Soumya Vajpayee (BOMBAY TIMES; March 23, 2019)

Being on the film set is the ultimate high for me; it’s like living a dream,” says debutante actress Pranutan Bahl, whose excitement is evident from her face and demeanour the moment she arrives for the interview at an Andheri studio. She is an industry kid — the granddaughter of late actress Nutan and daughter of Mohnish Bahl — but the 26-year-old law graduate wants to carve a niche for herself in the industry on her own merit. In a tête-à-tête with BT, Pranutan talks about her upcoming film, Notebook, her learnings from her grandmother and father, the bond she shares with Salman Khan, and more. Excerpts…

Your debut film, Notebook, is all set to hit the theatres in a few days. Are you excited, nervous… what is your current state of mind?
Honestly, I’m feeling a lot of gratitude. Every day, I tell myself, ‘Thank God it happened. I really wanted it’. I have waited for this all my life, and I have spent the last two-and-a-half years preparing to enter films and giving auditions.

You gave auditions? The general perception is that industry kids have it easy...
A lot of people are surprised that I went for auditions. I tell them that if you want to become an actor, then that’s how it works. There’s a particular procedure and you cannot negate that. If you want to become a lawyer, you cannot say, ‘I won’t give CLAT because my dad is a barrister’.

Thousands of artistes from across the country come to Mumbai to become actors, how can anyone be an exception? In fact, while going for auditions, I never wrote my last name, because I didn’t want to be shortlisted because of my family background. I want to make it on my own, so that I can feel that I’ve earned what I deserve.

Nepotism is a much-talked-about topic these days. Many would find it hard to believe that your father never played a role in getting you into films…
I don’t know industry kids, because that’s not the group I hang out with. So, I don’t know how they made their way into films. But, I’ve never asked my dad or anyone from my family to make a single call to any of their connections from the film industry to fix up a meeting or an audition. I’ve probably been to every single casting office that exists in the city.

You always wanted to become an actor, but you went ahead and studied law...
I wanted to complete my education before pursuing my passion. I felt that law was a great course to do, and it has made me a different person. For example, if I have to buy a house, I know the technicalities of a sales deed or stamp duty kaise bharni hai. I am a hands-on person. When I studied, I did that with utmost devotion, and I wish to do the same with films as well.

When did you tell your father that you want to become an actor?
It was eight months before I graduated. When I had joined the law college, he told me, ‘It’s good that you’re studying law. If you want to become an actor, you can do that, but finish your education first’.

You are not formally trained in acting, but seeing your father during your growing-up years and listening to stories about your legendary grandmother must have been an acting lesson in itself, right?
While I was influenced by my dad’s talent, our conversations at home were never film-centric. He always taught me to be honest and sincere about my work. He would say, ‘You will hone your skills with time. The camera is your playground, so you’ll be more comfortable in your fourth film compared to the first one. Honesty is your greatest treasure’.

As a kid, did you ever visit his films’ sets?
Yes, a lot. I have visited him on the sets of Hum Saath-Saath Hain (1999), Astitva (2000), Kahin Pyaar Na Ho Jaaye (2000) and Raja Hindustani (1996), among others. I would get upset when he was beaten up, because he was the bad guy in most films. I would cry and tell my mom, ‘Call up papa now. He is getting beaten up’. She would then tell me, ‘He is fine; he is just acting (laughs!)’. I feel at home when I am on a film set. However, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t have to work hard on my craft.

Salman Khan and your father have been close friends for years, and now, your first film happens to be a Salman Khan production. What kind of a bond do you share with him?
I was around seven years old when I had lost my ‘Tweety’ cap at a studio and started crying. He came up to me and asked me what had happened. I told him that I had lost my favourite cap, and, in one hour, the same cap was given to me. He had asked his spot boy to buy a new one for me. From then till now, he has always been my favourite (laughs!).

How encouraging was he when you bagged Notebook, directed by Nitin Kakkar?
He was happy and proud. He told me, ‘Since acting is your passion, work hard and give it your all’.

You recently said that your grandmother’s film, Bandini (1963), is your all-time favourite. Did her talent leave an impression on you?
Any great work inspires you. I’m bowled over by the skill of Bimal da (Bandini director Bimal Roy), my daadi and dadamuni (late actor Ashok Kumar). My grandmother played a murderer in Bandini, but the viewer still feels empathetic towards her. She played her role with such purity.

What is that one quality of hers that you would want to imbibe as an actor?
I would want to imbibe every quality of my grandmother as an actor, but if I have to choose one, it would be her goodness. Every role she played reflected the goodness and purity in her.

