in each week. But Meena Kumari wants to defer signing them till “Baiju Bawra” is released.

Meena Kumari was born in Bombay on August 1st, 1933. Her father, Ali Bux, was a music director in the film industry. Meena was named Mahjabeen by her parents who lived near the Ranjit Studios. Her childhood years were marred by a series of domestic misfortunes which wrote a tale of tears and tragedy into her early life while they governed her film future.

Her father became seriously ill and went to Punjab for the rest and treatment he needed, leaving his work behind. The family followed suit and a year’s illness saw all Ali Bux’s savings expended. When the family returned to Bombay, they were without friends or funds. Meena’s mother, Iqbal, was both a beautiful woman and a talented stage artiste. She took to the films to become one of the top stars of her days. But when she decided to marry off her eldest daughter, Meena’s eldest sister, the malicious remark— “the girl may be rich and beautiful—but after all, she is only an actresses’ daughter” —came to her ears. It hurt her deeply and she decided to abandon the screen not to harm her daughters’ futures. Her daughters sensing her feelings, coupled with the fact that their mother was in failing health, persuaded her to retire. They volunteered instead to keep the pot boiling.

Thus, at the age of four, Meena Kumari entered the Prakash Studio to work. On her first day she was paid Rs. 25. It made her happy and proud that she was helping her parents. Meena’s younger sister, Madhuri, followed in her sister and mother’s footsteps and blossomed forth as another talented child-star. But the family had to face days of great difficulties and hardships even though the two little girls carried the burden bravely on their slight shoulders.

Slowly but steadily their fortunes changed and their ultimate departure from their unpretentious flat at Dadar to their own green bungalow at Bandra, named “Iqbal” after their mother was final evidence that they had left hard times behind. But the mother did not live to see her daughter making the star grade. Through misfortune and tribulation she had cheered the two girls and their father on, encouraging them to greater effort. She was their symbol of hope and courage. But before she could see their ascendancy to stardom she died.

A few pictures in the drawing room of Iqbal remind the visitor of the medieval beauty and the heart-warming smile that at one time made her the filmgoers’ sweetheart.

Meena Kumari’s father took over the job of their mother. He abandoned his work even though his last picture, “Dost”, proved to be a musical hit to fill the void created by his wife’s death. He became the girls’ business-manager. He chaperoned them, looked after the house and saw to it that they had all the comforts of life.

Meena Kumari’s first leading role was in “Bachon-ke-Khel”. The lead in “Magroor” and “Madhosh” followed and she was regarded as one of the most promising among the younger’ generation of stars. She acted in so many mythological films and played so many goddesses that she soon became familiar with the Hindu pantheon. Success rode in the wake of success and she was signed up by Vijay Bhatt to play the leading role in his colossal “Baiju Bawra”, then by Zia Sarhady for his “Footpath”. Bombay Talkies have enlisted her for its forthcoming productions. Today Meena Kumari has probably more offers than many of the top-ranking stars.

But stardom hasn’t altered her accepted way of life. She doesn’t attend any parties, social functions and receptions because she finds herself ill at ease at gatherings of filmland’s elite and glamorous. She doesn’t have many intimate friends and spends most of her time at home. She has a slight knowledge of English and Hindi, but is at home in Urdu and devotes a good deal of time to the Urdu poets. She doesn’t play cards and many other indoor games in deference to her father’s wishes. He thinks them a waste of time. Neither does she swim, play tennis or other outdoor games.

She was once very fond of driving but since the day she disfigured her hand in a car accident she has more or less given up driving her car herself. She retains a passion for punctuality. Light colors are her favorites and she is very fond of jewellery. She is not insured for her father thinks that insurance shortens a person’s life! She is thrifty and saves all the money she can in preparation for rainy days that may be round the corner. Prayers in the morning and pictures in the evening contrast sharply to consume her off-hours. She is afraid of pets but she says, “I am never afraid of snakes. I sort of feel safe with them”.

Meena Kumari’s simple tastes extend to her roles too. She would like to play any part except those “which are unnecessarily sexy and vulgar”. “I refuse to show my bare legs and uncovered shoulders. I consented to appear in a brief one-minute bathing scene in `Footpath’ because Zia Sarhady said that it would lend a ‘realistic’ touch to the song that I had to sing” says she.

Meena has definite views about marriage too, “I haven’t yet taken a decision, but I know that I cannot escape it. Whether a woman is a star or not, she must marry. I will marry the man I love irrespective of his profession. But he must be a man sober and of simple tastes”, she says.

Meena Kumari has often suffered from ill-health—“so much so that medicines have become an integral part of my routine”. Yet surprisingly, she has a happy, healthy look at all times—and a healthy appetite too. “I am a glutton”, she confesses.

On the screen, Meena Kumari, young, charming, beautiful, is the starlet of today, star of tomorrow. On the screen she is gay and vivacious, exciting, brimming with youth. At home she is ever Mahjabeen, a Cinderella at home.

WHAT are the qualities in a film that appeal to the majority of people and so make it a good box-office draw? I guess every person connected with the film industry has asked himself (and others) this question eliciting an answer neither satisfactory nor illuminating.

Frankly, I don’t know the answer myself. I doubt if anyone—even the world’s greatest showman, Cecil B. De Mille—could answer it wholly.

The fact is that no two human beings think alike. That is what makes this world so fascinating and yet so puzzling. Imagine an equation with 300 million unknown factors ! How is one to set about solving such a complex problem? And yet, fortunately for the makers of films, human nature, although differing in minor nuances from person to person, has achieved some sort of overall uniformity in essentials.

Just as we have our six basic ragas in music, from which a limitless variety of compound tunes can be composed, so to my mind is human nature—complex as it is— based on a permutation and combination of a few basic emotions : love, joy, anger, hatred etc. So by being a good chemist of the human emotions it is possible to a not inconsiderable extent to evolve a film that is just the mixture that will go down well with cinema audiences.

But for all this theorizing let me confess at once that I couldn’t at a pinch evolve a foolproof formula for filmic success. The show business may have nothing like it in the world, but it remains—and will always remain—a tantalizing complex job, drawing men to it like moths and, alas, treating them as such.

Very often I am told that such and such a picture is “doing excellent business in the north”, but has failed in “the C.P.—C.I. circuit.” It is clear to me then—just as it must be clear to everyone–that this picture has a limited, fractional appeal and lacks those qualities that make a film universally acceptable—although I couldn’t for the life of me name them. Consequently it may or may not be an overall commercially successful film, depending upon the sizes of the areas in which it has “done well” or “failed”. It is better, true, than a total flop but, as is evident, it hasn’t collected all the money a universally successful picture would.

