Beena Rai, The Eternal Anarkali

"Ae Baad-e-Saba Aahista Chal, Yahaan Soyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Aankhon Me Jalawe Saleem Ke Liye, Khoyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Hai Shaheed-E-Ishq Ka Maqbara, Zara Chal Adab Se Yahaan Hawa.
Tujhe Yaad Ho Ke Na Yaad Ho, Mujhe Yaad Hai Us Ka Maajhara."


(Oh zephyr, move slow, Anarkali is asleep here.
In the fantasies of Salim, Anarkali is lost here.
This is the tomb of the martyr of love,
Please move around respectfully here oh breeze.
You may perhaps not remember, but I do remember her woeful tale.)


When I listen to these words, I instantly remember my dad's first stereo player -- a National Panasonic model -- with huge round steel-framed speakers, which he bought in Jodhpur and carried with him long after his retirement from the Air Force. I also remember the cassette cover of Anarkali -- Salim looking over a sleeping Anarkali even as Akbar loomed large over them. The cassette doubled with the songs of Nagin.


They were a part of my childhood, my growing up. However, it was a long long time before I could give the poignant character Anarkali a face. Till then, I had to depend on some of the most enchanting songs ever of Hindi cinema. Like:


"Yeh Zindagi Usiki Hai, Joh Kisi Ka Ho Gaya, Pyar Hi Mein Kho Gaya"


or


"Mujhse Mat Pooch Mere Ishq Mein Kya Rakha Hai"


or


"Wafaaon Ka Majboor Daaman Bichaakar,
Dua Kar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar
Tu Aakar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar"


Of course, Lataji had to be the voice behind. Otherwise it would have been incomplete.


Then one day -- long after the triumphant march of TV -- I caught a glimpse of Anarkali. In the soft light of ancient cinematography, with a deliberate, naughty slant of the lips and lifting of an eyebrow, Beena Rai, with a single curl of hair dangling tantalisingly on her side forehead, completed my picture of the legendary Mughal courtesan who dared to challenge the might of Akbar only for her love.


I never followed up on her. Beena Rai never caught my imagination as a Sadhana or Waheeda Rehman did. Yet, she kept coming back to me, through Anarkali and through my grandmother's ruminations about her youthful days with my grandpa (The rascals used to watch three movies a day -- morning, matinee and night show -- at cinemas during holidays!!!).


But there was something Rai that I couldn't let go of her association with Anarkali. Even after the irresistable Madhubala took on the mantle (and how!) through K Asif's Mughal-e-Azam and Naushad-Lata's "Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya".


I couldn't forget the way she sang:


"Dhadak Raha Hai Dil To Kya, Dil Ki Dhadkane Gin.
Phir Kahaan Yeh Fursaten, Phir Kahaan Yeh Raat Din."


even as a mesmerised Pradeep Kumar held a bunch of grapes to her lips.


Even in black and white and degenerating film quality -- and of course also considering my young age -- I couldn't help but fall in love with Anarkali a.k.a. Beena Rai.


Today when I read about her passing away, I see an era of (at least perceived) beauty, creativity, passion and innocence passing by. When I see my grandma reminiscing about her dream honeymoon that lasted close to 40 years, I rue the fact that I was not born 60 years ago, when I could have perhaps enjoyed the little joys of life – like watching Beena Rai on the silver screen -- much more fully.


RIP Beena Rai.

Dev D -- by Anuraag Kashyap

I had been resisting watching this movie simply because I didnt want to do anything with the character Devdas, especially after watching bits and pieces of Bhansali's version. Even when everybody told me this was an antithesis to Bhansali.

On Saturday I decided to get over my revulsion.

I enjoyed Dev D, and how?!

I loved the way the otherwise loveable drunkard was shown his true place -- particularly by the women.

"Main Tumhe Tumhari Aukaad Dikha Rahi Hoon," says Paro, played by the hot hot hot Mahi Gill. And it sums up the movie.

As the storyline is well known to any Indian who cares a wee bit about movies, Kashyap plays truant and turns the perspective upside down. He shows what a loser the Devdas character is actually.Psychedelic colours, contemporary subplots -- like the MMS scandal of DPS R K Puram--Delhi, the BMW hit & run -- are all weaved into a narrative that eviscerates the hideous nature of Devdas.

Absolutely no sympathy for the scum.By the end of it, one was left wondering if Kashyap was showing his middle finger to the character Devdas or to those movie directors who have eulogized him for decades till now.

Abhay Deol sinks deep into Devdas’s skin and comes out trumps. The guy is a class act.

All Quiet On The Western Front

It is a coincidence that I got to watch this movie at a time when the Vande Mataram controversy has raised its ugly head again, for the umpteenth time. When energy and time is being wasted on the mere singing of a patriotic song – which of course does not guarantee that the singer is patriotic or that the one not willing to sing is unpatriotic.

If we are to believe the words of those who want the beautiful song sung compulsorily and those who refuse to sing – both dogmatic and irrational – then the very basis of one’s identity is based on this one sung, whether it is sung or not.

Drunk high on the poison of nationalism, we are ready to believe any bit of trash as long as it is garnished with now vacuous but still high-sounding words like “country” and “motherland”.

History repeats itself. In another country. Among another set of people. Often ruthlessly…

The Franco-German border. It’s All Quiet on the Western Front. And then the air is split by the shock waves of bombs, splintering shrapnels, gunfire and, most horribly, the desperate shrieks of the dying.

Raids and counter-raids on each others’ trenches is the stuff their routine lives have been all about for over a year now. It didn’t take long to drain them of the puffed-up patriotism that their teachers, fathers, neighbours injected into them as teenagers.

“Germany is a nation of high culture, science, arts…” their affable schoolmaster Kantorek once told them, goading them to do their duty for the Bharat Mata… err sorry, for the fatherland. And what is that duty? Fight a war. Fight the First World War. Fight to conquer and decimate other people. People who are inferior. The “other”.

It’s not difficult to blame Germany, all right. Although these very words would have easily adorned the speech of the haughty British, the proud French, the arrogant American… and of course the patriotic Indian.

For eons, waging a war has been the easiest way to demonstrate one’s virility. Barbarians we still are, at heart. And in the meaningless nationalism of this age, we have found the perfect alibi to turn fighter cocks at the drop of a hat.

So we had a Germany, proud of its racial purity and of course superiority. We had a Britain ever carrying its “Britishness“ on its sleeve. We still have a vain France. And then we also the have the upstarts– China and India—the neighbours whose claim to high civilization is destroyed by the mass murders, ethnic cleansing and racial jingoism that mark both their internal and external affairs.