Roshmilla Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; July 22, 2014)

Bimal Roy's last film, Bandini was undoubtedly his perfect masterpiece, despite being set in an imperfect world.

Its protagonist, Kalyani, in prison for a murder committed in a moment of madness, croons O Panchhi pyaare which conveys the pathos of life behind bars through its vivid imagery of a caged bird.

The irony of Kalyani's situation is further enhanced through another of bard SD Burman's haunting melodies. On the face of it, Ab ke baras bhej bhaiya ko babul, is a folk song in raag pilu about a newly-wed bride yearning for her maika, but in this case, Kalyani, vulnerable to the taunts of the other inmates and the advances of a lecherous jail official, is praying for a life beyond the confining walls, may be even in a world beyond.

In contrast to these two gut-wrenching Asha Bhosle tracks, are two Lata Mangeshkar solos set in happier times. Jogi jab se tu aayaa mere dwaare is lilting and playful, comparing an ascetic to a seductive lover. Even more gently provocative with its sexual undercurrents cloaked in Vaishav poetry, is Mora gora ang lai le.

The story behind this song is detailed in Sathya Saran's recently released book—Sun Mere Bandhu Re: The Musical World of SD Burman. Shailendra who had penned the six other songs, had a tiff with Dada Burman who was looking for a replacement. Debu Sen, Bimal Roy's assistant, knew of a garage mechanic, Gulzar, who mixed paints to touch up cars damaged in accidents. He wrote poetry too but was unwilling to have anything to do with films.

However, he was coaxed into visiting Mohan Studio. Roy immediately asked Sen in Bengali if the young man knew their language and understod Vaishnav poetry. It was Gulzar who answered in the affirmative and thought he saw the filmmaker blush.

He was informed that he was to compose a song for Kalyani, a naive village girl who is experiencing the first flush of love and sexual passion for Bikash, a nationalist on the run from British forces.

"Write her a song for her," Roy instructed. Burman interrupted, pointing out that Kalyani would have to step out of her house because she couldn't possibly sing such a song in front of her father. "Why not?" Roy argued. "She has heard Vaishnav poetry from him, so why can't she recite one before him?" His composer reasoned that this was not a poem but a love song. "But if a girl from a respectable family was spotted outdoors at night, it would tarnish her reputation?" Roy retorted. The argument escalated with Burman threatening not to compose the song unless he got his way. Roy was resolute, "She can't go beyond the courtyard." Wide-eyed, Gulzar listened to the raised voices, eventually getting a narration from Sen.

The next day, Sathya narrates, Burman Dada invited Gulzar home and for almost four hours sang la la la on the harmonium. His son Pancham (RD Burman) responded with a da da da. Walking home alone at night, with the moon playing hide-and-seek through the clouds, the words drifted into Gulzar's mind: Mora gora ang lai le, mohe sham rang dai de, Chhup jaungi raat hi mein, mohe pi ka sang de de... Kuchh kho diya hain payake, kuchh paa liya gawayake. Kahan le chala hain manwa, mohe bawari banayake...

"Kalyani appeals to the moon to take away her fairness and turn her dusky so she will melt in the darkness and no one will spot her going to her lover," explains Sathya. "We've had many songs revolving around the chand and chandni but this is a class apart."

The mood changes when Manna Dey walks with a freedom fighter to the gallows, a smile and the song, Mat ro mata on his lips, while Mukesh croons with a readside jogi, O jaanewale ho sake to laut ke aana, as Kalyani and her doctor walk towards a new beginning together.

Then the call comes, pulling her back to the past. A montage of cuts in the climax as she runs towards a boat with a majhi singing in Burman's baritone, O re maajhi... Mera saajan hai uss paar, adds its own touch of yearning to this unforgettable love story.

Many, including Roy's wife Manobina, tried to persuade him to change the end, pointing out that Kalyani deserved better than an elderly paramour dying of TB. It would be better if she settled down with the prison doctor who loved her despite her dark past. But Roy would not tamper with Charu Chandra Chakrabarti aka Jarasandha's original novel, Tamasi. He argued that there could be no other end because like Bikash, a political prisoner who'd lost everything, Kalyani, a prisoner of love, too had lost everything.

"She was a woman of principles. Once she knew that Bikash hadn't betrayed her, it would have been impossible for her to turn away from the dying man she'd loved all her life," reaons Roy's son Joy. And the songs echo down the years, reminding one of an incomplete but perfect love.