Lately, considerable evidence has come to light to show that more than any other single component of a film it is its story value that makes or mars it. I wholeheartedly agree with this conclusion—always have. Indeed, I have often said to myself : “If I can’t get a good story here, in my own country, I wouldn’t mind taking it, suitably adapted, from elsewhere.”

For the story, mind you, is the backbone of a film—if not its whole anatomy. It is the prerequisite of a successful film although, as is obvious even when you’ve fixed to your marionette a good spine, your work is by no means finished. You have then to think of the other parts—the legs, the arms, the head, the face and so on—and assemble them to make a pleasing, self-sufficient whole. Take “Maa”. It deals with mother love, always, in my opinion, a theme with world-wide appeal. I was never wholly satisfied with this film as it finally took the screen and there is much in it I would have liked (or would now like) to prune and alter. But for all that, I am told that it has done well everywhere. This does not surprise me. I had anticipated some such reception. Here, in my opinion, is a good story—pretty adequately, if not brilliantly filmed. As my compounding of the various elements in it— music, acting, suspense etc.—came pretty near being a balanced mixture (though, being wise after the event, I could perhaps have greatly improved upon it), it became a successful film.

Story Treatment

But when you have got hold of a good story—the basic core, that is—your work has by no means ended. “Maa”, for instance, is a story that (in its essence) has been filmed time and again by various people. And yet all of them did not succeed as pictures. Why?

This brings us to the most important task of the film director : the treatment of the story. You may film the world’s most novel theme and come a cropper.

Let me illustrate this point by dwelling briefly on a journalistic parallel. Do you read the sports page in your newspaper? If so, you must have noticed that although several papers have their representatives on the spot covering a sports fixture, a certain reporter finally gets to be breezier and more readable than the others. This is because his “treatment” of the same set of facts is more refreshing and novel. This is exactly what happens in films. You have seen “Duel In The Sun”, “Loves of Carmen”, “It Happened On Fifth Avenue” and so on and you have also seen their Indian versions. If you have not liked the latter, the blame (as you can easily see) does not lie with the subject (which is identical in both versions) but in its treatment in our hands.

Photo Caption – This informal studio trio has, on the flanks, Dilip Kumar and director Bimal Roy. In the middle is Jairaj.

But how is one to treat a story idea so as to produce a likeable screenplay? Here my own motto—an inviolable motto I might say —is : Be faithful to the story. Once you set to work on the story, all you’ve got to do is to be sincere to it. That is to say, follow its moods and characters faithfully, without trying to be too smart or too highbrow. I don’t think I have had a marathon run of successes and am fitted to advise anyone, but if I were this is the prime advice I would like to give : Be Sincere To Your Story.

Very well, then. You have produced a good screenplay. What next? I am afraid the subsequent procedures do not lend themselves to a precise definition. It is here, in fact, that the director takes over wholly and, according to his intelligence and way of looking at things, produces the final film. No matter how detailed and exhaustive the script, no two directors will “shoot” the entire film alike. From here onwards the film is bound to bear the personal “stamp” of the man directing it. The “bad” director has ample chance at this stage to completely or partially spoil the film, because there are so many intangible things, undefinable adjuncts that a film needs, which only the director’s imagination (and no script) can supply.

“False Patches”

I have directed four Hindi pictures so far : “Hamrahi”, “Anjangarh,” “Pahela Admi” and “Maa”. The only credit I personally want to take for them is that in all the four I did my best to remain sincere to the story. And, I might add, down-to-earth and rather humble.

This is an important prerequisite, too— being down-to-earth and humble. Come to think of it, I know of none more important. I have always noticed that as soon as you try to soar unnaturally high and give yourself the aura of a supernatural being, the audience quickly pulls you down to earth. When you are picturising the life of a 30-rupees-a-month chowkidar, for instance, and show his natural habitat to be a palatial building, you are not being down-to-earth. If your story is to do with a simple hill girl and you’ve given her a dress that’s made of sheer silk with bizarre patterns, you’re being untrue and not down-to-earth. If, out of sheer highbrowism, you’ve decided to place a Piccaso or a Rembrandt in a lower middle-class house, you’ve lost both, your down-to-earthiness and your humility. I would guard against these “false patches.”

Once you’ve decided to be sincere to the story and its subject, it’s surprising how other things will generally come right. As soon as you invent an incident to place in your story, you’re asking yourself : “Does it ring true? Can it happen?” This question eventually becomes your standard measure of film-content. It will regulate everything : the cast, the music, the tempo, the sets, the costumes. After that, it’s merely some measure of technical skill you require in order to turn out a “good” film.

Photo Caption – Discussing a character-role. The author with actor Nazir Hussein, made-up for his part.

If in the foregoing paragraphs I sound like a man who is in possession of the long- sought secret formula for filmic success, I must discourage the assumption. It is only a narration, or summary, of my personal experiences and my individual mode of working, right or wrong. It may be that my success so far is only an accident. If so, I will soon be disillusioned. But this I will say. Although no two directors will ever agree on what to put into a picture, they will easily concur as to what NOT to put into a picture. Or should.

Because even working in a negative way, there is so much you can keep your film free of. Wrong costumes, unconvincing sets, forced music, labored humor, inept casting—these are some of the things every man with reasonable intelligence and foresight can guard against. And if we go on eliminating from a film the patches that are false and irritate, we give a better and better set-off to its remaining good points. That is simple logic.

But, to revert to the question : Is Success A Fluke or Can It Be Planned? I am told that in Hollywood no picture is a fluke. I do not agree with this contention. In fact I have arrived at the conclusion that no human enterprise is purely a man-made affair (Article written by Bimal Roy in 1952).

Picture Details

Date – 1950s, exact year unknown.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Elder sister Kaneez, wearing sun-glasses, assumes the enigmatic while star Madhubala relaxes and reveals herself in the warmth and flow of her real self.

“In the evening of my life I will recall the many faces Sandhya wore… Characters, like birds, must first be caged in one’s imagination.”

Singing and dancing have been a way of life for me from childhood. In my childhood— I remember vividly—there was always something or other to celebrate. There were so many birthdays, including mine. Then there were innumerable jayantis, and when the neighborhood seemed to prefer a quiet life for a while our family packed up and went on our round of the countryside fairs. Far or near, any fair would attract us. And once we arrived at a fair, I sang and danced –that’s what I did.

My father, Shridhar Deshmukh, was a stage actor. To him the stage was his whole world. Our house—small and cluttered up with furniture, cooking utensils, odds and ends, and the walls covered with portraits of Shivaji—was only a part of that stage. He dominated it completely. He had been in the acting profession so long that he did not realise there was a world outside the stage. Ours was a small world but it was a good world —and satisfying. A word of praise here, a spot of applause there seemed to be all we could get out of life, but we were happy.

