MY FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH THE FILMWALAS
Khushwant Singh
Being the editor of a popular weekly [The Illustrated Weekly of India], I was much sought after by the film industry. I never was, nor am, much of a film-goer. And the little that I had seen of Hindi movies did not generate any respect for actors, directors, producers, music composers or playback singers. Some of my Lahore friends had done well: Balraj Sahni, Uma Kashyap (Kamini Kaushal) and Dev Anand were highly-rated actors; B.R. Chopra was among the top producer–directors; Chetan Anand had many flops to his credit. A whole lot of new actors, directors and singers had come up. I saw their photographs in film journals like Filmfare and Stardust.
My interest in film personalities was quickened by Devyani Chaubal, the younger sister of Nalini who had worked with me briefly in London. I read Devyani’s bitchy pieces on the private lives of film stars written in a brand of Hindustani English (Hinglish) which I enjoyed. Our first meeting at a luncheon party gave us the feeling that we were meant for each other. She was a big woman a couple of inches taller than I and of considerable bulk. She was nevertheless good-looking, with dark eyelashes which curled upwards like scimitars. She had a husky, masculine voice and was a wonderful mimic. She was often in trouble with film stars for what she wrote about them.
Once Devyani did a profile of Dharmendra, then on top of the film world. She portrayed him as a champion stud who could service three or four women every day. Dharmendra had a wife and children. Also a mistress—Hema Malini, who became his second wife and the mother of another two children. Besides these two, Devyani alleged that if the starlets appearing with him were eager for sex, he would willingly oblige. Dharmendra was furious. He waylaid Devyani somewhere near the race course. Devyani tried to run away but her bulk and sari did not help her get very far. I am not sure whether Dharmendra beat her up, but she lodged a complaint of assault and battery against him. The next day’s papers reported the episode on their front pages. Despite my affection for Devyani, I wrote in my column that, had I been in his shoes, I would have done exactly what Dharmendra had done to her. The police decided not to take any notice of Devyani’s complaint. Dharmendra came to thank me for getting him out of a police case. When Devyani came to my office she roundly abused me for letting her down, but it did not make any difference to our friendship.
A few months later Devyani was in another scrape, this time with an actor whose stock was fast going down. Apart from his sex-escapades, she cast aspersions on his acting skills. She happened to be at a film party at the Sun ’n’ Sands hotel in Juhu. Having exchanged gossip with the guests, she was sitting on a parapet overlooking the beach and gazing at the sea. Two sons of the actor, both high on alcohol, spotted her and came on her unawares. ‘You bloody bitch, how dare you write nasty things about our father!’ they shouted. ‘Now take this,’ said one pouring the contents of a bottle of beer on Devyani’s head. She shouted for help: ‘Bachao—save me.’ None of the guests felt honour-bound to bachao her: they enjoyed her discomfiture. The lads emptied another bottle of beer on her head and told her in plain words what they would do if she wrote that kind of thing again. With difficulty Devyani extricated herself and lodged a complaint at the police station. Next morning she came to see me in the office to narrate her nightmarish experience. Tears flowed down her cheeks, but I was not sure if she was really upset with the threats held out to her or whether she looked forward to their being fulfilled. ‘You know what those fellows said? They said we’ll fuck you till you are black and blue; we’ll bugger you till your fat arse is sore.’ Through her tears she repeated their words accompanied by the gestures they had used, as if relishing the experience.
Devyani took me to Raj Kapoor’s private cinema to see the opening shots of Satyam, Shivam, Sundaram. I took along members of the Sindhi family who lived above me—Sheila, her daughter Jyoti and their maidservant Fatima, all very eager to meet the great actor. Zeenat Aman was present. I sat between Raj Kapoor and Zeenat. Devyani was in the row behind, with my guests. We saw Zeenat stepping out of a village pond with her wet sari clinging to her body and displaying her very shapely bust. ‘I am a bosom man,’ said Raj to me with enthusiasm, ‘aren’t you?’ I agreed that shapely bosoms had their points. ‘What’s your laal paree (red fairy) like?’ he asked. He was referring to Sheila who was draped in a bright red sari. He assumed she was my mistress.
‘I have no idea,’ I replied.
‘Go on, you so and so!’ he insisted. ‘She looks all right to me. But one can’t really tell what’s inside the blouse, can one?’