Lewis Milestone gives vent to an entire generation’s agony, brought about by a war that only the political masters waged. He portrays the desperations of the soldiers—like today, fed on an overdose of nationalistic steroids that quickly wears out--at the front.

So what if they were Germans! The emotions, I am sure, are the same among all soldiers across the world.

It’s not difficult to see the common sense message of the movie: “Nationalism is the witchcraft used to bewitch a population and lead them to war. Nationalism is malignant. Nationalism sucks!”

Of course we are not willing to learn.

Because now, our time, India’s time, has come.

Mera Bharat Mahaan!

Khuda Ke Liye

Curiosity about the Pakistani civil society is never quenched for us Indians. And apart from the internet and an ocassional writeup in the newspapers, rarely do we get a glimpse of the social currents there. Given this scenario, Khuda Ke Liye comes across as a breath of fresh air.

If one takes away the slightly dragging narrative, hints of self-pity and the victim-complex, the movie does a decent job of dealing with religious fundamentalism.

Of course, most of what is shown is what we see in our own country too -- brainwashing, fundamentalism, violence, innocents getting caught in the whirlwind etc etc -- though may not be on that scale.

What is the most important aspect of the movie is that it shows there is a liberal stream flowing in that country too -- and that needs to be harnessed.

Naseeruddin Shah, in his cameo, does an expectedly decent job. However, what is surprising is the role he was chosen for -- a liberal Mullah who shreds into pieces that many popular, anachronistic and regressive notions about Islam that are used by his fundamentalist counterparts to wage "Jehad" across the world.

The story revolves around two musician brothers. While one fals prey to the mullah's manipulations, abandons the "haram", forcefuly marries his own elder cousin and then rapes her, the other pursues his interest further, marries an American -- and yet is branded as a terrorist by the simplistic reasoning of the US authorities in the aftermath of 9/11.

The entire fare is a tracking down of the trajectories the lives of these siblings take.

Good movie overall.

High And Low -- Akira Kurosawa

There are two parallel movies in High and Low.

Don't be mistaken. Its not an earlier version--in format--of Naalu Pennungal.

High and Low, like wikipedia rightly says, plays out in virtually two acts.

But the last scene of the movies proves that actually it is not two separate acts. It is just a contrast.

A top business executive -- of course, it has to be Kurosawa's favourite Toshiro Mifune -- has a detailed plan in place to take control of his company, National Shoes, and topple other direcors who are plotting to dethrone the owner. After even mortgaging his hill-top villa, Gondo has staked every penny of his for that one masterstroke.

Then, disaster strikes.

Gondo gets a call, which claims to have kidnapped his son. The ransom: 30 million bucks (yens, I presume).

Of course Gondo is willing to pay up to save his only son.

But by a quirk of fate and through mistaken identity, the family realises that the child kidnapped is not Gondo's son, but his son's friend--the son of his chauffer. A man of integrity, what course does Gondo take?

After a lot of contemplation, Gondo decides to rescue the child at the cost of utter ruin.

The second act, which actually has already started playing itself out with the police's involvement, starts in earnest now.

The working out of the case by the police is a treat to watch. The meticulous planning, detailed procedures--and status reports--media moves, which otherwise would come across as plain drudgery, are so smoothely and excitingly portrayed that I wished our Suresh Gopi brand of filmmakers picked up a page or two from this.

Just when we start thinking that the movie has completely lost the original track, we reach teh climax scene.

This last 5 minutes, I felt was the capsule form of Dostoyvesky's Crime and Punishment.

The kidnapper, now apprehended and behind bars, seeks to meet Gondo.

He expresses his angst, explaining why he hated Gondo for his wealth and status -- as symbolised by his house on the hill top -- as compared to his own penury in the slums downhill.

While trying to maintain his composure and moral posture, the kidnapper simply uses word to justify himself, while a visibly serene Gondo hears him out.

After all that grandstanding and brouhaha, the kidnapper ends the scene--and the movie--with a violent fit that he throws, out of sheer frustration, guilt and angst.

A fantastic movie...

Yojimbo -- Akira Kurosawa

I was on a movie and book shopping spree last week. And thankfully I got to lay my hands on four Kurosawa classics (all starring his favourite Toshiro Mifune).

I started with Yojimbo, a comic-thriller in the western genre, with the lone wandering warrior-shootout-money theme.It is said that Clint Eastwood's "For a Fistfull of Dollars" (I haven't watched it) is modelled on Yojimbo.

The story is centred around an eccentric but skillful wandering Samurai -- Sanjuro -- who reaches a small town. Covered by a shroud of melancholia thanks to two warring factions, headed by two brothers, who have torn apart peace and prosperity, the citizenry is distraught and suspicious of any and every human being around.

Sanjuro -- a name he gives himself on a whim, as his real name is never revealed in the entire movie -- takes it upon himself to play each faction against the other and in the process make some money...

The entire movie is centred around Sanjuro's endeavours to rid the town of the menace posed by the two brothers...

A thoroughly entertaining affair, Yojimbo is said to have set many trends in world cinema, including Hollywood.Watch it when you get a chance...

I V Sasi

He believed is mass movements and mass movies.

Often one felt that the sole purpose of Sasi making movies was to provide employment to industry actors. Particularly in the 80s, if it was an I V Sasi movie, then the who’s who of Malayalam cinema was bound to have a bit role in it.

Sub plots & sub plots & sub plots & sub plots & sub plots & sub plots, a raunchy club dance, some semi-porn scenes, more than a couple of fights (often among the masses), a childish “smuggling” sequence, marked his movies, especially those made with T Damodaran.

Yet, suddenly out of the blue he came out with some absolutely brilliant stuff. Uyarangalil, Aalkoottathil Thaniye, Devasuram, Ina, Itha Ivide Vare, Avalude Raavukal and Mrigaya can be remembered in this context.

Characterisation, scripting, acting, dialogues – you name it and Sasi excelled in these fields once in a while.

Fazil

Somehow, I can only equate Fazil with cheap sentimentality. He saw success in pulling the heart’s threads. Particularly that of women and children…

…till he made Manichitrathazhu.

The rest is forgiven.

Best: Manichitrathazhu, Ente Mammattikutti Ammaykku, Nokketthe Dooratthu Kannumnattu…

Worst: Manivathoorile Ayiram…, Pappayude Swantham…, Aniyathipraavu and several others…

Sreenivasan

“Pokkamillaymeyaanu Ente Pokkam”

I think this underlines the basic characteristic of Sreenivasan movies. He almost perfectly fits into the Australian national archetype of ‘laconic understatement’.

