Conversations with Waheeda Rehman Page 9

  Recently a young woman I met told me she thought the song ‘Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai’ was the first feminist song of Hindi cinema because it describes a woman who takes her life in her own hands. Yes! I want to live.

  NMK: An astute observation on the part of that young woman.

  Guide won all the top Filmfare Awards in 1967, including the best actress award. In addition, you also won the best actress award for the English version at the Chicago Film Festival in 1965. Did you attend the awards ceremony in the US?

  WR: No. In fact I knew nothing about it. It was B.K. Karanjia who called me to ask why I hadn’t informed the press about the award. I was quite surprised. He asked me to come and see him in his office. That was the first time I visited the Filmfare offices. He showed me an article that had appeared in Variety, which read: ‘Indian actress Waheeda Rehman wins an award.’

  Dev never told me about it. Neither did Tad Danielewski. John Anderson, who was an assistant on the film, felt very bad about it all and, very sweetly, he stole the certificate and sent it to me! I didn’t make a fuss nor did I mention it to Dev. That wasn’t my style.

  I have always believed I was very lucky. I was the first Hindi film actress to work with Satyajit Ray and the first Indian actress to win an award in the US.

  Only later did Waheeda Rehman discover that she had won the best actress award at the Chicago Film Festival in 1965 for the English Guide.

  NMK: Who knows why Dev Anand didn’t tell you.

  I have never managed to see the English Guide, and would really love to some day.

  WR: I’m very curious to see it again too. Try and find it for me.

  NMK: Of course.

  Unlike in the West, where actors are usually contacted through their agents and sent bound scripts, the producer or director in India contacts you directly. Your decision of saying yes or no is based on hearing a narration of the story rather than reading the screenplay.

  How does the process of narration work?

  WR: The director usually narrated the story to me. Because he wasn’t reading from a screenplay, he would come with his chief assistant who would remind him of any detail he might forget while narrating. All actors are narrated the story individually.

  We would usually start after lunch and carry on undisturbed until we finished. The director told me the story and described the characters, but did not read any dialogue because the dialogue was often written much later.

  Goldie and Gulzar Saab were very good at narration. I remember Rajinder Singh Bedi telling me the story of Phagun. Dharmendra, Jaya and Vijay Arora were my co-stars and the film came out in 1973. Bedi Saab was directing but he was also an excellent writer. He told the story well, he even read the dialogue to me. He was a very sensitive man and got emotionally involved and started crying in a sad scene. It was very embarrassing.

  Bengali directors like Asit Sen, Moni Bhattacharjee and Basu Bhattacharya were quiet and subdued. Sunil Dutt told the story dramatically and when Dev came to me with the idea of Prem Pujari—it was his first film as director—he got very excited. I must admit I was taken aback. [we laugh]

  NMK: Did you prefer hearing the story or reading a bound script?

  WR: I preferred hearing the story first, and then I would have liked to read the script. The screenplay of Guide was one of the first screenplays I was given.

  I remember Guruduttji asked the author Bimal Mitra to come to Bombay. He read us the story of Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam in his Bengali English. Abrar, Guruduttji and Bimal Mitra worked on the screenplay after that.

  NMK: I wonder if you still have any of your old screenplays—Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam or Guide? It would be fascinating to read them and to see your notes.

  WR: I moved homes so many times and then finally we moved to Bangalore. It’s all gone.

  Bound scripts were uncommon in the early days. I wish they had been given to us. I would have read the lines repeatedly to become familiar with the dialogue. If you read the script many times, and then do a scene, the words come out sounding far more natural.

  I read somewhere that Anthony Hopkins reads his scripts dozens of times. Perhaps that’s why his lines flow so easily.

  NMK: I wonder if any directors have come to you and said: ‘I have written a script only for you.’

  WR: They always say that. Of course everyone says: ‘Waheedaji, we have written this script only for you.’ [we laugh]

  NMK: Maybe it was true.

  WR: Not at all! They repeat the same line to everyone. And in case I wasn’t free for some reason, or if there was a money issue and I couldn’t do the film, then they’d promptly go to another actress and say: ‘We have written this script only for you.’

