Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 3

  NMK: What did the family call you at home? Did you have a pet name?

  WR: No. It was just Waheeda. My husband was a Punjabi, and, because I knew Punjabis give their children pet names, when I had children of my own I requested my mother-in-law: ‘Mama, please don’t call them by some meaningless name like Intu, Pintu, Bintu. Sohail is Sohail and Kashvi is Kashvi.’ [laughs]

  NMK: I believe you started learning Bharatanatyam at a young age. How old were you?

  WR: I must have been about nine. We were living in Rajahmundry in Andhra Pradesh. Many cultural events took place there, and we were fortunate to see the great dancer Kamala Laxman on stage. I was completely enamoured of her. She could hold a pose for a long time—statue-like. That’s when I told my parents I wanted to learn classical dance.

  My first dance guru was Ramachandran. He was a middle-aged man who came to the house to give me dance lessons. I didn’t have a lot of energy because of my asthma and, as a result, my lungs were not very strong. My guruji told my mother that dancing might help my lungs expand, and she started regarding the dance lessons as a kind of treatment. In fact they did help. My sister Sayeeda used to play the tabla for me during the lessons but then she started learning how to dance as well.

  Three different gurus taught me Bharatanatyam. When my first guru passed away, Tirachandoor Meenaxi Sundaram Pillai became my teacher. That was in Madras and when I moved to Bombay, Jayalaxmi Alva became my teacher. They all had their own style.

  She began studying Bharatanatyam at the age of nine. Seen here at a Madras dance recital.

  When I first started learning how to dance some of our relatives were disapproving and told my father: ‘Saab, you’re a Muslim and you’re allowing your daughters to dance?’ His reply was: ‘Dancing is an art and no art is bad. It’s how you conduct yourself that can bring dishonour to your profession. The medical profession is a fine one, but if a doctor misbehaves, you cannot blame his profession, can you?’

  NMK: It sounds like your father was a very wise man.

  WR: That he was.

  NMK: Knowing the stigma against women entering the performing arts, how did you come to dance in public for the first time?

  WR: My father was posted to Visakhapatnam, and India’s last Governor General, C. Rajagopalachari, who was known as Rajaji, was visiting on an official tour. Whenever dignitaries came to the city, the local officials had to organize a cultural programme. So my father and his team started preparing for Rajaji’s arrival. They received a message from Delhi instructing them not to invite artists from other towns and instead favour local talent.

  My father and his colleagues were in a flap. How were they going to entertain the Governor General? Daddy’s superior told him: ‘Rehman, why are you worried? We need a few performers. We have found a violinist and a classical singer and your daughters can dance.’ My father said: ‘They’re young and haven’t had enough training.’

  ‘No, they’ll be fine.’

  When my father came home and told my mother, she was most upset: ‘How is it possible? You mean my daughters will dance on the stage? Why did you agree?’ He explained that he had tried hard to dissuade his boss, but his boss would not take no for an answer.

  The night before the show, my father sat Sayeeda and me down and said: ‘Don’t be scared. It’ll be fine. The stage is always higher than the audience; so don’t look down. If you catch someone’s eye, you’ll get nervous. Look straight ahead and forget about the audience. Do what you can, but do it wholeheartedly.’

  Guess what happened the next day? A photograph of Sayeeda and me appeared on the front page of The Hindu. Isn’t that amazing? [laughs]

  NMK: Did your father connect it to your daydream?

  WR: I don’t know.

  NMK: The 1940s was a politically turbulent time in India. There was the triumph of Independence in 1947, but also the traumas faced by millions during the Partition. Did your family experience any Hindu–Muslim tension?

  WR: No, not at all. In 1947, I was about nine and wasn’t really aware of what was going on in the country. But I remember we listened to the radio broadcasts describing the terrible riots in the north and were deeply upset. But there were no riots in the south and as Muslims we never faced any problem.

  My father had a doctor friend, an orthodox Brahmin, who told him: ‘Don’t worry. You can change your name from Rehman to Raman. And if you have any problems, come to my house with your wife and children. You have nothing to worry about. No harm will come to you.’

  NMK: Was there any discussion about Gandhiji at home?