But somehow, one feels this understatement actually springs out of a few complexes deep within Sreenivasan rather than from any position of strength.

I think when one makes a self-denigrating statement once, it may deemed ‘cool’, as it probably comes from the person’s confidence in himself. When it is repeated time and again, it shows a serious lack of self respect somewhere deep down.

Of course I may be wrong.

A friend of mine observed that among the various probable complexes Sreenivasan possibly suffers from, the biggest is “mother complex”.

I would hazard a guess that Sreenivasan has had trouble with his own mother, either due to her absence or presence.

I realised, after talking to my friend, that in almost all his movies, the mother character (the protagonist’s that is) is actually either weak (both, as a weakly etched character or/and as a diffident one), negative or simply absent. And here, I am not just talking about Sreenivasan the director. I also include his scripts.

Sandesham is an exception and there are probably a few more that I can’t think of right now.

Padmarajan

Padmarajan often ventured where no one else dared to. He brought out linkages between various aspects of the human nature, which one either didn’t realise or refused to acknowledge. At least, I felt he was suggestive about it, if not totally open.

He traversed the human mind like no other director. Almost in a Hitchcockian fashion. Remember the rope hanging on the wall, the twisted coconut tree,

In several ways he shared traits with Satyan Anthikkad and Venu Nagavalli, while also demonstrating strong differences.

Like Satyan Anthikkad, he often dealt with social mores, taboos and beliefs. But while Satyan gave each of the mores, taboos and beliefs a place to exist without being too critical or effusive about it, Padmarajan ensured his alternate viewpoint was clear and solidly embedded in the viewers’ mind.

Like Satyan, Padmarajan’s movies were about ordinary men and women. But while Satyan’s plots discussed the ordinary—as in related to everyday lives—Padmarajan explored the extraordinary in our mundane lives.

Padmarajan, like Venu Nagavally, depended a lot on tragedy and pathos to rip open the conditioned facades of human beings.

But where he differed was that the culmination of his movie itself ratcheted up confusion and agony in us, unlike in Nagavally flicks where the tragic turn of events was ‘turning point’ in many people’s lives.

Like Nagavally, Padmarajan too depended on dialogues that best mirrored the common man’s conversations. But the similarity ends there. Because, while Nagavally’s characters, besides delivering intense lines, also indulged in banter (without any meaning or profundity whatsoever, like you and I), each dialogue of Padmarajan’s characters carried a certain depth.

But what put Padmarajan in a different league is that perhaps he was the only director whose characters used urban and contemporary language, bereft of literary trappings.

All in all, the best. Period.

Best: Moonnampakkam, Thovaanathumbikal, Namukku Paarkaan…, Innale and others

Worst: Parannu Parannu Parannu, Season

Bharathan

I remember a friend remarking: “While watching a Bharathan movie, one gets the smell of Kerala’s soil made wet by the first monsoon rains.”

Defining imagery, I must say.

Kerala’s culture, traditions and linguistic nuances ran in Bharathan’s blood. He panned the social diversity of the state like no one else, and with unmatchable intensity. The focus never got diluted. It was almost like, through his storytelling, Bharathan attempted social documentaries of various micro-communities.

Be it the fisherfolk in Amaram and Chamayam, the moosaris in Venkalam, the malayora vibhagakkar in Thazhvaaram or Churam—he tried to detail their lives in all their glorious intricacies.

He had a thing for symbolism. And he made use of traditional symbols that were exclusive to the communities he documented. Be it the process of idol-making in Venkalam or the ocean’s cathartic role in Amaram or the train tracks in Paalangal.

In his attempt at exquisite detailing and aesthetic highlighting, I felt, Bharathan often left the storyline, or at least its treatment, in the realm of mediocrity. Exceptions being Amaram and Thazvaaram, where he beautifully struck a balance between the micro and macro.

Of course he had his share of non-community based stories too. But not many of them really impressed me.

In fact, according to me some of Bharathan’s finest creations are the ones where he concentrated more on the script and storyline rather than the garnishing. Maalootty, Oru Minnaminunginte, Keli etc.

An all-rounder of sorts, Bharathan often overreached himself. His attempt to infuse an “aesthetic” element into everything he did often spelt his undoing, particularly in his later films like Patheyam, Devaragam and some earlier ones like Vaishali.

I think he didn’t know his limitations, both creative and technical. As a result, he often came across as highly pretentious—a trait (pretentiousness or pseudo-aestheticism or in simple terms “artsy-fartsy”) he generously bequeathed to two of his most important protégés Jayaraj and Kamal.

Particularly, when it came to sexuality and sexual themes, while many would call him bold, I think he was more of an exhibitionist. His portrayal of sex, as compared to many other directors, to me seemed attempts to titillate the movie watcher rather than explore it.

Venu Nagavalli

Venu Nagavally survives on sheer nostalgia. For his own days of youth, when Castro and Marx were his gods. In the process, he tingles our memories too.

He loved to portray the camaraderie among friends and neighbours (and no one could beat him at that). Be it Swagatham, Ayitham, Sukhamo Devi, Kalippattam, Sarvakalashala or Hey Auto, the youthful banter and interactions of the main characters was the high point of the movies.

Nagavally was the typical “thinking moviemaker” of Kerala of the 1980s. Yet, he also was intellectually honest, I feel. This was manifest in one scene in Sarvakalashala.

The otherwise chirpy and affable “Chakkara”—the character played by Manianpilla Raju—one fine day turns serious, complete with a jubba, oiled hair, a sidebag and a morose look.

When asked what the problem was, he says, he wants to be serious in life. “Oru Venu Nagavally mood!” he says. Seldom has any moviemaker made fun of himself.

No single character took centre stage entirely in Nagavally movies. They all played their parts. But they were mostly only complementing the plot itself.

But wait. I was wrong. There were central characters: Destiny and Death.

Nagavalli’s movies were the visual manifestation of that good old saying: “Man proposes, God/fate/destiny disposes”.

He charmed us with his witty dialogues (which he lent to other moviemakers too, like Priyadarshan) that were more or less a replay of the common Malayalee’s day-to-day conversations. After he had lulled us into complacency, he would unleash the tormenting twists and turns in the plot, that left a lump in our collective throat.

Be it the sudden death in an accident of the character played by Ashokan in Swagatham or the passing away of Mohan Lal’s character in Sukhamo Devi, leaving behind so many incomplete tasks and changing almost everybody’s destiny overnight, or shooting of “siddhan”, the eccentric traveler-poet played by Nedumudi in Sarvakalashala.

Death was often the harbinger of catastrophic change in Nagavally movies.

