Conversations with Waheeda Rehman (7 page)

Having refused them, he would turn to me and say with a smile: ‘Waheeda, do you want a paan?’ Guruduttji and Guruswamy would overhear us and complain: ‘We’re paan eaters, but you don’t give us any. Don’t give it to Waheeda; she is about to give a shot and cannot have paan stains on her teeth.’

Dada quietened them down by saying: ‘She’s a good girl. She’ll have the paan and not ask me for another. But, you two? You’ll ask for another and then another.’
[laughs]

NMK:
A key character in
Pyaasa
is Abdul Sattar who provided light relief to the melancholic mood of the film—he is the perfect foil to the hero. Johnny Walker is brilliant in this role. Did he improvise a lot?

WR:
Oh yes, he added so much to his scenes. If he overdid it, Guruduttji would tone him down. Otherwise Johnny had a free hand.

He was a very serious man in real life—a good person and very serious. Comedy was very loud in those days but Johnny was very different from the other comedians of his time. If he had to do a funny scene or a stupid scene—he performed it with complete sincerity.

NMK:
If we could return to the first scene in
Pyaasa
—Vijay is lying on the grass in a park, looking up at the sky. A few lines of a Sahir poem are heard. These were beautifully sung by Mohammed Rafi.

The poem works as a story prologue and describes the poet’s view of the world. Vijay sees the injustices around him but is unable to change things.

Ye hanste huwe phool ye mehka huwa gulshan

Ye rang mein aur noor mein doobi huwi raahen (x2)

Ye phoolon ka ras pi ke machalte huwe bhanware (x2)

Main doon bhi toh kya doon tumhen ae shokh nazaaro

Le-de ke mere paas kuchh aansu hain kuchh aahen.

[These smiling flowers, this fragrant garden,

These paths bathed in colour and light. (x2)

Drinking the nectar of the flowers, the bees sway. (x2)

What can I give to you, O splendid nature?

All that I have is a few tears, a few sighs.]

Guru Dutt’s portrayal of Vijay is utterly heartfelt and that’s
probably why audiences see no distinction between the character of Vijay and Guru Dutt himself. There is a blurring of the two personalities in our minds. Do you think Guru Dutt was like the melancholic Vijay in real life?

WR:
To be very honest with you, when we were making
Pyaasa
I was only eighteen. I didn’t study Guruduttji as a person. It was my second Hindi film and I was very involved with my work.

But he was a very quiet person—constantly thinking about films. All of a sudden, he would ask me if I had read such and such book, a book that he had thought of adapting for the screen. When I was sitting with him and, say, a third person was around—Murthy or Guruswamy—and we started talking, we could sense that Guruduttji would not be listening to us. He was lost in his own thoughts. When we turned to him, he had even forgotten how the conversation had started. If you looked into his eyes, he was often not there.

If anyone asked me what he loved the most in the world, it was his work. His work came first then his wife and children. He was obsessed with film-making.

NMK:
Did the reactions to
Pyaasa
meet his expectations?

WR:
Oh yes! Everyone had their doubts about the film doing well. I myself had no idea if audiences would like it. But
Pyaasa
picked up gradually. People loved it and especially loved the music. It ran for twenty-five weeks.

NMK:
With the release of
C.I.D.
and then
Pyaasa
, you became very well known. Do you remember the first day you were recognized on the street?

WR:
Not really, but I do remember an incident during the making of these films. In those days, you could hire a victoria
[a horse carriage] and ride along Marine Drive and I remember telling my mother: ‘Mummy, before my movies are released, let’s go for a ride in a victoria because I won’t be able to do it later.’ But we didn’t go for the ride and soon I forgot about it.

A few days later, I noticed that my mother was not talking to me. She didn’t keep very good health, and so I asked her if she was all right. She told me there was nothing wrong with her, but refused to say much else. Finally she explained why she was upset with me: ‘You wanted to ride in a victoria because you said you couldn’t do it after your films were released. I think all this has gone to your head. What will happen to you later?’ I understood what she meant and apologized to her.