  NMK: I am sure they did write the script only for you in some cases. I doubt they were fibbing all the time!

  But tell me, when you heard the narration, did you have a good instinct about which story would make a good film?

  WR: I made mistakes, but usually I had a pretty good idea of what would work. I instantly knew about Guide. I had read the book and when I read the script, I thought to myself: ‘Wow, this is going to be good.’

  I never think about the commercial success of a movie. You have to make the movie in the best way you know how. No one knows how the film will turn out or how it will be received. When David Lean made Doctor Zhivago, could he have imagined that his next film, Ryan’s Daughter, would not appeal as much? It may have been a good movie but people were not crazy about it.

  If any producer were able to predict the success of a film then he would be God! Everyone would go rushing to him and ask him if their films will succeed at the box office. No one anywhere in the world really knows what will work for an audience. And that’s part of the excitement of making movies.

  When I was making Khamoshi in the late sixties some people asked why I was acting in a film with such a heavy subject, a subject they thought no one would like. But I personally liked the story as well as the character I played—a nurse called Radha. I did not think about how well the film would do. What mattered to me was feeling strongly about the subject.

  NMK: Did the final film ever match the story narration?

  WR: No, never! But that’s to be expected. Directors have to make changes during the various stages of production.

  The dialogue was always changing. Many times the scene was given to us on the day of the shoot. On the spot! The assistant director would hand us a bit of paper on which the dialogue was written, and we would start memorizing the lines. Then he would come back and say: ‘The scene has changed, don’t memorize those lines.’ Oh my God, now to memorize new ones!

  There were even times when the dialogue was written shot by shot. Even after we had filmed a scene, the director decided to change a line here or there and we had to go for another take.

  This is how we all worked—Nargisji, Meena Kumari, Dilip Saab, Balraj Sahni, Nutan and all the others. In spite of that, we didn’t do too badly, did we? [smiles]

  NMK: Far from it! Your generation set the bar high for acting in Indian cinema.

  I am curious to know if there is a performance you like above all others?

  With (L to R) O.P. Ralhan, Meena Kumari, Mrs Kewal Singh, Nargis, Geeta Singh and her father, Ambassador Kewal Singh, in Moscow during the 1967 film festival where Teesri Kasam was screened.

  WR: I don’t watch my old films. If I happen to see one, I am very critical. The acting, the hairstyle, the clothes—I think it’s all very bad. I always feel I could have done better.

  Recently there was a programme in Ahmedabad where my work was discussed. They played a scene from Aadmi and when I saw the clip I thought I hadn’t done too badly. But rarely do I think I’ve done well.

  NMK: When dubbing became the norm in Hindi cinema, actors had a second chance of enhancing their performance through re-recording their lines. Until the late 1960s, films were being made in sync sound, which favours more naturalistic acting.

  What did you prefer? Dub
bing or sync sound?

  WR: Filming in sync sound is by far the best way of working. You can put in real effort, shot by shot.

  When we were dubbing, we worked on the scene as a whole and it’s easy to miss the finer nuances of a shot. Filming in sync sound meant paying greater attention to your lines in every shot.

  I found it very difficult recreating the emotion and mood when I started dubbing because I was used to working in sync sound. If the lip movement matched, the emotion didn’t, and when I got the emotion right the lip movement was out of sync. I had to concentrate hard to match the mood of the scene that I might have shot months earlier.

  But finally it didn’t take long to grasp what was needed once I got used to dubbing. Basically you had to keep three things in mind: the mood, the lip movement and the emotion.

  I am very pleased Hindi films are being shot in sync sound again. For years Hindi films were dubbed and I didn’t enjoy working like that.

  NMK: I think sound can enhance a sense of reality on screen and I am sure dubbing added substantially to the artificiality of some Hindi films.

  Often there isn’t much sound perspective either. Obvious examples are when you see a busy outdoor scene and the voices of the actors have the clarity of a quiet studio recording. Or the actor’s voice sounds so close to the mike, even when he or she is in a wide shot. Dubbing increased the split between the actor’s physical presence and the voice.

