Galloping along memory road, across a privation-strewn trail into the past, a score of familiar faces arise before me to confront the present. The images become clearer, the memories more distinct, and each resolves itself into the portrait of an excitingly beautiful woman to whom I have made love on the screen.

The flower of a woman’s beauty can never be properly captured on the screen. Real beauty transcends the physical limitations of the screen’s fixed dimensions yet is ever present in the way a woman talks and walks on the sets, the way she inspires better performances from her co-artistes, the way she leaves the mark of her individuality on every film, every studio, every artiste. A star’s beauty, on or off the screen, is the sum total of her personality. No cameraman can ever capture it in its entirety in celluloid. It remains for co-artistes like me who have faced the camera with her, shared her joys and sorrows, understood in some measure her problems and desires, to convey to you some individual impressions of the real self of these queens of the celluloid world.

My first leading lady was Devika Rani who didn’t grow beautiful by looking into the mirror. She was born beautiful. And she was born a lady. Graceful, alert, Devika Rani knew high society as well as she understood the difficulties of a poor, struggling middle-class youth named Ashok Kumar who came to her for help and advice. Devika Rani was a woman who did big things in a quiet way. She was an able organizer and made a substantial contribution to building Bombay Talkies into one of the foremost cinematic institutions in this country. She was a constant source of inspiration and strength to me in my early days in films.

Way back in those days the two directors with whom I worked most often were S. Mukerjee and Gyan Mukerjee. Two more exacting men I have yet to meet. Between “takes”, they would stand me before them and in everyone’s hearing tear my performance to pieces. Their criticism often brought me to the verge of tears and in those moments I frequently hovered on the edge of a decision to return to my former job as a laboratory assistant.

Then out would come Devika Rani like a fairy from behind the flowers. With infinite patience and in an ever-kindly voice she would correct my faults. After a rehearsal or two, I would face the camera confidently to put over a performance for which not only the Press and the public but also my strongest critics, the two Mukerjees, would congratulate me. Devika Rani was not only my leading lady but also my teacher. ‘Follow Ronald Coleman,” she advised me. Today I owe whatever success has come my way to her kindly guidance.

Then Leela Chitnis stalked into my filmic life. I had always wanted to work with Leela and Naseem, so much so that Devika Rani often ragged me about it. About Leela it can he said that her beauty is something wonderful and strange. It seemed to originate in the fathomless depths of her soul. It marched with her into her work. She was one of the most conscientious and painstaking artistes I ever had the good fortune to work with, one prepared to rehearse a scene, even a single shot, a hundred times to achieve the effects that made her so famous in those days. I cannot remember her facing the camera until she thought she was word and gesture perfect.

Leela Chitnis, in my opinion, was one of a very few actresses who could—and can—speak with their eyes. She had the ability to hold a particular expression long after a shot was over. She could act with her eyebrows, her eyelashes, even her pupils. Whatever I have learnt about how to use and discipline my eyes to add to the structure of a film portrayal I have learnt from this great artiste.

The more colorful artistes have often been the most boisterous, the most vital, the most alive. And the one among them all whom I remember most is Renuka Devi, my leading lady in “Naya Sansar”. She would think nothing of drawing me into a boxing bout right on the sets. Her high spirits were irresistible and she would by her sallies and good humor transform a hard day’s work into a picnic. She relieved the deadly monotony of studio routine and did much to stimulate flagging interest in routine that was important as it was inescapable.

To co-star with Naseem in “Chal Chal Re Naujawan” was the realization of one of the dreams of my youth. Naseem (The Morning Breeze) remains till today, in my opinion, the most beautiful woman to have graced the Indian screen, the most graceful bombshell that ever exploded on celluloid. ‘Tis said that the delicacies taste all the more delicious if cooked by a beautiful woman. I can quite believe that, after having eaten the delicious food Naseem had prepared at home and brought on the set. Naseem was seldom conscious of her position—she would quite often offer to surrender her chair to technicians and artistes.

To be an artiste is an achievement, but to be an artiste and not get a swelled head is an even greater accomplishment. Madhubala, my leading lady in “Mahal”, was one of the most promising of the younger generation at the time—a promise she amply fulfilled in “Mahal”. But on the sets of the film I treated her like a kid for I had known her as one from the days of “Basant”. It was nice of her to allow me to do so, for most grown-up girls like to be treated as grown-ups and most stars like to be thought of as constellations and not as kids !

Indeed, this quality of always trying to please others won Madhubala many friends. I found her a contrast from Devika Rani. Devika Rani was always ready to teach, Madhubala was always quick to learn. In those days I was in charge of that production and we were paying a very small fee to Madhubala.