Think of the ambulance carrying Sunny’s body passing by the gate of Urvashi/Ganesh’s home in Sukhamo Devi. It still gives me goose bumps when I think of that scene.

Or consider this: Actor Sunny, Lal’s elder brother in Sukhamo Devi, reaches home on hearing of his brother’s death. After exchanging compulsive pleasantries with Lal’s buddies, with a shivering voice, he asks: “Enikku oru cigarette tharumo arenkilum?” And then his trembling hands stop him from lighting it.

Unmatched… till this day.

Best: Sukhamo Devi, Sarvakalashala, Lal Salaam

Worst: Raktasakshikal Zindabad, Hey Auto! (relatively)

Sathyan Anthikkad

They say even non-human elements of his movies took on an importance of their own.

The belching bovine in Nadodikkattu, the absconding cow in Ponmutta Idunna Tharaavu (How can one forget Oduvil’s heartfelt cry “Pashooo, Pashooo!!”?), the 10-pavan maala in the same movie, the omnipresent bus in Varavelpu, house owner Gopalakrishna Panicker’s umbrella in Sanmanassullavarkku Samaadhaanam… They all added depth to the central characters, which no dialogue, no expression could have.

One thing can be said very safely about Satyan Anthikkaad. He didn’t take himself or his view too seriously. Watching his movies, one got the feel that there is space in this world – at least in Kerala – for all kinds of people and views. None of them was more important than the other.

The wry humour (often dark), the lighthearted nature and smooth flow of the plot made him, according to me, the true heir to the Hrishikesh Mukherjee school of movie making. In fact, while Hrishida often got preachy, Satyan Anthikkad mostly kept off that track.

As is evident Satyan Anthikkad’s primary background was rural Kerala. Each of his character was representative of a traditional stereotype.

Somehow one gets a feeling that deep down, he doesn’t think much of urbanization. He perhaps associates urbanization with most negative qualities and the village with innocence (Blessy too belongs to that school of thought, I feel).

Sometimes Satyan Anthikkad strayed. Towards larger than life themes like revenge and ‘higher philosophies’. Like it happened with Pingami and Rasathanthram.

Needless to say, he failed miserably.

Our man should stick to the simplicity and innocence he values so much. We need him to remind us of the child within us.

Best: Ponmutta Idunna Tharaavu, Sanmanassullavarrku Samadhanam, T P Balagoplan MA, Nadodikkattu and many others

Worst: Pingami, Rasathanthram and few others

The Fading Creators

A bird's eye view of the main traits of some of the top directors of the 1980s & 90s mainstream or popular Malayalam cinema.

The following was written on whim and of course may be prejudiced. So others are welcome to correct me or add to it. Most observations are in the past tense, assuming that the best of Malayalam cinema is over and done with.

Priyadarshan

For long, I have suspected this man of thriving in the 1980s by playing the only genuine counter-pole to the otherwise somber and pathos-filled movie makers of that era. His slapstick comedies were in stark contrast to the dark, morose themes of most good mainstream movies in the 1980s and early 90s.

Of course, today we all know this man copied—left, right and centre. Yet there was something about him.

He was a master craftsman, with a keen eye for stunning visuals—especially in song picturisation--and a good ear for music. His creativity was suspect though, thanks to his out and out copy-paste jobs.

‘Confusion of identities’ was a staple diet of his flicks.

He had an uncanny knack of getting spontaneous performances from his actors. (The delivery of that time-less cracker: “In this house of my wife and daughter, you will not see any minute of the today.... get out house... Erangippodaaa!” will be etched in gold in the annals of Malayalam comedy)

Seldom did he venture out of this genre of comedy. Of course many of his climaxes—like in Chitram and Kilukkam--were counterpoints to the comic build-up he had in his movies.

For all the rib-tickling moments he provided us, Priyan will also be remembered for his strong casteist tendencies, which very often was palpable in the many innocuous one liners he subtly and not-so-subtly inserted in his movies.

Taken as individual films, these dialogues only come out as a representation of everyday conversations most Malayalees have. But when taken in a continuum, the larger picture emerges—that of Priyan’s obvious higher caste bias.

The strongest such comment was seen in the movie Aryan, where the protagonist says: “Innu aithavum theendalum keezhjaathikkarante manassilaanu.”

Best: Mithunam, Kilukkam (despite being a copy), Chitram, Vellaanakalude Naadu

Worst: Some of his comedies of the 1980s, Kaakakuyil, Kilichunda Maampazham, Vettam, Advaitham.

Sinhasan (Marathi) – by Jabbar Patel

Cynicism, chicanery and political drama are not difficult to understand, even when the DVD offers no luxury of subtitles. This Marathi classic, scripted by the legendary Vijay Tendulkar, is a reflection of the times – the degenerative late 70s.

Said to be the most potent commentary on the Maharashtra politics of the day, ‘Sinhasan’ indeed shouts out from the top of Mumbai’s buildings: “Where is the exit?”

Veteran actor Nilu Phule plays the omnipresent reporter, covering the powerplays among the various coteries.

The movie begins with the Maharashtra chief minister getting anonymous phone call about brewing rebellion within the ruling party. The suave and ambitious finance minister, played by another veteran Shriram Lagoo, is the one looking to topple the CM, using a labour leader’s clout.

Then follows a series events, each a block in the overall power structure. At the end of the day, the CM saves his skin through some deft handling and also with the ample help from providence.

The maxim – the more things change, the more they remain the same – rules.

Bicycle Thieves -- By Vittorio De Sica

Relationships do not exist in vacuum. Even the most mundane of them are influenced by so many factors--some minor, some major.

This axiom is often so forgotten in our lives that when someone like Vittorio De Sica comes along and creates a little visual treat with his own understanding of it, we are overwhelmed with insights, followed by more questions and then more insights into human nature.

Last night, when I was watching this 1948 Italian classic, it was for the second time in as many months since I bought the DVD. Without doubt watching it was one of the most poignant, yet pleasurable, activities I have ever come across in the field of movie-watching. In the back of my mind was the lingering question: Why can't we take a leaf off the books of such filmmakers as De Sica.

Set in Rome during the Great Depression of the 1920s, the movies starts off on a pleasant note, wherein the desperate Antonio Ricci, a father of two in Rome, finds a job for himself: Sticking cinema posters. The only qualification required for the job is to own a bicycle. As luck would have it, Antonio has pawned his.

He, however, manages to reclaim it – thanks to his industrious – wife, Maria, who pawns her wedding bedspreads for Antonio’s sake.

In high spirits and full of hope of a better tomorrow, thanks to the decent pay expected from the newfound job, Antonio sets off the next morning along with his son, the simply adorable little Bruno, who also works as an attender at a petrol pump.

