SO, my dear Ramesh, (I insist on using the honest-to-goodness straight ‘a’ like a good Panjabi), I have just received your threatening letter. Firstly, you ask me to write an article for Seminar knowing full well that I cannot write articles; then you want me to write on the ‘Obstacles We Face’ and thereby make me look back in anger – all right not in anger nor in frustration – over the long stretch of sixteen years of film-making, a journey which has made my heart bleed so often in quiet agony; and on top of that you say you will not take ‘No’ for an answer. Well!

Since you do not give me even the right to prevaricate (you’ve set me a rigid time limit), I am going to put my haphazard thoughts in this letter straight-away and be done with it. I refuse to attempt an article and make a fool of myself. Do what you will with this letter, but whatever you do with it, do it in totality. Please, I’ve had enough of censorship in my own profession.

The ‘obstacles we face’! Who is the we? Those who belong to my category of film-makers? Not that I can name the category. But whatever the name, the fact is that we are few, and we are not the elite, nor the pillars of the industry, nor the highbrows, nor reformers, nor intellectuals (accursed word!). We are the ones who have given our hearts to this work without selling our souls to its caretakers and undertakers. We are the ones unashamed in our dedication, unmindful of social slur, living in our work, with it, for it, lost in it – and lost alas, to everything else, often with what tragic results in our personal lives. We are the ones who stubbornly continue to go on. Somehow. We are the ones with faith.

Having said this for the ‘We’, I shall now discard the word, and use instead the simple ‘I’ – not the chest-thumping ego-bloated ‘I’ – just the plain ‘I’ that has learnt humility the hard way and taken a lot of beating in its stride, but never given up its little throb of hope, now slackened the rhythm of its throbbing.

 

I come to the ‘obstacles’ now. Here I must pause and think. And wonder. When and where did I not have obstacles? The problem is to sift and sort them for your understanding. They are jumbled and overlap each other, and they appear in all sorts of forms and shapes. There are financial and technical obstacles, and obstacles created by temperamental differences, emotional imbalance, the chaotic conditions prevailing in the industry and the nervous exhaustion resulting from it, obstacles from unholy distributors, the great public (our masters), government officials (our rulers), and from ourselves who do not know how, when and to what extent to compromise with the conditions that prevail and with the powers that be.

Yes, I can hear you groan: ‘Come to the point, Chetan, give me something concrete.’ All right, I will. You will get the full picture in all its lurid, sordid, clumsy, heart-rending details from the account I shall give you of certain experiences beginning with Anjali, a comparatively recent film.

 

The theme of Anjali had been tempting me for quite some time – the physical ache and passion of an untouchable girl for Ananda, the young lovable disciple of the Buddha, her pursuit of him, her wiles and guiles, even her recourse to the ‘tantric’ powers of her mother to possess him, and her defeat in the very moment of her conversion. Since 1956 was the 2500th anniversary of the Buddha, I thought it would be a good idea to produce and release the film that year. But between the idea and its execution there is the mighty problem of finance, which becomes more insurmountable, if you have the blemish of a recent flop to your name, which I had. The ‘hit’ preceding it is never taken into account. The latest flop decides your destiny.

I thought of throwing feelers around for finance. The financiers who matter in our line can be counted on the fingers of one hand, and these fingers can close into a fist and hold you in a vile grip. Or they can just waive you aside from a distance. Since these financiers cannot be approached directly, specially after a flop, I let a broker take my proposal to one of them. He was to use his persuasive powers to make the Seth feel that I was not such a bad fellow after all, and not the stinker and sinker I had been made out to be, and that the proposal was a good one from the financial point of view.

Before the broker went, he dictated his terms to me. I cursed him in my heart but accepted them with a smile. (I learnt this trick after many years of diplomatic failure).

