IN a review that appeared in the July 24, 1936 edition of a leading English daily in India, the critic while admitting that Bombay Talkies’ most recent production was not perfect, asserted that “it reaches wonderfully near to perfection and as far as the Indian picture fan is concerned, it is a feast of the richest entertainment he has yet been offered, combining drama, romance, thrilling action, melody and topical interest at their finest and in their most artistic development”. Glowing tributes for a film that was in its first week run. But then, Achyut Kanya was no run-of-the-mill Hindi film.
Based on Niranjan Pal’s story, The Level Crossing, Achyut Kanya charted the tragic love story of a Brahmin youth and an untouchable girl. Blind to the boundaries demarcated by caste and class, Kasturi, the daughter of a low caste railway employee, and Pratap, the son of the Brahmin village grocer, Mohanlal, court love to the lilting tunes of `Main ban ki chidya ban-ban dolu re...’ Their fathers are old friends but following vehement protests from the community, the children are forced to settle down with more appropriate partners.
Pratap is married to Meera and Kasturi to Manu. Though finds it hard to forget the lovely Harijan girl, she makes peace with her destiny and resigns herself to being Manu’s dutiful wife. But Pratap’s wife, Meera and Manu’s first wife fan his jealousy and inciite him against Kasturi’s pehla pehla pyar. Circumstances also connive against the lovers. Marooned in a country fair, initially unaware of each other, they meet again. But clamping down on still-simmering passions, return to their homes only to be confronted with hot-headed jealousy. Kasturi’s husband, suspecting them of infidelity, has decided to be rid of his rival once and for all. The level crossing that had dominated Kasturi’s life since she was born because her father, Dukhia is its keeper, is the chosen venue for the fierce struggle that follows. Desperate to separate her lover and her bent-on-murder husband but helpless in the face of their mulish strength, a distraught Kasturi runs into the path of an on-rushing train and is ploughed down before the driver can apply the brakes. As she lies there on the tracks, lost to both combatants, reason finally dawns on them. But it’s too late. The beautiful, young girl has had to sacrifice her life so others can live.
Achyut Kanya was a biting comment on the pernicious caste system and the religious fundamentalism it spewed. It struck an instant chord, packing in house full shows since its grand premiere at Mumbai’s Roxy theatre, and smashing existing box-office records.
The subject was topical. Mahatma Gandhi had launched his much-talked-about crusade against “untouchability” that he described as a “scourge”. Cinema in the mid-’30s continued to be a medium of unabashed, unapologetic entertainment with Fearless Nadia racing down the roof of a speeding train weilding her whip in Miss Frontier Mail. However, there were a handful of enlightened filmmakers who took it upon themselves to discreetly bring the inflamed social climate into their films.
The year 1936 is remembered for films that dared to defy tradition. K Subrahmanyam, a criminal lawyer, held up the pathetic plight of Brahmin widows in Balayogini. The film earned him ire of his community but he didn’t care.
Prabhat’s Sant Tukaram, the first Indian film to win an award at the Venice Film Festival, combined fact with folklore and told of the trials of a lowly-born poet-saint who was maligned, his works plagiarized and his family driven to starvation by a Brahmin priest. The film’s success at the box-office was a pointer to the fact that both cinema and its patrons even in India, were ripe for change.
Achyut Kanya was in the same vein but masked its hard-hitting stand against social inequalities and religious bigotry in gentle lyricism and soft-focus romanticism. The picture of village life it presented was at once realistically real and delightfully naive. The performances were memorable.
Kamta Prasad lived the role of Dukhia, Kasturi’s hapless father who can sympathise with his daughter’s misery but is powerless to remedy it and accepts with inherited meekness, the sufferings that religion and destiny has decreed for him and his class. Pitawalla as his Brahmin friend was equally impressive.
Devika Rani with her sculpted eyebrows, elaborate coiffeurs and rich costumes was unlike any gaon ki chori one had seen in real life, but still earned rave reviews for being in sync with the character.
