Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; August 3, 2017)

August 5, 1960… All roads lead to Mumbai’s Maratha Mandir where K Asif is unveiling his magnum opus, Mughal-e-Azam. From movie moguls to business magnates and politicians, including Chief Minister Y B Chavan and Prithviraj Kapoor’s two sons — Raj, who’s flown in from Czechoslovakia and Shammi from the Far East — are winding their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic towards the theatre dazzling in the glow of a dozen spotlights.

At 9 pm the lights go off. The excitement is palpable as Salim enters the world in answer to his father Akbar’s prayers, grows up into a spoilt little prince and is sent off to war. Fourteen years later, the shehzada returns home to the strains of “Mohe Panghat Pe Nandlal Chhed Gayo Re” as Janmashtami is being celebrated in court. He’s introduced to Anarkali (Madhubala) who as Radha is dancing to Kathak exponent Lachhu Maharaj’s cues. While the song was being choreographed, the late Pakistani Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto drove down to Mohan Studio everyday to watch it. He was mesmerised by it. The audience is entranced by the bewitching Madhubala and a suave Dilip Kumar, but after about 30 minutes there are stifled yawns and muted whispers of “boring hai.”

At the end of 19 reels, among the many disappointed faces who file out, is a beautiful teenager who had been bracing herself since a week in the hope of running into Dilip Kumar, whom she’d met at a premiere in London and has fallen in love with. This time the actor stays away and Saira Banu is heartbroken. Years later, she admits that though she grew to relish the dialogue, back then she wasn’t too familiar with the beautiful, flowery Urdu. That, coupled with the disappointment of not seeing her ‘hero’, had spoilt the occasion for her.

There are many like her who fail to comprehend words like “taqliya” and wonder why Akbar keeps asking for a “takiya” (pillow), when he simply wants “to be left alone”. The lukewarm reaction deflates the spirit of the team that had fought valiantly for a decade to live their Mughal dream. Only Asif is unfazed. On the night of the premiere, at the party he hosts, he urges them to eat, drink and make merry, confident the film will be a hit. No one believes him but after a ‘sleepy’ start, the box-office starts jingling, adding up to Rs 40 lakh at the end of the first week.

Cut to 2004. Mumbai’s Eros theatre looks like a Mughal court. An elephant ambles along with a palanquin carrying reels of a colourised Mughal-e-Azam. They are unloaded by soldiers in royal costumes and rushed up to the projection room. The foyer is bustling with guests, among them are Rekha, Sridevi and Aishwarya Rai. Time comes to a standstill when Shehzada Salim walks in, his begum by his side. Forty-four years later, Saira Banu returns home, beaming.