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COVER STORY
R E N A I S S A N C E
M A N
The Sufi
Soul
MANJIRI INDURKAR
PHOTOGRAPHS BY SUBHOJIT PAUL
IMAGING & DESIGN BY SUNEESH K
Seene Mein Jalan Aankhon Mein Toofan Sa Kyu Hai
Is Sheher Mein Har Shaqs Pareshan Sa Kyu Hai...
THESE LINES KEEP reverberating in my
mind and I can barely hear anything, even the
cacophony of the autorickshaw I am in. “It’s all
good,” I tell myself. “The noise will keep me
distracted.” My autowalah talks of the heat; I
nod in agreement. It is a hot day indeed. But at
this moment, nothing matters. I am supposed
to be at the Kotwara Studios by 11am; it is
almost time. And I am nowhere close. I tell the
autowalah that I have an interview. He wants to
know if I am meeting a bada adami. I tell him,
yes! I am meeting Muzaffar Ali. His blank look
says it all. I ask him if he has seen Umrao Jaan.
His face lights up—he has seen the movie and
wanted to marry Rekha after it. We both laugh;
I tell him I am meeting the man who made
the film. My auto halts and we are here. I have
managed to reach a little before time.
As I enter the studio, pictures of Abida
Parveen, Faiz Ahmad Faiz and a painting—Ali’s
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own creation—greet me. I am informed that
“Sir is a little late.” I will have to wait for some
time. I sit staring at the brown walls of the
studio, thinking about the questions I want
to ask, points I may have missed. Suddenly,
there is a commotion. “Sir aa gaye hain,” says
the man. Muzaffar Ali walks in. He is wearing
a loose black shirt and grey cotton pants, his
spectacles have been strategically placed on his
forehead, his grey shoulder-length hair looks
messy. He looks at me and smiles. At 67, he is
a very attractive man. He has forgotten about
the interview completely. I remind him about
it and we move to the second floor, which is
his film studio. Posters from Gaman, Umrao
Jaan, Anjuman and Aagaman adorn its walls.
From a wooden frame, Rekha stares at us; any
time now we will hear her sing ‘In aankhon ki
masti ke, afsaane hazaaron hain’. Moving away
from the talking images, we sit in the second
room, which looks like an old library. All his
film scripts, storyboards and poetry books of
his favourite poets Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Rumi,
Shahryar and others are kept here. I have a
clear list of questions in front of me yet I
remain conflicted. Where do I start? His royal
parentage or his films? His love for Sufi music
or his paintings? Perhaps we could talk about
fashion design? A similar feeling haunts me
while writing the story. How do I start? I am not
sure yet. I finally decide to tell his story the way a
movie maker’s story should be told.
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cover story
\\ RENAISSANCE MAN
Opening Sequence...Lights...
Camera... Action
“Bol ye thoda waqt bahot hai
Jism-o-zabaan ki maut se pehle
Bol ki sach zindaa hai ab tak
Bol jo kuchh kehna hai keh le”
—Faiz Ahmad Faiz
SOME FORTY YEARS ago, in the green hinterlands
of Uttar Pradesh, a young man of 20 sat discussing
Faiz and Rumi with his friend on a high cliff—perhaps
discussing these very lines. The man, a geology student
who took up the subject because he thought, “No matter
what, people will always use petrol,” was Muzaffar Ali.
Ali is in splits while narrating tales of his naiveté. From
that UP cliff to Mumbai studios, the journey has been
serendipitous. After graduation, Ali went job hunting and landed up in a Kolkata advertising
firm. “Early on, I realised that I was
not cut out for advertising; I couldn’t
work under anyone forever.”
Yet he is grateful that he
took up the offer. Because it
gave him the chance to meet
filmmakers like Satyajit Ray
and Ritwik Ghatak. “I used
to have long discussions
with Ray. We often talked about movie-making for
hours,” he tells me. And there are other points of
connection; Ali, like Ray, also prefers to do his own
sketches while storyboarding. “Ray used to sketch
frames because it gave him clarity of thought,” he
informs. An artist himself, Ali has drawn every
frame of his movies. While talking about how he
came to sketch sequences of Gaman (his first film)
he tells me that his storyboards (well, most of them)
are lying around that very room. As he talks about
long-shots and mid-shots, I am lost in an image
of Ali sitting on a comfortable rocking chair with
his sketch book and pencil. When I am back, I find
myself staring at an empty chair. I turn around to
see Ali wiping the dust off some old books. Those
are the storyboards of Umrao Jaan and Gaman.
He hands them to me; the weight of modern
cinematic history rests on my lap. But I can not flip
through its pages right now. A lot needs to be asked
before that, and I am running out of time.
