Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; April 2, 2020)

“Chalo Dildaar Chalo, Chand Ke Paar Chalo…” Tajdar Amrohi’s caller tune takes me back to my childhood, when I had listened to this song from Pakeezah on a LP record in our living room. “It’s been 48 years since the film’s release, but even today, this romantic duet, in fact, every song from this timeless album, is instantly associated with Pakeezah and Meena ji (leading lady Meena Kumari),” points out the son of the film’s writer-producer-director Kamal Amrohi.

Tajdar saab goes on to inform that while shots of the boat sailing were taken in Goa, those featuring Meena ji and Raaj Kumar saab were canned indoors because the actress was battling cirrhosis of the liver by then and too unwell to go on location. “While many berated him for making an ailing chhoti ammi shoot unnecessary songs, daddy promised he’d take good care of her and had a maid, doctor and nurse stationed on the set. Then, without the aid of blue and green screen technology (chroma keying), he brought the stars into the studio for her even as the moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds. My father was a master craftsman who arranged the lights and camera himself, planned long shots with his stars in a way that their romance would look ethereal on screen even as they disappeared behind the boat’s sail,” he reminisces.

Pakeezah started on July 16, 1956, as a black-and-white film, and was re-shot in colour and then, in cinemascope. They were still shooting when, in 1964, Kamal saab and Meena ji separated following mutual differences. When shooting resumed in 1969, “Mausam Hai Aashiqana” was the first song to be shot, with an ailing Meena ji as the mujrewali Sahibjaan being whisked away from the kotha by one of her patrons. However, the night of his dreams is ruined when they are attacked by elephants and Sahibjaan sails away down the river in the splintered boat. She emerges from the water, enters the tent of forest ranger Salim, set up by the riverside, changes out of her wet clothes into his lungi and shirt and flipping through his diary, comes face to face with the man who’d teased her imagination with his lines rhapsodising over her “pure” feet.

“No actress had worn a lungi, which back then, was seen as a male attire, before this on screen. But, daddy reasoned that, in the context of the setting and situation, it would not look out of place on her and being loose and flowing, like the gharara in 'Chalo Dildar Chalo', would camouflage the bloating her illness had brought on.

“After the film’s release, the lungi became a fashion trend, like Pakeezah bangles, dupattas and sandals. Chhoti ammi herself was wowed by how beautifully my father had picturised these songs, which she’d insisted he retain despite her failing health, like everything else in the script,” says Tajdar saab, pointing out that Meena ji herself was a poetess who often scribbled down her meandering thoughts and read them aloud to his father, who’d react with an appreciative nod, sometimes changing a word or two, even telling her how best to recite them to enhance the beauty of the verses. Does he remember any, you wonder, and without a moment’s hesitation, he rattles off a couplet of his chhoti ammi’s poetry... “Raha Yunhi Na Mukammal, Gham-e-Ishq Ka Fasana, Kabhi Mujhko Neend Aayi, Kabhi So Gaya Zamana”.

The simplicity of the words and their sensitivity leave me awed, in the same way that the film had overwhelmed Meena ji when she saw it at the premiere in Maratha Mandir, on February 3, 1972, seated beside Chandan (that’s what she called Kamal Amrohi) and her darling Tajdar. “As the story of Salim and Sahibjaan unfolded, her nails dug deep into my father’s wrist and she clutched his hand tightly, leaving imprints on the tender skin. But not for a minute did a flicker of pain or irritation cross his features. Instead a tender smile played on his lips, which widened when, resting her head on his shoulder, she asked him to promise he’d not make another film after Pakeezah, making me a witness,” Tajdar saab recounts.

He reasons that since his father survived Meena ji, who passed away on March 31, 1972, by 21 years, it was difficult for him to keep this promise. “But Pakeezah was the Taj Mahal that he built for his Mumtaz and will forever be chhoti ammi’s most memorable film,” asserts Tajdar saab, adding that today his father and chhoti ammi lie side by side in the kabrastan, reunited in death. “And I can imagine him holding out his hand to her, inviting, ‘Chalo dildar chalo chand ke paar chalo…’ and her fingers entwining with his as she replies, ‘Hum hain taiyaar chalo…’, the two of them walking away into a technicolour sunset towards a beautiful world.”