My first film, Rajnigandha, based on the story ‘Yehi Sach Hai’ by Mannu Bhandari, turned out to be the sleeper hit of 1974. Since almost everyone involved with the project was new to Hindi cinema—this was years before the industry would come to be known as Bollywood—along with the euphoria of having made it in the film industry, I was confused about what project to undertake next.
Later that year, the critically acclaimed Bengali film-maker Satyajit Ray, recognized as an icon of world cinema, delivered the convocation address at the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII), Pune, the premier film school of the country. He was addressing eager young graduates, raring to make ‘art for art’s sake’, prepared to alienate audiences in their quest for expression. But in his speech, he gently urged them not to have contempt for the audience because ‘a film-maker who blames the audience for not liking his films is akin to a cook blaming the diner for not liking a badly cooked fish’. Reading his speech, and this quote in particular, in the newspaper the next day and realizing how important the audience was to him, I got the feeling that he might finally be ready to make a film for a larger audience than his past films had been able to attract.
Maybe he was now open to making a movie in a language other than his mother tongue, Bengali. Perhaps Hindi, or English?
I knew he had already refused offers by such stalwarts as Raj Kapoor, S.S. Vasan and Tarachand Barjatya to make a film in Hindi; perhaps it was the audacity of youth, sudden success and a deep longing just to be with this great man that nurtured such fantasies in me. When I was still an engineering student abroad, at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), it was the genius of his films, among those of other master film-makers, that awakened me to the beauty of cinema. As far back as I can remember, I had hoped one day to be able to pay my respects in person to this extraordinary man. And beyond that lay the inexpressible and impossible dream of working with him in some capacity some day.
It was a Saturday afternoon in September 1974 at the Anands’ beach flat in Juhu, Bombay. The brothers—actor–director Tinnu and producer Bittu—and I were enjoying our usual round of beers before a late lunch, feeling quite mellow. With my own family residing in New Delhi, the Anands were my family in Bombay, and their love and warmth played an integral part in my success. Tinnu had been Ray’s assistant for five years and he regaled me with anecdotes about his time working with him.
‘Tinnu, I have a strong feeling that Manik-da will do a film in Hindi soon,’ I blurted out, voicing my hopes out loud for the first time.
‘I think so too, buddy,’ he replied.
It was not the answer I expected.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘I really feel it.’ Tinnu’s face seemed to confirm his words.
For a second I let his statement sink in … then in a flash of excitement I exploded, ‘So let’s call him and go meet him!’
Within minutes we had booked a call to Calcutta through the operator; there was no long-distance direct-dial in those days. While waiting for the call to go through, Tinnu beseeched me, ‘Promise me that if he still doesn’t want to do a film in Hindi or in English, you’ll do one in Bengali with him?’
‘I’ve made a lot of money lately. I don’t need another blockbuster right now. All I want is to work with the great man … in any language. Sure, I’ll do it in Bengali!’
After what felt like an eternity the call went through. I stared at Tinnu while he conversed with Ray in Bengali—a language I don’t speak or understand. I could hardly wait for the call to be over to hear the verdict. When he finally put the receiver down I practically yelled, ‘Will he see us?’
‘He says we can go see him and talk.’
I savoured his words while grinning widely at Tinnu, who smiled back and said, ‘Better book us on the earliest flight you can get to Calcutta.’
In Calcutta, we checked into the Grand Hotel and Tinnu left to meet Ray by himself first, as was instructed. By the time he returned, I was overwhelmed by apprehension and hope.
‘Is it okay? Will he see me?’ I enquired.
‘We can meet him at 10 a.m. tomorrow.’
I was delighted by the dream-come-true quality of these words, but quickly focused on more practical matters. ‘Did he say yes to a Hindi or an English film?’
Tinnu shrugged and remained silent. He obviously didn’t want to disclose Ray’s decision. Usually, I like this about Tinnu very much—the way he can clam up totally. If anybody wants to deposit secrets that are not to be revealed, he is their man. But not today. I was frustrated. Realizing that, he tried to soothe me.