Within minutes of Ricci commencing his work, his cycle is stolen by a gang three who throw a momentary web of deception and misdirection to rob Antonio of his hopes.

Determined, however, to get back his bicycle – a Fide make of 1935 – Antonio, along with his son and couple of friends set off on a desperate search for the cycle, which they predict would have reached Rome’s flea market by the next morning.

Thus begins the long march of the father-son duo.

Taking us through the alleys and bylanes of Rome of the bygone years, this search resembles the march of a virtuous and duty-bound leader (Antonio, the father) and his follower (Bruno, the son).

Bruno simply follows Antonio, waiting for the emotion to spread on Antonio’s face to himself wear the same. He is shown always looking at his father’s face – in the process “looking up to him” – for the next step.

Yet, they obviously fail to trace the bike. Even after the thief is spotted, cornered and the police summoned, Antonio fails to press charges for lack of evidence – with Bruno almost playing the righteous son coming to his dad’s assistance whenever needed.

In one last act of desperation to keep his job, Antonio, after relieving his son of his duties and asking him to wait at a particular spot, tries to steal a bicycle himself and is caught – right before the eyes of his son, who misses the streetcar he was supposed to board.

Bruno, who hitherto looked up to his father for directions (symbolically, in life too perhaps), is shocked and distraught when his father is chased, caught and humiliated right before his eyes.
The kind owner of the bike avoids pressing charges against Antonio and just leaves it at that. Yet, Antonio is “fallen” in many senses.

However, at the end, just before beginning the long walk back home, Bruno picks up Antonio’s ‘fallen’ hat and hands it back to him—perhaps another symbolism for the son redeeming the father’s dignity.

Listed as the sixth best movie of all time, Bicycle Thieves is a textbook for good cinema. With no major props or visual wizardry, this movie is about pure and simple story-telling. Yet the profundity of it seeps into us and leaves a certain warmth that the most flamboyant of movies fail to do.

Jews, the lost tribe of Indian Cinema

At a time it is reaching out to many countries, Bollywood seems to be losing out on a legacy - its Indian Jewish benefactors.

Their role in the Hindi film industry, especially during the pre-independence, silent era, was of great importance but is now largely forgotten - except in scholarly circles.

Not surprising since the number of Jews, consisting of three major lineages in India (Cochinis, Baghdadis and Bene Israelis), has fallen from some 30,000 in 1948 to about 5,500 today - after living in the country for over 2,000 years.

When India started producing films in the early 20th century, it was taboo for Hindu and Muslim women from "respectable" families to play the lead roles.

"The Jewish community, owing to the far more Westernised bringing-up, was more liberal when it came to acting in movies, especially by the womenfolk," the Indian Jewish Federation's founder chairman Jonathan Samuel Solomon told me in December 2005.

Solomon, a Bene Israel whose grandfather Solomon Moses ran the Bombay Film Lab Pvt Ltd from the 1940s to 1990s, will soon travel to Israel to interact with Indian Jews who have now settled there.

Bene Israelis are the descendants of one of the 10 lost tribes of Israel, which was shipwrecked at Navgaon, a small village south of Mumbai, in the second century B.C. and made India their home.

"The community was in a sense pioneering when it comes to the Bombay film industry with several superstars of the silent era hailing from Jewish households," said Manohar Iyer of Keep Alive, a group striving to collate and highlight achievements of vintage Bollywood artistes.

Actress Firoza Begum alias Susan Solomon, a Bene Israel, starred in a succession of Hindi and Marathi films like "Bewafa Qatil", "Prem Veer" and "Circus Girl" in the 1920s and 1930s.

Ruby Meyers (1907-1983), more famous by her screen name Sulochana (senior), was another Bene Israel, who was introduced into the world of films by Ardeshir B. Irani, the father of Indian talkies.

The Pune-born actress starred in movies like "Typist Girl" (1926) and "Wildcat of Bombay" (1927) and was one of the highest paid actresses of her time drawing a salary of Rs.5,000.

She is often remembered for her role of a nanny in "Julie" (1975), which also starred another famous Jewish actress Nadira alias Farhat Ezekiel, a Baghdadi Jew who debuted opposite Dilip Kumar in "Aan" (1952).

"The Baghdadi Jews (who arrived from Iraq, Syria and Iran around 1796, fleeing persecution in their native lands) were very fair and beautiful, making them ideal candidates for the silver screen," Solomon said.

"So they were a natural choice for lead roles," he observed.

Scholars also recall Patience Cooper (1905-1983), who played the first double role of Indian cinema in "Patni Pratap" (1923), Pramila or Esther Abraham and others.

David Abraham Cheulkar (1908-1982), better known as David, who portrayed the benevolent "John Chacha" of "Boot Polish" (1954) and is remembered for the song "Nanhe Munne Bachche", too was a Bene Israel.

Kolkata-born Ezra Mir alias Edwin Myers (1903-1993) was the first chief of India's Film Division, then called the Information Films of India under British rule, and is mentioned in the Guinness Book of World Records as the producer of the largest number of documentaries and short films.

Bunny Reuben, another Bene Israel, is a senior film journalist and author who has chronicled the trends in Bollywood since the late 1940s and was a close friend and publicist of legendary showman Raj Kapoor.

Reuben has penned several biographies of Bollywood personalities - the latest one being "...and Pran", about the life and times of the screen villain Pran.

Nadira, who hailed from the Nagpada area of central Mumbai, is perhaps the only Jew who continues today to do the odd role in television serials and cinema.

On their part, Jews - in India as well as in Israel - are fond of vintage Hindi film music.

"The 50,000-strong Indian Jews settled in Israel are perhaps the biggest fans of vintage Bollywood music. They associate these songs with fond memories they have of their time in India," said Solomon, who dreams of organizing a concert in Israel some day.

1947 – year of gems, stars and a nightingale

As India awoke in 1947, its tinsel dreams too got a providential thrust that year with the likes of Raj Kapoor, MGR, Lata Mangeshkar, Uttam Kumar and Dilip Kumar either making their debut or finally finding limelight with their first hit.

With the country marking 60 years of its political unshackling in 2007 it could certainly look back with awe at 1947 when a few vital building blocks of its film industry were laid by some formidable institutions and stalwarts.

The rise of a galaxy of stars was also accompanied by the establishment of seminal organisations like the Calcutta Film Society by Satyajit Ray (among others), AVM Studios in Madras and Udaya Studios in Kerala.

