THE MAN WHO WROTE WITH TEARS
Kidar Sharma
Kidar Sharma wrote the dialogue and lyrics for the version of Devdas that starred K.L. Saigal. He directed Jogan and Chitralekha; he mentored Raj Kapoor. His autobiography is a charming and idiosyncratic account of an outsider in Bollywood.
Hussain, the young editor, was delighted to have me in their team. When I thanked them, Mr Sharma retorted, ‘A jeweller knows the worth of a gem. And yes, Kidar Sharma is a rare gem, which New Theatres never deserved.’ Before the shooting began, I was told to check with my chief assistant to see the rushes of the already shot film sequences, and to somehow complete the film.
When I went home and told everyone that I had been called a ‘gem’ and how happy I was to be engaged as a film director, the three kids started dancing. My darling daughter, Prabha, who has a lot of rhythm in her, danced the most. Now that money was not a problem, Billy [Kidar’s son] insisted on the green car and I promised we would get one after the movie was completed.
My brother, Himmat Rai, and my brother-in-law, Rajendra Sharma, had come to stay with me and try their luck in films, too. I had a big flat, so that was not a problem. On the first day of the shooting, I was nervous, but I kept my cool. When I left home, my son Bitto combed my hair and my daughter put a little tilak on my forehead, after some kind of puja. Billy reminded me, ‘Don’t forget to pretend that you are a great director. We have to bring home a green car.’
I confess that I can pretend and make others believe that I have great confidence and skill, that I am a master of any situation. But that day, when I reached the studio floor, I had to control my legs from shaking and my heart from beating too fast. My heroine for this film was Miss Chhayadevi, the Queen in Vidyapati and the favourite of the great film director, Mr D.K. Bose, to whom Chhayadevi appeared as a silly stupid woman, but who for the sake of sabhyata called her a simpleton.
Ms Chhavadevi loved all her directors, big or small, and she assured me of her support with a benevolent smile. I smiled back and said, ‘I am going to start with a tight close-up.’ She was puzzled. She had heard of a close-up, but a ‘tight’ close-up was a real mystery to her.
Mr Malhotra, my German-trained cinematographer, was keen to test my knowledge as a director and asked me, ‘Which lens should I use for this tight close-up, Sharmaji?’ I did not know the correct answer to his question, and I asked, ‘How many lenses have you got?’ He replied, ‘Four—a 25, a 50, a 75 and a 100.’ I said, ‘Let me look at these lenses.’ The lenses were handed to me.
I picked up each and selected the heaviest, the 100 lens.
Mr Malhotra said, ‘I never knew you had so much knowledge about cinematography, too.’
Pretending paid off, once again. The art of fibbing has enabled me to become a fiction writer. And perhaps self-deception alone. has helped me to exist, under severe and painful circumstances. ‘Baquadre paymanna-e-taqhayul, khummar hur dil main hai khudi ka, agar na ho yeh furraib-e-peham, to dumm nikal jaaye aadmi ka.’ (Full to the brim, each one is intoxicated by our ego; without this self-deception, man would breathe his last.)
When the film was completed, I made sure that I got the balance of Rs 2500 [that was owed to Kidar Sharma by the producers]. During the first trial, Chhayadevi wept and cried like a child. She was so moved with the story, and the tragic scenes, that her copious tears affected the audience reaction to the film quite a lot. The unit members were raving about my skill as a director. My cameraman and the editor asked me to console my heroine, who was still sobbing. So I went and sat near her and asked, ‘Is the film really so touching?’ She said, ‘Yes.’ Then I asked her, ‘Will the audience cry, too, when the film is released?’ She said, ‘Yes, oh yes.’ Then I inquired, ‘What about the critics?’ And she replied, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ So I asked her jokingly, ‘Will the producer also cry?’ And she replied innocently, ‘Yes, of course.’
When, Mr R. Sharma joined us, Chhayadevi, knowing how important a person he was, started crying again, and asked me for my handkerchief. Since I never had one, Mr R. Sharma offered her his. She wiped the tears and blew her nose with zeal. How simple this woman really was only God and Chhayadevi knew.
My temporary assignment, to complete this unfinished film, won me great admiration and a great friend. Mr R. Sharma liked me for my pen and admired me for my honesty, praised me for my sense of humour and my knowledge of music. Since I had completed their film, it was time to say goodbye.