‘You just speak to Manik-da the way you spoke to me, and I’m sure everything will work out fine.’
Night fell. A night of dread and elation. The clattering of hope and despair. Legends about him danced in my mind: Renaissance man, one of the top storywriters of our time, creative director of an advertising agency with two fonts named after him (Ray Roman and Ray Bizarre), scriptwriter, brilliant director, camera operator, production and graphic designer, music director. This man whose movies I used to watch in small art theatres around UCLA had aroused such deep pride and joy in me, that India could produce masterpieces of world cinema and that one of the world’s greatest film-makers was someone from my own country.
To be around him would be like completing an entire curriculum in cinema, better than any offered across the globe. I was just a rookie, only one film old, and I wanted to learn film-making from the best. My effrontery amazed and scared me. But my determination to fulfil my secret dream prevailed.
I could hardly sleep that night.
The next morning, we were early for our appointment. It was sweltering and by the time we had trudged up the grand staircase in a majestic colonial building to the ten-foot-high white door to Ray’s second-floor flat, we were panting and sweating. While Tinnu rang the doorbell, I slid behind him to be as unobtrusive as possible, because it was well-known that Ray personally opened the door for his visitors.
Suddenly, a magnificent human specimen, tall with a bright face opened the door. A voice whose fame had already become legendary greeted us, and now, as it was directed at us, its impact hit me with delightful force. In his imposing, rich, but incredibly warm and friendly, baritone, he invited us to enter.
I was still a few months shy of my thirty-third birthday; he was fifty-seven years old. I was 5’6” tall and he was 6’2”, a veritable giant by Indian standards. I was from a well-to-do, non-intellectual, conservative, vegetarian Jain–Bania family from Punjab. Our caste as traders and industrialists was—and still is—looked down upon as being the Jews of India; and Punjabis have often been told that the only culture we have is agriculture. Whereas Ray was from a distinguished family of Bengal—half a continent away from my home—that was aristocratic, highly accomplished both academically and artistically and progressive; his grandfather was among the early leaders of the socio-religious Hindu reform movement, the Brahmo Samaj. I had lived in half a dozen countries; he had never lived anywhere but in Calcutta. I was a young, hot-headed Indian engineer trained in the US, radicalized by American counterculture and the movements of the 1960s, now turned film-maker. He was a legend, a calm, accomplished master of his craft.
As we followed him into the flat, I reflected on my good fortune in having lived through some of the landmark developments of our time and having been taught by some of the most amazing minds. Life in the US in the 1960s was among the headiest experiences of the twentieth century: the space race to the moon, the computer explosion, freedom rides against segregation in the south, flower power, psychedelic drugs, love-ins, environmental protection, gay liberation, hippies, Jesus freaks, brilliant college professors who were also Nobel Prize winners, tripped-out rock stars, raving John Birchers and ranting doomsday evangelists. The Kennedys, Martin Luther King, the Beatles, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Ravi Shankar and J. Krishnamurti. Zen Buddhism freshly imported to the West, Timothy Leary and the acid heads, gun-toting Black Panthers, tattooed Hell’s Angels, anti–Vietnam War demonstrations—all intermingled in an unending dervish-like dance during my ten years abroad. Our age was one of innovative and creative ideas—one characterized by a desire to acquire wisdom, to save the world from atomic devastation, to attain truth, beauty, freedom, love and self-respect. Our ideal leaders were liberal humanists rather than juntas of generals, hedonistic aristocrats or business tycoons.
We followed Satyajit Ray into his famous study, a place where he could be found whenever he was not shooting or on a rare social engagement. It looked like a combination of a Renaissance atelier and an alchemist’s lab. The first third of the space we entered was a lobby-cum-library where Ray’s collection of rare books was housed, along with some of his awards. The rest of the space was used as a study, research centre, studio, music room, conference room and adda, a colloquial Bengali word meaning a den or hang-out.
