Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 4

  There are many stunning moments in Pyaasa—do you have a favourite scene?

  WR: I liked the scene when I go to the publisher’s office after Vijay is assumed to have committed suicide. I give Mr Ghosh all my savings and ask him to print Vijay’s poems.

  I also liked the restaurant scene. Vijay hasn’t eaten for days and, while he is eating, the restaurant owner asks for money. Vijay gives him the only coin he has. The owner looks at the coin and says it’s counterfeit. Vijay is shocked and dismayed—it’s the coin that the rich seth had given him on the street. The furious owner asks the waiter to take Vijay’s plate away. I am sitting in another corner of the restaurant and, when I overhear them, I stop the waiter and pay for Vijay’s meal. I sit at Vijay’s table and we talk.

  It was a very moving scene.

  NMK: And it has such understated and subtle dialogue too—Abrar Alvi at his best. Gulaabo tries persuading Vijay to continue eating, but he is reluctant to accept her charity. As you say it is a very moving scene with poignant and direct dialogue:

  GULAABO: Toh phir khaana kha lo . . . Tumhen meri qasam. [Then please eat . . . for my sake.]

  VIJAY: Aap . . . aap apni qasam kyun deti hain mujhe? Aap mujhe theek tarah se jaantein bhi toh nahin. [For your sake? But you hardly even know me.]

  GULAABO: Khoob jaanti hoon. [I know you very well.]

  VIJAY: Kaise? [How?]

  GULAABO: Tumhaari nazmon aur ghazlon se. Jab tumhaare khayaalaat aur jazbaat ko jaan liya, toh ab jaanne ko kya bacha hai? [Through your poems and songs. If I know your thoughts and feelings—what more is there to know?]

  Pyaasa is almost sixty years old and has been screened at festivals all around the world. Its reputation has grown enormously over the years, and it deservedly features in Time magazine’s list of the best 100 films ever.

  Even saying the name ‘Pyaasa’ stirs an emotional reaction in me, as it must do for thousands of others. What do you think it is about the film that is so moving?

  WR: The subject of Pyaasa can never date. It’s about human values—and the things people seek in life: love, recognition and self-respect.

  When the poet, Vijay, gets the recognition he has craved for, he realizes it has no value for him. He has seen that no one bothered about him when he was jobless and penniless, and has understood that importance is given to a man’s social standing and not to the person. Meena, the woman he loves, marries Ghosh, putting her selfish needs above love. Greed is everywhere and Vijay’s own family is no better, as he finds out that his ruthless brothers are also after the money they can make from his newfound fame.

  Screenshots from Pyaasa. Photograph courtesy: Arun Dutt.

  Some years ago Pyaasa was screened in Tokyo, and I asked the head of the Japan Foundation Asia Centre, who had organized the Guru Dutt season there, why he loved the film. He said: ‘This is everyone’s story. These experiences are beyond national cultures.’

  NMK: It is also a film about an artist’s place in a materialistic world and the moral choices people make. Vijay’s friends and family betray him, and the only people with moral integrity are the poor masseur Abdul Sattar and the prostitute Gulaabo, who is ironically regarded as immoral by the world.

  I think Pyaasa is among the few Hindi films in which the hero is seen to make a life with a prostitute because usually the prostitute or the hero die by the end of the story so the film can sidestep the associated social stigma.

  In Abrar Alvi’s book with Sathya Saran, he writes that Gulaabo was based on a prostitute that he personally knew. Do you remember this?

  WR: No, not at all. This is the first time I am hearing about it. Abrar never said a word about this to me.

  NMK: Many years ago when I was researching my book on Guru Dutt, his colleagues talked about how he had started Pyaasa, then scrapped all the scenes and started filming again. The original casting changed too. Johnny Walker was supposed to have initially played Vijay’s false friend Shyam, but Guru Dutt thought the audience would not accept Johnny in a negative role and recast him as Abdul Sattar. Many things apparently changed during the production of the film.

  Did any of your scenes get cut from the final movie?

  With (L to R) actress Shammi, Johnny Walker and Yash Johar. Bombay, late 1960s. Yash Johar and Shammi remained close friends.

  WR: There was a very good song ‘Rut phire par din hamaare’ that comes in the story in a scene after Gulaabo hears that Vijay has committed suicide. I sing the song, sitting in a boat.