Then there was Kanan Devi with whom I starred in Debaki Bose’s “Chandrasekhar”. She epitomises all the virtues I have come to expect in an honest woman. She is one of the most outspoken women in the film industry and she doesn’t care who hears her. If she feels like telling you something to your face, or driving home a bitter truth, she’ll do it regardless of the consequences. Moreover, while fighting for her own rights, she ungrudgingly concedes the rights of others. When I was first on the sets along with her, she was already a front-ranker. But she never tried to badger or bully the cameraman to keep her always in the field. Most others in her position would have been lamentably anxious to do so and steal the show.

And as memories crowd upon each other, more and more familiar faces come to my mind’s eye, women who were beautiful, women who had brains, women who had art at their finger-tips. In all this medley of faces and figures, one artiste stands forth. It’s Veena, my leading lady in “Najma”. There have been more beautiful heroines than Veena. Others more talented than her. But never a more majestic artiste. I was often awed and uncomfortable in her presence. She was statuesque, and generally aloof and reserved. Yet she was co-operative. The impressions I carry of Veena are curious. Even today I cannot forget the look of tragedy she carried in her eyes. I cannot say whether it was personal or just business. I’m inclined to take the latter view—that Nature had fashioned Veena for deeply tragic roles. Didn’t she give us a superb performance in “Dastaan'”?

If Veena was fashioned for tragic roles, Geeta Bali is the opposite. She is the most uninhibited and easy-to-get-on-with leading lady with whom I ever co-starred. If I were ever to do a statue or painting of irrepressibility, I am sure I would come out with something closely resembling Geeta Bali. There is never a dull moment with her on the sets. One can have too much of gaiety but not when it comes in the form of Geeta Bali. She is very fond of taking a peep at the future. Whatever my merits be as an artiste I enjoy a reputation in film circles as an astrologer and palmist. Geeta Bali has often spread her palm before me. And I can never resist the temptation of teasing her. Taking out a pen, ostensibly for my calculations, I generally draw a grotesque female figure on her palm, proffering the opinion that she resembles that figure. But Geeta Bali doesn’t mind. Instead, she calls for the canteen boy and orders two glasses of lassi! Can you beat that?

Last, but not the least, on my list is Nargis. No superlatives can do justice to her personality. But common words will do. Nargis is simple. Nargis is intelligent. If to this day she has been a “baby” to everyone in films, she has been a little baby to me. She was only 13 when she and I worked in “Humayun”. It may sound like one of those well-behaved things to say it was a privilege to work with her. Yet it is a fact, even though I am the thousandth person to say so. Nargis can grasp quickly and surely, and appreciate the finer points of a character part. In “Deedar” the theme revolved around Dilip Kumar and Nimmi. Both Nargis and I were considerably astonished when we came in for our share of the praise after the fabulous success of the film. Probably the mutual understanding between Nargis and myself lent finesse to the scenes in which we held the floor.

I have shared stellar honors with many others lately—child-like Nalini Jaywant, sentimental Sumitra, self-conscious Suraiya, youthful Bina Rai and, of course, Bhanumati from the South. The endless mime goes on . New faces come, new leading ladies appear with me on the screen, new dialogues, new words of love, are spoken by us before the mike. The days have changed, so have artistes. In a lifelong association with film stars, it is more difficult for me to pick my favorite leading lady than to find the proverbial needle in the haystack (This interview was conducted in 1952).

Date – October, 1952.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Seen at Bombay premiere of Baiju Bawra (1952) are, from left to right: Bharat Bhushan, Meena Kumari, Meena Kumari’s sister Madhuri and Surendra, who played the role of the musician Tansen in the film.

Meena Kumari’s younger sister Madhuri who played bit roles in few Hindi films, later got married to comedian Mehmood

THE great success of “Boot Polish,” which A won the “Filmfare” Award for the Best Film, threw the spotlight on two juvenile artistes. Both have since become the most lovable and popular of our child stars. One of them is Rattan Kumar, the other Baby Naaz.

“Boot Polish” wasn’t their first film. Both were “Old hands” at the game that goes on before the arc lights on studio floors. For them “Boot Polish” might have been just another assignment. But the film proved that they were not merely “Veterans” but accomplished ones at that.

Rattan Kumar’s real name is Syed Nazir Ali. He was born on March 19th, 1941, and today, at fourteen years of age, he has as many as forty-two films to his credit! Screen assignments are coming in so fast that Rattan will soon hit the half-century mark.