“Early on, I realised
that I was not cut out
for advertising;
I couldn’t work under
anyone forever”
­— Muzaffar Ali
MAN’S
BEST
FRIEND
A dog lover, Ali spends his
evenings playing with them
Bombay Talkies The Continuity Sketches
IT IS A BUSY Bombay morning. A car halts near the
traffic signal, its glasses roll down; two men sitting
inside the car are deep in conversation. The street
beggar knocks at the window, recognises the face
and shouts his name. “Amitabh Bachchan!” he says.
The signal turns green and the car speeds ahead,
leaving an overwhelmed spectator behind.
Aeons back, a job with Air India brought Ali to
the city of dreams. He was allegedly living a “life
of poverty”, where his “house rent was almost as
much as the salary” and where he had to sell his
father’s “vintage car in order to make a living”. In
those days of struggle Amitabh Bachchan used to
give Ali a lift to his workplace. It was also the time
when Ali was contemplating the idea of making
Gaman. He told Bachchan about his plan and
asked him if he would be interested in hearing out
the script. And he expressed a desire to work with
him. “He kept on giving me vague answers and
after some good three months, he came up to me
and said,’ I can’t work in your film. My image of
an action hero (read Angry Young Man) might get
ruined if I do this character’,” says Ali. Bachchan
perhaps missed an opportunity to work with one of
the finest directors of our time, but as they say, one
man’s loss is another man’s gain. When Bachchan
refused, Ali approached Farooq Sheikh, who later
became the protagonist of every film that he made.
If Bachchan was the quintessential hero who
could sing songs, woo the girl, beat the villains and
save the lives of hundreds in one go, Sheikh was
the charming guy-next-door; his dilemmas were
often existential, he looked real and believable on
screen. Perhaps this was the reason why Ali chose
to cast Sheikh in Gaman. “He had the vulnerability
which was much needed in my films. He didn’t
just look the character in front of the camera, he
became the character,” says Ali.
After the critical success of Gaman, he started
working on his masterpiece Umrao Jaan which
was based on Mirza Hadi Ruswa’s novel Umrao Jaan
Ada. The film had a poetic value to it, and a lyrical
flow which appealed to the audio-visual senses. That
is why it is considered to be the most aesthetically
pleasing film ever made. It is an Indian classic to say
the least, and a piece of cinematic genius. Rekha,
who played a Lucknow courtesan in the Mughal Era,
was grace and elegance personified. And the music
was enchanting, layered and haunting. This film
won Rekha, and music director Khayyam, their first
and only National Awards.
It is needless to say that the film is still universally
lauded. I am itching to know what he feels about
the recent attempt at remaking the classic. In
answer, he laughs. Naturally, he has been asked this
question before “but it never gets old,” he says. I
wait patiently, while he seeks the right words. “Why
remake a classic anyway?” is his first response.
“They couldn’t recreate the magic of Umrao Jaan.
They couldn’t understand the essence of the film,
its poetry was lost in the new version; Aishwarya
couldn’t carry the film on her shoulders the way
Rekha did,” he adds.
His disappointment doesn’t end there; it is not just
the fact that someone made a “version” of his film.
He talks candidly about the current spate of films
and expresses his disdain for most of them. “In the
80s, cinema had a social connect with its immediate
surroundings. That connect is missing today”. Films
like Peepli Live, which he considers to be a bold
attempt, do not appeal to him as a viewer. “I can’t
see myself in any of the characters. I just can’t relate
to them”.
Though he is all praise for some of the younger
directors like Anurag Kashyap, he doesn’t
AUGUST
2012
“Sheesho Ka
Masiha” a
documentary
Ali made on
the Bhopal
Gas Tragedy
was based on
Faiz Ahmad
Faiz’s poetry
of the same
name
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necessarily like the themes of his films, but he does
“enjoy the way they are made.”
But he is all praises for one peculiar man called
‘Tiggu’. “Tiggu is doing some great work,” he says.
At my puzzled look, he informs me: “I was talking
about Tigmanshu Dhulia. He is a friend of Shaad
(his son Shaad Ali) and keeps visiting us often; I
think he is doing a tremendous job.”
Shaad is Muzaffar Ali’s son from his previous
marriage with Subhashini Ali. Having made
commercially successful films like Saathiya and
Bunty aur Bubbly, the junior Ali has earned quite
a name for himself. But Ali is very modest while
doling out praise for his son and the films he has
made. “I think he has a great understanding of
commercial cinema, and I would never burden
him with my ideology. He is a person with different
sensibilities and is doing well for himself” says the
father. He adds later, “But his best is yet to come.”
