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.”

Khayyam with wife Jagjit Kaur at an event in 2017

Veteran composer Khayyam breathed his last in a Mumbai hospital around 9.30 pm on Monday
Khalid Mohamed (MUMBAI MIRROR; August 20, 2019)

He always had a furrowed brow, as if he was waiting to reach an errant melody he couldn’t quite perfect. When he did, his face would soften, he would dart a rare smile and get on to the next one, which perhaps would be recorded or stay with him.

There are scores of songs which did not reach us, and perhaps never will. His repertoire of unheard compositions have departed with Mohammed Zahoor Khayyam, who passed away on Monday night. The departure, I could see was coming, at the suburban hospital where he struggled to open his eyes at least for a flicker of a moment during a month-long stay at the Tulip cabin of the ICU unit. Yeh kya jageh hai doston, Hindi cinema could have well asked, but then I’m getting maudlin here.

The end is endemic as the last stanzas of the songs Khayyam saab had created, without ever caring for the A-listers of the geetmalas from the 1950s on to the turn of another century. To be sure, because of our limited memories, the 92-year-old icon—never called one during his lifetime will be associated most of all with the ever-resonating soundtrack of Umrao Jaan.

If he was bitter to a degree, I suspect, about the Umrao experience it was because he had topped it with the songs composed for its director Muzaffar Ali’s Kashmir-set love story Zooni. The film was left incomplete, but its songs are somewhere out there on tapes mouldering in the vaults somewhere.

Khayyam was not prolific by choice. If Yash Chopra called upon him to do Noorie, Nakhuda, Trishul and Kabhi Kabhie, it was obviously because the chartbusting music directors couldn’t have touched the composer who insisted on doing it his own way and wouldn’t be subjected to prolonged sessions at ‘sitting rooms’ as they are called. The Kabhi Kabhie score especially had that extraordinary poetic quality.

When Khayyam was no longer in the Yash Chopra ‘camp’ so to speak, he kept silent. In show business, one has to move on. When I had asked him to comment on this, he had shushed me up instaneously with a have-you-come-to-talk-about-my-work-or-gossip?

His music had the USP of pauses (check out Ae-Dil-e-Naadan from Razia Sultan). The orchestra comes to a standstill, when Lata Mangeshkar’s voice returns, it’s pure magic. Incidentally, stalwart writer Javed Siddiqui points that it was Khayaam who made the completion of Pakeezah possible. “Do you know he and his wife (Jagjit Kaur) kept trying to make peace between Kamal Amrohi and Meena Kumari. And they succeeded. The film was restarted only because of them.”

Right from Footpath and Phir Subah Hogi to Shagoon and Aakhri Khat, Khayyam’s track record is classic. He would agree to a TV serial occasionally but had stopped accepting film projects which would make him compromise with his signature style – soft, gentle, romantic and from the heart.

Khayyam saab has left the ICU unit. He can never leave us, ever, because without him will never be another subah, another song of such love and longing.

Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; February 8, 2019)

On February 4, 1972, all roads led to Mumbai’s Maratha Mandir theatre where Kamal Amrohi’s Pakeezah was being unveiled. A chariot driven by six horses came with the print and a navy band played as industry big-wigs strode in to a shower of flowers, the foyer redolent with the scent of kewda and mogra. In the crowd was a boy of 18 who was waiting expectantly for his ‘chhoti ammi’. As soon as her car drove up, he ran down to take her hand as she stepped out. His father who’d been standing quietly in a corner, also moved forward towards his Manju more sedately. As she walked up, ethereal in a white gharara, strands of mogra in her hair, their eyes met. Smiling up at her Chandan, she took his arm and entered the auditorium. At around 9.30 pm, the lights dimmed and the film which had been conceptualised in 1958 in black-and-white, exploded on screen in a profusion of colours.