My father took immense delight in telling people that I was an accomplished singer, which I was not, and that I was a consummate dancer, which I was hopelessly struggling to be. I was fast on my feet and could strain my vocal chords fairly well. Looking back on those days, I feel I was really good in what I was actually doing—aping! When the exertion proved too strenuous, I just relaxed and dreamed.

Photo Caption – Shantaram (in felt hat) has interesting moments explaining the difference between the psychology of a boy and a girl.

My dreams normally began with wisps of colorful vapor—incandescent, fluorescent and very cool—evoking in me a strange rapture. I saw fairies with swishing dresses dancing around me in excited frenzy, beckoning me and saying strange things in a strange language. I always woke up in our small house a little frightened.

“Vijaya,” my father would tell me, “one day you will become a great artiste.”

“But I am one already,” I used to reply with extravagant confidence. I was eight years old then. He must have been fifty. He used to laugh heartily over my reply and then relapse into silence.

Heritage Of Art

“Come here, my child,” he would lovingly call me. “Put your head in my lap.” He would gently stroke my head and cheeks, murmuring as I closed my eyes, “Remember, my child, no ornament is more decorative than art. No dress is as gorgeous as art. In art lies your salvation —your happiness. You are doomed if you desert it.” These words were my heritage. I did not understand their meaning. But I was soon to learn.

At the age of 12, I suffered my first disappointment. My elder sister was doing very well on the Gujarati stage. I too had small parts, but it was felt by everyone that I would never make the grade and get a leading role for a very good reason. My Gujarati was extremely poor.

Photo Caption – In ‘Sehra’, I was brought up like a boy. I slowly discovered what it is to be a woman.

Anything my sister can do I can do better, was my motto then. I learnt Gujarati with such single-minded fervor that I began to falter in my own mother tongue—Marathi. At the age of 16, when candy floss began to taste less sweet and the occasional excitement over the novel male attention became infinitely more delicious, I was cast in a leading role. I realized for the first time that we lived in a changing world. I was being slowly emancipated from the clutches of my shortcomings, physical as well as spiritual. Strangely enough, the drama in which I was to play my first heroine’s role was entitled “Bandhan Mukti”—freedom from bondage.

It was during this period that I paid serious attention to what was being said about V. Shantaram. I had heard his name before. To me, it had only meant three hours of exciting entertainment. Now I began to understand the meaning of art—gradually but with certainty. Even films ceased to be mere entertainment.

Would I ever become a screen heroine? This question was debated among my friends and relatives. The answers ranged from an emphatic “no” to a hopeful “oh yes, she will.” Many film producers who were interested in Gujarati drama saw me on the stage and in their opinion I would never be a screen heroine—I was not to the manner born. But some of my colleagues, including veteran artistes Ashraf Khan, Prabhula Trivedi and Chhagan Romeo, encouraged me. They saw a screen leading lady in me. “Try Shantaram,” said Ashraf. “He is the one who gives a break to new artistes.”

But I could not get anywhere near Shantaram. Rejected by Gujarati film producers and frustrated by the sight of the perpetually closed gates of the Rajkamal Studios, I decided to give up and forget all about art.

The world lost its brightness. Nothing could make me happy. In my dejection I visited the Mandir of the Goddess Bahuchrajee. I had gone there to achieve mental peace through prayer. Instead, I made a vow—if I ever got a break in Shantaram’s films I would give up rice, my favourite food.

In this sacred precinct, in my moment of despair, I uttered my first invocation to the goddess of art. I made my first sacrifice for art. It was here that I realized how powerful was the urge in me to become an artiste. I also understood that art demanded renunciation.

Prayer Was Answered

My prayers were heard. I was able to meet Mr. Shantaram—after three unfruitful attempts. I still remember the long hours of waiting and that fateful moment when I walked into his office. Tossed between hope and fear, and dreading the meeting, I walked up slowly to him and stood mutely and completely unnerved and then sat on a chair before him.

Mr. Shantaram was intently looking at a snap. It was mine. My presence disturbed his concentration. Turning his eyes towards me, he said, “I don’t know why this girl didn’t get a chance.” These words were meant for his secretary who, however, wasn’t there.

I looked into the depths of his dark eyes for only a second. To look into the eyes of a creative artist who is a legend in his own lifetime is like staring at the mid-day sun.

“Will you please stand up?” said Mr. Shantaram. I couldn’t —I felt weak in the knees. I must have looked very frightened and confused, for when he spoke again his voice was infinitely tender. “I wanted to have an idea of your height,” he explained.

Photo Caption – ‘Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje’ gave me an opportunity to discover for myself the intricacies of classical dancing.

When I walked out of the room I was still in a daze.

That was my first role—knocking at the door of the temple of art. Nobody has seen me doing it. I was my sole spectator. But for me it was a most important role. My other roles are only the luminous moments borrowed from it.

My first assignment in films was in Shantaram’s “Amar Bhoopali”. I had to perform a number of folk-dance items. Folk dances were very simple; there were no complicated steps or movements. I started with confidence, but half way through I realized I knew little about them. In folk dances it is not the steps and the rhythm that are important, it is the spirit, the throb of life, that animates them. Shantaram is a difficult man to please. Had he not relaxed his zeal for perfection and revealed, unsuspected at that time, a sympathetic attitude towards a beginner, I would have been broken in spirit.

It was a very important role from the artistic point of view and it made me “famous” —people started recognizing me in the street. Talking of being famous reminds me of an amusing incident. I had been made up as a dark-complexioned girl for “Teen Batti Char Rasta” on location. A ten-year-old girl, who came to watch the shooting, told Mr. Shantaram she would like very much to meet Sandhya. She wanted my autograph. So Mr. Shantaram sent for me and I went in my make-up. My fan took one look at me and changed her mind about the autograph!

For my role in “Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje” I learnt classical dancing. My own ambition and Mr. Shantaram’s sense of perfection landed me in hospital. I had damaged my spine during the shooting of a dance sequence and had to undergo an operation. When Mr. Shantaram came to tell me the happy news that the picture was a great success I was not in a fit state even to talk to him. Will I be able to dance again? I asked when I recovered. The doctors seemed doubtful.

The prototype of the part I played in “Do Ankhen Baara Haath” was discovered on a pavement. Mr. Shantaram who spotted the girl brought her straight to me.

“Vijaya, this is what I want in my new film,” he said. I looked at the toy-seller. (She still adorns my house in the shape of a doll.)

“But the girl in the story is supposed to be a milk-maid,” I protested. But Mr. Shantaram had made up his mind. He was completely fascinated by his “discovery.”