Once Rafiq Zakaria took me to a musical concert. We arrived a little late. He gave a front-row seat meant for him to me and said, ‘You talk to her.’ The lady sitting in the next seat gave me a smile. She certainly was an extraordinarily good-looking woman, but I could not place her. When the lights went up I told her that we had not been introduced. ‘I am Meena Kumari,’ she replied. The name rang a faint bell but failed to enlighten me further. ‘What do you do for a living?’ I asked her. She did not deign to reply—just lit her cigarette and turned to talk to the person on the other side. Meena Kumari was then the topmost actress on the Hindi screen.
With Nargis Dutt the introduction came through Gulshan Ewing, editor of Femina. I had seen her do the star role in Mother India. Gulshan told me that Nargis wanted to see me. I was very flattered. The Dutts were not doing very well. She had retired from the films; he had yet to make his mark independently. They had two children at Sanawar School, not far from my cottage in Kasauli. When Nargis arrived in The Times of India building everyone recognized her. My stock went up. Very coyly, she asked me if she could stay in my cottage during the Sanawar Founders’ week in October. ‘Only on one condition,’ I told her. She looked a little apprehensive. ‘My condition is that thereafter I have your permission to tell everyone that Nargis slept in my bed.’ She broke into peals of laughter, ‘Done!’ she said, extending her hand to me. We were nominated to the Rajya Sabha at the same time and were given seats next to each other. Whenever anyone tried to introduce us, she would say, ‘You don’t have to introduce us; I have slept in his bed.’
I met Parveen Babi at a party given by Dev Anand. Normally at cocktail parties I took a couple of drinks by myself in a quiet corner and slipped out unnoticed. That evening Parveen came and sat on the carpet near my chair. What beautiful long hair she had! And what bewitching eyes! I laid on flattery as thick as I could. I left the party after midnight and would have stayed longer but for the fact that I had to catch an early-morning flight to Delhi. I got very little sleep and arrived at Santa Cruz airport as required an hour before the flight. I went to the bookshop to pick up some magazines. A young lady who looked vaguely familiar smiled at me. I went up to her. ‘I am sure we have met before,’ I said to her. ‘Don’t tell me you do not recognize me! Only a few hours earlier you were telling me you had not seen anyone as beautiful as me! I am Parveen Babi.’ She forgave me and even did me the honour of coming to dine with us in Delhi.
The closest I got to becoming involved in films myself was a proposal by the Ivory–Merchant duo to take on my novel Train to Pakistan. They asked Zafar Hai to direct it. A well-known Urdu writer was commissioned to write the dialogue. He did so after weeks of drinking my Scotch evening after evening to help him get the Punjabi words right. Shashi Kapoor had agreed to finance the film and play the lead male role. I also met Shabana Azmi whom I regarded as the best actress on the Hindi screen and who was to play the heroine. After six months the project was dropped without as much as a word of regret by others for having wasted my time and gallons of Scotch.
Of the many film personalities I met, much the most colourful was the comedian I.S. Johar. I did not have much of an opinion of him as an actor and was initially put off by his crude attempts to gain publicity. As his acting career declined his ploys to keep himself in the news increased. I published a few of his articles in The Illustrated Weekly. In the absence of anything more interesting to sell to the media, he announced his engagement to Protima Bedi. Both had been married and had grown-up children. Protima had divorced Kabir Bedi and made most of India’s journals by having herself photographed streaking nude on the sands of Juhu beach. She had a nice figure. Johar had married Rama through whom he had a son and a daughter. Rama ditched him and, without getting a divorce, married his cousin Harbans in Delhi— hence the name Rama Bans. She returned to Johar in Bombay. She was the only woman I knew who had two living husbands and was cheerful about being polyandrous. She did not live with Johar, but often went to dine with him and once a week she took me with her. Johar was an avid bridge player. From his apartment in Lotus Court, Rama rang him up at the Cricket Club of India (CCI) to tell him of our arrival and to order a Chinese meal from the club. While we awaited his return I played with his very cuddlesome little Peke named Pheeno—the snub-nosed. Rama emptied the drawer by his mattress (he slept on the floor) and showed me packets of photographs of scantily clad young women who wanted Johar to help them get into the films. When he arrived, he took out his best Scotch. He drank very little, Rama was a teetotaller.
Johar was a great storyteller, including of tales connected with his sex life. I could never be sure how much of what he told me of his past was true and how much he made up to hold my interest. I didn’t see anything of Johar after I left Bombay. I had never taken him seriously as either an actor or producer of films. I was pleasantly surprised to see the play Bhutto written by him and staged in Delhi. It was very well conceived, with repartee worthy of an Oscar Wilde. Bhutto was superbly portrayed by Suhel Seth. I wish Johar had seen it. He was by then dead.
Extracted from Khushwant Singh’s autobiography Truth, Love and a Little Malice.