The Making of Shatranj Ke Khiladi: The master and the bania

My Adventures with Satyajit Ray

The Making of Shatranj Ke Khiladi

Suresh Jindal

HarperCollins

187 pages; Rs 350

Photographer Pablo Bartholomew was born the same year Satyajit Ray made his first film Pather Panchali (1955). So it was a serendipitous coincidence that as a 20-something he was hired to take stills during the shooting of Ray’s first Hindi film Shatranj Ke Khiladi (1977). The stills he captured of the actors on sets were probably used in some publicity material, but he captured much more: Glimpses of behind-the-scenes action of one of the greatest filmmakers at work. A more comprehensive picture emerges in this book, an accumulation of recollections and letters written and received by the film’s producer.

When Mr Jindal approached Ray with the offer of producing a film, he was in his early 30s. But he had already delivered a hit: Rajanigandha (1974), now considered a classic of the middle-of-the-road cinema of Basu Chatterjee and Hrishikesh Mukherjee. Ray was a globally recognised auteur, though, as some might argue, his best work was already behind him. Mr Jindal provides a tongue-in-cheek contrast between the rookie producer and acclaimed director in the first chapter: “I was 5’6” tall and he was 6’2”... I was from a... non-intellectual Jain-Bania family... Ray was from a distinguished family of Bengal... I was young, hotheaded... He was a calm, accomplished master.” Such differences of culture would, in Mr Jindal’s words, “blow up” in the young producer’s face, revealing a lot about regional chauvinism and the unprofessional attitudes of many among the film fraternity — but more on this later.

The real meat of the book is in the letters Ray and Mr Jindal exchanged, from early 1975, as they began work on the film. Wonderfully annotated and interspersed with Mr Jindal’s recollections, these provide an insider’s view of how films were made in India in the mid-seventies — arguably the most productive and diverse period in its 100-year-long history. From getting licences in the middle of the Emergency for buying film stock to the poor equipment available for shooting and problems of raising funds and convincing distributors to show your movie — readers are provided a rare insight into the kind of film history that’s hardly ever explored, even in the most erudite writing on Indian films. This could serve as a starting point for a enterprising scholar to do some archaeological work. There are also some previously unknown facts: For instance, a letter from June 25, 1975, reveals how Ray had initially wanted Asrani to play Wajid Ali Shah; the role would eventually go to Amjad Khan.

These letters also reveal Ray as a pragmatic filmmaker, finding innovative ways of cutting costs and making his film saleable without compromising its aesthetic values. “I have never met a more practical film-maker than him, nor have I heard or seen of a director more considerate towards his producers,” writes Mr Jindal, while recalling many incidents on and off the sets. For instance, on discovering a problem with continuity, Ray advised Mr Jindal to reconstruct only a part of the set and not the whole as art director Bansi Chandragupta had suggested. He would need only a wall to reshoot the scene, and it would be cheaper.

There is also a persistent myth that Ray was more a “dictator” on the sets than a director, as he did almost everything, from writing scripts and dialogues, to shooting, designing sets, composing music and even editing. This book counters this myth through at least two examples. Ray accepted Mr Jindal’s suggestion of using Amjad Khan – who had recently become wildly famous as Gabbar Singh in Sholay – for Wajid’s role, as it would be a financially wise decision. Ray also allowed Richard Attenborough to smoke cheroots and wear a prince-nez while acting as General Outram, as the actor’s research showed the character actually did these things.

Unfortunately, despite all efforts of the director and the producer, the production runs into troubled waters. What begins as drunken jokes become a visceral contest between the producer and some members of the crew. Mr Jindal describes how perceived insults and slights to some in the middle of a tight schedule and very challenging working conditions results in crew members holding the shooting to ransom, especially during outdoors in Lucknow and Jaipur. While this is only one version of the events, it is symptomatic of arm twisting tactics employed by Left labour unions that would completely destroy all industry in Bengal. The series of misunderstandings leads to a showdown between Ray and Mr Jindal, with the producer withdrawing from almost all production-related tasks, rejoining only much later, after he is placated.

In the final chapter, Mr Jindal describes Ray thus: “I saw him... as the ‘boy standing on the burning deck’... the burden of keeping alive its (Bengal’s) erstwhile greatness falling upon the shoulders of one remaining giant, Satyajit Ray”. One is reminded of another picture by Pablo Bartholomew: Of Ray and his wife, Bijoya, emerging from Indrapuri Studio in Calcutta (Kolkata). On their right is a wall, devoid of paint, its bricks revealed like the bones or teeth of an animal. Shot in black and white, the picture sets up a haunting counterpoint between the genius of Ray and the seedy environment in which he was forced to work. That is the price we extract from our best artistes, multiplying the efforts required to create a work like Shatranj Ke Khiladi.