Ashok Kumar as Pratap invested his role with a certain naturalism that set him apart from the crowd but still was far from polished in his second leading role.
Not that he had ever intended to set the screen on fire. It was expected that Kumudlal Kunjalal Ganguly would follow in the footsteps of his great-grandfather, grandfather, father and uncles all of whom were lawyers. However, he himself was not keen on the career chosen for him. Khandwa, his native town, had a population of just 30,000 and there were already five lawyers in the Ganguly family to cater to them. Why add one more to the list, he reasoned. But giving in to family pressures, with a BSc degree under his belt, he arrived in Calcutta to study law. And ended up spending most of his days in a darkened auditorium watching Bengali films. After seeing Puran Bhagat and Chandidas he confided in his college principal that he’d rather be a film director than a lawyer. His principal suggested he meet up with Himanshu Rai who had just arrived in Bombay with grand plans of building a studio there. Sashadhar Mukherji who had married Kumudlal’s only sister, Sati Rani two years earlier and given up a career in law for the job of assistant sound engineer at Mumbai’s Famous Cine Laboratories, in his letters too had been speaking highly about Himanshu Rai. Kumudlal thought he could get a recommendation from Rai to study direction at UFA in Germany. And with the Rs 35 his father had sent to pay the fees for his second year law examination, bought a third class train ticket. He landed in the city of dreams on January 28, 1934.
Sashadhar Mukherji who had since joined Himanshu Rai’s Bombay Talkies, set up an appointment for Kumudlal with his boss the next day. Rai candidly told the dreamy-eyed youngster that going to UFA would be a waste of time. Instead, he suggested Kumudlal train at his studio.
“You can start with acting,” he informed the crestfallen recruit, “because a director must primarily develop his sense of drama.” Minutes later, the boy was introduced to the studio’s German director, Franz Osten who gave him the once over and then asked him to sing. Kumudlal could only remember a bhajan he’d learnt from his mother. Osten heard him sing `Tum ho nath Jagtaran, paar karo naiya...’ without comment, then bundled him off for a camera test. Following this he was instructed to speak some lines that were recorded. That was his screen test.
The verdict was not good. Franz Osten without mincing words told Kumudlal that he looked much too young and girlish and had too square a jaw. He’s never make it as an actor. “Go back to Calcutta and law,” he urged.
Rai was more gentle. “Don’t be depressed,” he consoled Kumudlal. “I need educated men for my institute. You can join as a trainee technician. A director should be familiar with every branch of filmmaking.”
Kumudlal was put to work in the studio’s camera department at a monthly salary of Rs 150. A keen, amateur photographer, he loved the job. After a few months he started learning editing under Savak Vacha. Within eight months he had graduated to lab assistant and his salary had gone up by Rs 100.
Rai, despite Osten’s dark prophecy, still continued to believe that Kumudlal had the potential to become an actor. He had groomed his wife, Devika Rani, a student of architecture, into an art designer and then an internationally acclaimed actress whose performance in Karma that ran in London for eight months, was described in extravagant terms in The Lady. The London paper wrote: “Devika Rani is one of the most beautiful creations who have ever illuminated a screen...Her film technique, acquired with UFA, is graceful and flowing...” Rai had noticed a similar spark in Kumudlal and when Jawani Ki Hawa starring Devika Rani and Najam-ul-Husain, a regular whodunit in the Agatha Christie mould, was nearing completion, he coaxed his young lab assistant to appear in one scene in the film.
Ashok Kumar made his screen debut in this slickly shot, racy, murder mystery as a passenger in the night train. “I just want to see how you look on screen. You won’t have to say a single word,” Rai promised, as Kumudlal reluctantly faced the camera at Malad station where the film’s last scenes were being shot.
Jawani Ki Hawa was a hit but no one noticed the silent and sullen Kumudlal. It was an uneventful debut and he happily returned to the lab to polish up on film-making techniques. Rai meanwhile, got busy planning Bombay Talkies next production, Jeevan Naiya with Devika Rani and Najam-ul-Husain. He wasn’t aware the duo’s reel life romance had spilled over into real life and it came as a shock when just four days before shooting was to begin, his wife eloped with her co-star.