“Do Ankhen Baara Haath” was greatly appreciated in America. I went there with Mr. Shantaram to receive an award. I was able to move about freely in the hotel corridors until they put me on television. Then men, women and children whispered. “That is the toy-seller —the Indian actress…”

I was quite amused when Gary_Cooper, asked me, “Tell me, do you go to bed with all those beautiful bangles?”

I also met Loretta Young and Ed Sullivan who interviewed Mr. Shantaram and me on television. I was deeply moved by the reception given to Mr. Shantaram. The discovery of the girl in “Do Ankhen Baara Haath” was entirely his. But, or a while, I felt she was mine, too— I lived her life!

Challenging Role

My role in “Stree” was most challenging. Challenging for various reasons. Firstly, the character created by Kalidasa belonged to a world that existed no more. It couldn’t say to me, “Here I am. Portray me.” The character had to be first re-created in my own imagination—as a girl who was a beloved, a wife, a forsaken woman, a brave mother. The process of maturity of the character was rapid and had great difficulty in keeping pace.

Trying to portray the brave mother who taught her son chivalry, I entered the cage of a lion in the studio. If I cannot feel what Shakuntala felt, I argued, how can I live the role? In a moment everyone in the studio gathered round the cage. Mr. Shantaram was very upset. My attempt to go closer to the lion was foiled by him, and the first thing he said when I came out of the cage was, “That was very childish of you”.

But the experience came in handy when I had to sit with lions in the next sequence. One of the lions left a scar on my elbow.

Thus one by one my dreams came true. The pain I suffered in order to realise them and the pleasure I reaped are themselves like a dream now. I have lived a variety of roles and my ambition today is to live even greater roles. But I still dream, for one never knows when one may have to live them in real life (This interview was conducted in 1963).

My Most Embarrasing Moment

It was the day “Kanch Ki Gudiya” was being released in Delhi and the very first show. In the vacant balcony class, there were only three persons: Mr. Rawail, the Delhi distributor of the picture and myself. Naturally, I was a little nervous. It was my first appearance as a hero. Mr. Rawail sat confidently. He was a veteran.

The distributor sat talking critically. He seemed to have liked the picture, but he was worried about the poor public response. He expressed his satisfaction about the direction, story and theme. Photography and production values were excellent, according to him.

“But, if the picture fails at the box-office, it would be only because of the hero,” he said, and added, “You should have cast someone already known.” I felt the darkness around me deepening. I waited for Mr. Rawail’s reply. Would he agree?

Mr. Rawail spoke quietly and clearly: “I know what I have done. And I have no regrets.” Just then the hero’s face flashed across the screen—with a smile, while the real Manoj sat recovering from his moment of embarrassment.

Review

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.

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.

Songs List

Review

Sadiq Productions’ “Musafir Khana,” premiered on September 11th, 1955 at the Novelty and released simultaneously at the Liberty and several other cinema houses in Bombay, is a rambunctious comedy highlighted by the uninhibited performances of three of the Indian screen’s most gifted comedians.

Telling the story of three young men who run away from home and come to Bombay from places as far apart as Kabul, Delhi and Goa, the film presents a variety of familiar human types, social attitudes and reactions, which, despite caricature and exaggeration, retain the appeal of personal experience. Romance and farce, comedy and drama are interwoven with a sure hand to make a compact plot, which is delightful from start to finish.

The narrative never falters, running smoothly and with appropriate dramatic development, through sequences alternately gripping and amusing, to a hilarious climax and conclusion which are completely satisfying.

Brilliantly written and cleverly directed with sound knowledge and understanding of human nature, its weaknesses and strength, “Musafir Khana” in addition has an abundance of noble feeling and appeal to virtue. Sacrifice made for a friend, respect for pledges given and taken, filial loyalty and parental love are all presented in a manner which appeals to both the groundlings and the sophisticated.

The dialogue, which is sparkling, tangy and terse throughout, contributes powerfully to the success of this comedy and does great credit to its writer whose first essay it is in films.

Under the sure-handed and firm direction, the members of the cast, specially the comedians, Om Prakash, Gope and Johnny Walker, give brilliant performances.

Om Prakash, as the Pathan who flees from his creditors in Kabul and helps his friends in Bombay with the proverbial largeheartedness of his tribe, has practically the entire picture to himself. His is a sympathetic role and in it he gives a grand portrayal alive with the uninhibited expression of a veteran.

Gope, as the eccentric Seth who loses all his hair when he applies the magic cure for baldness prepared by his future son-in-law, keeps abreast of Om Prakash with some superb clowning and there are quite a few sequences in which he steals the limelight from every one.

Johnny Walker has some of the best scenes in the picture and he gives them a zestful vigor and tone. He brings the house down with his zany antics which have the audience roaring each time he appears.

Karan Dewan as the romantic hero shares honors evenly with the comedians, but Shyama as his sweetheart has a less significant role. Shammi as Johnny Walker’s girl friend, Badri Prasad as the hero’s father and Amar as the villain provide good cameos.

The music is delightful and the songs, which sparkle with poetic brilliance, are beautifully rendered. Production values in the matters of photography, setting and decor are good.

Year – 1955

Language – Hindi

Country – India

Producer – Sadiq Production

Director – M. Sadiq

Music Director – O. P. Nayyar

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Johnny Walker, Om Prakash, Shyama, Karan Dewan, Gope, Jayant, Shammi

Miscellaneous Information –

Songs List

Judging from the nature of its contents, Anis Pictures’ Sabira is a most moving tragedy. There can be few more touching scenes than those presented in it. The losses it characters suffer and the ordeal they go through cut deep through the spectator’s heart. But not even the greatest disaster can be effective tragedy unless it reflects upon some human qualities and emotions and communicates to the audience the poignancy of the situation, to at least claim their sympathy if it cannot inspire them. In Sabira this aspect of tragedy has not received sufficient consideration. The result is obvious – a record of patient suffering.

Broadly speaking, Sabira exemplifies man’s devotion to those whose interest he feels duty bound to serve. Once again Nazir plays the role of the faithful servant, a servant who sacrifices everything in order to protect his dead master’s honor and look after his descendants. Though weak from age and grief he works hard to support the widow and the small daughter of his master when they are driven out of the house by the jealous wife of the surviving brother. The hardships Mir Sahib (Nazir) suffers are of immense magnitude. He loses his only son, undergoes severe physical distress, and spends 14 years in jail. Bahu Begum suffers no less. Widowed in the prime of youth, she has to put up with insults, has to work and even beg for her living and is confined for 14 years to a lunatic asylum.