When I went to Mr Kabra’s office, to say goodbye, and ask for the balance of my fee, Mr Kabra smiled and said, ‘You are not going to leave the Film Corporation of India. You better see Mr R. Sharma, collect your cheque and sign a new contract.’
I was surprised, and I went to Mr Sharma, who gave me two cheques, one for the balance for the film, of Rs 2500 and another cheque of Rs 1000, as the signing amount for directing two more films for them. The total amount for these two films was Rs 20,000, to be paid in instalments. I was overjoyed. I knew I could complete the two films in a year’s time.
A week later, I submitted the script of Aulad/Dil Hi To Hai to Mr Sharma, for his approval. It was the first offbeat film, dealing with human problems. It was neither a mythology nor was it a theatrical Romeo and Juliet venture. After a fortnight, I was told to go ahead and select the stars for my first independent directorial venture. I told Mr Sharma, ‘I do not need stars. I need suitable artists and willing workers. Even if they are raw hands. I have the ability to train them, and get the best performance out of them.’ Mr Sharma replied, ‘You have complete freedom and our complete co-operation. But remember, you will also be totally responsible for the results.’ I said, ‘I know that.’ And we parted.
Aulad was the first New Wave film and, therefore, it was like it taking quite a risk. It was not a musical romance nor was it a costume drama, with dazzling sets. It was a down-to-earth story of a middle-class father, who had sacrificed all his life to educate his son and his darling daughter, hoping that they would be worthy children to the society and to the family. Little did the old man know that the generation gap would present a different, horrifying reality, which would destroy him completely. This film had the lines, ‘Paon may roundda humay apno nay baygaanon nay, haath pukra jo musebbat main toe aarmanon nay.’ (I have been trampled on, both by my kin, and those not my own. The only support I got was from hope and wishes.)
I think I felt the need of our nation, which was struggling in those days for freedom. I saw the need to prepare the youth so when freedom was given to them, they would know how to digest it. So that rather than just demanding rights, they would accept responsibility and obligations, too. In my opinion, it was a necessary message, as the leaders had no time for this. And the teachers and thinkers seemed oblivious to it. I thought Aulad would give my country a hint about such an important issue. Time proved that freedom comes to those who were qualified enough to make full use of this blessing.
The modern college Miss, who destroys the dreams of her old father, the aged struggling middle-class man, was played by Romola, the same girl whom I had once taken to Mr Nitin Bose and who was rejected for her short height. I kept my promise that she would be the heroine of my first film. For the main male role I chose Mr A.S. Gyani, whom I had admired as the star of amateur theatre while I was a student in Amritsar. Unfortunately Mr Gyani was struggling and working as an extra in Bombay. I contacted him and gave him a chance to star in a film in Calcutta. While Gyani expressed his thankfulness in so many emotional ways, Miss Romola only said, ‘Thanks.’ She was more interested in my first assistant, Mr R.C. Talwar and soon she made him her friend, philosopher and guide. Romola explained, bashfully and truthfully, the meaning of the word, ‘guide’. She said, ‘He is smart. He gets his commission in advance, for rendering his services eventually.’ R.C. Talwar was a classmate and friend so I ignored his relationship with Romola.
Another remarkable person whom I met while making Aulad was my music director, Shri Bhissham Dev, a master of his art and a soft-spoken saint. He was an English writer and he once remarked that he wanted to hastily return thither, whence he had come from. He renounced the world soon after and became an ascetic.
Since I was financially quite comfortable now, I allowed myself two luxuries. The first was bringing home a green car, a thrill to my youngest son, Billy. My English car was a beauty, it was a green, second-hand Wolsely, with all the dignity that goes with an English car. The second was to shift from 70 Russa Road to an entire building with ground floor, first floor and second floor all for us. I found such a building, next door! The ground floor was given to the boys, my younger brother, Himmat Rai and brother-in-law, Rajendra Sharma, who brought a friend of his from Rawalpindi also to stay with them. His friend, a Sardarji, was meek as a lamb and extremely religious.
