Shikha Biswas Vohra - The Lure of Old Tunes

The Lure of Old Tunes

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First published in 2013 by

Bluejay Books Pvt. Ltd.

Copyright Shikha Biswas Vohra, 2013

The author asserts the moral right to be identifited as the author of this work.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

Dedicated to SANJEEV KUMAR

one of the finest actors cinema has produced,

my friend and guide

Acknowledgements

REENA MOHAN, Editor and Film-maker, for loaning me her precious books on the subject of cinema.

Ms MINOTI CHATTERJEE, Principal, Kamala Nehru College and Newsreader, for guidance on Bengali theatre.

Shri JAIRAJ, actor, for his delineation of silent cinema.

Ms SHOBHANA SAMARTH, actor, for her depiction of the era of the thirties.

Ms MEENA BHAGAT for interesting details of her film and theatre family, which went into the characterization of the books personalities.

Ms PRIYA PAKANATI and SAMARJIT ACHARJEE for editing and related comments.

Ms PAROMITA VOHRA, writer and well-known film-maker, for her advice and staunch criticism which inspired many changes.

Ms TUHINA VOHRA GUPTA and SAMIR RAUT for helping with the cover design.

Mr TEJPAL SINGH CHADHA for setting up the Facebook page.

Author Mr KAMLESH TRIPATHI for printing and publishing processes.

Ms TANUJA, well-known actor, for goading me to edit, edit, edit.

HARIHAR JHARIWALA for his inspiration and guidance.

My son-in-law MILAN GUPTA for keeping me grounded.

Please note: Songs mentioned do not have a chronological reference. They have been chosen from the relative era to fit the situation.

AUTHORS NOTE

D oing a series on Early cinema for a magazine during my freelance journalistic career, I had the opportunity of interviewing veteran actors like Jairaj, Lalita Pawar, Shobhana Samarth, producer-director B R Chopra, and singer Talat Mahmood. In order to prepare the interview questionnaire, it was mandatory for me to do some research on their times and careers. It was during this preparation, that I became aware of this fascinating period of trial, experiment and adventure. Whatever they told me was like a gateway into another dimension, an era that completely bewitched me. I thought how little was chronicled about these times, and was inspired to write a book about this magical journey. Instead of a documentation, I preferred to embark on a fictional tale, which would present me with the opportunity for some imaginative forays. Totally passionate about the songs of that period, I thought of weaving them like paisleys into the narration. And that was the genesis of The Lure of Old Tunes.

But what of the story? Having been brought up in a film family, I realised I did not have to look far. There was a story right in my backyard. However, before it can be misconstrued as autobiographical, or even biographical, let me clarify the point that although the storyline was borrowed from life, situations and happenings are absolutely fictional. If some characters are recognisable, they may have generated from people I know or heard about, but have been highly magnified with negative or positive shades for literary purposes only, to heighten shades of drama, and not meant to be deliberately derogatory. There is no intention to hurt anyones sentiments. A story needs heroes as well as villains, and thus have some characters emerged. Some well-known names have been mentioned for verisimilitude, or to anchor the story in a time period or setting. I have attempted to intersperse some little-known facts about early cinema, which even I, despite having lived in that environment, was not aware of. Cinematic metaphors and prototypical screen characters have been used to make it into an allegoric tale of the development of Hindi cinema, which will be more noticeable in the sequel, SOLO.

The book is nothing more or less than a tribute to my love for cinema of the golden era, and my passion for the music connected to it.

Prelude

MAGIC LANTERN

S he sits every day at her usual place at the window, still as an ancient portrait, her once-magnificent eyes gazing at nothing. Quietude has spread into her life like a wave upon the shore. Dignity embellishes her fading eyes; pride distils itself along the lines of her face framed by silent silver hair.

Beyond the diamond-shaped railings of her window, is the busy-ness of Pali Hill, residential realm of Bombays tinsel town. Inside the parameters of the flaky walls, however, time has been stoppered by a semi-colon. Rusty awards adorn age-old sideboards. Sepia frames of muhurats and premieres cluster the walls. A full-face closeup, the type film stars keep autographed for their fans, sits in ochre tints on her dressing table. Years of dust have settled tenaciously on her crystal powder bowl and perfume bottles, testimonials to the splendour of another time.

The rubber plant that she, Nandini, had planted fifteen years ago along the compound wall, has stretched into a tree. It yawns towards the azure sky, bottle-green leaves outlined against gouty branches. She observes suddenly that a tree of some wild heritage has sprung up beside it. After many days a thought churns her consciousness. If people could be more like trees, she ponders, one could shed ones memories in winter, and rejuvenate in spring, fresh with new leaf-thoughts. Ready to flower, distribute pleasure, and lend a magnificent shade.

The thought processes more thoughts, and memories move inside her like broken glass. She shuts her eyes against them. But her lids close upon fragrant colours, and in the dark auditorium of her mind, scenes begin to shift and glide and mingle. Like slides they move, melting in the layered colours of her mind. Phased-out scenes flash with unexpected clarity. Rising out of the deep sea of years gone by, they deposit at her feet the seashells of forgotten moments. Scenes interplay, sometimes sharp, sometimes unfocussed, like the unpreserved print of an old feature film. Things buried beneath her deep silences begin to stumble and surface.

The centripetal forces of old age turn you inwards towards the past. Through a telescopic scan you review it; with love, self-disgust, and more often than not, with regret. Often things come upon you suddenly, filling your insides with a warm and silken nostalgia.

How much are we really responsible for our deeds through the process of scheme, thought or conscience? Does history really repeat itself in a planned program? How affected are actions by heredity and environment, by the influence of planets and their positions, by the railway network of palm lines, by hormones and genes or chemical substances in the cranium? Is Destiny but a brilliant garland of cause and effect? Or an entertaining computer game being played by some Energetic Whizkid in another time zone?

Perhaps a jigger of each truth subscribes. But sometimes one contrapuntal change of tune can play an awesome part. One gentle shake of the kaleidoscope, and voila, the pattern of your life has changed.

Hey tree, why are your arms so mangled, wonders the old woman.