That all these deaths, misery, weeping and wailing do not overwhelm the audience is due to the loose structure of the scenario. The premises on which the whole tragedy has been built up is not only frail but slightly unreal also. The treatment of the plot is not uniform. Partly the approach is serious and partly not without a touch of farce. C.M. Rafi is an experienced director and now and then he gives a good idea of his knowledge and skill but he does not appear to have asserted himself fully, especially when either Nazir or Swaranlata is occupying the stage. Both of them grossly overact and when Swaranlata repeatedly knocks out Nazar it is high time that a director took over.

Nazir interprets the main character in the style which has now become familiar. Mostly he is restrained and dignified and on this level any other actor can hardly equal him. Swaranlata’s performance also is of the same standard.

Technically, the film is satisfactory. Masudur Rahman has handled the camera efficiently, showing some improvement over his past efforts. The sound is clear.

Year – 1956

Language – Urdu

Country – Pakistan

Producer – Nazir

Director – Rafi Choudhry

Music Director – Safdar

Box-Office Status – Flop

Cast – Swaranlata, Nazir, Ilyas, Nazar, Ajmal

Miscellaneous Information –

Songs List

In 2006, Lage Raho Munnabhai brought Mahatma Gandhi back to mass consciousness when the country appeared to have forgotten the Father of the Nation. Now, when Tubelight references him, we are just short of rewriting history and negating him and his role in shaping our present. In fact, a line from the film goes—“Pita ko sharaab ne maar diya, maa ko ghum ne aur Gandhiji ko humne (Father died of alcoholism, mother died of sorrow and Gandhi was killed by us)”. Literally and metaphorically. In that sense Kabir Khan’s new film is a change; it’s not a narrative of political co-option that a bunch of upcoming mainstream Hindi films seem to be. In fact, it tries hard to look at some contentious issues — the national/anti-national debate, who is perceived to be an Indian and who is not, who is one of us and who is an outsider and it even tries to be subversive with the Bharat Mata Ki Jai chant.

Having said that, such antagonistic politics need not always make compelling cinema; Tubelight flickers in that unfortunate zone. It’s not even half as engaging a film as Khan’s own Bajrangi Bhaijaan. There, he managed to press all the right emotional buttons along with the ideological ones. Here he leaves you cold (and bored) with a hackneyed, facile and naive take on issues.

The points of similarity with BB are quite a few: the figure of the child, the lead character’s innate pacifism as against the cultural prejudices around him and the simple and straightforward story-telling. However, while BB felt organic, Tubelight appears to have been painfully deliberated on. Instead of having his politics and story-telling go hand in hand naturally, Khan seems to have consciously chosen to adapt what in retrospect seems like an unsuitable film—Little Boy. In a nutshell it’s a tale about a Forrest Gump like ‘special man’, Laxman Singh Bisht (Salman Khan) and his younger, parent-like brother Bharat (Sohail Khan) and what transpires when Bharat gets recruited in the army to fight in the Indo-Sino war of 1962 and an Indian mother and child of Chinese descent (Zhu Zhu and Matin Rey Tangu) come to stay in the village.

There is a blandness that permeates through and through, hardly any dramatic peaks nor any innate tension, no shocks nor surprises, not even one moment or scene that stays with you. Even a sequence with Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan together — that should have brought the house down — totally lacks magic. The biggest nail in the coffin is that Salman has to cry a lot, perhaps the most since Tere Naam. One wonders how his fans are going to respond to that hint of the snot in Bhai’s nostrils.

Khan has a solid cast of actors. The child, Matin Tey Tangu, is eminently cute. But Zhu Zhu can’t rise above being flawless; the tears flowing down her eyes in picture perfect streams. The biggest letdown, however, is Salman himself. Crying copious tears alone can’t a good performance make. His handling of the child-man is all about pulling some embarrassingly weird faces at the camera. Not for a moment do you feel invested in Laxman—neither his little joys nor his gargantuan plights.

The only scenes that work visually, to a mild extent, are the ones that capture the majesty of Ladakh mountains in war time. Coming from the Kumaon hills myself, I might end up doubly harsh in my assessment but the set of the fictional Jagatpur village — with the ranges spread in the front — feels utterly synthetic as do the people populating it. Just the surnames — Bisht, Tiwari — can’t make for a Kumaoni setting. But one would have bought into the mock up with willing suspension of disbelief —“yakeen ki taaqat”, as the film puts it —had it been moving enough. Unfortunately piety and righteousness are written way too large on Tubelight. We need some inventiveness and chutzpah even when we take the bull by its horns. Afterall, what’s cinematic subversion without any sparkle?

Reincarnation films in Bollywood straddle the real and the supernatural worlds, and are usually love or revenge stories. But Ek Haseena Thi Ek Deewana Tha is different in that aspect. It straddles two genres instead. While the makers want you to believe it is a romantic thriller, it ends up being an unintentional comedy.

Our protagonist Dev is part spirit, part goon and part loverboy who is not a supernatural, but a hyper-natural being. He can swing down, Tarzan-like, from tree tops, perform a creepy CPR on the actress and stop a speeding car with his lanky bare hands, laws of physics be damned. He enters Natasha’s life in a bizarre manner spouting Urdu poems which neither him, Natasha nor the audience can really understand. But he is hell-bent on stealing her from his fiance, Sunny every chance he can get.

The story turns truly bizarre, when we find that there may or may not be any reincarnation angle to the whole thing and you’re suddenly slapped with an Abbas-Mastan-like forced cliffhanger. Just as the cliffhanger is just about to resolve itself, you find yourself seeing the actors breaking into song and dance. Sure the cliffhanger is weak, but you still want to know what it was! No chance of that as the story has already taken another odd turn.

The only solace you can find is in the brazenly used cliched Bollywood including dialogues including, ‘Tum mujhe chod ke nahi ja sakte’, Main tumhare bina mar jaoongi/ jaoonga’ and you give into laughter. And this is just the tip of the comedic iceberg. There are several such hilarious moments.

The performances by all, including Upen Patel, Shiv Darshan and Natasha Fernandez, play out like actors in an school play. The music resembles an easily forgettable nineties cassette tape with both sad and happy versions of the same song. Yet, there’s a lot in terms of music for die-hard Nadeem fans if they’re still stuck in that era.

The film belongs to the nineties, which was a simpler time when audience may have bought such an absurdist premise. But with a script that suffers from a serious case of ADD, you will just be mildly amused. Go for this if you dig films that are so bad, they’re actually good.

Sold as an action-thriller, the trailer hinted at a gun toting Shaan defeating evil enemies with the power of one liners. Instead O21 is a surreal meditation on conflicting loyalties.

Contemplative, deliberately paced and often disconcerting, it is a far better film than it appeared to be in its promotion, and therefore requires an audience that is willing to be challenged.

If you don’t know what you are in for it’s easy to be overwhelmed.