Najam-ul-Husain was nothing like the suave Himashu and after one quarrel to many, Devika returned to her husband. He forgave her but refused to work with Najam-ul-Hussain who moved to New Theatres. The first set had already been erected but shooting had to be delayed following the actor’s departure and Rai was facing huge financial losses. He needed to get Jeevan Naiya rolling quickly. But where would he find a maajhi to replace Najam-ul-Hasain?
Kumudlal had heard about his managing director’s troubles but he was unconcerned. His life was running smoothly. One day, while working in the lab he felt the urge to smoke. He took a quick break out in the verandah and while flipping away the stub of the Gold Flake he had just relished, spotted Himanshu Rai staring at him. Pretending nothing was amiss, Kumudlal hurriedly returned to his job. But minutes later, when he looked up, he realised to his horror that the managing director was at the door.
Red-faced, he stood up and was bluntly told to walk from one end of the room to the other. “Why must I walk, sir?” a bemused Kumudlal wondered aloud. “Because I would like to see you walk,” he was told curtly. Awkwardly, he paced the length of the room till he was abruptly told to stop. “You suit my needs. You are going to be the hero of my next film,” Rai beamed.
To Rai’s surprise Kumudlal balked at the prospect. “Me, a hero? Oh no, sir!” he wailed. “I won’t be able to do it.” “Why not?” Rai frowned. “It’ll give me a bad reputation,” Kumudlal whose father was negotiating his marriage back in Khandwa, pointed out. If the girl’s family learnt that the groom was an actor, talks would break off immediately.”Why?” wondered a puzzled Rai. “Because sir, those who act belong to the lower strata of society,” Kumudlal explained meekily. Rai agreed with him that actors were looked down upon in the country but pointed out that his wife who was the grand-neice of Rabindranath Tagore, came from a well-respected and cultured family. So did Gyan Mukherjee. Even the technicians at his studio were well educated. Kumudlal wasn’t convinced. “All right sir, try me if you must but I don’t think I’ll suit your purpose. I’m too young to do the role,” he protested weakly. Lighting one of his expensive 555 cigarettes, Rai told Kumudlal to leave everything to him. “As you wish sir, but I still don’t feel very confident,” Kumudlal muttered. “I’ll take out good work from you,” Rai promised. “Now get ready. Shooting starts in four days.”
Kumudlal rushed to his brother-in-law to inform him of the MD’s crazy plan. “How can I avoid the catastrophe?” he asked. Sashadhar Mukherji, to his surprise, laughed and told Kumudlal that he was a lucky chap to have been given such a rare opportunity. “You should thank your stars that Najam-ul-Husain has disappeared without notice,” he joked.
Kumudlal’s first day of shooting was a disaster. Shooting was to start at 9.30 a.m., sharp. He was punctual but his appearance shocked Himanshu. Desperate to wriggle out of his new assignment he had gone and cropped his hair short. Not to be put off, Rai ordered a wig and a crepe for him. His hero then took him aside and told him he had one request. “Please don’t ask me to embrace the heroine.” An amused Rai told him such a scene was not there in the script. All he had to do the first time he faced the camera was slip a gold chain around Devika Rani’s swan-like neck. She tried hard to put him at ease, but her proximity only succeeded in unerving him even more. Then he noticed his brother-in-law hovering around the microphone and rushed to Rai saying, “I can’t act in the presence of Sashadhar.” Rai banished Sashadhar to the sound room and announced a lunch break. Shooting resumed at 2 p.m. All through the rehearsals, Kumudlal kept dropping the chain only to see it getting entangled in Devika Rani’s hair. An exasperated Osten finally announced that they were ready for the first take. His hero once again slipped the chain around his beloved’s neck. Once again it got entangled in her hair. Taking a chance he pulled. It snapped and Devika Rani’s elaborate coiffeur came tumbling down! He blushed...she giggled. Osten screamed “Cut!’ and decided to try another scene.