  WR: Sometimes my father would speak of him. He said he was an amazing man who had achieved so much. It was a terrible shame that things turned out so differently from what Gandhiji had imagined—I mean the violence that erupted.

  I recently went to South Africa and visited the house where Gandhiji had lived. I felt very moved to see the rooms where this great man had spent so many years.

  NMK: When you were growing up, did you have a sense of the British in India?

  WR: My father had many English friends. Around the time of the Partition, he once noticed me staring at a full-page photograph of Lord Mountbatten in the Illustrated Weekly. He explained to me that Mountbatten was the last viceroy of India and was leaving India soon. I told him I thought he was very good-looking.

  NMK: You said you were thirteen when you lost your father. Had he been unwell for a long time?

  WR: No, he was in good health. All of a sudden, he fell ill. He had a very high temperature. The doctors thought it was perhaps typhoid—his fever would go down in the day and up again at night. No one knew what ailed him.

  In spite of the fact that he was unwell, he would send for the office files and work at home. We were in Vijayawada at the time. His superior came to the house and scolded him: ‘Rehman, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be working. Till you get well again, I am appointing another commissioner. All the office facilities are at your disposal, but you must not work.’

  But my father wasn’t getting better. The doctor told us to take him to the Madras General Hospital, but he insisted on going to Visakhapatnam where he had many friends. The whole family accompanied him there and at first he started feeling much better. Six weeks later, he suddenly collapsed and died. He was only fifty-two. It was such a terrible shock. We were grief-stricken. My mother was a very strong person, but losing someone you cherish is never easy.

  NMK: How did she manage after your father passed away? Did she receive a pension?

  WR: She did, but it was very little. We had no idea about provident funds and life insurance policies. We hardly had any money. Bi-Apa and Sha-Apa were already married and lived in their own homes. That was around the time Sayeeda and I started dancing on stage. The shows brought in some money, but it wasn’t much.

  In 1953, two years after my father died, Sayeeda got married and my mother’s family migrated to Pakistan. She thought of going with them but did not know what she could do there. She was a heart patient and, because of her fragile health, she became increasingly worried about my future. She was very keen that I marry and settle down. That’s when I got the dancing part in Rojulu Marayi.

  NMK: And as we know that led to your moving to Bombay by the end of 1955 to work in your first Hindi film, C.I.D. Dev Anand, who reigned supreme in the 1950s, was the hero of C.I.D. in which you played the second heroine, a gentle vamp character called Kamini. Did you find it intimidating to work with the celebrated Dev Anand?

  WR: Not really. He was very charming and sweet. When we were introduced to one another, I called him ‘Dev Saab’.

  He immediately said: ‘No, you will call me Dev.’

  With Dev Anand in her first Hindi film, C.I.D. The film was shot at Kardar Studios, Bombay. Circa 1956. Photograph courtesy: Arun Dutt.

  ‘How can I call you Dev? You are a big star and my senior.’

  But he insisted: ‘No Mr Anand, no Devji, no Anandji, just Dev.’ From that day Dev Saab beca
me Dev.

  NMK: You talked about adding a clause in your contract with Guru Dutt Films about the costumes. Did you face any problems regarding what you wore in C.I.D.?

  WR: There were problems. I had to wear a long skirt with a long-sleeved lace blouse for the song ‘Kahin pe nigahein kahin pe nishaana’. In the scene, I sing to distract the villain from finding the hero, Dev Anand, who is hiding in another room. Shamshad Begum sang the song and Bir Sakhuja played the villain.

  The problem was the blouse I was given to wear had no lining and I refused to wear it. Raj Khosla was most irritated. The choreographer Zohra Sehgal tried convincing me: ‘There’s nothing wrong with the blouse. You’re just a kid. In the scene, you’re trying to seduce the villain.’ I said I didn’t know anything about seduction, but what I did know was that I had no intention of wearing a see-through blouse. All the assistants and Guruswamy tried persuading me, so did Bhanu Athaiya who designed the costumes, but my mind would not be changed.