“But,” explained the lad earnestly, “my screen work does not prevent me from going to school every day.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “That is, when I’m not shooting of course.” Rattan studies in the eighth form at the Anjuman-e-Islam High School — “next door to ‘Filmfare’,” he added. Very fond of sports, he plays table tennis, football and other games, but cricket is his first love.

Rattan has played in several filmland cricket matches in many parts of the country. The most recent one was at Jaipur. On that occasion, he headed his own team and the rival team was Baby Naaz’s Eleven.

Young Rattan is an ambitious cricketer and a keen organizer. He has a plan to take a team of fifteen boys on a tour of the United Kingdom.

When Rattan was in Delhi recently, he asked the Board of Control for Cricket to sponsor the tour. The Board referred him to the Bombay Cricket Association. Rattan expects that the local body will recommend his plan to Delhi.

If everything goes well, Rattan hopes to go abroad with his team in May 1956. They expect to play twenty-four matches in England.

Rattan enthusiastically explained, “The tour will give an opportunity to promising young cricketers to learn more of the game in the country where it originated. The tour will also provide sound training for the future. That is why I’m so keen that my plan should have the blessing of the Board.”

But funds? Here Rattan’s father explained they will organize festival matches and variety entertainments to raise the necessary money.

It was from the cricket field that Rattan Kumar practically walked into a screen role seven years ago.

Young Syed was playing a match in front of their house at Kalina, Santa Cruz. Krishan Chander, the famous screen writer, came to see the boy’s father and in the course of conversation said that he required a lad for a role in “Dii ki Awaz” which he was making.

Rattan’s father asked Krishan Chander if he would like to try Rattan. When the boy came in for his tea, Krishan Chander took a good look at him, thought it might not be a bad idea to take him on, and did.

The film as well as its boy artiste made a favorable impression and Rattan Kumar’s next assignment came the following year in Mr. Wadia’s “Balam.”

Followed a series of assignments: in “Hamari Manzil,” “Roomal,” “Sartaj,” “Sargam,” “Afsana,” “Banwra,” “Raj Rani Damayanti,” “Jai Mahalaxmi,” “Baghdad,” “Saudagar,” “Moti Mahal,” “Diwana,” “Raj Tilak,” “Dard E Dil,” “Angaray,” “Buzdil,” “Baiju Bawra,” “Radha Krishna,” “Boot Polish,” “Do Bigha Zamin,” “Bahut Din Huwe,” and “Jagriti.”

Several of these films were extremely popular at the box-office, some even celebrated their Silver Jubilees.

Rattan Kumar has nostalgic memories of Madras where he worked in S. S. Vasan’s “Bahut Din Huwe.” He holds Mr. Vasan in great affection, he said, and added, “Mr. Vasan taught me swimming, fencing and riding.”

Mr. Vasan himself was very pleased with the youngster’s work and gave him a new car as a token of his appreciation.

While in Madras, young Rattan also won the hearts of the Travancore Sisters (Padmini, Lalitha and Ragini). “They treated me like a brother,” he said, “and taught me to dance.”

Just now Rattan Kumar has assignments in the forthcoming films: “Ekadashi,” “Zindagi,” “Dil Dar” and “Mughal-e-Azam.” (This interview was conducted in 1955).

Real Name – Amarnath

Profession – Actor

Active Years – 1940s – 1960s

Nationality – Indian

Religion – Hindu

Ethnicity – Punjabi

Date of Birth – October 23rd, 1925

Date of Death –

Debut Film – Shalimar (1946)

Last Film –

Significant others in the Film Industry – Amarnath was born in a Hindu Brahamin family on October 23rd, 1925. He started his career as a clerk in a bank after passing his Matric examination. Later he resigned his job and launched his movie career as an “extra” in Roop Shorey’s “Shalimar”. He got his major break in “Patjhar”, in which he played the lead. He came into prominence with the release of “Swayam Siddha” in Bombay. After that he acted in many Hindi films, notable among them were Kamal Ke Phool, Sheesh Mahal, Bahu Beti, Izzat, Danka, and Hathkadi (Contributed by Sudarshan Talwar).

Miscellaneous Info –

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

Date – 1980s

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry, Pakistani Film Industry

Caption – Noor Jehan seen here with Asha Bhosle and R.D. Burman.

In an interview, Asha chose Noor Jehan as one of her favorite singers. She said, “Badnaam mohabbat kaun kare is my favorite song by Noor Jehan. I had seen her in early childhood when Badi Maa was made. I have also played a role in that film. I call her Aapa. She sings beautifully. She was one of the greatest female singers at the time of K.L. Saigal saab. ”

Asha gave tribute to Noor Jehan in late 1980s by singing some of the ghazals originally sung by Noor Jehan in an album called “Kashish”. According to Asha, she heard some ghazals by legendary Noor Jehan, and was so charmed by the unusual compositions that she resolved to bring those to a wider audience they deserved.