He sat down in a far corner on a swivel chair and faced the room. Behind him were two large windows and a cluttered desk with a telephone, which I was told he always answered himself. At hand was an easel with a small table next to it, overflowing with paints and brushes. Facing him, along the bookshelf wall, was a padded armchair where his chief visitor was asked to sit, and where he now indicated I should have a seat. To the right of the armchair was a table and another chair, against the wall to the right a full-size sofa, a piano and a music system in the corner. Along the opposite wall there was another sofa, this one sagging with books, journals, research material, manuscripts and notebooks heaped in disarray, obviously in continuous use. The entire workspace was large enough to accommodate at least ten people.
A production meeting had evidently been going on with Anil Choudhury, Soumendu Roy, Ashok Das and others. His team had been with him from the beginning and was more like family than crew. He later told me that one reason he needed to make a film each year was to keep them employed, since they worked almost exclusively for him.
My film Rajnigandha was currently running to packed houses at the Metro cinema in Calcutta, for which Ray and everyone in the room congratulated me. Tea and biscuits were brought in, as I discovered over time they usually were, in endless streams for anybody who visited. After a few more pleasantries, his team left Tinnu and me alone with him.
I felt hot and breathless and perspired even though it was quite cool under the ceiling fan. Rooted to the spot in my armchair I didn’t see how I would ever get a word unstuck from my throat: So much was riding on the outcome of the next few minutes.
He turned to me and in English gently asked me for my say.
‘Sir, I would like you to make a film in Hindi because I am in the Hindi film industry, or in English, or if not, then in Bengali,’ the words tumbled out. As soon as I heard them, I panicked at the disjointed, abrupt and almost rude sentences. Oh, you’ve blown it, Suresh! Better get out of here fast before you sink to the floor with embarrassment.
Then a voice cut through my despairing thoughts, not unlike what the Prophet Moses must have heard while receiving the Ten Commandments from God, and said, ‘Actually … I have been thinking of doing a film in Hindi.’
His reply lifted me out of the darkness that had threatened to devour me just a second ago and thrust me towards a future full of endless possibilities. I looked at him in amazement and infinite gratitude.
‘If you come across a story that you like, let me know. If I like it, I will do a screenplay.’
Even though I was just a rookie and dazed by the last few minutes, I did know enough about the film industry to realize that when a great director decides to make a film he said he never would, something besides my blathering must have inspired him.
‘Sir, might you have a story in mind…?’
‘Yes, I do. But before I tell you what it is, you must agree not to reveal it to anybody, in case we decide not to do it.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Also, I must warn you it will be a very expensive film. At least four or five times more expensive than my costliest Bengali film. You may not want to spend so much on my first Hindi film.’
‘Yes, sir, I understand. But that’s not a problem.’
‘The story is called “Shatranj Ke Khilari”. It is a short story by Premchand. Do you know it?’
‘Not this particular one, but I would like to read it. Is there an English translation?’
‘Yes, there is a UNESCO publication that has it. But I will lend you my copy only if you will return it after reading it.’
After one more round of tea and biscuits, I floated out the same way I came in, but this time with a book in hand like a precious talisman. Back on the landing after the great door shut, Tinnu and I grinned at one another in delight and flew down the wide staircase three steps at a time. We rushed back to the Grand and I started devouring the book.
I liked it immensely.
The next day we returned and I told him so. I said I would love to do the story and handed over an envelope, mumbling, ‘Sir, this is for you.’
‘Baba, what’s this?’
‘Sir, in the Bombay film industry when a director and producer agree to do a film together, it is customary for the producer to give the director a signing amount.’
‘No. I don’t work that way. And if we are to work together, you will have to work my way. First, I will write a draft of the screenplay, and if it is satisfactory, we can discuss money.’
I smiled at him, bowed my head in respect and withdrew the envelope. And thus began my professional relationship and a lifelong friendship with Satyajit Ray.