  Then they called Guruduttji who was writing Pyaasa with Abrar Alvi somewhere in Khandala. The phone lines were terrible in those days. Somehow Raj Khosla got through to him and said: ‘Your girl is too demanding. She is not coming on the set and Dev Anand is waiting. He has to leave for Switzerland and has no time to waste—you know his wife, Mona, is about to give birth.’ Dev’s son Suneil was in fact born in Switzerland in June 1956.

  So Guruduttji had to return to Bombay and he came to see me in my make-up room and said: ‘Raj says you have a problem with the blouse. I don’t see anything wrong with it.’ I repeated that it had no lining. He called Bhanu Athaiya who told him it would take half a day to have the blouse altered. Guruduttji was worried because Dev had to leave urgently for Switzerland, so I suggested that I wear a dupatta. And that’s what was decided. If you see the song ‘Kahin pe nigahein’, you’ll notice I’m wearing a dupatta over the blouse.

  Raj Khosla told Guruduttji: ‘None of her movies have been released yet and she is already difficult. If she becomes successful, you’ll be in big trouble. Anyway that’s your problem.’ [we laugh]

  NMK: Both C.I.D. and Pyaasa were in production at the same time. You must have been aware of the fact that Dilip Kumar was approached to play the role of Vijay in Pyaasa, the role that Guru Dutt finally played. Before you were cast as Gulaabo, Nargis was approached to play the part, and the role of Meena was offered to Madhubala.

  WR: It seems Guruduttji did talk to Dilip Saab and warned him that the script could not be changed. Dilip Saab used to sometimes ask for changes. I don’t know how far this is true but that’s what I heard.

  People did tell me how lucky I was to get the role of Gulaabo because both Nargis and Madhubala wanted to play her and neither wanted Meena’s role—the role that Mala Sinha played. Maybe they felt Meena was too negative a character while Gulaabo was far more sympathetic.

  Because I had a three-year contract with Guru Dutt Films, it was taken for granted that I would act in the films they were producing and that’s how I ended up in Pyaasa. I wasn’t given a narration or anything like that. Maybe I was destined to do Gulaabo’s role.

  NMK: No one can imagine any other actor but Guru Dutt as Vijay or you as Gulaabo.

  C.I.D. was released in 1956 and Pyaasa in February 1957. Considering they were made at the same time, how did you balance the shooting schedules?

  WR: It helped that both films were being shot at Kardar Studios in Bombay. When I had a few days’ break from Raj Khosla’s film, I worked on Pyaasa. But I gave priority to C.I.D. because Guruduttji wanted it released first.

  It was on the sets of Pyaasa that I first met Abrar Alvi. As you know Guruduttji and Abrar worked together for years.

  NMK: How was your early experience of working on Raj Khosla’s film? Did you find it difficult?

  WR: To be honest I didn’t know much about camera angles or framing. If Raj Khosla told me he was going to film a big close up and I shouldn’t move, I would stand as stiff as a board and he would say: ‘Why are you rigid? I told you not to move, I didn’t tell you to freeze.’

  Sometimes Guruduttji would show me the movement and say: ‘Don’t copy me. I am only explaining the framing. Now you know where to turn and where to look. But do what you feel like doing. I am a man and you’re a woman, so don’t copy me.’

  He was very good at helping newcomers. If they decided to use a 75mm lens for a close-up, Guruduttji would tell me to relax: ‘Why have you become like a wooden doll? Whether we use a 50mm, 75mm or 100mm lens, it should not affect you. Just do what is required of you.’

  There was an excellent trolley puller called Aziz. Guruduttji was very particular about his trolley shots, so whenever he wanted a trolley shot, the first person he would call out to was Aziz. He pushed the trolley on the tracks so smoothly, and when he stopped you did not feel the slightest bump or the slightest vibration.

  NMK: Guru Dutt’s trolley shots are his trademark. They’re especially fluid in his songs. I am so glad you remembered Aziz’s contribution.

  Coming back to how you went from the sets of C.I.D. to the sets of Pyaasa—do you remember the first shot you gave for the film?

  WR: It appears at the very end of the song ‘Jaane kya tu ne kahi’. Gulaabo enters the courtyard of her house. I hide behind the wall to see if Vijay is following me. That was my first shot. It was filmed at Kardar Studios and later we shot the whole song on location in Calcutta. I think it took three or four days. We worked at night—from ten o’clock to five the next morning. I forget where we were filming, but I remember there were lots of pillars—it was somewhere near the ghats.