In an industry ruled by top stars, the lot of younger artistes, who have to fight their way up in the all-competitive world of make-believe, is pretty hard indeed. One such up-and-coming artiste, who has just graduated from dancing to lead roles, is Kum Kum, a deserving candidate for encouragement by critics and connoisseurs of film art. Talented, vivacious and preserving, Kum Kum has been in films for the last five years.

“After five years of hard work,” Kum Kum told me while I was dining with her the other night in her cozy little flat at Bandra. “I think I have just put my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. I have still a long way to go and I know there are many pitfalls before I can reach the top. I am just a beginner. I have to be always on the alert. The competition and thrill of uncertainty in the profession make me work hard and that keeps me happy. I have faith in my sincerity and I live on hope.”

It was her inherent love for the screen that made her first a screen danseuse and now an actress. Born of a middle-class Muslim family in Banaras, Kum Kum, who was originally christened Zebunnisa, yearned to join the movies even as a girl of 10. “My mother told me,” she said with a reminiscent far away look in her eyes, “that I was an ordinary plain girl with no talent and so should never hope to become a movie actress. But I never accepted her view as final. The greater she discouraged me, the higher became my ambition for winning plaudits on the screen. Supported by my elder sister Radhika, who is also an actress by her own right, I persuaded my mother to arrange for my training in the terpsichorean art.”

Kum Kum learnt the Kathak school of dancing under Shambhu Maharaj in Lucknow and migrated with her family to Bombay in 1952. Here, her aunt, actress Nirmala, came to her rescue. She put in a word about her niece to producer-director Shaheed Lateef. That was how Kum Kum got her first break in the latter’s film ‘Sheesha’. She had just a tiny dancing role in it. She was then fourteen and the year was 1952. Though she appeared on the screen only for a few minutes, she created a good impression on the minds of those who saw her. There was a refreshing note in her dancing and that appealed to the producers, who went to her with new contracts.

“So far,” Kum Kum observed, “I have not gone abegging for roles. By God’s grace, they have come to me one after another. But I have never remained content. I have tried to improve my standard, both in dancing and in histrionics, without much guidance. In this connection, however, I must mention director Mehboob, who helped me a great deal. It was his film ‘Mother India’ that brought me to some prominence. As you see, it is a good role and the success of a picture can ensure the success of the artiste.” Luckily for Kum Kum, quite a few of her pictures – she has so far appeared In about 20 – have proved successful. Among them, mention should be made of ‘Aar Paar’, ‘Mr. and Mrs 55’, ‘Naya Andaz’, ‘Bada Bhai’, ‘Ek Hi Rasta’, ‘Naya Daur’,’Naya Daur’, ‘C.I.D.’, ‘Pyaasa’, ‘Mother India’, ‘Basant Bahaar’, ‘Dushman’, ‘Sati Madalasa’ and ‘Ghar Sansar.’ In many of these, she has had speaking roles, roles which gave her scope to impress the audience.

Kum Kum is now playing the feminine lead in two pictures, ‘Subha ka Bhula’ and ‘Sachcheka Bolvala ‘, both produced and directed by comedian Bhagwan. Other pictures in which she is now working are ‘Kohinoor,’ ‘Mr. Qartoon M.A.’ ‘Swarna Sundari,’ ‘Duniya Jhukthi Hai,’ ‘Kali Topi Lal Rumal,’ ‘Ujala,’ ‘Shan-e-Hind’ and Guru Dutt’s untitled film.

I finally asked her what experience had taught her all these years. “Experience,” she answered without a moment’s hesitation, “has taught me to be humble and to respect and regard everyone. I have learnt one basic fact and that is that everything in this world, even the tiny ant or an earthworm, has a special job to perform. I have also learnt not to insult anyone but to love everyone. This is the surest way to win friends and success.”

A great lover of nature, Kum Kum is more of a home bird, her leisure hours being spent mostly in domestic chores. Marriage is not in her mind. “I have no time for romance and marriage. My work is keeping me busy and satisfied and I am contented with it,” she said in conclusion (This interview was conducted by T.M. Ramachandran in 1957, contributed by Sudarshan Talwar).