Kumudlal was told to count to 10 after the director shouted, “Camera, Silence, Action!” and then jump the villain who had his eye on his beautiful lady and wanted to molest her. In his nervousness, Ashok Kumar forgot Franz Osten’s precise instructions and rushed at Maseey before he had even begun on his lewd lines. As Ashok Kumar stammered his apologies, he heard some amused titters. It only made him more ill at ease. Backing away, he returned to his position behind the wall. Osten told Maseey who was still lying on the floor that they’d go in for a retake. Maseey attempted to stand up but fell back with a groan. He had fractured his knee. Kumudlal, a competitive boxer in his college days, had felled the bad man with his very first blow. “So you broke the villain’s leg,” Rai smiled, and walked away. Kumudlal rushed to the toilet.
Shooting was stalled for four months. Franz Osten almost washed his hands off his hero, urging him to go back to law. The young man indignantly reminded him that he had come to Bombay Talkies to be a director, not an actor. “Only prostitues and pimps become actors,” he spat out in an angry moment and almost stomped off the studio.
Back home in Khandwa, the family was distraught. “No respectable family will ever give you a girl in marriage,” his mother moaned. She was right. His prospective in-laws immediately broken off the engagement.
His father was a worried man too and set out for Nagpur to meet Ravi Shankar Shukla, the then Chief Minister of the Central Province. Shukla was an old friend from his school and akhada days. Telling him about his wastrel son, Kunjalal requested him for a respectable job for Kumudlal. Shukla offered him two options. He could make his son a postal inspector who in time would become a post master general. Or he could apply for the post of an income tax inspector who could rise to be an income tax commissioner. Kunjalal approved of the latter. At a monthly salary of Rs 340, it even paid more than what Kumudlal was making as an actor. He wrote to his son. With the letter, Kumudlal went to Rai who reminded him that he was under a contract. “Once the shooting of Jeevan Naiya is complete we will release you. I’m sure you’ll not get this job rightaway so you can wait a month, can’t you?” he cajoled. Kumud Lal agreed.
In the last month, both he and the film had made brisk progress. Osten was still aloof but Rai and Devika Rani were very supportive, sending him special lunch everyday. His acting continued to be amateurish and at times Rai urged him to work harder on his performance. Kumudlal refused to indulge in on-the-top theatrics and strike agressive poses and postures even if this meant alienating his audience.
Jeevan Naiya finally made it to the theatres in 1936. It was a surprise hit.
Two days before the film’s release Kumudlal had met Rai and asked to be relieved from his contract. Rai had responded with a smile and another film offer. His hero turned him down promptly telling him that he was embarrassed by his performance. “Even Mr Osten is not happy,” he reminded his MD. Rai added that he believed he would rise to eminence in time. Kumudlal was encouraged by his words. rai told him they would be starting the next film in three days and wrapping it up in a month. “You have two hours to decide if you want to be in this film or not,” he informed his hero.
Kumudlal went back home and reflected on his year-and-a-half’s tenure at the studio. To his surprise he realised that he had enjoyed the experience even when facing the lens eye and didn’t want to leave Bombay Talkies. He would take up Rai’s offer.
An incident that took place a few days later, further reinforced his confidence in his decision. Kumudlal or Ashok Kumar as he was now known had refused to attend the premiere of Jeevan Naiya because he was convinced he was very bad in the film. When Rai heard this, he gifted him with a new suit and a theatre ticket. “Don’t under-rate yourself. Sit with the audience and see the film. You will feel better,” he told him gently.
The next evening Ashok Kumar watched Jeevan Naiya from the box. After the film he was taken to meet a couple sitting in the adjoining box who had loved his performance. Ashok Kumar’s first fans were the Maharaja and Maharani of Gwalior. Surprisingly, there were many like the Scindias who took to the fresh-faced, awkward hero in a big way. The reluctant actor became an unlikely screen sensation!
