Conversations with Waheeda Rehman (12 page)

‘Ray Saab, the dance is not difficult, but I also have to say my lines and convey the emotions—she is sad, she laughs and sings too.’ Soumitra was most reassuring and told me not to worry.

We rehearsed for about four to five hours in the morning and after lunch we finished the scene in two takes.

Satyajit Ray made films the way films should be made—from start to finish. So whether you’re needed on the set or not, you can spend your whole time thinking about your character. It’s not just about learning the dialogue and facing the camera, you must somewhat live the role and not always be acting it.

NMK:
Did you ever discuss the possibility of Mr Ray making a film in Hindi?

WR:
His wife would ask me to encourage him to do so. When I spoke to him about it, he said: ‘Some day I want to, but then you have all those lengthy songs and dances and all that.’

‘No, make it according to your style.’

I think he was reluctant to make a film in Hindi because he did not know Hindi well and believed that was essential. ‘The most important thing is having command over the language. So I can tell if the actor’s tone is not right. One thing is certain—if I make a Hindi movie, I will cast you.’

NMK:
Why do you think Mrs Ray wanted her husband to make a Hindi movie?

WR:
Regional films have a smaller reach while Hindi cinema is shown all over India. Perhaps Mrs Ray wanted more people to see his work. His films did well in Bengal, and were occasionally screened in other cities, and people abroad loved them. When he became an important figure in world cinema, then the whole of India started paying more attention to him. But his films were not widely distributed here.

Many years later when he was making
Shatranj Ke Khilari
, he called me and said: ‘Waheeda, I promised to cast you, but I don’t feel the role in this film will suit you.’

I think the last time I saw him was when he came to Bombay for the dubbing of
Shatranj Ke Khilari
. He called and said he wanted to come over. He dropped by and we talked for a while.

NMK:
I had the pleasure of looking after him during his week-long stay in Paris in 1983, and then met him later in Calcutta. He had a formidable personality and made such extraordinary films. They get better as the years go by.

You say you were lucky to have worked with Satyajit Ray, Guru Dutt, Vijay Anand, Raj Khosla and others. These are precisely the directors who would expect a lot from their actors.

But what kind of roles attracted you?

WR:
I wanted to do different kinds of films, and if I was offered
the same type of role I refused. It did not excite me to do the same thing over and over again. There is no challenge in repeating oneself because one tends to perform mechanically.

In the 1960s, most Hindi films were light romances. Boy falls in love with girl. Some obstacle comes in their way, usually created by the parents or a villain, or there is a difference of class between them—the boy is poor and the girl is rich—and ultimately the boy wins the girl.

NMK:
I was talking to the director Kalpana Lajmi about your work and she said you always showed a willingness to take chances by choosing atypical roles.

WR:
I tried. Some of the films I acted in were not the typical sort. Think of
Pyaasa
,
Mujhe Jeene Do
,
Khamoshi
,
Guide
or
Reshma Aur Shera
.

NMK:
Another unusual film you made was
Teesri Kasam
, which was based on a story called ‘Maare Gaye Gulfaam’ by the celebrated Hindi writer Renu. That was the second time you were cast opposite Raj Kapoor after
Ek Dil Sao Afsane
in 1963.

WR:
When I heard Rajji was going to play Hiraman, the hero of the film, a bullock-cart driver, I wondered how he would look in a dhoti. Sometimes you have a strong image of someone and you can’t imagine that person as another personality. I had seen
Awara
and many Raj Kapoor movies. He was very influenced by Charlie Chaplin and imitated him. Rajji had sad eyes.

With (L to R) sister Zahida, Nargis, Amitabh Bachchan, Sunil Dutt, Vinod Khanna, Amrish Puri and Sukhdev during the
Reshma Aur Shera
shoot. Rajasthan, 1971.

It turned out that Raj Kapoor was excellent as Hiraman. He had no mannerisms and acted in a natural style. Actually, we were both encouraged not to
act
in the true sense of the word.
The Bengali director Basu Bhattacharya wanted us to perform in a natural style, to give a lifelike performance. Most Bengali directors asked their actors to be natural. They also preferred filming away from the studio on real locations to enhance a sense of realism in their stories. So some scenes of
Teesri Kasam
were filmed near the Powai Lake, and the rest was shot in Bina, a small town near Bhopal.

Rajji thought the ending of the film should be changed and Hiraman and Hirabai should go away together. But no one agreed to that. The whole point of the story was Hiraman’s
‘
teesri kasam
’ [third vow]—never to let a
nautanki
girl travel in his cart again. The writer Renu—who had also written the dialogue for the film—would have been furious if the ending had been changed.

I must tell you about an extraordinary incident that happened at the end of the
Teesri Kasam
shoot. We had to travel to Bina by train, as there were no flights in those days. When the shooting was over, Rajji, two of his friends, my sister Sayeeda, my hairdresser and I made our way to the station to leave on an early afternoon train for Bombay.