After a long, painful fortnight I received a phone call from the broker to say that an appointment had been fixed for me to meet the financier at his house. I arrived on the dot. He and his partners sat in a semi-circle in the sitting room. They nodded as I greeted them. I was being watched from every angle. I felt terribly guilty. The headman of the tribe was beautifully precise: ‘We are not interested; but we can consider the proposal.’ Before I could say anything I heard: ‘Tell us the story.’ The radio blared in the next room, children yelled in the one next to that, a baby sat in the headman’s lap putting its finger in his nostrils, making him sneeze now and again, louder than I have ever heard anyone. I told the story. ‘Who is the male star?’ I said: ‘I can’t afford the price or the headache or the time for a star – I must complete the film soon.’ ‘So?’ ‘So I thought I might play the role myself.’ A chill spread through the room. The headman looked as if he had a stroke of nausea. The little one’s finger made him sneeze. ‘Who is the music-director?’ I named him. Another stroke of nausea.

Three days later the broker came and advised me to take a star, and a top-ranking music-director, and change the story. I smiled and said, ‘No’.

 

By now the news had reached all the other financiers. All my roads were closed. Word went round the industry, ‘Chetan’s finished!’

I decided to lie low, hibernate, for a few weeks or months, as necessity might dictate. This is a very dangerous phase in a film-maker’s life, this hibernation: it can demoralize you; it tears confidence into shreds. But that little throb of hope I mentioned earlier continued its beat in spite of onslaughts from many directions. It saved me. Internal safety, yes, but I at least knew that I wasn’t finished. Externally, within a few weeks of my decision to lie low… (decision did I say? – Dire necessity!) …finance came my way from somebody outside the industry, through the medium of a friend also partially outside the industry, whose name I shall not mention for his name is mud, though his heart isn’t.

At the bidding of my new financier… (henceforth everything must be done at his bidding – alas!) …the deed was drawn up and a new company formed, (Private Ltd. – more Private!), with him as the Managing Director, with all powers conceived – and inconceivable – in his smooth hands. The Board of Directors comprised himself, his wife and the manager of his mill – and incidentally, myself. I don’t know how many directors’ meetings were held in the space of two-and-a-half years because I was never called to any, nor was I consulted about, told, or informed of any decision taken. It was a ‘private’ company!

 

The contract which I signed with this company stipulated on the one hand that I was to draw no salary at all during the production of the film, and on the other that I was not to work outside the company! I was, however, to get forty-nine per cent of the profits. But, after the release of the film, the company declared losses. Plus they claimed from me a sum of Rs 80,000. I seem to hear you shout, ‘How?’ I told you I was in smooth hands.

I used to call the usual film-financiers, sharks. I soon began to think of them with nostalgia, and call them angels.

I am not familiar with the set-up in other countries, but here when a producer sets out to make a film he finds himself in a state of war with all and sundry, and he has to fight many a battle on many a front. The financier’s front is bad enough. Other fronts are no better. There is, for example, the battle with the ‘stars’.

All this talk about sending rockets to the moon and Mars and other stars is quite useless; rockets ought to be directed elsewhere. That would be shooting stars!

It is amazing that a handful of these stars can create such havoc, with such charm, in an industry which should be feeding and providing for many thousands but which provides for only a handful. Fifty per cent or more of a producer’s film-budget is – has to be – duly and humbly presented to the stars on a silver platter. That is money earned with a smile – and what a smile! It cuts through the hearts of the fans, and through the vitals of the poor producer, who thence forward can do nothing but gloat in his wretchedness under the smiling light of his stars!

 

I was spared much, I must say, in Anjali mainly because I was playing the male lead myself and the female one opposite was not yet such a big star. All the same I had my share of pain. I was keen to have her because she suited the role, but it took me almost three months to convince her that the role of the chandal girl, who went all out to lure Bhikshu Ananda into her arms, was good meat for any actress. She kept on saying: ‘It is the role of a vamp, and I want to play a good girl!’ A few more weeks were wasted in all sorts of attempts to convince her that she had to wear the clothes of that period.

Having accepted the role and the costume, she lost no time in making me and my staff feel that a favour had been bestowed on us. And henceforth, if she doled out a few days for shooting every two or three months, we had to be grateful; and on a working day, if she came for the shooting by mid-day, again we had to be grateful. Above all this, she would often be ill or ill-tempered because not enough fuss was made of her.