Achyut Kanya started a day after Himanshu Rai made his offer to Ashok Kumar and was completed in 31 days. All through its making the young actor continued to be nervous and awkward but both Osten and Rai assured him that the film’s story was so powerful it would pull him through. They were right. It was a much talked about film and marked the emergence of committed social films in India. To everyone’s surprise, the reviews lauded Ashok Kumar’s performance.
“Ashok Kumar, as Devika Rani’s lover, is brilliant, putting over a portrayal instilled with life and achieving a realism that is the hallmark of a born actor. For a newcomer--it is his second screen character--his performance is a miracle of acting,” gushed one critic.
In an interview the actor had confided that when he saw the first rush prints of the film in the lab where he was still working, he had instantly realised that there was something wrong with his performance. His eyes were expressionless! “Once I realised this, I started improving. I was very against the dramatic method of acting of the times. I wanted to be natural. I was determined to introduce art into acting,” he insisted.
Sashadhar Mukherjee who like Rai was convinced his good-looking but painfully shy brother-in-law would make a credible actor, agreed and urged him to “personalize” his acting. “Make your dialogue your own, natural and spontaneous, not studied and contrived,” he advised. By the time he completed Achyut Kanya the actor had started reinventing himself and all the reviews spoke about his “naturalism” and “realism” that was a refreshing change from the stylized and affected acting of the day.
Another welcome departure was the speech patterns of all the lead characters. Devika Rani and Ashok Kumar in particular had laboured over their rural dialect that, reviewers applauded, lent authenticity to the dialogue and credibility to their performances.
Compliments were also showered on the lead pair’s singing talent. ‘Main ban ki chidya...’, ‘Khet ki muli baag ka alam...’ and ‘Kisse kehta murakh pyar payr...’ resounding in every household. Interestingly, Saraswati Devi, the film’s composer, in an interview had confessed that she had had a hard time getting the two stars to sing in sur. “Only I knew the problems I faced keeping them simultaneously in tune during ‘Main ban ki chidya...’,” she’d laughed.
The Star, a London paper, had praised Devika Rani to the skies saying, “You will never hear a lovelier voice or diction or see a lovelier face...”. But according to her music director, the actress was a pretty ordinary singer. As for Ashok Kumar, even though his maternal uncle, Dhanajay Banerji was a classical singer, he himself had never trained in music. Many a times Saraswati Devi had to simplify her tunes or use background music to cover their inadequacies. But to their credit the flaws remained largely undetected at a time when Hindi film playback was still an unheard of phenomenon.
The songs were sung on the sets by the actors themselves. Later, shorter versions that could be included on a 78 rmp record, were recorded in the HMV studio. For these three-minute numbers, all the musicians and the singer-actors had to troop into the studio, usually late at night when traffic was thin and the danger of being interrupted by honking vehicles and nosy passer-bys was diminished somewhat.
Saraswati Devi who became Devika Rani and Ashok Kumar’s music guru and whose score contributed largely to Achyut Kanya’s overwhelming popularity, was actually a Parsi girl. Khorshed Manchershr Minocher Homji had learnt music under Vishnu Narayan Bhatkande and at London’s Lord Morris College. Back in India, she and her elder sister, Manek who was also a musician, started giving regular performances on radio. Himanshu Rai caught one of their acts and invited the Homji sisters to his studio. Khorsheed was shown the music room and asked to take charge of the music department. Manek was offered a character role in Jawani Ki Hawa. The sisters snapped up his offer immediately. However, their new-found careers in show business were almost derailed following vehement protests from the Parsi community.
Four of Bombay Talkies’ 12 directors—Sir Cowasji Jehangir, FE Dinshaw, Framji H Sidhwa and Sir Phiroze Sethna—were Parsis. Sir Pheroze and Sidhwa insisted on Manek being replaced. Only when it was pointed out that this would mean re-shooting at least 50 per cent of the film and subject the company to a loss of almost Rs 1 lakh, did they relent but asked the management to desist in future from using Parsi girls on screen.
