It was just another Tuesday. Bhagwan Dada’s day off from the studios. And as was usual, he got together with his Gujarati friend, Mangalbhai. They had a hearty lunch, caught a matinee show and then around 6.30 p.m. ducked into a restaurant near Regal cinema where another old buddy, music director, C Ramchandra was waiting. It was time for their marathon booze session that lasted till almost midnight. Being regular patrons, the trio were allowed to hang around even after the restaurant had officially closed, supplied with fresh bottles of beer till they decided to call it a day and lurched off.

That evening the conversation soon turned to cinema and Ramchandra urged his friend, Bhagwan Dada to make another film. “But this time you should not make your regular stunt film. Instead try a social because they are the trend today. And I promise you I’ll give you music the world will never forget,” the composer urged.

May be it was just a coincidence but Raj Kapoor had given Dada the same advice only a few weeks earlier. Kapoor and Dada frequented the same Lab, Famous, to process their prints. And much to Dada’s amused exasperation, Raj Kapoor always managed to sneak past the security and ended up watching every trial show of Dada’s with him. After one such show, the showman had turned to the stuntman and confessed in an awed whisper, “Dada, you have such wonderful technique! Why don’t you move from stunt films to socials? Once your films reach Lamington Road (the theatres there screened only the real winners), you won’t be able to keep the crowds away.”

Dada toyed with the suggestion for a while and then decided that it was okay for Raj Kapoor to put big bucks into socials but for a small maker like him who churned out action films for less than Rs 65,000, it could turn out to be a foolhardy gamble. People might just think he was imitating RK and laugh at him? Experimenting with a new genre was too big a risk. He’d stick to the tried-and-tested formula. But now Ramchandra was giving him the same advice and his suggestion couldn’t be shrugged away as easily.

Narhar Chitalkar Ramchandra and Bhagwan Abaji Palav went back a long way. Both were fellow Maharashtrians who had struggled for years to live out their dream of being a part of show business. Ramchandra, surprisingly, had started out as an actor, bagging the lead in Naganand. The film flopped and he was reduced to playing bit roles in easily forgettable films like Saeed-e-Havas and Atma Tarang. Then he became a harmonium accompanis to composers Habib and Bindu Khan and got his break as a music director in Tamil films. It was in Chennai that he met Bhagwan Dada and discovered in him a soulmate.

Like Ramchandra, Dada had also always dreamed of making it big in movies. When he was growing up, money was always short but he managed to find the seven annas needed to buy a ticket to the week’s latest release and the channas he’d munch through three hours. Master Vitthal’s stunt films were his escape from his poverty ridden world and he grew up dreaming of emulating his hero someday. He even joined a local gym to build up his physique because he knew a stunt hero had to have a good body. He had given up studies after the fourth standard and his father had plans of him joining a textile mill. When Dada told his baba he wanted to act he was slapped very hard. But that didn’t stop him from chasing his dream. After haunting the studios for years, he was finally discovered by Siraj Ali Hakim and cast in a bit role in his silent film, Bewafa Aashiq. It flopped and soon after he was drawn to stunt films like Criminal. Then he moved to direction and was associated with films like Dosti, Jalan and Sukhi Jeevan. The latter turned out to be a breakthrough film for Ramchandra. His score got him rave reviews and cemented a rare friendship in an industry of fickle relationships.

Over bottles of beer that evening in the restaurant, the idea of Albela was born. “I’ll give you a dozen memorable songs,” vowed Ramchandra. “And I’ll give you a film to remember,” Dada promised in turn. Within days he had drafted out a sketchy screenplay.

A simple story revolving around a simpleton, Pyarelal. The bewakoof servant boy who can build up a concerto when playing around with the bartans in the kitchen, catches the eye of the lady of the house. Asha is the reigning queen of a natak mandali but she had also started life as a household help. So she can identify with and empathise with this wanna-be-kalakar whose orthodox family sniffed at his impossible dreams and whose friends scoffed at them. She spots his talent and becomes his mentor and guide. Before long they are a popular singing duo and inevitably romance blooms. Initially, Pyare is completely unaware of Asha’s feelings for him. It’s only after their return from a party when she confronts him for chatting up a pretty girl, snapping agrily, “You never talk to me like that!”, that he realises that she’s in love with him. It takes him a while to think of his Asha Devi with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart, but eventually he succumbs to the magic of Cupid’s arrow and it’s all well that ends well.