Indeed, just four days after Pandit Nehru first raised the Tricolour at the Red Fort, 17-year-old Hema Hardikar, who had been singing for Marathi films since 1942, got her first Hindi film song recorded.

"Along with the nation I think the stars of many of us were in favourable positions. It was a good time for all of us," the girl, now at a grand age of 77, reminisced during a chat with me.

Although that song for the film "Aap Ki Seva Mein" went unnoticed, a prescient Ghulam Haider and a genius Anil Biswas later mentored her into a phenomenon, which at different times soothed a nation, made its leaders' weep and serenaded several generations.
Lata Mangeshkar had knocked at Bollywood's doors that day.

"Imagine! I was having a really bad time trying to get work till August that year. Then suddenly some doors opened and there was no looking back," Lata said.

While the nightingale herself credits "propitious" time for the success of so many people in this trade, other experts cite historical reasons for the unprecedented spurt in activity.

“I feel the spurt seen in 1947 was a culmination of a build up that began after the end of the World War – II, when a period of great shortages had come to an end," veteran filmmaker Shyam Benegal observes. "Due to the severe scarcity of raw stock film there was rationing of material during the war. But after the war ended, suddenly things were available in plenty," he said.

Former National Film Archives of India director P K Nair notes that replacement of the studio system with the star-system, beginning in early 1940s, put the emphasis on numbers instead of quality and dependence on extensive use of music and dance, spawning stars even among singers and music directors.

Lata recalled that after being rejected initially for her "thin voice" by musicians who were more used to nasal and full-throated voices, it was a Pathan supplier at a studio who introduced her to Ghulam Haider and subsequently to unimaginable fame.

Meanwhile two other Pathans from Peshawar had already begun exploring their paths towards cinematic glory.

Having bid goodbye to formal education and having trained his sight on mastering the craft, Ranbiraj, a one time voluntary clapper-boy-cum-sweeper at Bombay Talkies despite his genes, ended up acting in Kidar Sharma's "Neel Kamal" that year – his first lead role.Soon he used that early Bombay Talkies "underdog experience" to propel himself towards the title of Bollywood's greatest showman under the name Raj Kapoor."

1947 was a very important year for Raj (Kapoor) ji. `Neel Kamal' was released. His son Dabboo (Randhir Kapoor) was born and he got his Ford," veteran actor Shammi Kapoor, Raj's younger brother, recalls. "I remember Raj ji was extremely busy as he was totally involved into films by then. He had begun shooting `Aag'," said Shammi, who himself passed his matriculation in 1947.

The other Pathan – a former neighbour of the Kapoors in Peshawar – too was set to make his rendezvous with destiny.

An Afghan Pushtun fruit-seller’s son, Mohammed Yusuf Khan had already been spotted by the legendary actress Devika Rani and had acted in films like Bombay Talkies' "Jwar Bhatta" (1944). But it was "Jugnu", released in 1947, which brought the first rays of stardom to Dilip Kumar.

The reigning singing-star Noorjehan, crooning the evergreen sentimental "Yahan Badla Wafa Ka" in that film, perhaps may not have realized that she was witnessing the ascendance of two meteors of Indian cinema.

As she shared screen-space with Dilip Kumar in “Jugnu”, her voice was also matching notes with a certain Mohammed Rafi, for whom this song acted as a catapult to fame.

Such was the sudden creative fervour that erupted in that watershed year that according to NFAI figures, from a modest 199 films released across India in 1946 the figure jumped nearly 40% in 1947, touching 280.

While all this and more was happening in Bollywood a similar phenomenon was being witnessed in other smaller industries too.

Although bitten by the acting bug right from childhood, thanks to a family-run theatre group, Arun Kumar Chatterjee, a mellow-voiced youth from north-Calcutta also devoted time to other activities, primarily sports like `lathi-khela’, swimming and horse riding.

He went on to become the biggest icon of Bengali cinema and one of the greats of the Indian cinema as none other than the hypnotic Uttam Kumar. While it was the 1949 flop “Kamana” that launched him as a lead actor, the “Mahanayak” of Bengal took his baby step in 1947 with a Hindi film “Mayador”, which although was never released.

Tamil cinema, whose few month’s delay in launching talkies, made its second position behind “Alam Ara” a mere technicality, could not have been behind in this case either.

Charulata

While many of us will disagree with them, great moviemakers often consider the sensitivity with which a theme is treated a more important trait of good cinema than the plot or story itself.

For untrained audiences, of which a majority of us are members, the proportion of the above traits is perhaps what puts a movie into the "boring" or "entertaining" -- and in turn the "good" and "bad" -- categories. Only a few directors have bridged the gap.

Inevitably the maestro, Satyajit Ray, falls in that category which does not believe in heightening drama, bamboozzling sequences or even poetic justice.

Yet, the sights, sounds, music, those raised eyebrows, those furtive glances, the play of shadows, which Ray's craft is replete with, including in "Charulata", make for the kind of sublime drama that penetrates the mind through some kind of osmosis rather than through bombardment of the senses.

Based on Tagore's "Nastanirh" (The Broken Nest), considered an autobiographical work that maps the platonic-romanitc relationship between Tagore and his sis-in-law, the highly telented and ethereal Kadambari Devi, "Charulata" is the story of the quintessential lonely, yet talented housewife.

Bhupati, a well-meaning and well-to-do Bengali intellectial of 19th century Calcutta is obsessed with politics and his newspaper. So much so that he begins to realise that his beautiful and creative wife Charulata (Madhabi Mukherjee) needs some kind of engagement. Enter Amal (Soumitra Chatterjee), the 23-year-old, equally talented and musically oriented, good looking cousin of Bhupati, along with a storm!

Amal kindles Charu's in-born brigthness and is himself bewildered by what he finds. The subsequent intimacy develops into a romantic inclination on the part of Charu, which Amal senses and avoids out of guilt.

Meanwhile, Charu's brother, Umapada, who is also the newspaper's manager, cheats the idealist Bhupati of a huge amount of money, in the process destroying the latter partially and the newspaper completely.

Just when the half-devastated Bhupati reposes his complete faith in Amal--who leaves that very night--he discovers Charu's feelings for him.

The last scene is telling. A distraught Bhupati returns home after long hours of listless wandering. The frame freezes just as Charu and Bhupati move towards a tentative reconciliatory gesture, indicating some kind of an unbridgeable gap.

Aamir (Meaning: The Leader in Arabic)

Tight situation, taut nerves, tense minds.

While the plot may seem similar to the Johnny Depp-starrer “Nick of Time”, “Aamir”, newcomer Rajkumar Gupta's attempt at portraying the moderate Indian Muslim's mind through small screen heartthrob Rajeev Khandelwal’s histrionics, is a short yet gripping story of a young UK-returned (just about) Muslim doctor's entanglement with the dark, unsavory world of Islamic terror.