Year – 1930

Language –

Country – India

Producer – Oriental Pictures

Director – Naval Gandhi

Music Director – Silent

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Zubeida, Lovji Lavangia, Jal, Rampyari

Miscellaneous Information –

Year – 1931

Language –

Country – India

Producer – Ranjit Film Company

Director – Chandulal Shah

Music Director – Zande Khan

Box-Office Status –

Cast – D. Billimoria, Keki Adajania, S. Baburao, Kamla, Baba Vyas, Thatte, Gohar, Bhagwandas

Miscellaneous Information –

Year – 1926

Language –

Country – India

Producer – Laxmi Pictures

Director – R. S. Choudhary

Music Director – Silent

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Raja Sandow, Putlibai, Baba Vyas

Miscellaneous Information –

Year – 1966

Language – Urdu

Country – Pakistan

Producer – Kamal

Director – lqbal Yusuf

Music Director – Muslehudin

Box-Office Status – Flop

Cast – Rani, Kamal, Zeba, Lehri, Talish, Rehan

Miscellaneous Information –

Year – 1963

Language – Urdu

Country – Pakistan

Producer – Saghar Jaffery

Director – Chawla

Music Director – Muslehudin

Box-Office Status – Hit

Cast – Nayyar Sultana, Darpan, Talish, Meena Shorey, Panna, Ajmal, Nasira, Saqi, Himaliyawala

Miscellaneous Information –

Photo Caption – Shaminder with Azra

“I have begun to love the film world and the film people and hope to make good both as an artiste and a playback singer”, said the up-and-coming Shaminder, one of our new leading men of the screen who plays a key role in Filmyug’s “Aas Ka Panchhi”.

This handsome singing star from the land of five rivers has given his voice for many films, sharing his first song with Lata Mangeshkar and his first scene with Vyjayanthimala. Shaminder told me that he was grateful to both these artistes and the others of the “Aas Ka Panchhi” unit who helped him overcome his initial nervousness.

Born in a village in East Punjab, Shaminder hails from a well-to-do family which was prejudiced against his joining films. But, since childhood, he had an urge to sing and after successfully crooning for H.M.V and the Delhi and the Jullunder stations of A.I.R. he landed in Bombay in search of a ‘break’ for his talents.

Shaminder has had the privilege to work with some of our well-known music directors including Roshan, Sardul Kwatra and Shankar Jaikishan.

As an actor, Shaminder is anxious to evolve a style of his own. “I don’t think anyone in this profession can go far if he merely apes others and doesn’t work hard to stand on his own feet”, he stated.

Modest and unassuming, Shaminder admires Marlon Brando and his favorite Indian director is Satyajit Ray. “Someday, if I’m lucky”, he remarked, “maybe I’ll work with him (Ray) though at present it may look like wishful thinking.”

Apart from “Aas Ka Panchhi”, Shaminder has a featured role in “Anpadh” and “Dil Ki Awaaz” both under production in Bombay studios.

Regarding future plans, Shaminder said: “ I am going to choose my roles and keep on studying the latest books on acting and the dramatic art in the hope that I can manage to be somewhat different from others. I know I sound high but I want to be creative and original” (This interview was conducted in 1961, contributed by Sudarshan Talwar).

Date – July 28th, 1955

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – Kum Kum, Ulhas, M.A. Mughni, Nimmi, Mehtab and Producer-Director Sohrab Modi seen at the glittering premiere of “Kundan” at the Roxy Theatre.

Year – 1955

Language – Hindi

Country – India

Producer – Navketan International Films

Director – M. K. Burman

Music Director – S. D. Burman

Box-Office Status –

Cast – Dev Anand, K. N. Singh, Rashid Khan, Prabhu Dayal, Kalpana Kartik, Kumkum, Kammo, Zamboora, Bhagwan Sinha, Sheela Vaz

Miscellaneous Information – Not Available.

PRODUCED by actor Dev Anand under his own Navketan banner “House No. 44,” which was accorded an enthusiastic reception at the Krishna Theatre in Bombay on July 29, 1955 is marked by superb production values.

Planned and designed in the style of Hollywood’s slick, suspense-packed crime thrillers, and faintly reminiscent of John Ford’s gripping drama, ‘The Informer,’ the picture revolves round the daring exploits of a happy-go lucky tramp who, forced by poverty, strays into the underworld of a big city. Later he relinquishes the lucrative career of crime for a girl’s love and is then hounded by the gangsters who ruin his every attempt to earn an honorable living. In the end, he not only saves himself and his sweetheart from the wrath of the gangsters, but also succeeds in making the criminals suffer just punishment at the hands of the Law.

The theme of the picture has both originality and substance to make it a gripping motion picture. The brilliant camera work, specially the sequences shot on locale at Mahableshwar and Bassein, further embellish this superbly mounted production.