Dada was well pleased with his efforts. The film would work, he felt, if he could convince Geeta Bali to play Asha. “I had seen one of her films and been struck by her innocence...her bhola bhala chehra. I knew immediately that she was my Asha Devi,” Dada had confided when recalling his biggest blockbuster years later. But the vivacious actress was a superstar while he was a small-time stunt film actor-director. Would she condescend to act in his film?

Armed with a rough draft of his script, he turned up at her door without prior appointment. Geeta Bali was surprised by his unexpected visit and even more surprised when he told her bluntly that he needed her. “I have a story of a naachnewali who grooms a boy into a star. I’m the hero of the film and I want you to be my heroine. Now tell me what is your price?” For a few moments Geeta Bali was speechless. Then she recovered her composure and quoted the exorbitant amount that producers were ready to pay her. “It’s too much,” Bhagwan sighed. “I can never match that price.

But I can offer you a role no one else has before.” It was a good bait and what made it all the more alluring for Geeta Bali was Dada’s insistence that he would not take the role to any other star.”It’s my first musical and I need a good dancer,” he explained.

Geeta Bali or Harkirtan Kaur had been coached in dance by her elder sister Hardarshan and brother Digvijay, making her debut on stage at the age of nine amidst strong protests by angry sardars who shouted that it was blasphemy for girls of their community to make a public spectacle of themselves. Her father, Pandit Kartar Singh, a liberal missionary, was threatened with death. But that didn’t stop Harkirtan who in early 1940 walked into the office of the station director of AIR and walked out with a contract to sing. Subsequently, she sought an introduction to Pandit Gyan Shankar, a well-known choreographer of Punjabi films, and was cast as one of the chorus dancers in Shorey Pictures’ documentary, The Cobbler. A solo dance number followed in Roop Shorey’s next film, Badnami and she built a reputation as a dancer before being relaunched as an actress in Kidar Sharma’s superhit Suhaag Raat.

When Geeta Bali pointed out that there were other dancers in the industry Dada told her quietly, “But there’s no one who can act as well. It has to be you! If you won’t do my film, I’ll pick up a newcomer and mould her to be my Asha Devi.” Geeta Bali melted.

Her mother was apalled. Dada caught her frowning look. So did Geeta who only smiled at Dada and said, “I’ll do your film.” When her mother tried to bring her to her senses she was told, “I know what I’m doing. So far I have only been working with directors but Dada is an actor-director and to have an artiste directing you is a great privilege.”

Roping in Geeta Bali was a casting coup for Dada, more so because she even cut down on her market price for him. Though Dada could never be persuaded to divulge the exact figure, he did admit that he had paid Geeta Bali a quarter of what she was getting at the time.

Albela was ready to go on the floors and Geeta Bali was suddenly having second thoughts. The constant crticism of family and friends was beginning to shake her confidence in the little big man. She stepped into the studio on the first day of shooting looking apprehensive and almost regretting her decision. Dada asked her to wear an ordinary sari and took only four shots, releasing her by lunch time as he had promised. No one understood the significance of these four shots till the rushes arrived from the lab the next morning. Geeta’s hooked nose ruled out a front facial shot. She didn’t even look good in profile. Only a three-quarters shot was picture perfect. Dada used that angle all through Albela. “She’d never looked so beautiful,” he insisted.

Geeta Bali understood that she was working with a director who despite his track record understood his job. Her fears vanished after the first scene which was a meeting between Asha and the servant boy. She asks the boy his name and is told that his father had named him Pyare but his mother lovingly called him Pyarelal. “I’ve decided to stick to my mother’s name,” he tells her solemnly.