NMK:
Were you ever mobbed?

WR:
I was recognized but not mobbed. When
C.I.D.
and
Pyaasa
celebrated their silver jubilees, I did become very popular. But stars did not have as much exposure as they have today. There were only a few film magazines like
Filmfare
and
Screen
, and people were largely unaware of how we actors looked off-screen. Now you open any newspaper and you see whole sections
dedicated to movie stars. The stars today have lost the freedom that actors of my generation had. We could go out without any major problem.

NMK:
It is ironic to think that
Pyaasa
did not win any awards, and all the 1958 Filmfare Awards went to
Mother India
.

WR:
Was
Mother India
released in 1957? I forget.

I was in fact nominated for a Filmfare Award for
Pyaasa
. J.C. Jain, who started
Filmfare
in 1952, called to congratulate me and said: ‘You are a very lucky girl; you have been nominated in a supporting role.’ I was very pleased that people had liked my work. Then it seems he told Guruduttji, who said: ‘She is not playing a supporting role. Her role is equal to Mala Sinha’s. She is my second leading lady.’

J.C. Jain explained: ‘Mala Sinha is her senior and a big star. This is only Waheeda’s second movie.’

‘In that case, I won’t let her accept the nomination.’

I was a little disappointed but later understood why he felt that way. Guruduttji didn’t want me to be considered a secondary heroine.

NMK:
You were contracted with Guru Dutt Films for three years. What were you earning?

WR:
My starting salary was 2000 rupees a month, and later it was increased to 3500. It was a lot at the time. Some actresses
of my generation were earning between 500 and 1000 a month.

For
Solva Saal
, my first film as a freelancer, I received 30,000
rupees. The highest I ever earned in my career was 7 lakh for a film.

NMK:
When did you manage to buy your first car?

WR:
It was Geeta who picked up my mother and me in her car to attend
C.I.D.
’s premiere. The very next day, I told my mother:
‘We shall go in our own car for
Pyaasa
’s premiere.’

I wasn’t earning a lot of money and thought we could perhaps get a second-hand car. Guruswamy suggested we buy one on instalments. For
Pyaasa
’s premiere we did manage to go in our own car—a convertible white Dodge. It was the first car that I managed to buy.

NMK:
There was a two-year gap between the release of
Pyaasa
and
Kaagaz Ke Phool
in 1959. How did you come to do
Solva Saal
in the meantime?

WR:
Guruduttji was a very fair person, and even though I was not supposed to accept any outside work, he called my mother and said there was this film that Raj Khosla was making with Dev Anand, and I should do it. My mother brought up the issue of my three-year exclusive contract and he said: ‘Mummy, girls have a very short screen life as lead heroines. When they get married, it’s all over. I don’t mind her working with other
directors. But whenever I start a movie, my shooting dates must be given priority. Anyway, you know, Dev and Raj Khosla are part of my team.’

If I was ever offered a role, my mother first discussed it with Guruduttji. When H.S. Rawail came to talk to us about
Roop Ki Rani Choron Ka Raja
, it was Guruduttji who said I should go ahead. We didn’t know H.S. Rawail. My mother and I knew only the big names of cinema like Sohrab Modi and Mehboob Khan. I believe she had seen
Dr Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani
, and so had heard of V. Shantaram.

NMK:
Both your Hindi film releases were commercial hits and critically acclaimed films, especially
Pyaasa
. So 1957 was a joyful year for you, but in the same year you lost your mother. Can you tell me what happened?

WR:
While I was working on
Solva Saal
, my mother would accompany me to the studio. She started to feel poorly and decided she should rest at home. I called my sister Sayeeda who was living in Vijayawada and asked her to come to Bombay at once. I was shooting all day and did not want my mother to be alone at home, given the fact she suffered from a heart condition. Sayeeda came to Bombay as soon as she could. She was a few months’ pregnant at the time.

One day my servant called me at the studio and asked me to come home immediately because my mother was feeling very ill. I rushed back and found her barely conscious. We panicked
and rushed her to Northcote Nursing Home, which was close to our Colaba house.