Despite these assets, the picture suffers because of a poor screenplay and naive direction which rob much from the picture’s suspense and allow the audience to tell exactly what is coming next.

However, it is fortunate that the drawbacks in the screenplay are offset to a great extent by the convincing portrayals of the cast, the lilting songs, and the three very attractive dance numbers.

Dev Anand in the pivotal role of the reformed criminal has surpassed his similar portrayals in “Baazi” and “Taxi Driver.” His role is the meat and substance of the picture, and his sensitive and powerful performance brings the character to life with vivid realism. It is a magnificent portrayal and just about the best thing in the picture. His beautiful star-wife Kalpana Kartik, as the orphaned girl who reforms him, also acts convincingly in a well directed part.

K. N. Singh as the gangster chief puts over a commendable performance. Rashid Khan as the man suspected of being an informer and Bhagwan Sinha are two more who acquit themselves creditably.

The dances, put over by three of the topmost dancers in the industry today, are delightful. The songs, though hybrid in composition, are melodious and are beautifully sung by Hemant Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle. The lyrics, however, are trite and their poverty of words adversely affects their quality.

Real Name –

Profession – Actress

Active Years – 1950s

Nationality – Pakistani

Religion –

Ethnicity – P

Date of Birth –

Date of Death –

Debut Film –

Last Film –

Significant others in the Film Industry –

Miscellaneous Info – Akhtar Neeli was a starlet in Pakistani films who acted in few films including hit Urdu film Aas Pass (1957).

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

WHAT makes a song last? It is almost ten years since we began composing songs for films—all kinds of songs for all kinds of films. Even this year—the year in which we have won the “Filmfare” Award for the Best Music Direction—we have composed strikingly different types of scores, ranging from “Seema” and “Chori Chori” to “Shree 420” and “Basant Bahar”.

In this long period the overall impression we have gained of the taste of picturegoers is that only an Indian song can survive on Indian soil.

We do not propagate any antagonism against the integration of Indian and foreign music. What we are opposed to is the wholesale plagiarism of foreign musical compositions.

How long does it take to compose a song ? We, on our part, take anything from a week to a year. To illustrate the labor involved we would cite the example of the musical score of the now famous dream sequence of “Awaara”.

Nobody had thought of a dream sequence for this film. The situation required two songs, “Tere bina aag ye chandni” and “Ghar aaya mera pardesi”, each of which was composed independently of the other. One day we were sitting in Raj Kapoor’s office—we had no separate music-room in those days. It was a friendly gathering. Suddenly we began making “ghost sounds” for sheer fun—shrill screams, yells and weird cries! Now an idea struck Raj.

“Why not make it a part of the music ?” Raj Kapoor exclaimed. There and then we decided to have a dream sequence, and link the two songs by a third one.

“There will be three songs,” Raj said. “A girl calling her lover, the boy caught in the grip of evil, and the final song of reunion.”

That very evening Raj brought Nargis to listen to those weird sounds we had made, and we all decided to have one full reel of musical sequence—what eventually turned out to be the longest musical sequence in Indian films.

The recording began at 9 a.m. and went on to become the most memorable one of our lives. We were all working ourselves up into a state of frenzy. Raj flitted from one end of the music-theatre to the other, inspiring one and all with his zeal. Day turned into night but all of us went on—musicians, singers, sound recordists, and Raj himself. Midnight struck—we were still at it.

From “Barsaat” to “Chori Chori” our story has been linked with the story of Indian film making. It has been an exciting time for both of us.

Once, Shanker visited the H.M.V . Gramophone Company and heard a song sung by a little-known singer. He was so impressed that he asked Raj Kapoor to get her to sing just one song of “Barsaat” instead of any of the established singers. Afterwards she sang all the songs of “Barsaat”. Her name is Lata Mangeshkar.

When we began composing tunes for “Barsaat” we used to play them to Raj Kapoor. So impressed was he with them that he was determined to use them in the film. But he said, “I cannot promise to announce your names as music directors since I have already signed up someone else.”

Still, we continued because of our love for the work. We were surprised and elated when, towards the completion of the film, Raj told us that we would after all get official billing as the music directors of “Barsaat.”

He had confidence in our work and his confidence was vindicated by the sensational success the songs achieved.

The days when we were recording the song “Ay Mere Dil Kahin Aur Chal” for “Daag” also come to mind. The financier heard the song and was so disappointed that he told the distributor, “It is a most disappointing song. No one is going to like it. If I had known that the picture had such poor music, I would never have financed it!” Little did he know then that the song was going to become a best-seller.

We feel that while retaining the basic form of Indian music, one can always experiment with new instruments, Indian or foreign, to widen the scope of film music.