  When the final film was ready, we had a trial show and all the cast and crew were there, including Mala Sinha, Burmanda, Murthy and Abrar. As usual, Guruduttji asked for our opinions. My mother and I mentioned that we wanted to say something. Abrar looked at Guruduttji with an expression that said: here’s this new girl, what does she know about film-making?

  But Guruduttji encouraged us to speak freely. I said I thought my song was very boring. Burmanda sat up and said: ‘Waheeda, what are you saying? It’s a lovely song.’

  ‘Dada, it’s a good song to listen to, but boring to watch. I kept asking myself when it would end.’

  NMK: You know, I heard the song on the Net on a site dedicated to Geeta Dutt, and I can guess why the song was filmed in a boat—even though there were no other scenes or songs in Pyaasa filmed on the river. Guru Dutt must have chosen a river setting because of a line in the song that says: ‘Pahunchi na apni naiyaa ab tak kisi kinaare.’ [My boat has not reached any shore.]

  The song is really lovely.

  WR: It is, but when Dada thought about it, he also agreed that it did not fit into the story. The hero, Vijay, is assumed dead. Why is Gulaabo singing? The audience would want to know what happens next rather than hear her song. Vijay was supposed to have committed suicide—is he really dead?

  There was pin-drop silence after I had made my comment. Mala Sinha turned to me and whispered: ‘How can you talk like that? You’re a newcomer. You’re mad. Why do you want your scene removed?’ Guruduttji’s great friend Raj Khosla was quick to add: ‘This girl knows nothing. Guru, why ask her?’

  ‘No, yaar, they all have a right to say what they think. I even ask my valet Rattan for his opinion. It’s okay. Anyway, we’re not removing the song.’

  My mother and I kept quiet.

  You see the whole unit would often eat together during the shoot and my mother would join us. As a result, she and Guruduttji became friends—he called her ‘Mummy’. A week after Pyaasa was released, he phoned: ‘Mummy, I have some news for you. You know the song that you and your daughter did not like? Well, we’ve taken it out.’ My mother got flustered: ‘No, there’s no need for that.’

  Obviously he had not removed the song because of us. He explained: ‘In our business, we call a song the audience finds boring a “cigarette song”—that’s the moment when people leave the theatre and go out for a smoke. We went to see Pyaasa in a theatre and as “Rut phire par din hamaare” began people started walking out. So I have removed it.’

  NMK: You were right. A song would have been very intrusive at that moment. Instead there is a fabulous scene. When you hear the news of Vijay’s suicide, Gulaabo is distraught and says nothing. She is sitting on her bed with pages of Vijay’s poems flying all around her. It’s a stunning moment that visually says it all.

  The song was removed after the release of the film. That means it was cut out of every print running all over India. How was that doable?

  WR: At that time they did not release as many prints as they do now, so it was possible for them to remove the song from every print. When Guruduttji realized the song was slowing the film down, he knew he had to cut it out.

  Personally what I like best about Pyaasa is that the film is not verbose. That is its great strength. The Urdu dialogue is simple and straightforward. There are no long speeches and lectures. The ideas that Guruduttji wanted to express come through the situations that the characters find themselves in.

  NMK: You’re right. There is no sermonizing in Pya
asa unlike many Hindi films of the period. The political perspective, which gives the film an edge, is not imposed through speeches but is communicated through Sahir Ludhianvi’s songs. His Marxist thinking. After all, Guru Dutt had the most brilliant songwriter-poet working in Pyaasa.

  WR: Ah the songs! Sahir’s songs are the pillars of the film. They say everything.

  In the 1960s, I remember some of my directors asked me how the song ‘Ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye’ was shot. They tried to film a scene in that style, but it did not work because that song came out of a situation, which worked perfectly in Pyaasa and could not be applied to another film.

  NMK: Guru Dutt’s songs were indeed extensions of the story. Did you ever have any conversations with Sahir Saab during the making of the film?

  WR: Not really. He was very quiet and I was quiet too—too many quiet people. [we laugh]

  I must tell you I didn’t make many friends in the early days. I used to read between takes. If I spoke at all, it was to Murthy and Guruswamy. We used to talk in Tamil. It was our secret language. I felt more comfortable talking with them. When Guruduttji saw us whispering away, he would say: ‘This is not fair. I don’t understand a word.’