I worked very hard to make Aulad, an emotional masterpiece, and I did succeed to quite an extent in my endeavour. During its first trial Mr Dalsukh Pancholi, who had started his own production in Lahore, happened to be there and he made up his mind to take away two of my artists—Gyaniji and Romola—after seeing the audience reaction. He secretly negotiated with them, telling them not to reveal his plans to their director, Kidar Sharma, who had discovered and groomed them. Since loyalty is not a popular practice in show business, both my favourite artists kept Mr Pancholi’s plans a guarded secret from me and Mr R. Sharma, who had done a lot to establish them as stars. Actually they were nobodies, compared to film stars of those days, like K.L. Saigal, Motilal, Prithviraj, Nawab, Kanan Devi, Umashashi, Leela Desai to name a few.
Another surprise was that Aulad was to have its premiere in Bombay. And that, too, through Shri Reva Shankar Pancholi, the elder brother of Mr D. Pancholi.
Mr Reva Shankar, a thorough gentleman, insisted that Pandit Kidar Sharma must attend the release of this offbeat film in Bombay, and discuss the importance of the subject with the Bombay press, for which he would make all the arrangements. So I had to go to Bombay for the release of my first film. Mr Reva Shankar did not put me up in a hotel. He took me straight to his own home to stay with his family members. He was so loving, so gentle and so honest. I was very young in those days and being of slender build, no one believed that I had directed this offbeat film, packed with sublime sentiment and good directorial touches. Aulad was released at the Krishna Cinema, which was quite popular, but since neither the company, which had produced this film, nor its director, nor the star cast, were known to the audience, the first response was very poor. But, day by day, word of mouth started making Aulad slowly popular with the public.
Ms Jaddan Bai (Nargis’s mother) was a well-known producer/ director in Bombay in those days. She was so charmed by the movie, she saw it several times with her family, her friends and with her film unit. Being an ‘intellectual’ artist herself she praised my penmanship. The critics hailed me as ‘the man who writes with tears, not ink’.
As Aulad became increasingly popular, I used to go to the theatre each day to see the outcome of at least one show. Jaddan Bai was very keen to meet the director of the movie, Pandit Kidar Sharma. She had told the manager of the cinema, that since she came to see the movie every third day, she would like to meet Mr Sharma whenever he showed up at the theatre. One day when she came to see the movie at 6.30 p.m. for the sixth time, I also happened to be present. During the intermission I was ceremoniously taken to the manager’s office, when Jaddan Bai was eagerly waiting for me.
The manager introduced me to Jaddan Bai saying, ‘This is Kidar Sharma from Bengal, the director of Aulad.’ Being an outspoken woman who used four-letter words with regular frequency, and being a large woman with a heavy bosom and matching hips, she remarked, ‘Allah, don’t tell me this dubla-patla laonda (this skinny lad) has made this fine film.’ I sat beside her, and in my own style said, ‘Madam, talent has nothing to do with weight, and brains and grey matter are not proportional to size. I am glad you like my movie. You have great taste.’
Since Jaddan Bai also had a keen sense of humour she was pleased with my remark. Our conversation turned to other moviemakers and she said. ‘Mr Mehboob Khan made Aurat (woman) and Shri Shantaram made Aadmi (man) …’ I interrupted her and said: ‘But it was Kidar Sharma who created Aulad (the progeny).’ Jaddan Bai laughed and shook my hand. We had an instant liking for one another because she was very fond of poetry she loved my ghazals and my sharp sense of humour. I eventually directed her daughter Nargis in Jogan (the nun) in 1950.
When I returned to Calcutta Mr R. Sharma told me that the movie had fared much better in the North. He also indicated that he had acquired the rights to Mr Bhagwati Charan Verma’s novel Chitralekha and though initially, he wanted to produce and direct it himself, he now wanted me to write and direct it. I read the novel, and felt it resembled the French novel Thais written by Anatole France. It was a very powerful subject, but I felt that for cinema I would have to rewrite a number of the scenes, and adapt the novel. I told Mr Sharma about my plans, and he agreed, promising me his full support and cooperation. My only demand was that the title role of Chitralekha be played by Mehtab. Miss Mehtab was not a well-known actress. She had worked in some Bgrade stunt movies in Bombay. But I felt that she was perfect for the role. She arrived in Calcutta, and turned up in her own big Buick car. She wanted to impress me and pretended to act like royalty. She seemed to have bathed in some perfume because you could smell her aroma from a mile away. She also had a thing going for Mr R. Sharma, and so I had to handle her with kid gloves. I chose Gyani to play the ascetic Kumar Giri and for the role of Bij Gupta, the lover, I selected a Maharashtrian actor Mr B. Nandrekar. Since Romola was not keen to work in a costume movie, I selected a newcomer, a schoolteacher with a very innocent face, by the name of Miss Monica Desai, to play the role of Yashodra, despite her inexperience.