I was told later that her behaviour on my sets was exemplary! Because on the sets of other directors – she had more than six films in hand being shot concurrently – she would tell the director to change dialogues, scenes and camera positions to suit her peculiar talent. This she did not dare do with me… fortunately no actor or star has dared this so far with me, but I know for certain that most of them keep directing their director.

Yes, I have reason to thank Providence that this particular star gave me only minor pin-pricks. Other stars, I am told by other directors and producers, openly indulge in blackmail of various sorts. On this I shall not elaborate for obvious reasons.

One would think that skinned by a financier and blackmailed by a star was enough for a producer, but there are others who are always on the hunt for their pound of flesh, and still others who would throw salt on his wounds. There are, for example, music-directors who, apart from claiming their pot of money, spend weeks – nay, months – waiting for inspiration to copy the latest Mambo-Jambo, to convert, it into a ‘hit’ Mumble-Jumble. There are music-directors who will not work with such and such lyric writer; there are poets who will not write if such and such playback singer is singing; there are playback singers who will not sing if such and such music-director is ‘composing’.

 

Then there are studios and studio-owners who wait silently for their prey to get caught in their spider’s web. One little example will suffice to paint them in their proper colour. A studio owner owned a vacant plot of land across the road opposite his studio where I wanted to erect an outdoor set for one of my films a few years ago. He allowed me to use the plot provided I brought my own properties for the set. He charged me Rs 1000 a day for this favour and at the end claimed that all the properties I had brought were his, and even billed me a Rs 100 for the nails I had purchased, and claimed the nails. I also had to pay for all the long hours that were wasted because of camera trouble and the inefficiency of his staff and technical equipment!

Oh, I must tell you of another type of incident. This would amuse you. One of my films, on which I had spent a good deal of time, money and thought to give it technical polish, was being premiered at one of the elite theatres in the city. During the show, which was being attended by the industry and the invitees from the public, I found the sound-track of the film fading out, off and on, so that some of the important dialogues became inaudible. Then, suddenly, the sound would blare out with a bang. Soon after that the images on the screen – such beautiful shots – began to go out of focus, now and again. The audience began to get restive, and my friends in the industry began to snigger with full venom and malice. I was vile with anger, and humiliation. My assistant, whom I had sent out to see if by mistake a bad print had been supplied to the theatre, came running to me and said that the mischief was being done deliberately by the operator in the projection room. Why? He had been tipped only one hundred rupees!

 

Here’s yet another for your amusement. A few hours before the premier of another one of my films, a good man came to me and said: ‘I control a big gang – you give me five hundred rupees and I’ll see that your film is applauded by the audience. Otherwise, it’ll be booed’. This was a new one on me. I put him in touch with my financier to deal with him as he thought fit. The financier gave him a poisonous look and said: ‘I’ll call the police at the premiere. Sala you can’t do it.’ But the sala damn well did it. The film was booed, and how! The man who was responsible for it had been paid by some interested person in the industry. I was told this later, but he was willing to double-cross him if the producer paid him enough.

 

You would be a fool. Ramesh, if you did not call me a fool for making films under such conditions and for not striking a new path and making films without stars and other trouble-makers. I have tried that and sunk into debt. You will say: ‘Look at Satyajit Ray!’ and I will say: ‘Where is he, except in a small appreciative set of intellectuals.’ I have covered that ground myself and found it barren emotionally, materially, spirituality.

I would love to make – and I would make – films that I like and you would like, and the like of you would like, but, for heaven’s sake, give me the proper audience. That is where you, as a part of a vast audience, are at fault. It might take decades before such an audience as I want takes form and shape. Because a good audience needs a good tradition of taste and culture and such traditions are built through the years under the guidance of intelligent parents and inspiring teachers and professors. For that we have to wait.