Rather than a prologue and exposition we are dropped right into the action which is hard to follow at first as four different points of view are juxtaposed with each other.

The separate stories of an Afghani government official Dost (Hameed Sheikh), radical revolutionary Abdullah (Ayub Khoso), CIA operative Nathan (Joe Town) and former asset Kashif Siddique (Shaan) eventually converge.

Getting to see what’s happening from every angle allows for more context and perspective than if we followed a single protagonist. The daring choice of a fragmented structure as opposed to the usual chronological linear narrative means there is no escalating tension and no real climax. The unfolding of events do not matter as much as the pattern that emerges.

Essentially, O21 is about people who find themselves caught between the twin corruptions of corporate agendas and devious politics centered round Afghan mineral deposits that are accessed through Pakistani routes.

In lesser hands this movie would have been reduced to its plot: Afghan nationalists seek to expose forces that seek to exploit the country’s resources. A microchip with potentially scandalous information becomes the focus of both groups.

But plot is only peripheral here.

The filmmakers have their sights set much higher and add subtlety and nuance to the proceedings. An unending cycle of double crosses makes us question the veracity and motivations of the very characters we want to identify with.

This is not a story about heroics or defeating villains.

It’s about the willingness to give up a part of yourself for something bigger.

Kash’s self sacrifice cannot be reversed. His patriotism, heroism and compassion all require a lack of ego which turns him into more of a spy and less of a person. As much as he wants to connect to his wife Natasha (Aamina Sheikh) he will always be married to his country first. It is a part of the damage heroes take on to save the world.

Abdullah understands this better than anyone and stopped being a person long ago to become indestructible. You cannot break someone who has turned himself into his mission. Charming in his wildness, he is as untameable as Afghanistan itself.

The CIA operatives are somewhat under written. Nathan’s personal motivations seem murky at best.

A well rounded story has villains who are as three dimensional as the protagonists. In contrast Dost slowly transforms from just another cog in the machine to one of the most conflicted and interesting characters whose choices may determine the fate of the country.

The movie is not perfect, but it is beautiful in its ambition.

Grand ideas expressed clumsily will always be better than having nothing to say.

There were some obvious flaws. Some characters and plot lines were not set up, and introducing them in the second half of the film felt contrived.

Choppy editing and several tonal shifts leave evidence of the change in directors from Summer Nicks to Jami. Dialogue was stilted, awkward and distracted from the movie. The one liners seemed forced and designed to be catch phrases.

Luckily the powerful visuals more than compensated for everything else.

Rarely can an impressionistic blast of sound and vision so clearly convey an emotional state of being. The production value is the best I’ve seen in a Pakistani movie to date, and yet O21 isn’t a mere technical achievement: it’s a heartrending, gorgeously realized story of allegiances and loyalty that wrestles with questions of integrity, justice, and patriotism.

It does not glorify war but depicts it in a gritty realistic, thought provoking way. It’s engaging, unflinching and unique in that it dares to tell the dark and intense stories in the shadows.

Picture Details

Date – August, 1961.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Visitors on the “Rangoli” set were the twins, Josephine and Margaret, singers from Britain and Richard Maitland, Hollywood dancer, seen here with Azra and Vyjayanthimala.

This is another formula picture with the usual ingredients of love, lust, villainy, intrigue, and director’s license. A gypsy tribe comes to camp on the site of an ancient settlement. Two girls are prominent in the group. They can sing and dance for the entertainment of the tribe. Obviously the story demands that either both of them should fall in love with the same man or the writer should provide two eligible young men. The latter course is chosen. The young men belong to the Archaeological Department. For purpose of villainy and intrigue the tribe does not have to seek outside help, it has a man just for the role.

It so happens the young official’s sense of duty comes into clash with the interest of the tribe’s chief. The old man is trying to trace the treasure that lies buried under the ruins. After the normal run of setbacks he succeeds in finding the treasure but comes to grief at the hands of his villainish partner. The officials are, however, not to be beaten back. They recover the treasure and now there is no bar to romantic triumph.

Both the writer and the director proceed from certain notions of box-office appeal. One does not hesitate to discard logic and favor of “hit incidents,” and the other banks on vulgarity. The musical score is dull and technical values

Year – 1961

Language – Urdu

Country – Pakistan

Producer – M.A.Rasheed

Director – M.A.Rasheed

Music Director – Nazir Jaffrey

Box-Office Status – Flop

Cast – Neelo, Kamal, Laila, Aslam Pervaiz, M. Ismail

Miscellaneous Information –

Songs List

Mundane associations like “Bread and butter” and “Salt and pepper” or the more aristocratic “Champagne and caviare”, can now yield place to the pungent charms of two names recited in one breath—”Lyn and Lys”.

This lively duo from the Land of Pyramids has taken Bombay by storm, first in a floor show at a leading hotel and now with their provocative dance number in “Yahoodi ki Ladki”.

The twenty-year-old Egyptian twins who look alike, dress alike, think alike and act alike started their dance training early in life.

Although their specialty is the Egyptian dance known as the “Belly dance”, the two girls are also proficient in European ballet and acrobatic dancing.

Lyn and Lys are superb exponents of their art and they do not like it to be described as belly-dancing. “That ,” they say, “is a colloquial term. It implies that the dancer only shakes her stomach. But that is not so. When we dance, other muscles besides those of the stomach and hips come into play”.

Their sequined and beaded costumes are marvels of brevity guaranteed to make men gape and women glare. Added to this snappy attire are the girls’ seductive movements and their sizzling personalities—but that’s only the formula in part.

The costumes are designed by the girls and their mother, who chaperons her priceless “chicks” and is their constant companion.

Asked how they felt being rather heavily draped for their dance number in “Yahoodi ki Ladki”, Lyn and Lys said with a smile, “For one thing, we were prepared for it. We danced for a Bengali film they were making in Calcutta and knew all about the Indian film censors before we came to Bombay”.

However, the girls enjoyed their film stints and would have worked in more Indian films but for the fact that producers less enterprising than Mr. S. D. Narang decided to wait till they knew the Censors’ reaction.

“And now it’s too late”, said the girls, who will soon be off to Europe in the course of their tour. They are well known to Egyptian film audiences, having appeared in several Egyptian films, in which they started with dancing roles and only recently turned to acting.

In their dance in “Yahoodi ki Ladki”, Lyn and Lys could not escape the inevitable song. They were given playbacks.

Photo Caption – Ly and Lys are seen performing one of their popular numbers at a filmland function.

“Was it difficult to learn the Hindi words ?” they were asked.

“Not very”, the girls replied. “We mastered the pronunciation fairly quickly and we can sing the entire song. In Egyptian films the dancers do not sing though there is always music.”