The use of the accordion in “Mera Juta Hai Japani” and of the trumpet in “Mur Mur Ke Na Dekh” (both from “Shree 420”) illustrate this point. However, what is essential is the basic Indian melody. Thus even in the puppet song of “Chori Chori,” there are “alaaps” and “taans.” For that matter, the entire music score of “Chori Chori” is based on familiar Indian “raags” and folk melodies.

On the day Amiya Chakrabarty died he discussed with us the songs of “Kath Putli”. The first line of a song we recorded for the film after Amiya’s death is “Manzil Wohi Hai Pyaar Ki, Rahi Badal Gaye” (“The path of love is the same, only the travelers have changed”.) Amiya Chakrabarty took a keen interest in our work.

Of the many scores composed by us, we would particularly like to refer to four songs: “Ay Mere Dil Kahin Aur Chal”, “Awaara Hun”, “Mera Juta Hai Japani”, and “Ichak dana Bichak dana”. While the first became widely popular in India, the other three also won recognition abroad. We are told that “Awaara Hun” has been translated into many languages and is today sung and played in almost every part of the world. Its success has confirmed our belief that Indian film music can be appreciated abroad if we refuse to imitate foreign tunes.

We are sure that symbols of encouragement, like the “Filmfare” Award, will continue to inspire music directors to bring to the screen original and popular compositions (This interview was conducted in 1957).

WHEN I was small we all lived in a picturesque village in the North. Our house was on the outskirts of the village, close to streams and lakes, and the green fields stretched to the horizon.

We were four girls—my sister, two cousins and I. Like little girls everywhere, we were very mischievous, and loved to play. But we couldn’t play all day. We had to study. We were the only girls in the village who studied and how we hated every minute of it! There was only one Moulvi for the entire “Mohalla,” a venerable old man who came every day to the house to teach us Arabic, Persian and Urdu, together with the reading of the Holy Books.

Rain or shine, epidemic or earthquake, nothing seemed to stop this bearded old man from coming over every day! While we sat beneath a shady tree beside the well, breaking our heads over our lessons, we could see and hear our friends, the girls who lived around us, screaming and giggling, enjoying themselves and teasing us!

In girlish desperation we hoped he would fall ill! But no — there he was at the appointed time, calling out to us to come with the home work, which more often than not we neglected.

The Moulvi Saheb would sit cross legged on a “charpoy” while we sat on the ground reading the lesson after him. cursing our fate and envying the other girls who did not have to study.

Then one day we arranged a “gudiya” marriage—a very elaborate affair which brooked no disturbance, not even our studies.

But how to get rid of the Moulvi Saheb? We hit upon a plan. One of us was to push him, as though accidentally, so that he would fall into the well! Another was to scream that the Moulvi Saheb had slipped and fallen into the well. The third was to start wailing and the fourth run into the house with the news. Thus would we be free for the dolls’ wedding.

It was time for him to come, and our hearts were beating fast. Just then one of my cousins came running out of the house and taking us aside she whispered: “I’ve just remembered, there’s another Moulvi Saheb in the next Mohalla.”

Our faces fell. So it was no use getting rid of our tutor. They would only get another for us, even if it meant fetching him from another village.

When the Moulvi Saheb came we kept looking at him as though to say: “Moulvi Saheb, you don’t know what you owe us! We have spared your life.” (1957).

I never thought, when I became an actor, that I would ever have to be a writer, too. But I later found that the actor and the writer have frequently to rub shoulders with each other, and also cross pens.

I found that an actor must be able to express himself in writing, as he does on the screen.

So here goes with an apt quotation:

“No man is bad enough to tell the truth about himself during his lifetime, involving, as it must, the truth about his family and his friends and colleagues. And no man is good enough to tell the truth to posterity in a document which he suppresses until there is nobody left alive to contradict him.”–George Bernard Shaw.

Reading my horoscope, a well-known astrologer once said to me, “You have a wonderful memory.” He was right. I have a very good memory.

But a good memory can be a curse, too, when one cannot forget the pains and sorrows one has suffered.

I remember many things, many people, many experiences, all of which make up the kaleidoscopic pattern of my life. Sometimes my memory takes me back to people and events of my early childhood. I can recollect every detail about them vividly.

I remember how my elder brother, Ramesh, and I used to quarrel every morning over the pony which used to take us to school.

We were living with our grandmother at Aligarh. The school was three miles away. There was but one pony, and two of us had to ride it. So it was decided that Ramesh should ride the first half of the distance and let me ride the second half. I was to have the pony when we came to an old banyan tree which was exactly half-way from school.