  NMK: Did you spend much time in Calcutta? I am wondering about the other locations in Pyaasa.

  This still shows the first shot that she gave for Pyaasa. Kardar Studios, Bombay, 1956.

  WR: There were some scenes filmed in Calcutta with Guruduttji and Mala Sinha, but I was not needed for those. The scene where Vijay’s fans enter a grand hall to commemorate the anniversary of the poet’s death was actually filmed on the Asiatic Library steps in Bombay, but it was passed off in the story as Calcutta.

  And the song ‘Ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye’ was filmed at Famous Studio in Mahalaxmi because they needed a large studio floor. Otherwise most of Pyaasa was shot on set at Kardar Studios in Bombay.

  NMK: I remember the excellent scene on Park Street in Calcutta where we see the penniless Vijay carrying boxes for a rich seth. The seth looks at Vijay and, under his breath, says something on the lines of: ‘What has the world come to? Even the educated are now working as coolies.’ And then he hands Vijay a coin in payment. But it later turns out that the seth’s coin is counterfeit. The brilliant actor Tulsi Chakraborty who worked with Satyajit Ray plays the seth.

  Guru Dutt’s son Arun Dutt kindly let me publish a book of his father’s letters to his mother. In a letter that Guru Dutt sent to Geeta from Calcutta during the filming of Pyaasa, he writes of seeing Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali. Were you at the screening by any chance?

  WR: No. As soon as my song was finished, I went back to work with Raj Khosla. But I must tell you he wasn’t very happy with my work in his production and had even told Guruduttji: ‘C.I.D. will be her last film.’

  After ‘Jaane kya tu ne kahi’ was shot, the whole unit watched the rushes in Bombay. For some reason I wasn’t there that day, but I heard Raj Khosla later commented: ‘How is it possible? She is bad in my film and has done such a good job here.’

  Guruduttji tried explaining: ‘Raj, she is very raw; you need to handle her right. Maybe she did the song well because she is a dancer. She knows how to give silent expressions. She needs a little guidance because she isn’t familiar with camera angles. When you use a 75mm lens, she gets very stiff. You have to make her relax.’

  NMK: Guru Dutt was clearly more adept at encouraging a good performance from you. Your presence in ‘Jaane kya . . .’ is imprinted on our minds. It’s a brilliant introduction to Gulaabo.

  I am thinking of the other Pyaasa
song ‘Aaj sajan mohe ang laga lo’ which is a favourite for many. There have been several interpretations of the song’s significance. Was it a difficult scene to get right?

  WR: Guruduttji must have wondered how to make me convey the right mood. Am I pining for Vijay? What am I feeling?

  He knew my father had passed away when I was thirteen and asked me on the day we were going to film the song: ‘Did you love your father very much? I am sure you were his pet.’

  ‘Oh yes, I was. I was the youngest in the family.’

  He carried on talking about my father. It felt like a casual conversation to me. I didn’t realize what Guruduttji was trying to do. [laughs]

  Then the shot was ready. Just before we were going for a take, he said: ‘You miss your father terribly, don’t you? When you climb the stairs towards Vijay, just think about your father and how much you would like to go to him. How much you miss him.’ That’s how he managed to get the kind of facial expression he wanted me to have for the scene.

  That’s how movies are made. Sometimes the emotions of an actor come from a lived experience. This did not happen often. It was more a question of my imagining how the characters would feel if they were faced with a particular situation.

  NMK: Your expression when reacting to the song is perfectly right for the mood and context of ‘Aaj sajan . . .’

  WR: I have always thought my silent expressions were better than my dialogue delivery. I was hesitant. There were no acting schools in my time and I knew very little about how to modulate the voice.

  NMK: Maybe that worked to your advantage because your dialogue delivery has always sounded natural and unrehearsed.

  WR: But dialogue delivery had become more natural in my time.

  NMK: You’re right. It had moved away from a theatrical style of delivery with the new generation of actors who came into Hindi cinema in the late 1940s.