Jaya Bachchan on Hrishikesh Mukherjee
I also heard that another actress had been signed for Guddi.
As luck would have it, the then principal of FTII, Jagat Murariji, met Hrishikaku on a flight, and he mentioned he was looking for a girl for Guddi. My principal asked him to come and check out the students at the institute.
Hrishikaku was such an easy man and a real visionary—a master craftsman. He edited at the screenplay level, and there was absolutely no question of overshooting. He was a producer’s director: economical and, as I said, he never shot extraneous material. Even in his screenplays, there were no instructions like “long shot” or “close-up.” Everything was decided on set at the moment. He never made heavy weather about anything.
He was like a father figure to me—protective and always advising me on which films to take on. I was reluctant to do Shor, but he insisted I meet Manoj Kumar, who was a senior. After the meeting, I was still hesitant because it was a hero-centric film, but Hrishikaku encouraged me to go for it. I don’t know if I should say this, but Dev saab had called him for Hare Rama Hare Krishna, but Kaku felt I wasn’t suited for the role.
Of the films he directed, I’m especially fond of Musafir, Anuradha, Anupama, and Satyakam. He had a unique way of exploring human relationships and delineating them. He was ahead of his time, in a manner of speaking.
I loved working on all the films we did together. I remember the climax shot in Abhimaan where we walked down the steps after the song Tere mere milan ki ye raina, which we shot after Amitji’s and my marriage in real life.
Whatever success I had in these films was due to Hrishikaku. I followed his advice to a T, but he never over-directed. The scriptwriter, dialogue coach, or assistants would narrate my lines to me. He had such a wonderful ensemble crew, like Gulzar bhai. We worked together like one big happy family.
I remember a scene in Mili where she overhears her father talking about her illness and is overcome. At night, she goes to her father (Ashok Kumar) and asks if she can lie down next to him. I recall Dadamoni being so moved by that scene that he called for a cut, but Hrishikaku left the camera rolling. Everyone on set started crying.
Those were genteel, extraordinary times. We all worked like a family, with no one trying to outdo another. He never allowed actors to do that. As a director, he was more interested in reaction shots and how you related to your co-star in a scene. I remember a co-actor trying to show me how to perform a scene in Bawarchi, and Hrishida curtly interjected, “Don’t teach her how to act; she’s a trained actor.” From him, I learned not to ask for a retake. That’s why I don’t like retakes to this day and feel quite crabby when newer directors ask for them.
He was truly a man of many talents. Besides being a classical musician, would you believe he also taught science? Isn’t that amazing? He was wonderful, gentle, and very principled. He would always guide me, saying, “Jayama, do this. Jayama, come here.”
I remember asking him for one more take in Mili because I felt I could do better. He shouted at me, saying, “You think you are a star? Dimaag kharab ho gaya hai.” He said he would punish me. Do you know how he punished me? During dubbing, he made me dub the scene without the visuals, just with headphones and the dialogue. I had to do it—imagine dubbing a scene without the visuals.
Even after my marriage, I would visit him and bring video cassettes of films to show him. I truly miss that era when people genuinely loved each other—there was no showiness. I don’t ever remember him celebrating his birthday or having lavish parties.
His genius lay in his simplicity. He conveyed the most complex emotions in the easiest and most seamless manner. Those were simpler times, but we learned lessons for a lifetime.