  NMK: And there was S.D. Burman who gave such extraordinary music to Guru Dutt. Did you get to know him well?

  WR: For a very long time I used to listen to Pyaasa’s songs at home. I loved S.D. Burman’s music. His compositions in Kala Bazar were lovely too.

  S.D. Burman was such a friendly and sweet man. Everyone called him ‘Dada’. When Guruduttji moved his offices to Natraj Studios in Andheri where he shot some of his later films, Dada used to drop by to see us. Dev Anand also shot Kala Bazar at Natraj Studios.

  It was well known that Dada enjoyed eating paan. He would send his driver to buy special paan from a shop near Bhartiya Vidya Bhavan in South Bombay. He liked sweet paans made with Calcutta leaves and a little keemam [tobacco paste]. Guruduttji and Guruswamy also enjoyed eating paan and whenever they saw Dada, they’d ask him for one. He would say: ‘Send your car to town to buy paan. My driver has to go miles to buy my stock, so I won’t give you any.’

  Having refused them, he would turn to me and say with a smile: ‘Waheeda, do you want a paan?’ Guruduttji and Guruswamy would overhear us and complain: ‘We’re paan eaters, but you don’t give us any. Don’t give it to Waheeda; she is about to give a shot and cannot have paan stains on her teeth.’

  Dada quietened them down by saying: ‘She’s a good girl. She’ll have the paan and not ask me for another. But, you two? You’ll ask for another and then another.’ [laughs]

  NMK: A key character in Pyaasa is Abdul Sattar who provided light relief to the melancholic mood of the film—he is the perfect foil to the hero. Johnny Walker is brilliant in this role. Did he improvise a lot?

  WR: Oh yes, he added so much to his scenes. If he overdid it, Guruduttji would tone him down. Otherwise Johnny had a free hand.

  He was a very serious man in real life—a good person and very serious. Comedy was very loud in those days but Johnny was very different from the other comedians of his time. If he had to do a funny scene or a stupid scene—he performed it with complete sincerity.

  NMK: If we could return to the first scene in Pyaasa—Vijay is lying on the grass in a park, looking up at the sky. A few lines of a Sahir poem are heard. These were beautifully sung by Mohammed Rafi.

  The poem works as a story prologue and describes the poet’s view of the world. Vijay sees the injustices around him but is unable to change things.

  Ye hanste huwe phool ye mehka huwa gulshan

  Ye rang mein aur noor mein doobi huwi raahen (x2)

  Ye phoolon ka ras pi ke machalte huwe bhanware (x2)

  Main doon bhi toh kya doon tumhen ae shokh nazaaro

  Le-de ke mere paas kuchh aansu hain kuchh aahen.

  [These smiling flowers, this fragrant garden,

  These paths bathed in colour and light. (x2)

  Drinking the nectar of the flowers, the bees sway. (x2)

  What can I give to you, O splendid nature?

  All that I have is a few tears, a few sighs.]

  Guru Dutt’s portrayal of Vijay is utterly heartfelt and that’s probably why audiences see no distinction between the character of Vijay and Guru Dutt himself. There is a blurring of the two personalities in our minds. Do you think Guru Dutt was like the melancholic Vijay in real life?

  WR: To be very honest with you, when we were making Pyaasa I was only eighteen. I didn’t study Guruduttji as a person. It was my second Hindi film and I was very involved with my work.

  But he was a very quiet person—constantly thinking about films. All of a sudden, he would ask me if I had read such and such book, a book that he had thought of adapting for the screen. When I was sitting with him and, say, a third person was around—Murthy or Guruswamy—and we started talking, we could sense that Guruduttji would not be listening to us. He was lost in his own thoughts. When we turned to him, he had even forgotten how the conversation had started. If you looked into his eyes, he was often not there.

  If anyone asked me what he loved the most in the world, it was his work. His work came first then his wife and children. He was obsessed with film-making.

  NMK: Did the reactions to Pyaasa meet his expectations?

  WR: Oh yes! Everyone had their doubts about the film doing well. I myself had no idea if audiences would like it. But Pyaasa picked up gradually. People loved it and especially loved the music. It ran for twenty-five weeks.

