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Being Manmohan Desai
Eccentricities and a wild imagination made Manji one of the greatest directors of Indian cinema.
But there was so much more to the man and so much more we didn't see
If the ultimate fantasy movie-making machine were alive today, he would have turned 79 on February 26. I doubt that his wild, frequently absurd imagination would have stopped ticking even now. Even when he was ensconced on a straight-backed wooden chair, necessitated by a chronic back ailment, Manmohan Desai's imagination wouldn't quit flying into far-out fantasies. One of his private fantasies was to win an Oscar some day.
"Mark my words, that's no wishful thinking," he had bragged out loud. "Critics in India call me silly and stupid but do you know books are being written about me in America and France? They appreciate my entertainers; they take me seriously, even if you guys keep pulling me down with your one-star and zero-star ratings."
That Oscar dream didn't ever come close to becoming a reality. At the premature age of 57, the wizardly filmmaker leapt off the terrace of his office/residence. One theory is that he couldn't endure the back pain any longer. Another conjecture is that he was seized by depression for several reasons, the most notable being that of his two-year-long engagement to the retired actress, Nanda, being called off at the last minute.
Manmohan Desai had avoided remarrying after the sudden death of his wife, Jeevanprabha. It was his son, Ketan, who encouraged Manji, as he was called, to propose to Nanda, a decision which he was embarrassed about and refused to discuss in print. "Please, don't ask me about that," he stonewalled me on the subject years ago. "When the marriage happens, I promise you an exclusive with photographs. Okay?"
"Okay! But Manji, why are you so coy about the marriage? Everyone's glad that you'll have companionship in your old age," I persisted.
"What! Old age, did you say?" he shot back in the midst of an interview recorded on a video camera. "I can never be old. Forget all this now. All I'll say before the camera is that I'm very proud of the work I've done. Of course, all of us have to go some day. And when I do, I'm sure I'll be remembered as the Steven Spielberg of India. Both of us make fantasies that are crowd-friendly."
Quite ironically, he started his innings at the age of 23 with the black-and-white Raj Kapoor-Nutan film Chhalia, which dealt with the repercussions of the partition of the sub-continent. When it tanked, he was stymied.
"Chhalia had an excellent music score by Kalyanji-Anandji (the top stars of the time), besides a solid story," he pointed out. "When it was rejected, I felt like quitting to join my brother, Subhash, in our family's production office that made quickie action flicks. I was weeping silently one afternoon, when my wife told me there was no need to give up direction but just switch to more light-hearted stuff."
He wasn't sure any actor would give him the time of day. "I'd been written off as a loser," he recalled. "Mercifully, Shammi Kapoor had faith in me. I made Bluff Master with him and it was a hit, thanks to the way the Govinda Aala re Aala song was shot on crowded streets."
The loser was back in the fray, belting out hits initially with Biswajeet (Kismat), Rajesh Khanna (Sachaa Jhutha, Roti), Randhir Kapoor (Raampur ka Lakshman, Chacha Bhatija), Shashi Kapoor (Aa Gale Lag Jaa), Dharmendra-Jeetendra (Dharam-Veer), and more.
It's no secret, though, that Manmohan Desai discovered his alter ego with Amitabh Bachchan. Allowing the actor limitless improvisation resulted in a concatenation of quintessential Bollywood entertainers, best exemplified by the ever-adored Amar Akbar Anthony (1977).
"I was a bundle of nerves at its premiere," the director reminisced. "When a young man left the auditorium for a cigarette break during a song sequence, I pleaded, please go right back in. He was so taken aback that he sprinted inside. I was thrilled, and the movie was a hit."
Manji could be endearingly eccentric, though I think goofy would be the more accurate word. When I happened to enjoy the zany Naseeb and said so in my review, he phoned me, sounding alarmed. "What have you done? If a critic likes my movie, that means it will be a disaster at the box-office. I'm going to the temple right away to pray that you haven't done damage to my Naseeb."
He hung up. The next day, a crate of alphonso mangoes arrived at my office desk with a note, saying, "Thanks. God heard my prayers. The movie's a hit."
Overall, Manmohan Desai's dependence on Amitabh Bachchan yielded mixed results. While Suhaag, Desh Premee, Coolie and Mard clicked - although they just weren't in the same league as Amar Akbar Anthony - disaster was around the corner. The absolutely unwatchable Gangaa Jamunaa Saraswathi was followed by the tiresome Toofan. Bachchan, as well as the director, were getting repetitive and it showed.
Swearing that he wouldn't return to the studios till he had re-invented himself, Manji handed over the reins to his son Ketan, who helmed the Jackie Shroff-toplined Allah Rakha. No go. That magical stamp of dad Desai was missing.
From a ritzy sea-facing apartment on Malabar Hill, where he was ?extremely uncomfortable, Manmohan Desai returned to his office/residence in Mumbai's downscale, traffic-clogged Khetwadi.
"My son and his family can enjoy the sea view," he sighed, reclining in that straight-backed chair. "I prefer to be among people here. They may not be rich, but there's a smile on their face. Every morning, I can wave out to my neighbours across the road. And meet up with the real-life guys who inspired the characters of Amar, Akbar and Anthony. It may be thought my heroes are unbelievable, but so are people - especially me."
Manmohan Desai would emphasise that the row of tiny rooms across his balcony were the stuff that movie stories are made of.
Without a doubt, there's no other raconteur I've known who'd keep me as engrossed and goggle-eyed. He was working on several scripts for his comeback. Alas, that was not to be. Defying logic, he just leapt off his Khetwadi balcony.
Manji's life could make for a riveting biography but it's much too late. After all, no one could tell it with more tangy humour than he could.
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