Lyn and Lys are clever linguists. They speak English (with a charming accent), French, German, Italian and Arabic fluently, and they have enough Spanish and other European and Eastern languages to get by. “We are usually able to speak the language of the country we tour,” they said.

Two years ago, Lyn and Lys performed in Paris. They have appeared in night clubs all over the East and Far East from Turkey to Hong Kong, Thailand, Indo-China and the Philippines. They were on TV in Bangkok and had good seasons in Delhi, Calcutta and Colombo last year.

Although the girls love working in films, their stage appearances give them a greater thrill. “There is more contact with the audience, and also the opportunity to travel”, they say.

Lyn and Lys (the names are diminutives) are each five feet five inches tall, have the typical complexion of the Egyptian middle class and they are ideally proportioned.

They admit that dancing alone is not enough to keep their figures trim. They do two hours of strenuous limbering exercises every day. They also diet “sensibly”, and live mainly on milk and fruit.

In Calcutta, Lyn and Lys learned our Manipuri dance from the famous teacher and danseuse of that classic school Mirabai. They wish they had had the time to learn other styles of Indian dancing. Their own dances are designed by the girls themselves, and they switch routines every week or so. (This interview was conducted in 1957).

This is a review of “Khidki” as it is in the fourth week of its run at Kamal Talkies in Bombay. Such number of complaints have been received about this picture and there have been so much virulent propaganda against it by rival producers not to mention the censoring and re-censoring through which the picture has gone, that it has now become extremely difficult to find out what exactly was the original “Khidki”.

Boy and Girl Farce

There is nothing like a theme in this picture unless the mating of 11 women with 11 men can be called a matrimonial problem presented by Santoshi. The whole thing is a farce.

The eleven girls of a social institution are attracted to their eleven opposite numbers across the street. The men and the women sing, dance and mock each other and in doing so provide entertainment according to Santoshi’s conception of entertainment.

A couple of attractive dance numbers and a few snappy songs punctuate this farce and the masses go out happy in the thought that they have had some value for their money. Our idiotic masses don’t seem to deserve anything better.

Rehana Curves

The picture is very well photographed in places and Cameraman Chandu shows distinct improvement in his composition and lighting. The direction is as frivolous as the theme. It doesn’t need much brains to emphasize Rehana’s breast and even if she didn’t have them in original, artificial ones can always be put in.

The songs are quite snappy in tune and composition. The Gandhian song, about which we have received thousands of complaints, is entirely harmless, though the producer’s motives in using Gandhiji’s name can be questioned.

As the whole picture revolves around Rehana all the characters move round her, including of course, the director and his character perhaps. The eleven stud bulls under V.H. Desai cast only hungry looks across the street and the way they stared we expected to see eleven holes in the girls’ window (Khidki) whenever it was closed.

The girls support Rehana in whatever she does. And she does a lot to emphasize her youthful curves and good eyes. Leela Misra tried to create some impression as the matron but the girls beat her with their youthful figures and antics.

“Khidki” is in the same class with Filmistan’s “Shehnai”, as good or as bad and frivolous. But “Khidki” is drawing larger crowds then “Shehnai”, which means that more rotters are seeing “Khidki” and exhibitors seem to be in good season with this picture. It is a pity, however. (FilmIndia Review)

Year – 1948

Language – Hindi

Country – India

Producer – Arvind & Anand

Director – P. L. Santoshi

Music Director – C. Ramchandra

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Kalpana, Rehana, Jawahar Kaul, V. H. Desai, Radha Krishnan, Leela Misra, Ramsingh, Mumtaz Ali, Tiwari

Miscellaneous Information –

Songs List

“My Amma (Granny) ‘ghost writes’ for me. She is my faithful chronicler. She is more than my Boswell. She needs no tip from me to write the details . .
“Her memory is extraordinarily retentive.

I do not keep a diary…have not kept any in all my career. But my Amma (Granny) keeps it for me. In a sense, she “Ghost writes” for me.

She is my faithful chronicler. Or, shall I say, she is more than my “Boswell.” She needs no tip from me to write the details. She has lived through them. She is more thorough, more accurate, more punctilious than I could ever be. Her memory is extraordinarily retentive.

I do not know how much I owe to Amma. But for her, I would perhaps be wandering in the wilderness instead of being in films and being a dancer.

Whenever I look back or think of the past, my recollections about my childhood and early career are vague and scanty. But Amma reels off leaf after leaf from that good, little book relating to me—her memory. And how pleasant it is to listen to her!

My Amma recites things with pride, with joy and sometimes, inevitably, with embarrassment. Has not a great writer said somewhere:

“The virtues and foibles of youth become, O Sage.

“The much-vaunted experience of age!”?

Yes, every diary is a friendly guide. It records one’s virtues and failings. It is also a teacher, in the sense that it helps one to correct oneself.

And so about myself …

I AM “Papa” to my parents and close friends, A “Mala” to those less intimate and “Vyjayanthimala” to those who meet me on the screen. My life has been a run of exciting events, below which the undercurrent of an ambition to make one’s contribution to the arts of the stage, screen and journalism (I consider that one of the arts, too) has wound its way.

Few start their childhood in a foreign land. This, however, has been my good luck (or, has it been misfortune?) for when I was four years old my granny and my parents whisked me off to Europe on a nine-month dance tour of the Continent.

Curiously enough, my first contact with filmdom was in London. I met the internationally famous director, Alexander Korda, when he was making “The Thief of Baghdad” starring Sabu, and Mr. Korda left work on the set to meet us. He was so fascinated by my long wavy hair that he beamed and said to my Granny, “Look, not if the heavens fall, should you meddle with Papa’s hair!”

Years later, when Sir Alexander met me in Bombay, his joy knew no bounds as he exclaimed, “Is this the little kid I met at Elstree in 1939?” He did not fail to show himself pleased with Amma for not having cut or bobbed my hair!

It is perhaps sheer coincidence that I cull these pages from my Granny’s memory-book while acting a role in the Southern Movies’ Tamil production, “Thief of Baghdad”, and, every time I go on the sets for this picture, I am reminded of my first meeting with the great film maestro.

At that time my passion (and it is so even today) was dancing, and I hardly thought I would ever go into films, much less be the leading lady in a film with the same title as the one Sir Alexander Korda was making.

Let me now dig up something about what I call my “Triplicane Days.”

Triplicane, where we first lived, is a middle-class stronghold of Madras city. I am of respected Brahmin Vaishnavite stock and our family comes from the little town of Mandya in Mysore.

We Brahmins frown on the cinema, and especially dislike girls entering the film profession as actresses. I did so myself but the credit goes to my Amma who fought hard to make me what I am today!

We lived in a small, neatly-built house facing the towering Sri Parthasarathi Temple, a setting largely responsible for making me a god-fearing person.

