Irrfan Khan during a film shoot at Madh Island in 2008

Charting Irrfan Khan’s long, tough journey to the audience’s heart, which began with a footnote of a role on the small screen and the quest for a voice
Chandrima Pal (MUMBAI MIRROR; April 30, 2020)

Fans, followers and devotees of Irrfan will remember him for his inherently natural way before the camera, his easy body language and distinctive dialogue delivery. But it was not as though the actor woke up one morning and found his voice. ‘That’ voice.

Long before this Khan became the anointed king of indie cinema and took on meaty roles in big budget productions, he struggled to find a niche. There were the odds—he was lanky, not good-looking in the conventional sense, and yet to discover how best to use his eloquent eyes. However, he had a certain charisma and could turn the tackiest frame into something half-decent.

While Bollywood of the ’80s and ’90s certainly did not have room for an actor such as him (except Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay, which was hardly Bollywood, even though it was in Hindi), television seemed to be a tad more generous. Irrfan began with a footnote of a role in Bharat Ek Khoj, based on Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s seminal book, The Discovery of India. Epics and costume dramas were the order of the day, and Doordarshan was constantly throwing up opportunities for talented actors to eventually get a toe-hold in the industry and do work that they could be proud of. Irrfan was one of them. As Senapati Bhadrashal in Dr Chandraprakash Dwivedi’s 47-part epic Chanakya, Irrfan was not quite impressive. But the show gathered enough accolades and viewership to set him off.

Over the years, the actor hopped from one costume and period-drama to another, switching channels and mouthing dialogues that evidently came to him with certain difficulty. Whether it was the character of Rudra in DD’s take on Sharatchandra Chattopadhyay’s Sreekant (top-lined by Farooq Shaikh) or as the twin brothers Badrinath and Somenath in Neerja Guleri’s Chandrakanta on Sony, Irrfan looked ill-at-ease. It was no better in Sanjha Chulha, where he played a chillum-smoking sadhu dressed in a saffron sarong and dreadlocks.

It was not until he found himself in a realistic context, with dialogues he could sculpt according to his strength, that he began to make his presence felt. And it, kind of, came together for him when his wife, Sutapa Sikdar, wrote the dialogues for Banegi Apni Baat. The popular show, produced by Deeya and Tony Singh, captured the imagination of the generation that was comfortable talking about extramarital affairs, pre-marital sex, teenage crush and parent-child communication gaps. It was inspired by American coming-of-age TV dramas and it throbbed with a desi heart. Irrfan, who was initially reluctant to take on the role, was persuaded by his wife to audition for it. He played a father who starts off with a turbulent relationship with his kids, and eventually discovers his gentler, more sensitive side. The role and the show gave him an opportunity to flex his acting muscles for the first time.

BAB—as it was known—primed Irrfan for more roles in urban, contemporary settings, a universe where he thrived. In Sparsh, directed by Ravi Rai, who ruled the television industry at that time, he was definitely in his element as a man who negotiates a complex marriage and separations. It had just the right dose of reality, with a touch of drama, in an instantly recognizable setting that brought out Irrfan’s finest performance until then. Even then, he was still way down in the pecking order, with his peers such as Kunickaa Sadanand and Mahesh Thakur, bagging top honours.

By the time Ek Shaam Ki Mulaqat happened on Star Bestsellers, Irrfan was on fire. In the story about a married man who finds himself attracted to his eccentric land-lady, he gave us a taste of what was in the offing. The role was a serendipitous coming together of all that would define Irrfan Khan, the actor, on the big screen. He was gentle, funny, charismatic and extremely watchable. Most importantly, he played the lead. In the scenes where he preps his room hurriedly in anticipation of the woman’s arrival and his misreading of her ‘signals,’ Irrfan strikes gold.

Unlike the other Khan, who transitioned from television to the big screen as well, Irrfan did the entire arc. He worked hard to find his voice, that timbre, that would eventually set him apart from the others. And he was not apologetic for the calluses under his feet that spoke of his long, tough walk to his audience’s heart, where he would remain forever.

