An Old Desire (एक पुरानी ख़्वाहिश)

From the IIM Calcutta Dakghar maillist A letter from Austin Arun Kumar January 1998 M. S. Sathyu of Garm Hava fame visited us again in November 1997 thanks to Rajendra Bhattarai's Herculean efforts. Raj has promised to write up his account of Sathyu's visit, and all of Raj's related bickering with the Government of India. The Government of India owns Garm Hava, having financed its production, and it takes that ownership so seriously that it is now reluctant to loan a print of the movie to Sathyu himself! We had dinner with Sathyu at Samita and Raj's after a showing of Garm Hava at the Texas Union Theater of the University of Texas, south-east of the intersection of Guadalupe and 24th. I told Mr. Sathyu, at the Sigdyal-Bhattarai home, that I thought that the old mother in Garm Hava was really well cast, and I wondered if he could tell us how he came to pick her for the part. Sathyu said that that was a story in itself, and he told us the story while sipping a scotch. Sathyu had offered that part to Begum Akhtar, and Begum Akhtar had accepted. ‘Akhtari Begum’ Sathyu called her. Sathyu said that she had also acted in other movies earlier, a fact I had not been aware of. I had occasion to watch her later in Satyajit Ray's Jalsa Ghar. Sathyu was shooting Garm Hava in Agra. Begum Akhtar was expected to show up any day. But everyday she failed to arrive. She wrote to say she will arrive shortly, then wrote to say that she'll be a few days late. Telegrams were running back and forth. It was impossible to get hold of her on the phone. Sathyu said he was beginning to get worried. Also Balraj Sahni was anxious to get on with his scenes with the mother. Sathyu had been shooting around those scenes but Balraj Sahni said, and rightly, that those scenes were critical, and they could not be put off much longer. Also Balraj Sahni had only so many days that he could spend with Sathyu. Panic was more in the air every day. A considerable part of Garm Hava is shot in a big haveli that belonged to one Mr. Mathur of Agra. Mr. Mathur was a very genial man, always available, always ready to help out in any way. He was full of stories and full of good humor. Mr. Mathur's grandfather, whose haveli this had been, had been a rather colorful person, and Mathur saheb had a ready fund of stories about the grandfather's various exploits. The old man had been much given to wine and women. He had also maintained a few concubines in addition to Mr. Mathur's long-suffering grandmother, his legally-wedded wife. Also, the grandfather had taken keen interest in the choicest fruit that the flourishing flesh-trade in Agra had to offer. "So I asked Mathur saheb one day," Sathyu said, "Mathur saheb, I am in a very difficult situation. Akhtari Begum may not be able to make it here in time. Is it possible Mathur saheb that you could track down some of your old grandfather's girlfriends? I must find Balraj saheb a mother.” That was the exact expression Sathyu used there in Samita and Raj's drawing room: "some of your old grandfather's girlfriends". Yes it's possible, Mathur saheb said, stroking his chin. Not to please be worrying, he said, as he promised to track down some suitable candidates. The very next evening Mathur saheb, Sathyu, and Sathyu's cameraman (now no more. His name escapes me this minute. Raj?), all three, went in Mr. Mathur's jeep to the mouth of a narrow gali. Then they walked to the very end of the gali, and Mr. Mathur rattled the chain on a door. Old houses in the galis of Agra and Delhi have sturdy iron chains forged with no more than five or seven links, has to be an odd number (you see why?), that attach securely to one of the two door panels, and mate with a forged iron hasp, well-embedded in the center of the top horizontal member of the door-frame. The door panels are made of sturdy solid wood, sometimes beautifully-carved, and always varnished with colored varnish. The main door usually opens into an aangun, perhaps following a narrow little entrance hallway (the word "hallway" used here in the US sense) no more than six to ten feet deep.

Balraj Sahni walks down a gali in Lucknow.

To this day the odor of fresh varnish invariably transports me to my childhood in Old Delhi, to some day well before Deepavali when all wooden surfaces in the house were varnished. It always surprises me, the sudden cascading and overwhelming profusion of memories that one single odor can trigger. The door chain is used by the occupants to lock the door when they leave. That chain is also used by visitors to announce their arrival, like Mr. Mathur announced his, which process wears a nice groove in the wood that could be used to date a house I suppose. It was well after 10 pm at night. At first there was no response to Mr. Mathur's rattling. On the third rattle, a woman's voice called out from the inside to say that there was no one home. "Please Madam," Mr. Mathur called back, "There are two gentlemen here from Bombay that want to see you." "Go away," she said. After some pleading on Mr. Mathur's part, the doors parted just a little, someone peeped out from the crack between, and then the doors shut again momentarily while the inside chain was unclasped. A bent old lady stood in the doorway. "I am so-and-so's grandson Madam," said Mr. Mathur. That seemed to catch her interest. "These two gentlemen are visiting from Bombay," Mr. Mathur said, "and they would like to talk to you." "There's nothing to talk about," said the old lady, "All my girls were taken away by the police earlier this evening. I told you there was no one home." They went into a room and chatted with the old lady. The police had been creating a lot of trouble for her lately. They were always snooping around. Always arresting her girls. These were tough times for a kotha. Gentlemen from Bombay had quite a reputation in Agra. They always went for the best, the most expensive girls. And they always left handsome tips. But this was a bad day to come. The police had the girls. Eventually they'll let them go: perhaps after they had had a bit of free service. Perhaps after the Madam gave them some money for chai-paani. But there was no point coming to see her till then. After a while, Sathyu and his cameraman requested a little time to confer in a private corner of the aangun. This lady would do very nicely, they agreed. She had just the right kind of lahjaa. So they went in and asked her if she would play Balraj Sahni's mother. It took some effort explaining it to her, but when she understood what it was they wanted, she burst into a flood of tears. A very long time ago, when her youth was in full bloom, and her body still ripening, it had been her khwahish to be a movie star. Her brother and she stole some money and ran away to Bombay, where they looked high and low for a job in movie studios, but unsuccessfully, for two whole months. Their money ran out on them and they were living on practically nothing. In their third month in Bombay they found temporary jobs as extras in a movie whose name Sathyu mentioned, but I don’t recall. With the little they made from that assignment they bought tickets back to Agra. Back home in Agra she had earned a living as a prostitute till opportunity arose for her to buy into her own kotha. And here, after all these years, was Sathyu asking her if she will play Balraj Sahni's mother before a camera! Isn't life something! She promised to be there next morning at 8 am. Sathyu said he'd send a car to fetch her. She said no, the haveli wasn't far, and she was well-familiar with it back from the grandfather days. She'd be there. She was the first one in next morning, sitting in the aangun with her lunch in a little potli, waiting for everyone else to show up. Badar Begum saw the movie after it was completed and marveled at herself, as did every one who saw the movie. The Bengal Circle of Cinema Critics awarded her their highest honor. Soon after that, she died. उनकी एक पुरानी ख्वाहिश पूरी हो गयी थी। Till next time, Arun Kumar