Everyone sighed as Nargis, a heart-broken tawaif, pines away in a cemetery after being turned away by her lover’s family... They smiled as her lookalike daughter, Sahibjaan, who grows up in a kotha, finds love in a train... The lady in white seemed like she was in a trance, her nails digging into the hand of the man beside her. Her grip must have hurt but he didn’t flinch, only smiled as he gazed down at her.

During the interval, the guests crowded around the couple for autographs and photographs before returning to the movie. As it neared the end, Manju rested her head on the man’s shoulder and said quietly, “Chandan, ek vaada karoge? After this you will not make another film.” He laughed, “Then what will I eat?”

The film ended. The reactions were mixed. Majnu aka Meena Kumari, who for weeks had worried about how she would look in her first role as a nautch girl, was reassured that despite the passage of time and ill health, she had never appeared more beautiful. And while everyone agreed that this was not the same Meena Kumari of Gomti Ke Kinare and Mere Apne, there were many whose compliments sounded insincere to the film’s writer-producer-director Kamal Amrohi’s ears. Like his distributors, they weren’t sure if the late Ghulam Mohammed’s songs would work in the era of Laxmikant-Pyarelal and Johny Mera Naam.

As they drove back home, some wondered if a dancing girl who is covered from head-to-toe even when she croons, “Inhi Logon Ne Le Liya Dupatta Mera” and whose vocabulary reflected an old-world tehzeeb would appeal to the modern-day audience? Wouldn’t the ‘thehraav’ of the film seem “too slow” for viewers speeding down life’s fast lanes? “Baba only smiled at his detractors, insisting that his Pakeezah was a slow poison. It didn’t kill instantly, but would live on with the audience till D-Day and in decades to come, would be listed among the top 10 Hindi films ever,” informs Tajdar, the son of Kamal Amrohi, who’d doted on his ‘chhoti ammi’ since he was five and continues to celebrate the fact that his father’s film immortalised Meena Kumari.

Rumours abound that Pakeezah only picked up after it’s leading lady’s untimely death on March 31. Tajdar dismisses them, arguing that a flop film wouldn’t have remained in the theatres for nine weeks. “The craze began when an all-women audience took over Prakash Theatre in Ahmedabad, and spread across India. Even when the news of chhoti ammi’s death was announced in the theatres, it was a full house. After she left us, her fans returned, again and again, to watch her last film and collections escalated. The investors and distributors got their money but Baba didn’t end up a millionaire. But he’s still revered as the Last Moghul,” avers Tajdar.

On February 3, a Pakeezah boat sailed from Chowpatty to the Gateway of India and back for a week, with half-a-dozen girls on board, some playing the sitar, some swaying to the songs. “No one else was allowed to get on and a boat would go out to the sea to fetch the girls,” recalls Tajdar, adding that no one had seen promotion like this before or since.

On February 11, 1993, Chandan passed away and was buried next to his Manju. Tajdar believes, in another world, his chhoti ammi is singing to his baba, “Chalo dildaar chalo, Chand ke paar chalo, Hum hai tayaar chalo… Aao kho jaaye sitaaron mein kahin, Chhod de aaj yeh duniya, yeh zameen…”

The Mother India actress wrote a piece on Meena Kumari’s death in 1972 which was published in an Urdu magazine. Excerpts from a translation by Yasir Abbasi
THE TIMES OF INDIA (December 2, 2018)

Happy Birthday. Wishes for your wedding. Happy Diwali. Eid Mubarak. I have often offered as well as received these wishes on numerous occasions. But… “Congratulations on your death” I have neither heard nor said this earlier. Meena, today your baaji [elder sister] congratulates you on your death and asks you to never step into this world again. This place is not meant for people like you… Meena always called me ‘baaji’. It’s so strange that despite being in the same profession and staying not too far away from each other, we didn’t meet for several years… One day I received a call from my husband (Sunil Dutt) who was away in Madras shooting for Main Chup Rahungi. Since it was going to be a long schedule, he asked me to come over with the kids. I reached Madras with Sanjay, who was two and a half years old then, and Namrata, who was barely two months old. Meena’s room was close to ours. Accompanying Meena was her sister Madhu and also Baqar Ali (Kamal Amrohi’s assistant)... She greeted me as soon as she saw me and said, “I have great regard for you and I hope you won’t mind if I call you ‘baaji’.” An instant friendship developed between us.