On poet-lyricist-writer’s 75th birthday today, actress-wife Shabana Azmi talks about the man who swept her away with his feminist ideologies and wry sense of humour
As told to Ankita Chaurasia (MUMBAI MIRROR; January 17, 2020)

Javed’s father, Jan Nisar Akhtar and my father, Kaifi Azmi, were fellow travellers and belonged to the same culture. Both were from Lucknow and members of the Communist Party and Progressive Writer’s Association. The first time Javed came to my place, he was only five and we were both on a different trip back then. He started writing poetry in the ’80s and would often visit us, asking my father for his opinion. Around the time, he watched Sparsh and was so struck by the film, he asked Sai Paranjpye to arrange for a meeting with the group. That’s when we formally met. Till then, I had only heard that he is extremely arrogant and that the team of Salim Khan and Javed Akhtar thought no end of themselves, but when I interacted with him I found him to be quite different.

The first thing that struck me about Javed was his bright mind and sharp wit. It was only then that I noticed how similar he was to my father. They shared the same ideology when it came to social justice, women empowerment and celebration of the composite culture of India; both loved Urdu and Urdu poetry and had a wry sense of humour. While their style of expression was different—Javed’s is more personal—their poetry addressed the same concerns. In fact, as I was getting to know Javed, I rediscovered my father’s roots and soon found myself waiting to listen in on their conversations.

In fact, Javed and I also have so much in common that everyone wondered why we didn’t have an arranged marriage. Getting married was not easy because he was already married and had kids. We didn’t speak to each other for months, even decided we had to break up, but ultimately, realised we really wanted to be with each other. So, we got married in December, 1984.

Girls often walk up to me and sigh over how lucky I am to be married to a poet. I quickly correct them and complain that Javed doesn’t have a single romantic bone in his body. When I tell him this, he says, “Just because you’re a trapeze artiste at a circus, will you hang from the roof of your home?” Over the years, he has written some couplets for me, and also a poem titled Shabana. But his expression of romance is very other worldly, an example is in the Main Azaad Hoon screenplay. In the film, there’s a scene where, after being addressed as ‘Madam’ by Amitabh Bachchan’s character, my journalist tells him, “Madam nahin, Subhashini.” Amitabh told me to give my best to the shot because it’s as romantic as we’d ever get in the film.

We don’t play the typical husband-wife roles at home but whenever I am in the slightest trouble, he bares his fangs like a cobra. It would have been impossible for me to pull off my father’s birth centenary celebrations without him standing solid by my side. He was a very good and dutiful son-in-law.

Javed also keeps pushing me to do better, like when I had to sing a Rabindra sangeet for Aparna Sen’s film Sonata, he told me I had to get the pronunciation and sur correct, otherwise I shouldn’t sing it. During Morning Raga too, he told me that if I couldn’t do the swarams in one take, I shouldn’t do the film. And when I got it right, he was beaming like a proud husband.

To be fair, he’s equally hard on himself. When he first came to Mumbai, he lived on the street and slept at Khar station. One particular night, he hadn’t eaten for days and had no money or clothes. It was raining very heavily and he was at his lowest, but he vowed, “Main yun hi marne ke liye paida nahin hua tha, yeh din badlenge, aur main kamyab hounga.” A friend offered him Rs 600 a month for ghost-writing but he refused outright, believing he would never be able to shake off the security that money would give him. I salute his resilience and I am deeply moved by his work. Javed doesn’t usually talk about his struggle; he channels the bitterness in his work to bring out the irony. “Hum na samjhe the baat itni si, khwaab sheeshe ke, duniya patthar ki,” beautifully encapsulating the essence of his struggle in a few words.

His process of writing is so different from my father’s, who would only write sitting on his desk, on a particular lined notepad, with a Mont Blanc pen. Javed can write in the middle of a party. I always tell him his producers wouldn’t pay him if they knew how easy it is for him. While people think of him as the creator of the ‘Angry Young Man’, I love his female characters. In most of his stories, the moral structure lies with the mother. I think that’s because he lost his mother when he was eight.

At a time when working women were invisible, his female characters had their own identity. Like that iconic scene in Trishul, where Waheeda Rehman roars, “Main tumhe apna doodh maaf nahin karungi.” Also, he has the unique ability to get into the shoes of a character and think like them. Eg. that scene in Deewaar where Amitabh Bachchan, Shashi Kapoor and Nirupa Roy present their points of view and you agree with all of them. I am also surprised at the range of his lyrics. He can write a “Dil Chahta Hai” and then go on to pen a “O Palan Haare”. That’s because he is from Awadh, a repository of the Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, and then, spent time in a city.

He is also a compassionate and wise man, all the ups and down of life didn’t make him bitter. In fact, he keeps telling us that by being rude to a person, you are undoing all the good you have done. But just because he won’t dominate, doesn’t mean he can be dominated. At the same time he is the biggest feminist I know and above all, he is my best friend. In fact, I quote him when I say, “Hum itne achhe dost hain ke shaadi bhi humari dosti bigaad nahin paayi.”