Before I could start the movie I received a letter from my father- in-law from Rawalpindi. My wife insisted we should go and visit them, as well as my parents in Narowal since both sets of parents were happy with my success. So I sent my wife, Prabha and Billy to my in-laws and I decided to take Vikram with me to Narowal first.
My youngest brother Kesho, a young lad of eighteen, was thrilled to see me. He was very proud of my accomplishments and had requested me earlier to get him a film projector, so that he could show his friend clippings of movies at home. So I had bought a small home projector from Calcutta. It was a small handcrank projector that required a kerosene lamp, since there was no electricity in the village, and it had two loops to thread the film. I brought the projector and about two feet of film, but he wanted to run a longer film to show everyone. I told him that I also had another 200 feet of film that was just a test piece of Monica Desai. I gave it to him. He was delighted. Due to the long length of the film clip, the projector could overheat, I cautioned him, because films in those days were highly inflammable.
My sister Guro had also come home with her three daughters so it was a rare family reunion. That evening I decided to go to Rawalpindi with my son. Kesho escorted me to the railway station and insisted on carrying my small suitcase. I had a beautiful warm jacket which Kesho found irresistible and he at last said. ‘Bhapaji (elder brother), can you give me your jacket. I love it very much. You have given so many nice shirts to Himmat Bhaiya.’ But I was very mean and refused to part with the jacket. He just smiled and helped us get in the train and as the train moved, Kesho like all small children ran for some distance with the train, waving wildly, which delighted my son who waved back till they could barely see each other. It was as if they were waving goodbye for the last time.
9 January 1940 was a day I will never forget. My son and I were the only two passengers in the compartment once we crossed the town of Jehlam. The temperature as we headed north turned to a freezing sub-zero and we were not accustomed to the cold weather. The train was still about fifty miles from our destination, Rawalpindi, when it stopped at a small station. Vikram’s teeth were chattering, he had a fever and badly needed a hot cup of milk. I looked for a stall in vain. I got down to get some help and saw a small tea stall a few yards away, as I approached the stall, the train suddenly without any warning started moving. Vikram was all alone in the compartment and so I dashed after the train and grabbed it just in the nick of time. When I reached the compartment the terrified sick child was sitting there crying, and when I reached him he clung to me.
We reached my father-in-law’s house the next morning and was shocked to see that my wife and the two younger children were preparing to go to the railway station, to catch the same train that departed in a couple of hours back to Narowal. As I entered my wife handed me a telegram which read ‘Kesho burnt seriously, come soon’. We hurried back to the station and it was the most anguishing, and the longest journey back. When we reached our home at Narowal, I was told by my father that my dear youngest brother had already died. My father took me to the roof and from a distance he pointed to a field where a pyre was still smouldering and he said, ‘You see that dark whiff of smoke, that is my son, my Kesho. Reaching the clouds … Reaching the heavens.’
Kesho had been showing my film clip to my brother and sister and her three children. Suddenly the projector had overheated and the film had caught fire. To save everyone from the inferno he wrapped his arms around the flaming projector. He was instantly engulfed in flames, and he received severe third-degree burns. The children had also suffered slight burns and lay groaning in their beds. My mother, who could not control her tears, said ‘Kesho was entertaining the children with the film projector that you gave him, in that room. The projector caught fire and when we reached him he was seen holding the reel and screaming at everyone to run for their lives. Your father picked the earthen pitcher containing cold water and poured it on him to [save] the burning boy, while I tried to help put out the flames with my hands. Your father tried to carry him, but he said he could walk to his bed.’