Ali has been working on a film called Zooni
since the late 80s. Based on the life of the 16th
century Kashmiri poetess Habba Khatun, Zooni was
supposed to be released in the early 90s, yet is still
stuck in the pre-production stage. “I started shooting
for Zooni on January 5, 1989; I can remember the
exact date.” His face looks poignant and grim while
he talks about this film. He wanted to make the film
divided into four seasons of the poetess’ life. “It was
something that producers couldn’t understand and
so the movie kept getting stuck,” he sighs. I ask him
if he still plans on making this film and he says he
does. But he doesn’t know when.
Interview | Farooq Sheikh
An Actor’s Director
T
he year was 1973; I had just
finished doing a film called
Garm Hava, which was my
first appearance in any feature
film. I got a call from a stranger
who called himself Muzaffar
Ali. After the pleasantries were
exchanged, he told me that he was
working on a film script and he
wanted to meet me for a certain
role. So I went and met him in the
Air India office at Nariman Point.
The moment I entered the office I
saw a very presentable
looking man. Quite
obviously, he was
much younger
and even more
handsome in
those days. In
that meeting, he
gave me the
script of the
film called
Gaman.
After going through the script I
found it interesting and thought
provoking. I could see from the way
he talked about it, that he really
believed in it. It also got me my first
lead role and I was more than happy
to perform it.
Muzaffar Sahab, is one of those
directors who have an extraordinary
sense of aesthetics. And there are
not many in the industry like him.
Apart from the fact that he is an
extremely hardworking person,
his sense of aesthetics makes him
stand out. And you can see that in
all his films. Even in something as
stark and grim as Gaman—which
is about the lower class in UP
and the struggling labour class
in Mumbai—you will see that the
sense of aesthetics is extraordinary.
The hallmark of his aesthetic ability
is Umrao Jaan which is a beautifully
made film and all the credit goes to
Muzaffar Sahab and the team that
he works with.
He is a very adjusting and giving
director and far too easy
to work with. In fact, I
FAROOQ SHEIKH
Actor
sometimes tell him that
he needs to be more demanding.
He is also very finicky about little
things. I remember while we were
shooting for Umrao Jaan, Rekhaji
or I would be rehearsing for some
scene and he would very silently
come and move a lamp near her or
my head. We would often wonder
why is he creating such a fuss about
these minor details, when we have
so many things to do and time is
running out. But later when we saw
the film we understood that these
little things made a huge difference
for the look and feel of the film.
Given the fact that we worked in
many films together, we had become
great friends. I enjoyed his company
a lot and still do, but unfortunately
geography stops us from meeting
too often. But what brought us all the
more close was the collective love
for food. Muzaffar Sahab is a man
who loves and understands good
food. Therefore, after the days shoot
would end, we would stick together
and gobble down the delicious
meals, which were more often than
not, home-cooked and needless to
say, delicious.
ROLLS
WHEELS
The royals surely love their
vintage cars, and yet Ali sold his
in Mumbai to earn a ‘living’
Flashback-Life in
Technicolour
ON A HARSH winter morning, a
group of women have assembled
in the sangeet ghar (music
room). Singing paeans in the
lord’s praise, the women are
too immersed to notice a lad
of eight who has sneaked
in, and is listening to them
with rapt attention. Ali’s
first brush with Sufi music
was through zanana sangeet. His mother and her
friends would gather at one place and sing to their
hearts’ content. And there, little Ali would hear them
sing and be moved. It was this early exposure to
music that helped him develop an astounding audiovisual sense. There is music and poetry in every
corner of that chaotic and comfortable room where
he is sitting. A lot of Ali’s artwork—paintings and
photographs—grace the walls of this room. Beyond
the ornamental value, these paintings don’t just
embellish; they bear witness to an artist’s love for his
craft. These are paintings made by Ali which were
not up for sale. There is a picture of a Rolls Royce in
monochrome, the very same one he sold to survive
in expensive Mumbai. As is with any artist, his affair
with his brush and pencil is ethereal.
One can also spot a heavy influence of Sufism in
his life—whether we look at his movies, music or
paintings. Ali talks about Sufism with an infective
zeal. It is Sufism’s closeness to human predicament
that attracts him to it. He informs me that through
his films he has tried to understand the dilemmas
of the human mind, especially women. Perhaps
that is why his films have always had strong female
protagonists. “Such is the nature of Sufi music that
the pangs and conflicting emotions of a woman are
sung and expressed by a man,” he says hinting at
a wonderful union of the two genders in a single
strain. It is this love that compels him to talk about
Faiz Ahmad Faiz—who was also an inspiration
behind his first movie—again and again. While
talking about the layers of poetry that Gaman had,
he starts fiddling with his phone. He
is looking for something; he finds it,
he passes the phone. It is a message
from Faiz himself; a message he sent Ali after seeing
Gaman. Though he waits patiently for me to finish
reading the note, his eyes give him away; they have
the glint of a child who has just met his hero.