Hiding a smile, Asha then asks him if he knows her name. “Asha Devi,” he says promptly. “From now on I’ll call you Pyare and you are to call me Asha, okay?” she tells him. He is aghast. How can he call his malkin Asha? No, for him she’ll always be Asha Devi. It was a beautiful moment of intimacy which showed the star trying to bridge the distance between herself and the naive servant boy who she instinctively senses could become very important in her lonely life. Explaining how he wanted it done, Dada enacted the whole scene for Geeta. She watched him with wide-eyed wonder and at the end fell at his feet. “For days I have had people coming up to me and asking sarcastically, ‘Who are you working with these days?’ Now I know who I’m working with. Dada promise me that you’ll get a memorable performance from me?” she entreated. He kept his promise.

Tribute

In loving memory of Dilip Dhawan. Death anniversary on february 15

Albela is remembered as a musical but it was also a beautiful love story and Dada once confessed that many of the intimate moments were drawn from real life. In fact, the character of Asha in the film had been inspired by his own wife Asha. She was a quiet woman, never given to open displays of affection, but Dada knew that she loved him deeply and he did too even though she resolutely refused to attend his shoots and premieres. “She hated those sly nudges and loud whispers that followed us around. Everyone wanted to know about the lady I was with and it bugged her no end,” he had confided with a fond smile.

He recalled how once he had bought a new convertible and persuaded her to go out with him on a drive. Within 15 minutes he was ordered to take her back home. “She had heard those whispers again at the traffic signals. I told her that I would put up a board in front of the car stating in bold letters: Bhagwan with his wife,” the veteran actor had laughed. However, he appreciated his wife’s endearing shyness. “In our time romance was wonderfully discreet which is why even the feelings between Asha and Pyare in the film were underplayed,” he explained. Emotions were expressed through an uncertain smile, a sideways glance or a song like ‘Dil dhadke nazar sharmaye...’.

As Ramchandra had promised Albela had plenty of songs, each a rare gem and trying out a new musical idiom. ‘Shola jo bhadke...’ was very westernised, in the rock-and-roll tradition of the day. In fact, it was C Ramchandra who introduced Elvis Presley’s popular brand of music to Hindi films with these tunes. ‘Shola jo bhadke...’ had an almost Hawaian touch giving it an unexpected sensuality. Ramchandra who was very influenced by Benny Goodman introduced the alto sax in combination with the harmonica and the guitar, along with whistling, to our cinema whose music till then had been pretty staid. ‘Shola jo bhadke...’ had a combination of the bango, oboe, trumpet, clarinet and the sax that gave it a rhythm that had feet tapping.

‘Sham dhale khidki tale tum ceetee bajana chod do...’ became the clarion call for all roadside Romeos while ‘Bholi surat dil ke khote, naam bade aur darshan Khote...’ was a party number with the distinctive thekha rhythm of Gujarat. Talking of rhythms, the buoyant ‘Deewana parwana...’ had a very African beat which wasn’t surprising because during their Tuesday romps Dada and his friends often stopped at the music store, Rhythm House to listen to African music.

‘Dheere se aaja aankhiyon mein...’ was a lori. It came as a surprise because one didn’t expect a lullaby in such a film but Dada worked it in perfectly into his script giving Asha a baby brother who she would croon to sleep. ‘Dheere se aaja...’ was the only song she had ever sung and when she’s asked to sing this is the one she chooses. The song put her on the stairway to stardom.

Situational songs were the highlight of the film. ‘Kismet ki rekha, kabhi naram kabhi garam...’took off with Pyare tripping and falling. The bartans he’s carrying fall down with a crash. Terrified, he tries to gather them up quickly, using a chamcha to draw a bhandi closer. The spoon strikes the bowl and makes a musical ting. Intrigued, Pyare strikes another vessel. And produces another ting, slightly different. And a concerto starts. “We produced a different piece of music for this number. But when my lyricist, Rajendra Krishan, another old friend, heard that the song would be picturised in the kitchen, he insisted that it should have kitchen music. And that’s how the idea of using spoons, bowls and kadais came about,” Dada explained.