Mimicry was one of my hobbies as a child. I used to imitate everyone I knew. Once, while imitating a monkey, I fell and rolled down a staircase thirty feet long. My parents were struck with horror, but I was able to stop myself at the last stair, sit calmly there and wave to my father and mother.

It relieved them of their fright, and it was then that my grandmother called me by a boy’s name. The name was Prahlad which means The Cheerful One.

I am told I began talking at two, and knew no other language besides Tamil, my mother-tongue, until I was four years old. At about this time, I began to learn dancing, with my granny supervising my training. Then I was taken to Europe.

My habit of mimicking perhaps endeared me most to the people we met on the Continent. My Amma says it was my eyes. But, whatever it was everyone was fond of me. Whenever I danced, in Paris, London, Venice and Naples, I was forced to give encores and encores.

My most memorable performance was when I appeared before the Pope, dancing by His Holiness’s command as the Castel Gondolfo, his summer residence.

My performance was hardly that of a seasoned artist, but His Holiness liked my dancing and presented me with a medal made of gold.

I should say that it was the Pope’s good wishes and blessing which encouraged me to study dancing more assiduously on my return home. Granny arranged everything, and I attended school at the Good Shepherd Convent.

Before I finished my schooling, I had completed my training as a dancer. My teacher was Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai. Table tennis was my hobby, and in my final year I won an inter-school championship.

My schooling ended with my passing the matriculation examination, though I had thought of doing the Senior Cambridge Examination and going on to college to study Law and become a woman advocate. But my dancer’s love of the art triumphed and I went on a dance tour instead.

Early in 1947 I appeared at the Gokhale Hall in Madras. An excited audience cheered and cheered. After the show Mr. M. V. Raman, the film director (a family friend of ours). unfolded his plan—and determination, if I can put it that way—to make me a dancing star of the screen.

I was thrilled at the thought of it, but at home there were objections. However, as always, the way was won for me by my Amma and I came to films as the “Behar” girl.

Believe it or not, I was as much at home inside a film studio as on the stage…though I must say I was slightly nervous the first day they were shooting. But, as we progressed with the three versions (Tamil, Telugu and Hindi) of Producer A. V. Meiyappan’s film, I found the whole thing easy.

One thing I found difficult at first was shedding tears to order. But I soon learnt to turn my eyes into brimming founts, when the occasion demanded.

The three versions of this film each have memories and significance for me. The Tamil film was titled “Life.” To an artist on the threshold of a career it was auspicious. The Hindi version brought me country-wide fame overnight, producers of Hindi films vying with one another to secure the use of my talent for their productions. The Telugu version showed that popularity can also be burdensome to one.

At Tenali, a town in Andhra where the Telugu version of Mr. Meiyappan’s film was released, I appeared on the stage to perform as a dancer. After the show, I had to lock myself in from the crowd surging outside the theatre and waiting to greet me on my coming out.

Finally, bruised and battered, I managed to struggle into my motor-car. The entire crowd of “fans” milled round it and we could not move an inch. Eventually, it took a squad of police to rescue me from my predicament.

My fans love me, and in return I love them. But manifestations of this sort can be exasperating.

I had a similar experience recently when we were on location at Bhopal for Producer B. R. Chopra’s “Naya Daur.” But things there were not as bad as they were at Tenali.

Producer Meiyappan’s film gained me fans in countries like Burma and only the other day I came to know that I have a distinguished Burmese fan in Prime Minister U Nu.

Our own Prime Minister, Pandit Nehru, told me this. He said, “Don’t you know that U Nu is one of your great fans?”

I met Burma’s Prime Minister at Raj Shaven, Madras, when he came to India for the 2,500th anniversary celebrations of the birth of the Buddha and he complimented me on my dancing in “Life”. He said Mr. Meiyappan’s was the first Tamil film he had seen and he expressed the hope that I would one day give a series of dance recitals in Burma. I have promised to do so.

A big event is the lunch we had with Pandit Nehru. Panditji is always a busy man, but he found time to invite us to have lunch with him. I shall always cherish my memory of it.

We sat down to lunch with Panditji shortly before the Soviet Premier, Mr. Bulganin, and Mr. Khrushchev were due to arrive at the airport. Panditji was the perfect host, unhurried in manner, and himself cut a melon and placed the slices on our plates.

It was not our first meeting with Panditji, for in 1951 I had the honor of dancing before him at Bangalore. I remember the date very well. It was July 15th.

AND, now, back to the screen and Bombay! It begins with my return to dancing on the stage, my technique as a Bharat Natyam performer perfected under my tutor, K. N. Dandayudapani Pillai, who organized our “Mala Tarang” troupe of dancers. We performed in all the leading Indian cities and included Ceylon in our itinerary. The title of the show was “Dances of India.”

It was one hectic round, responding to encores and getting mobbed outside the theater. I quite enjoyed it, and I suppose it is because I am somewhat partial to dancing. When I am on the stage, I feel people are closer and their reactions thrill when I dance.

My introduction to Bombay took place at a tea party which the veteran producer Mr. V. M. Vyas gave in my honor at the Radio Club. According to the film press, it helped to settle the controversy over the pairing of “only popular and front rank stars.” I had just then signed to play opposite Prem Nath in Mr. Vyas’s “Anjam,” my second film venture in a Hindi production.

After that a series of films, ranging from the successful “Nagin” to “Jashan,” tell the rest of the story of my climb to screen stardom.

I have been cast with every top-ranking Hindi actor, except Raj Kapoor, while I have acted in the South in Tamil pictures opposite all the leading male artists excepting Shivaji Ganesan. It could be called a record, and I now have the confidence to handle all varieties of roles.

Till last year, it was almost all the time Bombay for me. I made air dashes to Madras now and then to fulfill assignments there. This year, however, I shall remain at Madras and go to Bombay by air whenever necessary.

I have many film assignments in Madras, including one for the Hindi film titled “Sitaron Se Aagey,” in which I co-star with Ashok Kumar.

I owe all my success to Anjaneya (Hanuman), the God of Strength, whose devotee I am. I shall tell you how my special devotion for the god started.

Sometime ago, when we were stopping at a hotel in Bangalore, a vendor of religious images came to the hotel. My Amma was buying an image of Anjaneya, but somehow I did not fancy it and told Amma so. We did not buy the image.

That night I had a dream, in which the God Anjaneya bade me buy the image. I paid heed to the dream. In the morning we looked for the vendor and bought the image.

From that day I have become a devotee of the god, and I hope he will help me to fulfill my life’s ambition.

This is to visit the capitals of the world with my dancers and appear myself as a dancer performing the ancient classical dances of India (This interview was conducted in 1957).