The boy-next-door Aamir finds himself completely helpless and bewildered when -- just he steps out of the Mumbai airport -- he is informed that his family is held hostage by a terror master, who wants a certain "task" to be performed by Aamir.

Before he is even able to give it a thought, Amir finds himself strolling through some of the Muslim-dominated localities of Maximum city. The camera excruciatingly pans seedy bylanes, a revolting visit to a stinking local latrine, a chase by a suspicious policeman and other such "experiences" comprises the package tour planned for the well-to-do doctor, living a life sanitised of the supposed daily tribulations of Muslims in India.

Of course, as one would have obviously guessed, the whole idea of the excursion was to brainwash Aamir into doing "something" worthwhile for the Qaum! And that "something", as Aamir discovers by the end of the movie, is to plant a bomb in a packed Mumbai bus.

Torn between the options of saving his dear ones and blowing up scores of innocent people, Aamir does the unthinkable (Oh! not the usual Bollywood brand of "unthinkable". Something more poignant, simple and obvious). Find out what for yourself.

Till then following orders out of fear and desperation -- uncharacteristic of the meaning of his name -- the youth proves to be the real attitudinal leader for his community in the climax.

The slick cinematography, with the camera zipping in and out of Mumbai's dark underbelly, keeps you glued.

For a big-screen fresher Rajeev Khandelwal comes across as a real find. His shades of expression, with sprinklings of agony, fear, frustration, desperation, anger and moral rectitude in a way brings out the dilemma of many a Muslim youth of the day.

However, just one scene exposes the director's bias against the Muslim community, thereby making me biased against the otherwise splendid movie.

As Aamir takes away the deadly explosives in a suitcases from another Muslim dominated locality (I suspect south Mumbai’s Nagpada), every Tom, Dick and Harry -- right from the stereotyped Muslim butcher, to the paanwallah, to the shopkeeper, to the bystander to the customer in the shop -- is portrayed as silently colluding in the conspiracy by virtue of the pregnant stares they give Aamir and the suitcase.

My view: Go for it.

Meghe Dhaka Tara

I had heard a lot about this black and white Ritwik Ghatak classic from my PG days. I was particularly enamoured after watching a few clippings. So I thought I'll start off the New Year with a good movie--Meghe Dhaka Tara--and good old Old Monks. 

A hauntingly beautiful Neeta (Supriya Choudhury) is virtually the sole bread-winner of a lower middle-class family, with an almost senile but seemingly well-educated father and a frustrated mother. Of the four children -- herslef being the second--the eldest is a talented and eccentric but jobless singer and particularly close to the loving and self-sacrificing Neeta. 

Stressed out by chronic poverty, physical duress, a round-the-clock swearing mother, indifferent younger siblings and an imbecile lover, who gives her up for her more chirpy and sensual younger sister Geeta, Neeta's character often shows glimpses of the Orwellian 'Boxer'. Soon she falls prey to TB and ostracises herself into a separate room. 

Her singer brother, who meanwhile leaves the houshold, fed up of the ignominy of being reduced to a nobody in the family and unable to bear Neeta's abuse, manages to make name and money in distant Bombay. By the time he returns as a successful artiste, Neeta is almost on the verge of collapsing. Heartbroken, he puts her in a sanatorium in Shillong--where the famous and heartwrenching "Dada, Ami Baachte Chai" (brother, I want to live!) scene is played out in all its agony to end the drama.

The story as such is nothing great, especially for us Malayalees, who are fed on a regular diet of pathos-filled drama like "Thulabharam", "Bharya" and other such flicks of yore. But what does strike the viewer is the stunning camera work that makes use of shades, shadows and sparkles to the hilt, the sensitive performances of almost all main actors, and use of music--prdomnantrly Hindustani--to emphasise the nuances.

The story as such is nothing great, especially for us Malayalees, who are fed on a regular diet of pathos-filled drama like "Thulabharam", "Bharya" and other such flicks of yore. But what does strike the viewer is the stunning camera work that makes use of shades, shadows and sparkles to the hilt, the sensitive performances of almost all main actors, and use of music--prdomnantrly Hindustani--to emphasise the nuances.

In this regard, one aspect to be particularly noted is the childhood dream of Neeta to climb a beautiful hill along with her elder brother to witness the sunsrise from there. The hill being symbolic--from what I percieved--of success (for her brother) and escape from penury and struggle (for herself). But as fate would have it, finally when she does get to climb a scenic hill, on which the sanatorium is located, she loses the battle for life. 

The hill, which she climbs with her brother's help, ends being only the fulfilment of her dream for her brother, while her own aspirations are all lost--like her painful cry "Dada, Ami Baachte Chai", that is lost in her own echoe.

While I may not have felt the impact of a Mahanagar or Nayak, being my first Ghatak film, Meghe Dhaka Tara comes across as a 50-50 venture. A collector's item, it remains though!

I am living the life of Raju, the guide: Dev Anand

He is at a stage where Bollywood's mundanities hold no value. Films are now mere vehicles of his fathomless creative energy. Dev Anand now seems to be on the verge of merging completely with his alter-ego 'Raju the Guide', leaving behind all material considerations, immersing in what seems to be the only reason he was born.

     "I am not making films for a house, for good clothing or for two meals to eat. At this stage I make films for my pleasure so that I can radiate that pleasure to the world," the octogenarian star-producer-director told PTI in an exclusive interview here.        

     "My creative impulse and creative intoxication with myself and my own feeling that people like you still want to meet Dev Anand. That is the source of my energy," Devsaab said.

     What may seem to many unbridled narcissim is actually the manifestaion of this man's obsession with the desert spring within himself, his uriosity for anything humane within him.

     "I am in love with myself, with the god within me. One day I looked into the mirror with a hat on and said 'my god, I look good'," and it became my style on teh screen.  

     Ever clinging on to his best movie till date, the 1963 classic Guide, in which he played an adulterous, unscrupulous and yet extremely lovable guide Raju, Devsaab has no qualms admitting that he, right now, is living that movies' climaxing moments.

     Borrowing Raju's parting monologue to express his state of consciousness, in that inimitable style, the affable Devsaab says, "Look at what he says at the end, I am leading that life this moment:

     Zindagi ek khayal hai jaise ke maut ek khayal hai. Na sach hai na jhooth hai. Na deen hai na duniya. Na insaan na bhagwan, bas main, main, main…" (Life is a thought, like death. There is no truth, neither is there untruth. There is no pain, there is now world, There is no man, neither god. It’s just me, me, me…)."