‘Meri dil ki ghadi baje tick tick tick was delightfully romantic. So was the Lata-Mohd. Rafi duet, ‘Deewana aa gaya...’ in a different way. In fact, Ramchandra’s score exhibited an amazing range. If ‘Teri yaad ne mera...’ was forlorn then ‘Balma bada nadaan...’ was folksy. This thumri number had been espicially incorporated to draw crowds in the UP and Punjab belt. Geeta Bali found the movements Dada suggested too risque and wanted ‘Balma bada nadaan...’ scrapped. Dada got her to shoot for the song after promising that if it didn’t get any claps and ceetees when it came on screen he would edit it out after the first show. Geeta Bali was there for the first show, nervously chewing her nails when it was time for ‘Balma bada nadaan...’ to explode on screen. The response to the number was so overwheming that she immediately got up and went out to the foyer where a tense Dada was sauntering. She walked up to him and demanded to know if she was doing his next film. Surprise, he nodded and she immediately smiled and said, “Then promise me that in your next film too you’ll have a number just like ‘Balma bada nadaan...’ and this time I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

Geeta Bali was at her cooperative best. But Dada still had to shoot Albela in spurts because money was a problem. The finance he had raised initially ran out quickly and Dada had to accept outside films so he could pump money back into his dream project. But this meant that he was shooting all day for other producers and could start work on Albela only after 7 p.m. It took all his charm to persuade Geeta Bali to give him three hours of her time on the evenings he could afford to shoot. She agreed on the condition that he would leave her by 10 p.m.

The first evening she reported at 7 p.m. sharp but after shooting for just half an hour told him she had to leave. Dada did not protest. Quietly he told her she could go and announced “pack-up”. The next evening she made amends by shooting till 11.30 p.m. After that she complained of exhaustion and Dada immediately wound up the shoot. Geeta Bali was so touched by his attitide that after that many a times she would shoot for him through the night without a murmur. “There were occasions when Geeta had shot for Albela from 7 p.m. to 6 a.m.,” Dada remembered gratefully years later.

Usually though Dada would wind up by 10.30 p.m. The last bus from Chembur was at 11 p.m. and the driver had instructions to honk outside the gate of Asha Studio. As soon as they heard him, all the technicians would come rushing out. One night though, they all stayed back because Dada had to complete his screenplay that night otherwise they would not be able to shoot on the morrow. He was living just next door to the studio at the time and he told his assistants that they could call it a night after the day’s shooting was over. He would go to his bungalow to change and have dinner and then would return to the studio at around 1 a.m. to work on the draft. He was surprised to find his assistants waiting for him when he got back. The bus had come and gone but they had decided they couldn’t let Dada work through the night alone.

Dada was touched by their loyalty and opening a bottle he got down to work. He told his assistants that he would speak aloud his thoughts, they could jot them down. The next day they would put things in order. He began at 1.30 a.m. and talked non-stop for the next three hours. At 5.45 a.m. he tottered off to bed. When he returned to the studio at 3 p.m. he found that his monologue had been typed and was waiting his approval. His assistants confessed that they hadn’t changed a word. And the final screenplay was ready. Even Dada was impressed by his creative flow when he glanced through the draft. “May be the bottle by my side had inspired me,” he muttered with endearing candour.

Albela was rushed through in eight months. It had cost Dada only Rs 5-6 lakh. The film was a superhit from the first show. At the Taj it ran for 18 houseful weeks and celebrated a silver jubilee run at Mumbai’s Imperial theatre. In some theatres it ran for over 50 weeks, surpassing even the collections of Raj Kapoor’s Barsaat. It was a surprise money-spinner. “Everyone made money except me,” Dada had sighed. “My manager swindled me.”

However, despite this Albela whose title had been inspired by the English film, La Bela, made the portly, little stunt star with the hearty laugh, rolling eyes and light feet, the heart-throb of millions. It brought Dada name, fame and the money to make another film. Jhamela was launched, once again with Geeta Bali and Bhagwan dada in the lead. It managed a creditable run of 18 weeks but couldn’t repeat the success of Albela. The films that followed flopped and Dada’s downslide began all too soon.

He had to sell his cars and moved out of his bungalow in Chembur to a one-room chawl in Dadar. It was the same house where he and Ramchandra along with his other friends, Om Prakash and Rajendra Krishan had woven a dream called Albela.

Years later, every time a wedding procession would pass below his window, the band would strike a well-remembered tune and Dada and smile contentedly. ‘Bholi surat dil ke khoten naam bade darshan chote...’ even today that evergreen melody brings back the magic of a film that made box-office history.

—Roshmila Bhattacharya