We got on to the train and settled in our air-conditioned compartments. We heard the train engine start and then stop. We assumed it must be some technical problem because again the train started and stopped. Finally, we looked out of the compartment window to see what was going on. The railway station at Bina was very small and on either side of the train we could see huge crowds of students on the platforms. Then we heard people shouting:
‘Utro, utro, dekhna hai, dekhna hai.’
[Get down! We want to see you.]

Someone came and asked Rajji to talk to the student leaders and tell them to calm the crowd down. Rajji opened the door and talked to a group of young men who had gathered near the compartment door. They told him that the local students had wanted to watch the shooting of
Teesri Kasam
, but were
repeatedly given the wrong location address by the production team. By the time they cycled to the spot, having bunked their classes, they could not find a soul there. Apparently, this had happened over many days and so they did not get the chance to see Rajji and me. Now they were very insistent about seeing us.

Receiving the Silver Medal award for
Teesri Kasam
from President Radhakrishnan in Delhi. 1966.

But Rajji immediately said: ‘You have seen me, but Waheeda Rehman is not coming out.’

‘Why not? We’re her fans.’

He was adamant: ‘No, she won’t come out. She is a woman.’ Rajji’s reply incited them further and they said: ‘So what? She must see her fans or else we will not allow the train to leave the station.’

The situation became very tense. I don’t know what came over Rajji but he dug his heels in and said: ‘No!’ Then he closed the compartment door. That did it! The crowd became furious and started hurling stones and hitting the train with big iron bars. They did not let the train move an inch. We had to duck down in our compartments to avoid being hurt while Rajji was getting more and more enraged. He wanted to go out and confront the crowd. His friends tried to restrain him and, when they realized they couldn’t, they pushed him into our compartment and said: ‘Ladies! Take care of him. He has gone wild.’

And so the three of us—Sayeeda, my hairdresser and I—had to literally pin Rajji on to the seat. I sat on his chest while my sister held on to his legs. He became red as a tomato and tried to wriggle out of our grip while we were struggling to keep him
down. We kept imploring him: ‘No, Rajji, no!’ To which he protested: ‘Let me go! Let me go!’
[we laugh]

It became such a drama—but maybe I should say a comedy! In the meantime, our angry fans had wrecked the train. There was shouting and pelting. Finally the police arrived and dispersed the crowd. We somehow got to Bhopal in the early evening and had to wait for hours while the police report and the railway department report were written up.

The next day we arrived at Bombay Central. The people who came to receive us were shocked to see the terrible state we were in. We had fragments of glass lodged in our hair and sprayed on our clothes—we even found bits of glass in our bags.

NMK:
It sounds really scary and dangerous.

WR:
It
was
very dangerous. These are also some of the things we go through. Our lives are not always a bed of roses as many people assume.

NMK:
But I wonder why Raj Kapoor had such a reaction.

WR:
It was strange. I tried to tell him I could stand behind him at the compartment door and so the fans would see me. But he said: ‘No! I have told them no. Why should they look at a woman anyway?’

I said: ‘What do you mean? I am a woman, but I am seen in the movies. That’s my work. Why can’t they see me?’

‘No! They won’t see my heroine.’ He could not be persuaded otherwise.
[laughs]

NMK:
I suppose when you’re famous and filming in small towns where people didn’t have access to stars, especially in the 1960s, this situation is unsurprising.

You have worked with a number of former Bimal Roy assistants, including Basu Bhattacharya, Moni Bhattarcharjee and Gulzar. How did you meet the
Teesri Kasam
director?

WR:
In the early 1960s, Shailendra, who produced the film, called to say he wanted to come over to discuss a film and brought Basuda to the house. It was Basuda’s first film. They offered me the role of Hirabai and I said no. I had this bad habit of saying no at first. Why? I don’t know. Shailendra said I should sleep over it and then decide. This is what all the producers would say. When he called again, I lied to him saying Guruduttji was starting a movie and I was working in it.

But then Shailendra called Guruduttji who said: ‘
Hein?
What movie?’ Immediately Guruduttji called me: ‘Did you say no to Shailendra? Why? Don’t you want to earn money to run the house? If you sit at home, how will you manage? And another thing. Why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I lied.’

‘That isn’t good. Shailendra is a very nice person. You must do it. I can’t understand you. This is bad. I think you’re a lazy person.’
[laughs]

Teesri Kasam
took a long time in production and was finally released in 1966.

NMK:
It was the only film that Shailendra produced and I believe he had a lot of financial problems completing the film.

WR:
He had to really struggle hard. One day he came to see me and said he couldn’t pay me. I felt very bad for him. He had tears in his eyes. It is heartbreaking to see a man cry. I told him not to talk about the money.

Shailendra wrote beautiful songs for the film. I loved ‘Sajan re jhoot mat bolo.’

NMK:
Your era had the best songs.

You must have met a number of composers over the years, but did you also get to know any of the lyricists?

WR:
Sometimes Majrooh Saab visited my sets. He once sent me kebabs when we were in Panchgani on a location shoot.

Once I had to go to Madh Island for the shoot of
Girl Friend
. My car broke down and so I took a cab. When I got there the director was upset with me and said I should not have risked travelling all that way alone in a taxi. I told him I didn’t want the shoot to get delayed.