But if his life could be written in couplets, it
would be written by Shahryar. The great poet wrote
all the lyrics of Ali’s films. Shahryar and Ali shared
a deep bond; the duo were friends since their
Aligharh Muslim University days. “Shahryar often
complained that before meeting me he used to be
a man (think like one), but since he has met me he
has turned into a woman,” he breaks into a smile
that reaches his eyes.
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Shades of Hue
Muzaffar Ali in his
various moods. A true
royalty, he loves his
stallion.
A passionate yet easy
going filmmaker,
someone who gives his
actors as much creative
space as they desire. And
finally a family man, Ali
is a doting father and a
loving husband
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\\ RENAISSANCE MAN
“Muzaffar Ali’s Gaman is a poem
in visuals. The movie’s
tragic lyricism and
its muted eloquence
is deeply perceptive;
its sensitively conceived and
truthfully captured slice of reality
around us—the heart-
break of the human
situation in town
and country—
makes it a sheer delight,
a veritable tour
de force.”
26-8-78 FAIZ AHMAD FAIZ
ROYAL
PRIDE
Ali is fascinated by the style,
strength and speed of a horse.
He loves stallions above all
Behind
the Scenes
TODAY, MUZAFFAR ALI spends his time flitting
between Lucknow and Delhi. He is yet to cut the
umbilical cord that ties him to his hometown. The
mention of Lucknow brings back memories of a
childhood spent gallivanting in the dusty lanes of the
ancestral village. Ali was born into the Royal Muslim
Rajput Family of Kotwara. His father, the Raja of Kotwara was also a member of the Communist Party of
Scotland and for him “being a raja meant working for
the benefit of people and not ruling them.” When Ali
admits of harbouring Leftist sympathies, you realise it
is a legacy that he has inherited from his father, who
returned to his country right when it was days away
from Independence.
It was a time when the ‘royals of India’ were living
in the shadow of a glorious past. “What I saw was
a skeleton of something spectacular” says Ali. But
his father remained unfazed by the days long past.
Instead, he marched right ahead and started a party
for the local farmers, Haljutta Party that fought for
their rights. The birth of the party couldn’t have
been better timed. It was almost
as if Ali’s father had foreseen
the eventual exploitation of
farmers that became a reality
in freshly Independent India.
Like father, Ali too believes in
working for the welfare of the
people. Today, he is trying
to generate employment
for the people in his
hometown and reviving
the ‘local culture and
tradition of the City
of Nawabs’. He talks
about his current
project Jhadi se
Saree with great
fervour. It is
a project
involving
nine
yards of
silk where his and his teams’
involvement starts right at the
beginning; from the time a tree
is planted, to the breeding of
the silk worms. It is a peculiar
project, but Ali is nothing if not
unconventional. “My motive
was to provide as much
scope for employment as
possible. It was imperative
that we had all the stages
of production happening
right here so as to
include as many people
as possible in the project and maintain a
strict eye on the quality,” he says.
His studio in Delhi—named after his ancestral
village, Kotwara—doubles up as his film, music and
design studio. He takes care of it along with his wife
Meera Ali. Here he teaches his craft to aspiring young
designers. His customers are well-known faces such
as the talented Irrfan Khan and fashionista Sonam
Kapoor. In a bid to keep the traditional weaves and
textiles alive, he focuses his attention on creating
high-end Indian attires. Ali appears to be displeased
about the increasing ‘western’ influence on society.
And this displeasure isn’t limited to clothes. “The fact
that you and I are having a conversation in English
rather than Hindi is proof of how much we like
everything foreign,” he says.
By now the clock hands tell me that I have gone
beyond the designated hour that I had for the
interview. It is time to leave. As I gather my things,
Ali gets up and takes out a thick notebook and hands
it over. It is a yellowed, much thumbed booklet. I
realise it is the script for Zooni. “This is the 23rd
one,” he admits with a rueful smile. He puts it back
gently and neatly. On my way back, I ruminate over
the day but am interrupted by a song.
“Ye kya jageh hai doston, ye kaunsa dayar hai
Had-e-nigah tak jaha gubar hi gubar hai”
I smile to myself. We steer forward leaving a cloud
of dust behind.
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