  NMK: With the release of C.I.D. and then Pyaasa, you became very well known. Do you remember the first day you were recognized on the street?

  WR: Not really, but I do remember an incident during the making of these films. In those days, you could hire a victoria [a horse carriage] and ride along Marine Drive and I remember telling my mother: ‘Mummy, before my movies are released, let’s go for a ride in a victoria because I won’t be able to do it later.’ But we didn’t go for the ride and soon I forgot about it.

  A few days later, I noticed that my mother was not talking to me. She didn’t keep very good health, and so I asked her if she was all right. She told me there was nothing wrong with her, but refused to say much else. Finally she explained why she was upset with me: ‘You wanted to ride in a victoria because you said you couldn’t do it after your films were released. I think all this has gone to your head. What will happen to you later?’ I understood what she meant and apologized to her.

  NMK: Were you ever mobbed?

  WR: I was recognized but not mobbed. When C.I.D. and Pyaasa celebrated their silver jubilees, I did become very popular. But stars did not have as much exposure as they have today. There were only a few film magazines like Filmfare and Screen, and people were largely unaware of how we actors looked off-screen. Now you open any newspaper and you see whole sections dedicated to movie stars. The stars today have lost the freedom that actors of my generation had. We could go out without any major problem.

  NMK: It is ironic to think that Pyaasa did not win any awards, and all the 1958 Filmfare Awards went to Mother India.

  WR: Was Mother India released in 1957? I forget.

  I was in fact nominated for a Filmfare Award for Pyaasa. J.C. Jain, who started Filmfare in 1952, called to congratulate me and said: ‘You are a very lucky girl; you have been nominated in a supporting role.’ I was very pleased that people had liked my work. Then it seems he told Guruduttji, who said: ‘She is not playing a supporting role. Her role is equal to Mala Sinha’s. She is my second leading lady.’

  J.C. Jain explained: ‘Mala Sinha is her senior and a big star. This is only Waheeda’s second movie.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t let her accept the nomination.’

  I was a little disappointed but later understood why he felt that way. Guruduttji didn’t want me to be considered a secondary heroine.

  NMK: You were contracted with Guru Dutt Films for three years. What were you earning?

  WR: My s
tarting salary was 2000 rupees a month, and later it was increased to 3500. It was a lot at the time. Some actresses of my generation were earning between 500 and 1000 a month.

  For Solva Saal, my first film as a freelancer, I received 30,000 rupees. The highest I ever earned in my career was 7 lakh for a film.

  NMK: When did you manage to buy your first car?

  WR: It was Geeta who picked up my mother and me in her car to attend C.I.D.’s premiere. The very next day, I told my mother: ‘We shall go in our own car for Pyaasa’s premiere.’

  I wasn’t earning a lot of money and thought we could perhaps get a second-hand car. Guruswamy suggested we buy one on instalments. For Pyaasa’s premiere we did manage to go in our own car—a convertible white Dodge. It was the first car that I managed to buy.

  NMK: There was a two-year gap between the release of Pyaasa and Kaagaz Ke Phool in 1959. How did you come to do Solva Saal in the meantime?

  WR: Guruduttji was a very fair person, and even though I was not supposed to accept any outside work, he called my mother and said there was this film that Raj Khosla was making with Dev Anand, and I should do it. My mother brought up the issue of my three-year exclusive contract and he said: ‘Mummy, girls have a very short screen life as lead heroines. When they get married, it’s all over. I don’t mind her working with other directors. But whenever I start a movie, my shooting dates must be given priority. Anyway, you know, Dev and Raj Khosla are part of my team.’

  If I was ever offered a role, my mother first discussed it with Guruduttji. When H.S. Rawail came to talk to us about Roop Ki Rani Choron Ka Raja, it was Guruduttji who said I should go ahead. We didn’t know H.S. Rawail. My mother and I knew only the big names of cinema like Sohrab Modi and Mehboob Khan. I believe she had seen Dr Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani, and so had heard of V. Shantaram.

  NMK: Both your Hindi film releases were commercial hits and critically acclaimed films, especially Pyaasa. So 1957 was a joyful year for you, but in the same year you lost your mother. Can you tell me what happened?