Once, Dutt saheb wanted to go out for Chinese food and an invitation was extended to Meena too but she said that she was tired after the day’s work and had already eaten early. She also offered to take care of the kids while we were away.

When we returned at 11 o’clock, the kids’ nanny informed us that both the children were still with her. Entering her room quietly, I saw both of them asleep on either side of Meena. The nanny told us that Meena had duly tended to all the duties — from taking Sanjay to the toilet to changing Namrata’s nappies and from preparing their feeding bottles to singing them loris… We didn’t meet for several days after that but one night I saw her walking in the garden of the hotel. She was panting and when I asked her the reason, she said, “Baaji, I eat tobacco and sometimes that results in palpitations.”

“Meena, this is not due to tobacco,” I told her. “You look very tired. Why don’t you rest for a while?”

“Baaji, resting is not in my destiny. I will rest just one time...”

That night there was some noise in Meena’s room — sounds suggestive of violence. Next day we came to know that she wasn’t feeling well and would not report for work. Once Sunil had left, I went to her room. Her eyes were swollen and I could sense that she had cried a lot… I caught hold of Kamal saheb’s secretary Baqar and spoke to him in direct terms, “Why do you people want to kill Meena? She has worked enough for your sake... For how long is she going to feed you?” Baqar saheb replied, “Baby (Nargis’s nickname), why don’t you understand? When the right time comes, we will rest her…”

We couldn’t meet for a long time once we were back in Bombay… but one day I heard that she had walked out of Kamal saheb’s home and had started living in Mehmood’s house (Mehmood was married to her sister). Meena had a showdown with Baqar on the sets of Pinjre Ke Panchhi and matters got so turbulent that she did not step into Kamal saheb’s house again… The stories about her alcoholism had begun to surface… Soon enough, excessive consumption of alcohol had weakened her liver and she was down with jaundice. When I visited her at Saint Elizabeth Nursing Home, I was careful that I didn’t mention anything that could embarrass or hurt her… Then, mustering some courage I added, “Manju (Meena’s nickname), you are free, but of what use is such freedom when you are bent upon killing yourself ?” She replied, “Baaji, my patience has a limit. How dare Kamal saheb’s secretary raise his hand on me? When I got the incident communicated to Kamal saheb, I thought he’d come running and immediately fire Baqar, but he said, ‘Come home and I will decide things here.’ What was there for him to decide? Now it’s me who has decided to not go back to him…”

Then, a new person entered Meena’s life — Dharmendra. She was so happy — it was almost as if she had got hold of the entire wealth of the world… If Meena has ever loved anyone passionately, the person is Dharmendra. If Meena has ever turned crazy in love for someone, it is for Dharmendra.

This was the most beautiful phase of her life. However, the good times were short-lived as a misunderstanding resulted in the two of them drifting apart. Dharmendra walked out of her life and left her heart-broken. She couldn’t cope up with the loss and hit the bottle… She would say, “Baaji, solitude is my destiny. I do not pity myself and neither should you.” Slowly, Meena started to inch towards death.

Excerpted with permission from Yeh Un Dinoñ Ki Baat Hai: Urdu Memoirs of Cinema Legends by Yasir Abbasi, Bloomsbury India 

Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; March 29, 2018)

March 31, 1972, Good Friday. Christians across the world were commemorating the crucifixion of Christ and his death at Calvary. In a Mumbai hospital, Bollywood’s Tragedy Queen was fighting for her life. “I don’t want to die,” Meena Kumari screamed, clawing at the tubes attached to her.

