As bashfully as a budding Romeo, he pulled out a stack of papers from his office-drawer. “I write love poems,” he said confidentially. “But that’s off the record. As it is people think I’m an emotional fool. And the poems are very amateurish.”
Yash Chopra, in his late 60s then, read out moonlight-soaked verses that longed for a beloved to accept his love. Before I could comment, he blushed, “Please, please, I don’t know what got into me. So will you have a cup of tea or coffee?”
The producer-director — movie mogul would be a more accurate description — went on to expound about his cinema which has more often than not circumferenced around that old-fashioned feeling called love. Fresh flowers, dew drops, billowing curtains, chiffon saris, antique silverware, Swiss snowscapes and Punjab’s mustard fields would be a part of his oeuvre. Which is why I had asked, “Yashji, why so much gloss? How about some deeper substance in the love stories?”
In hindsight, that was a rude question to a man who saw life and cinema through red rose-tinted glasses. Correction: He hadn’t always. And that’s why I reminded him of his early works. The very first film he directed — Dhool ka Phool — dealt with the trauma of a single, unwed mother. It is also unforgettable for its strong plea for secularism. The song Tu Hindu banega na Musalman banega, addressed to an illegitimate child, is imperishable, effectively deleting the prejudices which come with religious fundamentalism.
Personally, Dhool ka Phool left a strange impression on me as a child. I’m told that many from my generation, born in the 1950s, share this kinky belief that a sexual encounter meant a clash of the partners’ bicycles. Rajendra Kumar and Mala Sinha’s moment of passion was symbolised through those two-wheelers, and bursts of thunder and lightning. When I told him that, Yashji, as he was addressed, laughed, “Oh yes, kids at that time believed that bicycles had something to do with babies being born. Like the saying that it’s the stork which brings the baby n Turn to Page 5
home.” Indeed, I can’t attempt an obituary to a filmmaker who has had a seminal influence on several generations without stipulating that I can’t do him adequate justice. I had felt that way, too, after the passing away of Raj Kapoor. Nothing can convey the significance of the roles they played in the zigzag process of coming of age in many of our lives.
Cinema talked to us. Yashji’s language had found a connection with even the pre-adolescents. I could never completely tell him about the impact which some of his films left on impressionable minds. I played the crusty, objective journalist. And he the recipient of criticism which he conceded was a viewpoint. He had no business to interfere with someone’s job... and more importantly, convictions.
Even harsh reviews later — like that of Kaala Patthar — he remained remarkably congenial. An absolute contrast to his son, Aditya, who went on irrevocable no-speaking terms following a negative review of Mohabbatein.
No matter what, Dad Yash was never stingy with his smiles and back-thumping how-are-you’s over the decades. The only hint of complaint I ever received from him was his response to a rave review of Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge. Generously he said, “Chalo, at least you like my son’s work, even if you had problems with mine.”
Problems? It would have made no sense to hide them. Yashji’s second film, Dharmputra — and that was in the black-and-white era — tackled the Indo-Pak divide, subverting commercial considerations. It didn’t click, and the director was never the same again. Add to that the failure of Aadmi aur Insaan which strived to discuss the political machinations behind an ill-conceived railway bridge project, and fantasticated romances became his calling card.
In addition, the parting of ways with his elder brother, B.R. Chopra, sent Yashji to a zone where he had to re-establish his credentials as a director. Fortuitously, that was smoothly achieved with Daag, a take on the Thomas Hardy novel The Mayor of Casterbridge. Success equals intoxication, and alliances with market-reigning stars, in this case Rajesh Khanna. Quite unexpectedly Yashji delivered Ittefaq, a no-song-and-dance mystery thriller with the upcoming superstar. The outcome was stylish and suspenseful. Adapted from a stage play, evidently Yashji had the foresight to tap content from theatre.
The split from B.R. Chopra also led to a partnership with movie baron Gulshan Rai.
There was some acrimony between the two brothers though neither expressed it. When publicist Bunny Reuben had suggested a cover story with Yashji, I had said, “Sure, if you get the two brothers together for us.” Politely Reuben shrugged, “Let me try.” The cover didn’t happen.
During the 1970s, the two films which are very uncharacteristic of Yashji were produced by Rai’s Trishul Films. By this time, Rajesh Khanna was acting up. Amitabh Bachchan was the viable option. Curiously, the cult status of Deewar and the success of Trishul have been ascribed more to their scriptwriters Salim-Javed than to director Yashji. A dark edge had crept into the director’s work and that had rocked the box-office. Has Yashji received the deserved credit for the success of Deewar and Trishul or for underscoring the angry young man persona? I don’t think so.
When I asked Yashji which film he would consider his most creatively dissatisfying, he had picked Joshilaay with Dev Anand-Hema Malini in the lead. “See, the idea was to do a Mackenna’s Gold in an Indian setting. It was a mess,” he had replied frankly.
I don’t know the reasons for Yash Chopra’s fall from grace for a while — or his split from Gulshan Rai. Neither was Amitabh Bachchan signing up straightaway with Yashji. There was an indication that he just might and pedhas was distributed at the Yashraj office. No go. Yashji tried to spotlight newcomers Rohan Kapoor and Farha in Faasle. No go again. But how long could Yashji have been cowed down? Chandni returned him to grace big-time.
Before the practice of the “making of” documentaries for video cassettes had become common, he had asked me if I would like to handle one for Chandni. I did. Hours of footage with Rishi Kapoor. Waheeda Rehman and music composers Shiv-Sharma were shot. But Sridevi and Vinod Khanna had issues in participating in the shoots without an additional pay packet. The “making of” notion was scrapped. Do wonder where the shot footage is, because it also catches Yashji’s sons Aditya and Uday participating in the song recording sessions. Aaah.
So many moments flash right now. Yashji and his affable wife Pam serving a typically Punjabi lunch — with sarson da saag and makki di rotis — till I couldn’t eat another morsel. And a trip to Scotland, organised by the British Tourist office. Purpose: to check out Scottish locations for the shoots of Yashji’s films. Would he be attracted to any spot besides Switzerland where a green meadowside and a swishy hotel suite have been named after him? Perhaps.
Yashji, Pam, cinematographer Manmohan Singh and I as a reporter zipped through Glasgow, Edinburgh, Inverness and a countryside manor viewed from a heliciopter. In the course of a connecting train ride, Pam Chopra had said suddenly, “Sometimes I just feel like running away with Uday, far away from it all.” Yashji had laughed lightly. He knew no one could leave him, and that they loved him madly.
For a press meet with British journalists, at the famed Loch Ness, Yashji was feeling under the weather. He was jetlagged, he needed sleep. Manmohan Singh with homeopathic pill and Pam with comfort talk reactivated Yashji’s spirits. We travelled in a boat through the lake, hoping to sight the Loch Ness Monster. Disappointed by the monster’s no-show, Yashji grinned, “It would have asked too high a fee to act in a movie anyway.”
More than that, I can’t forget a dark day when a lyricist-poet whom Yashji admired passed away in a tiny Juhu apartment. No one had fetched up to bid farewell to Sahir Ludhianvi. “Will you come over,” Yashji had phoned. “No one from the press or the film industry is here.”
I saw Yashji, fighting back his tears that rainy afternoon. He didn’t utter a word. He saw me, patted me on the back and said, “Thank you.”
His last film, Jab Tak Hai Jaan, is on the way. The title, which took months and months to finalise, has an ironical ring to it. I don’t know whether the film is good or bad. All I’ll say is that I’ll sorely miss the man who would pat me on the back and utter those two precious words which no one else in the film industry does. Thank you.