  WR: That’s right.

  I think we actors also concentrated better when working in sync sound. It imposed a certain discipline on the set, and though there were 100 or 150 people around—the spot boys, the light boys, the focus pullers, the make-up assistants, the hairstylists, etc.—they went silent when the director shouted: ‘Start action! Roll sound!’ Everyone stood perfectly still.

  NMK: As you were saying, you did not have the script in advance, so I assume there was no chance of researching a character.

  WR: How could we? I worked on three movies a month—ten days on one film, a week on another and six days on a third. I’d have a few days’ break in between. Where was the time to do any research?

  I believe Dustin Hoffman spent days with autistic people before making Rain Man. Hollywood actors have that luxury because they get bound scripts and have the time to prepare thoroughly for a role. They also work on one film at a time. This is not how we used to work.

  A chance meeting with south Indian star Padmini at the Hyderabad airport. Circa 1960.

  Of course, I know things are changing and some actors in India have started researching their roles. I read that Farhan Akhtar spent a lot of time researching his part as Milkha Singh in Bhaag Milkha Bhaag.

  NMK: Did an idea of how to develop a character ever come to you in a dream?

  WR: Not really. But I have taken inspiration from the behaviour of someone I know. I was acting in a TV serial [Katha Sagar] by Shyam Benegal, which was based on Guy de Maupassant’s short stories. I played a lonely Christian woman from Goa. She is relentlessly pursued by an estate agent who wants to get her house somehow. Knowing this woman is very fond of drinking, he keeps bringing her feni. I wondered how I was going to act this part because I don’t drink alcohol.

  My husband, Shashi, and I used to spend a lot of time with Salim Khan and I noticed he would make a gulping sound when he was drinking. I imitated that gulping sound in the shot. Shyam was taken aback and asked: ‘How did you do that?’ I explained to him it was Salim Saab of Salim–Javed who had inspired me. [laughs]

  NMK: Considering the fact that you would sometimes be given the scene at the last minute, what kind of scenes did you enjoy playing? Romantic? Sad or light scenes?

  WR: I liked playing romantic scenes and light scenes too. People liked me in romantic scenes. I have a very serious face, not a chulbuli [mischievous] face. I thought I could do light scenes quite well. My acting wasn’t too bad in Ram Aur Shyam, Aadmi and in a few scenes in films like Patthar Ke Sanam and Ek Phool Char Kaante.

  NMK: When you were filming a reaction shot, did your co-stars stand in?

  WR: Many did. Dilip Saab, Sunil Dutt, Dev Anand and Rajendra Kumar always stood in. Hearing their tone helped me get the right expression in the reaction shot.

  If my co-star was away from the set, an assistant would read the lines to me. We had such amusing assistants—they read the lines without any emotion whatsoever—and everyone would laugh because I performed very badly.

  NMK: You have worked with a variety of actors and directors, and with some directors like Yash Chopra you played both heroine and mother in his films. What were his strengths as a director?

  WR: He was a master at portraying romance on the screen, and his technical execution was very good.

  I remember Yashji came to see me about Kabhi Kabhie. When I heard the story, I agreed to do the film. Then Gulshan Rai, the producer of Deewaar, a film that Yashji was also directing, asked him to offer me the role of the mother—the role Nirupa Roy eventually played. I told Yashji: ‘I don’t mind doing it. The mother in Deewaar has a few good scenes and in any case I am not the romantic lead in Kabhi Kabhie, and so why not play the mother?’

  Yashji thought otherwise and advised me to say no—he said how could I play Amitabh Bachchan’s mother in Deewaar, if I was playing his wife in Kabhi Kabhie? He reminded me both films were going to be released at more or less the same time, but added if Gulshan Rai were to ask me I should say I was the one who had refused the Deewaar role. [smiles]

  NMK: Was there any director you wish you had worked with?

  WR: Bimal Roy. His production company offered me a role but it was going to be made by another director. I would have liked to work with Mehboob Saab too.