The actress had been diagnosed with cirrhosis of liver. Doctors in London and Switzerland had given her just six months to live and warned her to stay away from alcohol. What had started out, according to late actress Nadira, as an aperitif before dinner—a shot of sherbet-like brandy that her husband Kamal Amrohi’s German cinematographer, Josef Wirsching, thought could cure the pleurisy patch on her lung— had become a threat to her life. Meena Kumari tried to stay away but when the darkness engulfed her, it was her poetry and the bottle that offered solace.

She knew the end was near and wanted to settle her dues, which included completing her beloved Chandan’s Pakeezah. The film was launched in 1958 in black-and-white, then re-shot in colour and in cinemascope. In March 1964, when she walked out of Kamal Amrohi’s home, never to return, the film ground to a halt again. Five years and 12 days later, she returned to the Pakeezah sets. Her filmmaker-husband greeted her with a gold guinea and the promise that she’d look as beautiful as she had on the day they started the film. He kept his word. She looked stunning.

Pakeezah opened in February, 1972, with Meena Kumari in the title role of a lovelorn courtesan, Sahib Jaan, whose life changes after a chance encounter with the stranger Salim (Raaj Kumar) and a note he leaves behind, ironically praising her beautiful feet and urging her not to step on the ground — maile ho jayenge. Their paths keep crossing until he finally anoints her Pakeezah (Pure of Heart) and in the end, comes with a palanquin to her kotha to take her away from a life of shame forever.

Interestingly, the actress also opted for a change of name. She’d been christened Mahjabeen by her parents and though it was an unusual and beautiful name, it seemed a little heavy-weight for a moppet. “You sound like a stout begum sahiba,” one of the unit members joked, and the makers gave their child star a choice of four names—Kamla, Prabha and Meena. She picked the third and returned home that evening with Rs 25 that went towards paying the rent and a new name that she lived with for 34 years.

The plain little girl with a too thin face grew into a beautiful woman but a lonely one. And on Good Friday she surrendered to her fate, walking away from the world, tanha, leaving behind verses that echoed her loneliness…

Chand tanha hai, aasman tanha, Dil mila hai kahan kahan tanha.
Bujh gayi aas, chhup gaya taara, Thartharaata raha dhuaan tanha.

Zindagi kya isi ko kahate hain, Jism tanha hai aur jaan tanha.
Humsafar koi gar mile bhi kahin, Donon chalte rahen tanha tanha.

Jalti-bujhti-si roshani ke pare, Simata-simata-sa ek makaan tanha.
Raah dekhaa karega sadiyon tak, Chhod jayenge ye jahaan tanha.

Her swan song, Pakeezah, opened to a lukewarm response but picked up after her untimely death. “People packed the theatres. They weren’t coming to see a film but were there to visit Meena Kumari’s mazaar,” Nadira had told me. The words echo in my ears every time I watch the classic and I wonder if Meena Kumari might have had a better life had she remained Mahjabeen.

His children say the movie was not part of the deal
Nazia Sayed (MUMBAI MIRROR; October 19, 2017)

A movie, which survived 16 years of filming and relationship trials to become one of Indian cinema’s most iconic pictures, is now the subject of a high-profile and complex legal tussle.

DB Realty has filed a suit in the Bombay High Court claiming the rights of the 1972 classic Pakeezah, which was directed by Kamal Amrohi and starred Meena Kumari. The company has moved the suit through Mahal Pictures, which it acquired along with the landmark Kamalistan studio from Amrohi’s children seven years ago.

The children — Tajdar, Shandar and Rukshar —have contested the company’s assertion, saying Pakeezah was their father’s most personal work and it was not part of the Mahal Pictures deal.

DB Realty’s suit is primarily against Shemaroo Entertainment Ltd, which bought the film’s rights from the Amrohis in 2015. The Amrohis have joined Shemaroo to oppose the claim because they believe Shemaroo would do justice to their late father’s legacy.