On the first day, when we arrived at the Landmark, I said to Ramesh, “Brother, please dismount now. It is my turn to ride.”

“Quiet,” snapped Ramesh. “Don’t bring in too much of your arithmetic. Let me ride a little more.” This happened every day. Brother Ramesh was better built and his weight was a good fifteen pounds more than mine. I was slim and in these arguments he had the better of me. Ultimately Ramesh would ride the whole distance and let me trot behind him.

Ramesh is still the autocrat he was. Events have changed, but the pattern remains the same. He does not make me walk like before, but he drives off in my big Chevrolet, leaving his little Austin for my use. Today Ramesh takes advantage of the fact that he is three years older than I.

Then there is that Darjeeling incident— way back in 1935. There was terrorism in Bengal and no Bengali youth was allowed to enter Darjeeling without official permission, because the hill-station was the summer residence of the British Governor.

My father and brother went by car to Darjeeling, leaving me at Siliguri Station to come up later by train. While I was waiting for the train, an inspector of police who happened along looked at me curiously. Perhaps, seeing something suspicious about me, he began to question me. I told him I came from the U. P. and not from Bengal. But he would not have it.

He was sure I was a Bengali and was trying to conceal the fact. To my bad luck, I had an air-gun with me and it made him disbelieve me all the more.

I was taken to a magistrate who asked me my name.

“Bharat Bhooshan,” I said.

The inspector seized his opportunity and exclaimed, “Listen, Sir, this is certainly a Bengali name.” He then went on to repeat my name, giving it a rounded sound to make it Bengali—”Borot Booshon.”
No amount of argument would convince him otherwise.

To amuse myself, when I was alone, I kept pronouncing my name the way the inspector had done and soon came to believe that I was a Bengali terrorist!

I spent the night in custody and, in the morning, the magistrate sent me by car to Darjeeling under police escort to find my father.

To the credit of that police inspector, it must be said that he saw in me a terrorist and revolutionary, which no film producer has seen so far.

Years later Rameshwar Sharma, who is now no more, saw a saint in me. I had just graduated from college and, like other young men of my age, loved some of the pleasures of life. I was very fashionable in dress and was romantically inclined. I also liked an occasional drink.

So, when Sharmaji said that he wanted me for the role of Kabir, I laughed outright. The police inspector saw the terrorist in me and Sharmaji saw the saint. I knew I was neither. I accepted the role with reluctance.

Sharmaji proved right, because the picture turned out to be a great success. After it was released, people started to touch my feet reverently and every time they did so, it made me want to jump aside or run away from their adoration.

The saint’s role started a procession. Came saints, singers and poets—Baiju Bawra, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, Mirza Ghalib and others. I had been branded for these roles.

I struggled for some time against the branding, but gave up to adopt a philosophical attitude. Why blame the poor producer? My lot seems to have been pre-ordained. Destiny herself carried the joke a step further.

I discovered the joke only a few months ago. My house, an English-style cottage, is situated in the angle formed by two roads. It has two entrances, one from each road. One morning I found that the roads were called Tagore Road and Dattatreya Road.

My little place in the world lay linked by Destiny with the names of a great poet and a great saint. It seems to me that such names must have an influence upon my inner life.

However, there are times when I feel I must live the life depicted by Omar Khayyam—a clinging to the flowers and sunshine and wine of life. At others, when memories of my wife come back to me, I feel like renouncing the world to live the life of a saint.

Off the sound stages, I live a double life. I am completely honest in saying this.

My last exit from my cottage is bound to be along one of those two roads—one has the name of a poet, the other of a saint.

Which it is going to be, I cannot say (This interview was conducted in 1956).

Photo Caption – Shahida in unidentified film.

Real Name –

Profession – Actress

Active Years – 1950s

Nationality – Pakistani

Religion – Islam

Ethnicity –

Date of Birth –

Date of Death –

Debut Film –

Last Film –

Significant others in the Film Industry –

Miscellaneous Info – Shahida was a starlet in Pakistani films. Her most memorable performance was in Wehshi (1956), where the title role of the sex maniac was played by Himalyawala. Shahida’s dance, in the opening sequence, was remarkable for its presentation on the pattern of ballet. The girl expresses her love for Madan (Himalyawala), the happiness produced by the feeling and her reluctance to yield to his lust. The director’s idea and effort deserved commendation. Had it been timed neatly and developed a bit further, this number would have been a timeless masterpiece.

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

Date – December, 1952.

Related Category – Hindi Film Industry

Caption – A rare picture showing Suraiya with her mother Malika Begum and grandmother Badshah Begum.