I could see the blistered hands of my mother as she spoke. Then my father said, ‘He was in great agony but he would not show his pain, he only wanted me to send you a telegram immediately. I rushed out in search of a doctor, but in a place like Narowal it is impossible to get medical help at that time of the night.’ Then my mother added, ‘He asked for a glass of water and by the time I brought it to him he had closed his eyes for ever, leaving without quenching his thirst,’ as she sobbed bitterly.
I felt guilty and ashamed of myself. I had even refused to give him the jacket he wanted, and I felt responsible for having given him that dangerous toy, without having warned him sufficiently about the inflammable film and the kerosene lamp. I felt that this was another heavy price I was paying, on account of films. I had written, ‘Bhagwan jo tera bhi bhagwan koye hoota, hum dakhate phir kiyun kur araam say tu soata.’ (God, if there was another God above you, I’d like to see how well You could have rested.)
After this grim tragedy, I returned to Calcutta, but I could not start work. Finally Mr R. Sharma consoled and advised me that the best thing was to start working to forget my sorrow. I also received a note from Mr D.K. Bose which said ‘I must see you soon about an urgent matter.’
That evening I went to Mr Bose’s house. He was most courteous and said ‘Kidar my boy, I want to discuss business. Tell me how much you received for directing Aulad and Chitralekha.’ I told him that I had been contracted to do two films for Rs 20,000 and that one was released and I was ready to start Chitralekha.’ He looked at me and after thinking for a moment said, ‘I will pay you Rs 15,000 if you write the dialogue and songs for my next movie Nartaki.’ I smiled because I remembered that this man was the same person who had refused to give me Rs 5 more a month when I had begged him. So I asked him, ‘God! Do you think I deserve so much money?’ ‘Yes, yes. Of course you do,’ he replied.
I told him that I had already signed with the Film Corporation of India and could not go back on my commitment. But he suggested that I continue making my new movie but also write the dialogue and songs for Nartaki and that way I would not be doing anything illegal. I then replied that I had a problem, because both Chitralekha and Narkati had identical themes, since they both dealt with the same subject matter of a dancer and a saint. And I could not be impartial enough. I said, ‘Sorry, I am first a gentleman and then a writer.’ My refusal irritated Mr Bose who shot back. ‘Look Kidar you don’t stand a chance against me in this race. New Theaters and I, along with R.C. Boral and Leela Desai, are giants and you are still a kid. Also the biggest stars, Sadhna Bose and Madhu Bose, are producing Rajnartaki on exactly the same subject. My film will be produced in English and Hindi, we will be spending lakhs of rupees. You will be crushed, so be sensible and accept my offer.’ I simply rose and said, ‘Sorry, perhaps we will meet again after our films are released.’
I plunged myself in my work even more fervently. Before starting the shooting of Chitralekha I insisted that we rehearse and rehearse the complete screenplay. So the entire cast had to attend my training classes. Miss Mehtab had never liked rehearsals, so she resented the fact that she needed any rehearsing at all. Mr R. Sharma, my good friend, persuaded her and told her to regard me as a teacher not a film director. He told her. ‘This movie will surely make someone a big star, and I want you to have all the luck.’ Being shrewd and smart Mehtab understood and started attending rehearsals regularly.
I chose my father’s old friend from Punjab, Khan Sahib Jhanda Khan, as my music director and since Mr Gyani also had a good ear for music he approved of my choice. Khan Sahib Jhanda Khan was a short, bearded man who had composed some excellent music for the stage and had a thorough grasp of music. I then told him that I wanted the entire music to be composed in just one raga Bhairvi. He hesitated and said, ‘How many rasgullas (sweets) can an audience enjoy? There should be some variety.’ I replied, ‘That depends on the person who makes the rasgullas, and since you are a great master and chef, I am sure you will do a great job.’
Khan Sahib was a highly religious man who prayed five times a day, as required by the Islamic religion. So he went inside to say his namaz (prayer) and upon emerging he said, ‘Sharmaji, I had a word with the Almighty and he has asked me to accept the challenge because He will be present at the harmonium when I compose the music. I shall therefore be able to produce at least twelve compositions which will all be in the same raga Bhairvi.’
In this film, I had even bared a beauty on the silver screen for the first time with such finesse, in a bathing scene by Miss Mehtab, that nothing was revealed, but it created an illusion of great feminine charm. This scene created a controversy. Even the great writer Khwaja Ahmed Abbas praised the movie for its writing and its aesthetic charm.