Till then there is the strange phenomenon of intelligent sections of our audience treating Indian films with contempt, instead of giving the producers encouragement to make films to suit their better taste. Side by side there is the phenomenon of the intelligent, educated, rich men, even highly placed government officials, asking for ‘free-passes’ to see an Indian film. And the phenomenon of a theatre owner having perforce to give free-passes to police officials, income-tax officers, executive heads and to their families and friends and friends of friends. They see films, but they won’t pay. Those who pay are the poorer ones – mostly without refinement of taste. And if they pay they have a right to demand films that satisfy their taste. What right have the better educated classes to demand films to suit their taste, when they are not willing to pay for them? Lastly, there is even the heart-rending phenomenon of very large sections of our educated audiences, including students, businessmen and others, who give full encouragement to what we might call the cheaper type of film. Do I have to give examples?

 

The audience is my worst obstacle. But if there can be anything worse than the worst, it is the government officials directly concerned with the industry.

When the audience here fails a producer, he hopes to win some appreciation and perhaps a market abroad for his product. This is best done through the various film festivals. Unfortunately, government insists on selecting the films for these festivals, or at least having the final say in the matter. And, more often than not, the official entries bring nothing but disgrace and discredit to the country. ‘What about the Satyajit Ray films?,’ you will say. A very legitimate question. But perhaps you do not know that the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting had shelved Satyajit’s Pather Panchali, had decided to put it in cold storage. Had it not been for the strenuous efforts of an official of the External Affairs Ministry, Pather Panchali would never have been sent abroad to any festival, and Satyajit Ray would have remained in oblivion because the Indian audiences would never have given him his due. In fact, I’m informed, quite a battle had to be fought with the officials of the Information Ministry before they finally agreed to send the film out.

 

The Information Ministry officials took their revenge when Anjali came up for consideration. The External Affairs officials strongly recommended it – specially the short foreign version, a compact 7500 foot film – but the Information Ministry officials sabotaged it. How? This film which was specially produced for the 2500th anniversary of the Buddha was officially dubbed as anti-Buddhist, and rumours were set afoot that the film might be banned! But they shifted the responsibility for condemning it as anti-Buddhist on other shoulders. How? A panel of people from different walks of life was formed and told to see the film and give a report on its shortcomings.

One of the members of this panel was Freda Bedi. Do you remember her, Ramesh? She was in Lahore in our time. She was once a staunch believer in socialism and after many different phases has found herself a believer in Buddhism. Freda Bedi wrote a long report of how her Buddhist feelings had been deeply hurt by this stupid film, the story of which, she said, was baseless and appeared nowhere in Buddhist scriptures, as a result of which the film was sacrilege and ought, therefore, to be totally banned.

Another member was the I.C.S. Director General of All-India Radio, Mathur. He calls himself an authority on drama on the strength of a stage-play in Hindi called Kunark. This learned man also asserted that the story of Anjali was baseless and did not appear anywhere in Buddhist scriptures, and recommended a ban on the film.

There were others of various shades of intelligence. But none seemed to have any film-sense.

The Information Ministry referred the film back to the Board of Censors and asked them to review it in the light of the report from the panel members. The Censor Board had not only liked the film and given it a clean certificate, but had even recommended it for the President’s Award. They got in touch with me and asked if I could furnish proof that the story of Anjali appeared in Buddhist literature. I referred them to Divyavadan, a Buddhist text in Sanskrit belonging to the second century B.C. The story was there in black and white, in Sanskrit. Unfortunately, it had not been translated into English. Hence, Freda Bedi’s and Mathur’s ignorance, even though it is well-known that Tagore drew his inspiration from the same source for his poetic playlet Chandalika.

But this proof did not make them change their report. The film, though not banned, was stopped from being entered in any of the festivals. Why?

 

I am reminded of an incident mentioned by an English author when he was visiting China during the Civil War. His Chinese guide, pointing to a railway track in the distance, said: ‘That is our secret railway line.’ ‘But how can a railway line be secret?’ protested the author. The guide gave a Chinese smile and repeated: ‘It is secret.’

Some such logic seems to be guiding the minds of certain sections of our officialdom.

Have I hit the nail on the head, Ramesh? That is the whole trouble – I very often do, but always the nail is upside down and hitting it on the head cuts me deep – as it might do now when those I’ve written about read this letter …that is if you publish it!

You see, I am often my own obstacle.

 

* Reproduced from ‘Films and Films’, Seminar 9, May 1960, pp. 24-27.