Kamal Amrohi announced Pakeezah in 1956, four years after he married Meena Kumari. But the movie suffered huge delays as their relationship broke down, Amrohi switched from black and white to colour format and Kumari became seriously ill. The movie was finally released in 1972 and it is described by many as Kumari’s best performance.

In 2010, the legendary filmmaker’s children sold his Mahal Pictures to Pune-based builder Avinash Bhosale, DB Realty and the Luthrias.

Tajdar told Mirror on Wednesday that it was mentioned in the contract that after the property sale, Pakeezah’s rights would be pledged back to him as it was his father’s legacy. He said Pakeezah was never a Mahal Pictures production so DB Realty cannot claim its rights.

“Even in the film credits, it is mentioned that the film was written, directed and produced by Kamal Amrohi. Nowhere is it said that it’s a Mahal Pictures production. So when it is my father’s private property, they cannot claim it to be a part of Mahal Pictures. We have sold Mahal Pictures, not Pakeezah,” he said.

But Avinash Bhosle insisted the movie rights were part of the deal. “When we bought Mahal Pictures, the copyright of the film was also handed over to us. Yet, the Amrohis illegally sold the rights to Shemaroo. We are fighting for something which legally belongs to us,” he said.

Tajdar said in 2008, the board of directors of Mahal Pictures unanimously passed a resolution that Pakeezah’s rights would be transferred to him in the event of a company sale. He has submitted the minutes of the meeting in the court.

Vinod Karani, vice-president of Shemaroo Entertainment, has said in a reply to the suit that DB Realty-run Mahal Pictures deliberately hid the facts about the 2008 meeting from the court. He has added that DB Realty filed a “false case” after it learned that Shemaroo had started exploiting the film rights.

Advocate Mahesh Mahadgut, who is representing Shemaroo, said the Amrohis and Shemaroo had a valid agreement for the movie rights.

Jatin Rajguru, an authorised signatory for Mahal Pictures, said the company was the rightful owner of Pakeezah. “The censor board issued a certificate in 1971 where Kamal Amrohi was mentioned as the producer of the movie. At the time, he was the owner of Mahal Pictures,” he said.

He added: “Shemaroo and the Amrohis never mentioned the 2008 board meeting at the time of execution of the share purchase agreement.”

Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; October 12, 2017)

'Jaani' Raaj Kumar would have turned 91 on October 8 and perhaps we might have seen him running after a train on a stormy night, like Salim in Pakeezah, who changes the life of a nautch girl, Sahibjaan, with a few scribbled lines of poetry…

“Aapke paon dekhe, bahut haseen hai, inhe zameen par mat utariyega, maile ho jayenge.”

Forty-five years later, these words spoken in that unforgettable baritone still resonate as writer-producer-director Kamal Amrohi’s son, Tajdar, admits that one of the reasons his father cast Raaj saab was because of his voice and impeccable Urdu diction, and because his face and genteel manners stamped him as an aristocrat from a cultured, orthodox family.

“Also, Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, with the same jodi, had been a huge hit and Raaj saab accepted the film without even enquiring about his role in a heroine-oriented film, confident that Kamaal saab would not be unfair to him,” informs Tajdar.

He goes on to reveal, almost half a century later, that the man you see in the first scene, running after the train, was not actually the actor but someone Kamal saab had picked out from the crowd. The man wore Raaj Kumar’s clothes and hat. “Raaj saab was arriving late and there was no time to waste as the platform had been booked for a specified time and the station master was urging him to wrap up his shoot quickly. Later, when Raaj saab saw the scene, he wondered when he’d shot it. My father assured him that they had taken the shot long ago and he’d forgotten,” Tajdar smiles fondly, marveling at the bond between his father and the actor.

Raaj Kumar had a reputation for being an eccentric. While Tajdar doesn’t endorse this, he recalls, how for a particular sequence, shot over three-four days, the actor would report every day in a different outfit despite being told there was no need for costume changes. Kamal saab didn’t argue with him after a point but on the last day of shooting, he had a quiet word with the dressman, telling him to give Raaj saab the clothes he’s worn on the first day and quickly taking his shots to ensure that continuity was maintained.