My mother had suffered a massive stroke. The doctors gave her an injection and, thank God, she recovered. When she regained consciousness, we found the stroke had affected her speech and so she spoke with difficulty. She had to stay in the nursing home for six weeks. My elder sister Sha-Apa came to Bombay from Madras to be with us. When my mother returned home, she started improving, but it took her three months to regain normal speech.

Some weeks later, Sayeeda was due to give birth to her third child. We admitted her into the same nursing home where my mother was treated. Sayeeda had a difficult delivery and on

9 December 1957 her son was born. When my mother saw the baby, she was very happy. She took the child in her arms and said: ‘I am going to call him Ashfaq.’

I had no shooting for three days and my mother and I would go and see Sayeeda every day. Three days after Ashfaq was born, on 12 December, we were sitting with Sayeeda and her baby when my mother said: ‘Waheeda, I am not feeling very well. I’ll go and see the doctor. You’ll be shooting from tomorrow, so stay here with your sister. There’s no need to come with me. I’ll go to the doctor’s and come straight back.’

Fifteen minutes later, our driver came running into Sayeeda’s room and said: ‘Mataji did not see the doctor, but decided to go home. She isn’t at all well. Hurry.’ I ran back home.

My mother was lying on her side. I turned her around so
that I could see her face. I kept calling out to her: ‘Mummy, Mummy!’ She was very still. I told the cook to get the doctor who lived nearby. The cook returned with the doctor who said:
‘She is not my patient. There’s nothing I can do.’ I told him it was an emergency and he had to help her until her cardiologist, Dr Vakil, could come from Opera House. He said: ‘There is nothing I can do. She has passed away.’ I got very angry with him and said: ‘What nonsense! Just give her an injection. She’ll be all right.’ But he did not listen to me.

Although the nursing home was nearby, Sayeeda was weak and could not come home till later that afternoon. I didn’t know many people in Bombay. I was still more or less a stranger to the city, and so I called Guruduttji and told him to send Guruswamy at once. Guruswamy arrived and he was followed by Guruduttji and Murthy. I could not get through to Dr Vakil, but another doctor came in his place. He examined my mother and said she had passed away an hour earlier. I was completely shocked and refused to believe him. It was too much for me to take in.

Guruswamy asked for my elder sisters’ numbers so he could call Bi-Apa and Sha-Apa who were back in Madras by then. Since I am a Muslim, Guruduttji thought I should have some older women around me as they would know what had to be done. He called Mrs Mehboob Khan and Mrs A.R. Kardar and very sweetly they came over. I was dazed and shocked and couldn’t even cry. What irritated me was hearing them say:
‘Look at this girl. She isn’t even crying. She looks fine.’ I thought
to myself: why did they come? I was so upset that I was angry with them for no reason.

I kept going into my mother’s room and touching her. I pulled the sheet away from her face. She was still warm. I kept asking everyone why the doctor hadn’t come. Why weren’t they giving her an injection? I had once heard that when a person dies the body turns cold, and since my mother felt warm to the touch, I could not accept that she had passed away.

Guruswamy called the actor Rehman, thinking he would know about Muslim burials because neither Guruswamy nor Guruduttji knew anything about our customs. Rehman Saab lived nearby in Colaba and came over immediately. At eight that evening they took my mother away.

NMK:
You were only nineteen. You must have felt very alone.

WR:
Those were terrible days. Despite the fact that Rehman Saab was a bachelor at the time, he sent food for us for the next three days. People in mourning are not in a state of mind to worry about cooking and all that, and so it is customary that friends or family send food. Many visitors dropped by to offer their condolences and we had to have something to offer to the guests who came.

NMK:
How did you cope emotionally?

WR:
For a year after that, almost every night, I had a very bad
recurring dream. I dreamt that my mother had not died and I kept asking if I had buried her too quickly without being sure that she was dead. Had I rushed? The doctor hadn’t come. She was not breathing, but then why was her body still warm? It was a terrifying nightmare.