Before we started shooting the bathing scene, I took my heroine Mehtab aside and explained to her how and why I was doing the scene. She said, ‘If the story demands this scene, I see no vulgarity in it, and so I am not afraid to strip, because we have no ugliness to hide. However I do have one condition. I consider my director to be just like my father and I will only strip if you ask everyone to clear the set. Since you are a good photographer yourself, please ask the cameraman to set the lights and the camera using a double, and when the set is cleared of everyone, you will be the only one with me and I will gladly perform. When you say the word “action” I will strip and enter the marble tub and enact the scene where I have to wash my body with a lotus flower till I hear the word “cut” … but there should be no retakes.’ I agreed and Mehtab gracefully and beautifully performed the scene, which the critics raved about, and the audience loved.
Since the resources of Film Corporation of India were meagre we did have many difficulties. Mr R. Sharma had arranged all the finances as well as he could and we had planned the film to the last detail. When I was in the throes of completing the last scene of the film, there were more difficulties, and someone had obtained a court order to lock up the studio. I needed just half an hour to complete the shot, so I asked my younger brother Himmat Rai to stall the official, and to take him out for a cup of tea or whatever he wanted to eat. This gave me just enough time to complete the shooting, and I knew that Mr Bose had no such problems in his movies.
During the first trial of the movie none of the bosses were happy; in fact they seemed disappointed. They were disappointed from the start, when they heard the opening title music played bv the great shehnai player Bismillah Khan. At that time Bismillah Khan was a timid young man from Banaras. The bosses felt that the entire effort was a waste of film and so unceremoniously released the movie at the New Cinema in Calcutta. Now New Cinema belonged to our rivals, the New Theaters. The result was that it was an utter disaster. The staff of the cinema discouraged people from seeing the movie, advising them not to waste their hard-earned money on such a lousy movie, and spreading rumours that the director was an amateur who had been rejected even as a third assistant to Mr Bose. The film hardly ran for one week, it was a total flop.
To add insult to injury the author of the novel, Shri B.C. Verma, who ran a small Hindi newspaper for the big Sethias (merchants), wrote a stinging editorial chastising the director of the movie, and accusing me of ruining his work of art. I was even ridiculed by the New Theaters staff. I felt totally humiliated and defeated. The Film Corporation Studio was already sealed by a court order, and the entire unit of the movie Chitralekha was now jobless. Only one person was persistently hopeful. Mr R. Sharma never lost faith. Destiny is an author with a great sense of suspense and when Mr R. Sharma released the movie in the North it just took off. It became an overnight hit. People called it a masterpiece. And surprisingly, if anyone created the slightest disturbance, even during the title score, the audience threw the person out. They were so enraptured.
Khan Sahib had accomplished what seemed impossible when he composed the most beautiful music, all in one raga. His rare compositions gave the film a big boost when it was finally properly released. Chitralekha became known for its music, its performances, its philosophical depth, the writing and for its sheer beauty. It became a masterpiece We had all profited, Mehtab and Gyani were now big names. I was hailed as a great director, writer and philosopher. We had even outclassed Mr Bose and his large contingent. Chitralekha brought me immense honour, and fame. I was now considered a great writer and a skilful director. But in spite of all the praise and the adulation I was still unemployed. So I wrote to Prithviraj, who had moved to Bombay, to help and see if there was any opportunity of a job in Bombay.
Khan Sahib was immensely acclaimed for his music for songs like Saiyan sanvare bhaye banvare, Haan neel kummal muskaye, Punchi ritu aaje ritu jaaye, Naiya dheeray dheeray jaana, Tum javo javo bhagwan bane. In that last song, the singer tells God; Tum unkey jo tum ko dhayaane jo naam rutten mukti paiyan, hum paap karen aur door hutten tum paar karo to jaane. The same thought is expressed in Omar Khayyam’s little-known translation by Whinfield:
‘If Grace be Grace, and Allah gracious be,
Adam from paradise, why banished He?
Grace to poor sinners shown, is Grace indeed,
In Grace hard-earned by work, no Grace I see.’
Extracted from The One and Lonely Kidar Sharma.