     His thoughts and their vehicle – his movies – may not be appreciated or accepted nowadays. But that is no reason for him to call it quits. He is far from that.

     At the ripe age of 83 this indefatigable optimist is planning two movies in the near future, one of them a Croatian production in English and the other being a murder mystery called Chargesheet.

     As he tells us more about the two ventures with typical child-like enthusiasm sitting in his studio in western Mumbai's Bandra suburb, one gets the feel that this man is indeed contagious in his optimism.

     "I have been making films, which nobody else could conceive. They were offbeat. I may have suffered in promotion. I may have suffered in distribution. The world is so corporate that unless you picture is promoted well it will not succeed.

     "Marketing is more important than the movie, in fact. It makes an average film a super duper hit," Devsaab said with all the irreverence and nonchalance he is known for.

     Once elated by lay comparisons with Hollywood Gregory Peck and Cary Grant, Devsaab now hates the uttering of their names in a single line. All the more if that is for comparison's sake.

     "I hate to be called that (Gregory Peck) now. That age is gone. You see, in your impressionable age you are looking upto somebody – parents, teachers, professors. But after a certain point of time you want to be on your own.

     "You realize 'my god! I have got my own style. I am not following anybody anymore. The world has to follow me," he said with the typical drag in his voice that endeared him to millions in the country.

     The weaved hair, the arms of the inseparable pullover over his shoulder, the impeccable dressing and his sophisticated conversation, however, only hide – quite unsuccessfully – his inherent vivaciousness, sprouting out of what he himself calls his "creative energy".

     Perhaps the same energy is now flowing out of his pen as an autobiography.

     "I started writing a few chapters in America and I realized I was good. One could never imagine one was carrying such a huge ocean inside.

     "Probably, I could have been a writer, if not an actor. I can feel it now. Because I came from a very good college. Like you I would have been a journalist, traveling, meeting people, rambling with a restless mind," he said.

     Always restless with passion, the man, whose six-decade career in films seems like a lifetime compared to many reigning stars' and starlets' ephemeral hobnobbing with fame, revels in his own world, caring two hoots about the world.

     He says: "When an idea disturbs you, the definition of that disturbance is 'it is eating, drinking, sleeping in the subconscious state of your mind'. And then you start developing a plot around it. You start making a script out of it.

      

      Evergreen, debonair, urbane and classy are words which have described Devdutta Pishorimal Anand or simply Dev Anand aptly during parts of his six-decade career and often throughout.

     

      Be it at the beginning of his career, the zenith or what some would call, though the man himself vehemently denies, the fag end; the octogenarian Bollywood legend has staunchly refused to look back.

     

      "It's a shame if you have to look towards the past for strength. That would show you don't have anything more to offer. I don't belong to that set of people," the young-at-heart actor-director said.

     "The world is always moving forward. You have to look ahead too," Dev Anand said.

     To a certain extent Dev Anand's career – particularly after stardom adorned him – is also the story of independent India, with the inescapable vicissitudes of a long innings adding drama, glamour, sweat, triumph and despair in ample amounts.

     Born to Gurdaspur(Punjab)-based advocate Pishorimal Anand in September 1923, Devsaab, as he is fondly called in industry circles, graduated in English literature from Lahore Government College – perhaps the connection that took him back to Pakistan on former Prime Minister A B Vajpayee's bus trip.

     "After graduation when I wanted to study higher, my father could not afford it. The next thing I knew I was on my way to Bombay. That was in 1943," Devsaab said.

     "I have witnessed the growth of the biggest of stars, directors and other artistes. I have seen them wane away too. But here I am, still continuing," he said with deep philosophic quiver in his voice.

     Indeed, from the days when he joined his brother Chetan Anand at the Indian People's Theatre Association (IPTA) and times when he had to read out soldiers' letters to their families as a military censor in south Mumbai's Chuchgate locality for a salary of Rs 160, Devsaab has come a long way.

     It was not until Prabhat Studio's Hum Ek Hain (1946) that he got to venture into the celluloid world, although even that was not exactly a dream debut.

     "As a youngster like everyone else, I too had my idols, my heroes. Often these idols get replaced every 10 years. But after a while you have to depend on your own values and intellect," the Dadasaheb Phalke Awardee said.

     "I, for one, have left them all behind," he said.

     Devsaab, in fact, left them behind way back in 1948 with the release of Ziddi in which he co-starred Kamini Kaushal and was directed by his then idol – none other than the reigning star of the day Ashok Kumar. The film turned out to be his first hit and the rest is history.

     He soon formed the third pillar of the triumvirate of Raj Kapoor-Dev Anand-Dilip Kumar.

     Despite not being hailed as a great performer like Kumar or an intellectual artiste like Kapoor, Devsaab came out as the suave and charming gentleman of celluloid, perhaps the forerunner of today's "cool guy".

     His famous pact with fellow struggler Guru Dutt – one of the two relationships of Devsaab which ended up as Bollywood folklore – saw him acting in Dutt's Baazi (1951) – also a landmark for legendary lyricist Sahir Ludhianvi and composer S D Burman,  especially with the symbolic club number Tadbeer Se Bigdi Hui Taqdeer Bana Le (Change your spoilt fate with my advice).

     Launching several stars, including Zeenat Aman and Tina Munim, Devsaab kept delivering hit after hit swaying generations of filmgoers with his style and boy-next-door looks.

     "I like to believe that everyone is a teacher and every moment a lifetime. Yet I don't quote people. Not in my conversations, not in my writing. I stick to original ideas," he said.

     Indeed, this originality was reflective in may of his movies like the hippie-culture inspired Hare Krishna Hare Ram and Des Pardes.

     "I have made 36 motion pictures under my banner Navketan that was launched in 1949. But I'd like to believe that my best moment is yet to come," Devsaab said.

     Women of all ages still swoon to Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke, Khoya Khoya Chaand, Gata Rahe Mera Dil as they flow out of music-players.

     Men could still learn a trick or two from his Gregory Peck-Cary Grant-inspired screen persona, his boyish smile and numbers like Phoolon Ke Rang Se and Abhi Na Jao Chhod Kar.

     But the one song that epitomises Devsaab's exuberance and optimism will perhaps always be that Jaidev classic from Hum Dono - Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhaata Chala Gaya (I continue to accompany life).

"This is me. There is nobody else like this. It is great at moments. At times it becomes a losing proposition too. Because you leave your world behind."

     Indeed, Raju, the guide has left the world behind. (An exclusive interview in Jan, 2007 at Devsaab’s studio in Bandra, Mumbai)