It’s nice to be married to Javed Akhtar.

Now, I’ll tell you why it is also difficult to be married to him. I am a minimalist and he likes grandeur. We were building a bungalow in Khandala, and at one point, I was sure we would get divorced because of it. Then his friend, Farhan, told me to let him be. “He is the man who slept on the streets and wants to have this. Don’t forget that he is Sholay and you are Ankur,” he pointed out. The penny dropped, and I surrendered. Our house is completely his vision.

Another area where we are polar opposites is in taking decisions. I am impulsive, but for Javed, everything is preceded by, “theher jao, ruk jao, abhi sochte hai.” He berates me for being in a hurry. People think I am losing my hair because of my ‘tender’ age, but it’s his patience that makes me tear it out.

On his 75th birthday, here are a few lines I’d dedicate to him:

“For what is a man, what has he got If not himself, then he has not To say the words he truly feels And not the words of one who kneels The record shows I took the blows And did it my way...”

As told to Subhash K Jha (DNA; January 8, 2017)

I was numbed on hearing about my dear friend Om Puri’s death. I was shooting away from Mumbai. Om and I had parallel careers in parallel cinema, so to speak. But I never felt any envy or resentment towards his achievements. He got a lot of roles like East Is East, which I thought would come to me. But I felt nothing but joy for him.

Real and rooted

His success in the West and when he spoke to me about working with Tom Hanks or Steven Spielberg, filled me only with happiness. Om was the salt of the earth. There’s no other way to describe him. He remained real and rooted all his life. Success or failure didn’t change him. There was not a pretentious or pompous bone in his body.

In a shambles

But his personal problems — in which I did not intervene at all — had left his mental and physical health in a shambles. I know for a fact that Om was really suffering during the last few years. And there was no way out of it. Though his death was sudden, I can’t say it was totally unexpected. In a way, death has relieved him of all the stress, and that includes the bad films he took on, I presume for financial reasons. Om took all the criticism on his chin.

Keeping the faith

As I think back on my rapport with him, I cannot recall one unlikeable incident. We were very close and most relaxed with one another. And we happily played walk-on parts or supporting parts in one another’s films. Om would often do cameos for my films, like that one scene in Sai Paranjpye’s Sparsh. I’d ask him if he didn’t feel embarrassed to be cast in such small roles. He would give gaalis and say, ‘Arrey yaar. I’m not doing it for you. I am doing it because I believe in the film.’ His faith in meaningful cinema was unshakeable.

What’s in a name

No role was too small or too big. He did walk-on parts in some of my films and I happily reciprocated his gesture by doing supporting roles in Govind Nihalani’s Aghaat, Ardh Satya and Droh Kaal where Om was the main character. In Godhuli, one of my earliest films in a leading role, Om had a small role and he was billed as Azdak Puri. There is a reason for that. When Om entered the film industry, his name was often confused with that of Om Shivpuri, who was doing a lot of work at that time. Om was dismayed. And he was seriously tempted to change his name to ‘Vilom Puri’ or ‘Azdak Puri’. I told him to stick to his name. ‘One day, Om Shivpuri will be mistaken for you,’ I told him. And that did happen.

The Puri voice

Om was not only mistaken for Om Shivpuri, but also for Amrish Puri’s brother, as they looked similar. One of Om’s specialties was mimicking Amrishji’s baritone. He would call me up pretending to be Amrish Puri and speak in Amrish’s voice. I’d be completely taken in. He would then say, ‘Arrey b**c**d, main hoon’.

I think the way Om used his voice was exemplary. In Ardh Satya, there is a scene where he speaks to Smita Patil on the phone supposedly in a drunken state. We don’t see Om at all in the sequence. But we know exactly what his character is going through. I later asked Om if he had downed some pegs before doing the scene. He hadn’t.

A shattering loss

More than me, Govind Nihalani must be shattered. It was Govind who spotted the talent in Om and harnessed it in film after film since Aakrosh. I remember after Aakrosh when Om attempted comedy in Kundan Shah’s Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, everyone said he would be wrong for the role. But I had seen how funny Om was on stage in an adaptation of Molliere. I think Om in Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro was a laugh riot.

Will miss Om

Today, I remember Om’s hearty laughter and his generosity of spirit. I am sorry I couldn’t be there for his funeral. I was shooting out of town. But my wife and sons were there. Hell, I am going to miss Om!”