  My husband and Saira Banu were cast in Mehboob Saab’s last film Habba Khatoon, but when Mehboob Khan passed away in 1964, the film was shelved.

  I was keen to work with Hrishikesh Mukherjee. We were travelling on a flight together and were sitting next to each other. He said he had read a story he wanted to adapt and thought the lead role would suit me. I was very happy. I expected him to get in touch but heard nothing. I believe he told someone he had offered me a role, and it was I who had not called him. I didn’t realize I was supposed to call.

  NMK: Some actors have a reputation of being difficult and fussy and having tantrums on set. Were you ever like that?

  WR: [smiles] I was most dutiful.

  The first time I worked with Raj Kapoor was in Ek Dil Sao Afsane—R.C. Talwar was directing. We were shooting in someone’s bungalow. Rajji came late as usual, and then didn’t want to start filming. We asked him: ‘What is it, Rajji? The whole unit is waiting, what are you doing?’ He said: ‘I am not in the mood. Sorry.’ The owner of the bungalow was a friend of Rajji’s and had the courage to tell him: ‘You are paid to get into the mood, my dear. Please get into the mood and start filming.’

  My personal hairdresser Mrs Solomon would sometimes say: ‘They make you wait for hours, why don’t you make a fuss? Why don’t you complain?’ I used to tell her: ‘I am paid from 9.30 to 6.30. If they don’t call me for a shot, they’re wasting their time and not mine.’

  Mrs Solomon was with me for ten years and when I had more or less stopped working, she moved to America to join her sisters who had settled there. She has passed away but her family still lives in the States.

  NMK: If you had to wait on set for hours, what did you do?

  WR: I read. But if it was past 6.30, I felt I had the right to ask what was going on. Are you going to take my shot today?

  Sometimes the director would say: ‘Jam nahin raha hai. [It isn’t working.] Let’s call it a day. We can sit and have tea together.’ That kind of thing happened too.

  I am reminded of an incident during the shooting of Patthar Ke Sanam. We actors knew the director Raja Nawathe was not a very forceful man and could be easily bullied. Manoj Kumar, Pran, Mehmood and I got together and decided to pull his leg. We took the producer A.A. Nadiadwala into our confidence and said we we
re going to have some masti [fun] and upset the director.

  When the director had placed the camera into position and the lighting was ready, he asked us to rehearse the shot. First Pran, looking furious, told Raja Nawathe: ‘Dada, I’m Pran after all! What is this? My back is the only thing you can see in the shot. I am sorry, I don’t like it at all. You must change the angle.’ The director asked for the camera position and lighting to be changed. It took almost an hour.

  When the shot was ready, Manoj Kumar said: ‘Hello! I’m the leading man. How can I enter the shot like that?’ One after the other, we took turns making some kind of fuss. Raja didn’t know what to do. Then we all burst out laughing. The poor director!

  Sometimes we misbehaved on the set, but today there is no way you can do that because there is too much money involved.

  NMK: The budgets are enormous now and it would be difficult to delay a shoot for fun. But what if an actor just can’t get the emotion right?

  WR: It can be a struggle. When I used to set off for the studio in the mornings, I knew the scene I was going to shoot, and would try to get myself into the right frame of mind.

  Being prepared isn’t sometimes enough. I was shooting an emotional scene with Nirupa Roy for Mujhe Jeene Do, but neither of us got it right. We filled our eyes with glycerin, and so it appeared we were crying, but the emotion wasn’t there. We were phoney and artificial and giggling under our breath. We tried very hard but nothing worked. Finally we asked the director Moni Bhattacharjee for a short break.

  Nirupa and I sat outside the set. After a few minutes, I said: ‘I think I’ve been doing too many emotional scenes in the past month. I feel empty.’

  ‘You are absolutely right. I feel the same.’ Nirupa and I realized we had become drained of feelings and needed a few days’ break from playing highly charged scenes.

  There is a limit to your ability of expressing real emotions no matter how fine an actor you are. You may be acting, but you also need to feel something as a person.