He goes on to recount another sequence, which had a thakur who, having recognised Sahibjaan from the kotha, chases after the tonga carrying her and Salim on his horse. Incensed, Salim gets off and gets into an altercation with the man, holding the reins off his prancing horse till the thakur cracks his whip down on his hand, surprising him into letting go.

“Raaj Kumar ke haath se lagan chhut jaye, yeh ho hi nahin sakta, with one twist of my hand I can bring the horse down,” the actor argued. Kamal saab pointed out that he was not Raaj Kumar but Salim in the scene but he was obdurate. “Finally my father took the junior artiste playing the thakur aside and told him to hit him a couple of times till Raaj saab let go. Perhaps he learnt about this but when it was time to face the camera, he told my father that while Raaj Kumar would never let go of the reins, maybe Salim ke haath se lagaam chut sakti hai. And so the shot was filmed with him finally disciplining the thakur,” smiles Tajdar admitting that such incidents brought the two closer, enhancing the love and respect they had for each other.

And we are left with a memory of that baritone intoning another famous dialogue from the film.

“Beshak mujhse ghalati hui. Main bhool hi gaya tha iss ghar ke insaanon ko har saans ke baad doosre saans lene ki ijaazat aapse leni padhti hai. Aur aapki aulaad khuda ki banaai hui zameen par nahin chalti, aapki hatheli par rehti han..”

Ahh, for the days of the Raaj again!

Roshmila Bhattacharya (MUMBAI MIRROR; August 10, 2017)

It may not have been a real ghost story but even after 68 years, Late Mangeshkar’s “Aayega Aanewala” from Kamal Amrohi’s 1949 directorial debut Mahal continues to haunt our collective imagination. It was composed by Khemchand Prakash, who the Melody Queen fondly called “chachaji”. He heard her singing for Ghulam Haider and offered her a song in Bombay Talkies’ Ziddi, “Chanda Re Ja Re Ja Re”, picturised on Kamini Kaushal. The film launched Dev Anand as a leading man and featured Kishore Kumar’s first song, “Marne Ki Duaayen Kyun Maangoon”.

The singing doyen remembers running into Kishore in the local train. Dressed in kurta, pyjama and a muffler, he unnerved her by singing to himself. Then, he hopped into a Victoria at Malad station and followed her to the studio. She was complaining about the ‘stalker’ when Kishore walked in and, with a laugh, Khemchand informed her he was studio boss Ashok Kumar’s younger brother. “Chachaji then gave us the duet, ‘Yeh Kaun Aaya Re’ and Kishore went on to joke about our introduction on stage at a show in Jalandhar,” reminisces Lata, who sang five solos and the duet for Ziddi.

Impressed, Khemchand then offered her “Aayega Aanewala”. She recalls Kamal Amrohi telling the composer that he wanted her to convey that the hero, Ashok Kumar, was listening to Madhubala sing from a distance.

“Those days the producer and director had a lot of say in the music and Chachaji was worried about how the song would shape up. The musicians, who played live, were sitting up front while I was despatched to the farthest corner of the studio and asked to slowly walk towards the mic, singing the song. After several rehearsals we went for a take. We recorded on film then and it wasn’t till he heard it the next day that Chachaji knew his experiment had succeeded.

Thrilled, he blessed me and gave me ‘Dil Ne Fir Yaad Kiya’ and ‘Mushkil Hai Bahot Mushkil’,” says Lata, looking back at how, after learning that she left home after drinking a cup of tea and didn’t eat all day, the composer got her a dabba of homemade parathas, achaar and halwa and insisted she eat before they started rehearsals.

“Chachaji treated me like his own daughter, regaling me with stories of (KL) Saigal saab, whom I idolised. He even reprimanded a studio employee who tried to chat me up and threatened to beat him up. The man never troubled me again,” she laughs.