The directors were appeased but not the community. A mass meeting of Parsis was convened by the Parsi Federal Council that then met with the commissioner of police and president of the board of film censors, WRG Smith to stop the film from getting certified. However, after a special screening at Bombay’s Imperial cinema, the censors decreed that Jawani Ki Hawa was a “harmless” film and cleared it for public exhibition. Undeterred, the Parsi Federal Council wired to the Governor of Bombay requesting him to intervene. A copy of the wire was forwarded to the Home Member of the local government and a questionnaire circulated amongst leading Parsi priests on whether it was desirable for Parsi women to appear on stage or screen. Despite the frenzied efforts, the film was “passed”.
Demonstrations and picketing continued outside the Imperial cinema with three Parsis arrested for exhorting the crowd to boycott the film. The Parsi agitation ensured free publicity for Jawani Ki Hawa and only succeeded in whipping up public curiosity. The only concession that Himanshu Rai was willing to make to Parsi sentiment was to give the girls new names to conceal their identity. Khorshed became Saraswati Devi while Manek was christened Chandraparabha. He repeated both in his next two films, Jeevan Naiya and Achyut Kanya.
Chandraprabha rewarded Rai for his unflinching support with a heart-warming performance in Achyut Kanya as the old woman selling firewood. Saraswati Devi came up with a superlative score. The songs were adroitly woven into the story that according to a critic, initiated “a line of plot construction that remains the set formula of our commercial cinema to this day”.
After the film was released Jawaharlal Nehru, the Congress president, along with his daughter Indira Gandhi and sister Sarojini Naidu dropped by at Bombay Talkies to visit with Himanshu Rai. He wanted to see Achyut Kanya. A special screening was arranged. The lights dimmed and the film unspooled. Ashok Kumar noticed that Sarojini Naidu who was sitting besides him had dozed off obviously not interested in the film. However, when ‘Khet hi muli...’ started playing, she woke up with a start and nudging him asked, “Who is the boy singing so well?” It was him up there on screen, Ashok Kumar told her bashfully. “Bravo, congratulations! You’re very good,” she complimented, and went right back to sleep. After that she didn’t wake up even when the Congress workers sitting behind her repeatedly interrupted proceedings with the slogan, “Jawaharlal Nehru ki jai.”
Nehru loved Achyut Kanya. After that screening he visited Bombay Talkies several times and whenever he’d bump into Ashok Kumar he’d greet him with the words, “Kyon hero, kaise ho?”
Enthused by Nehru’s response Himanshu Rai tried to get Gandhi to see the film. He could not be wooed. Franz Osten however was able to arrange a screening at Geobbel’s Ministry of Propaganda in Berlin. Amongst the invited guests was Hitler. The Nazi leader despite his own insistence on racial superiority, empathised with the beautiful Devika Rani’s travails even though Osten had fled withRai to India with his technicians to escape Nazi persecution.
In 1936 Ashok Kumar and Devika Rani starred in four films—Jeevan Naiya, Achyut Kanya, Mamta and Janmabhoomi (’36). The next year they were teamed in Izzat, Jeevan Prabhat and Savitri. In ’38, they were paired in Nirmala and Vachan. Durga the following year and Anjaan in ’41 completed their body of work together. The films were socially committed and enjoyable but none could recreate the box-office magic of Achyut Kanya that turned them into screen legends.
After Himanshu Rai’s death Ashok Kumar had an acrimonious parting of ways with the boss lady of Bombay Talkies but to the last he acknowledged her contribution to his success story. “Himanshu Rai and Devika Rani groomed me. It was because of them that I became an actor,” he’d insist.
There were times when his thoughts would turn to his father and his philosophy of life. Kunjalal often used to say to his son, “I’m a river without oars because the oars are in the hands of someone else. So I just flow with the tide. Go where others are going...” Ashok Kumar remembered his words when picturising a song in Achyut Kanya, ‘Dhire dhire baho nadiya, baho, hum utrai paar...’ He himself was a man without ego and ambition who had let himself be carried along by the tide. And ended up lighting up the screen for over half a century...