Those days, the record released before the film. All Mahal songs were well received, with “Aayega Aanewala” becoming the chant of the nation. It was voted the song of the millennium. “Bol bahut achche the and it was filmed beautifully. My only regret is that Chachaji fell ill soon after and didn’t live to see how successful his songs and the film became. He would’ve been so happy. I was devastated the day he passed away.” Khemchand Prakash died aged 42 on August 10, 1950, two months before Mahal released.

Vickey Lalwani (MUMBAI MIRROR; August 11, 2014)

Rachana Dubey (MUMBAI MIRROR; May 23, 2014)

Tajdar Amrohi has re-booted his father's banner Mahal Pictures under a new name, Kamal Amrohi Pictures, and has bought two properties in Bandra-one for a new office and one for a rehearsal studio. A biopic on his father's second wife Meena Kumari is in the pipeline.

Pointing out why he was refused permission for a biopic so far, Tajdar explains, "My baba was not the villain in chhoti ammi's life. It's said that he deprived her of motherhood but the truth is that she had conceived twice and both times had aborted the baby. This is just one of the many things I will have to weave into the screenplay to bring out their real love story."

However, his first production which rolls this monsoon will have a cast of fresh faces. "Rain plays a major role in the narrative. We need to shoot on the streets and in the busy pockets of Mumbai and with newcomers we won't invite unnecessary attention," he reasons. A couple of songs have already been recorded with lyrics penned by Tajdar. 

Preity Zinta dismisses bankruptcy rumours and talks about life in a ‘sexist, regressive society’
Shubha Shetty-Saha (MID-DAY; February 27, 2014)

Relatively controversy-free for the better part of her career, Preity Zinta suddenly finds herself in the news for all the wrong reasons, including rumours of her having gone bankrupt. Preity clears the air…

The curious case of Kamal Amrohi
I met Kamal Amrohi in the year 2000. Though he addressed me as his daughter, I ignored him initially.
Gradually, I found out the old man had family issues. His nephew had stolen his shares and he asked me to help him get a lawyer to fight his case.

Once he recovered the money, he wanted to make a movie, but then he died. The case is now sub- judice. I never took anything from anybody. The legal document containing proof of the money that I spent on him was also produced in court. He wanted to adopt me and make me his legal heir in his will. But I did not want to be adopted nor did I want any share of his property.

Thank god for the internet; there are a series of interviews online where he said that I had helped him financially, including buying a house. The other side is now slinging mud at me but the truth will come out.
This world is becoming a terrible place. If you help someone, it backfires. Had I taken his money and if he was to die later, they’d have certainly accused me of killing him as well. All I can say is that it is not my nature to go ahead and slander people.

Bankruptcy rumours
I feel sad about rumours suggesting that I am renting out my place to pay off my debts, which runs into the Rs 5-10 lakh figure. Do you think I stay in a shack? I have lived in that house for 10 years and will continue to stay there. I am talking about this now because it has snowballed into a major controversy. I am an entrepreneur too and have many more things (besides acting) to do. I invested in a cricket team, but people think it happened because I was dating a rich guy. That’s not the truth. We live in a sexist, regressive society.

Lean patch
Yes, I took a loan for my first movie Ishkq In Paris as a producer. That’s how one does it. It didn’t work but I am not one to be bogged down. It was an experiment, a learning experience. Can you think of one production house that has not had a film that didn’t work? I am the only person who has made a film where no one lost money. I have done many right things so I can accommodate a failure. I was a bit arrogant in some ways and also had some bad luck. But there’s something coming up soon. Now I have learnt enough to direct a film.

Special someone?
You will find out soon. You know me, I can’t keep a secret for long. I took a very tough decision to walk away from everything that I had, and follow my heart. Everyone wrote me off and said someone else must have done it for her. But I can say that my life is going good and I don’t regret anything at all.