In retrospect, I knew the man quite literally through his work. Knew his cinema before I knew his name, before I could tell what cinema was.
They got imprinted on the mind of the 10-year-old girl all those years ago, powerful visuals in black and white and there they remained forever. Disturbing scenes, but so effectively told that it all seemed to work seamlessly. A deaf and mute man being beaten, even whipped, by a rich zamindar. The palpable tension throughout the film — the rich vs the poor, the powerful vs the powerless, a physical relationship that felt uncomfortable, anger, helplessness, privilege. Sometimes the screen lit up with the presence of a woman wearing a large bindi and all that her face conveyed — pain, compassion, self-expression. Then there was that scene wherein a little boy picks up a stone and throws it at the zamindar’s house.
Today, I know other things about Ankur, Shyam Benegal’s film from 1974. That it was a low-budget art house film and the first full-length feature film by an advertisement professional, that it ran for 25 weeks at Bombay’s Ganga theatre at a time when popular mainstream cinema was on a dance. But back then it was “ankur” in every sense of the term, at many levels.
The range of Benegal’s cinematic explorations is formidable. One watched films such as Trikal and Suraj ka Satvan Ghoda first with the eyes alone and only later was able to gain some understanding. But those early recollections were powerful enough to compel me to go back and look for more. What a lesson in the art of storytelling is Suraj ka Satvan Ghoda!
And to think he brought out such performances from new actors — Shabana Azmi, Anant Nag, Rajit Kapoor. Despite dealing with serious issues in a realistic manner, Benegal gave audiences a certain sense of fulfilment of what is called the cinematic experience.
About two decades later, it was a privilege to listen to the maestro speak on the history of cinema, the role of the NFDC, and share space with him on the steps of the FTII auditorium at Pune for photographs.
It was only recently, a few months ago, that I had the occasion to speak to him — rather, listen to him speak — at length. Manthan had been restored and screened once again in theatres across India.
I did my bit of homework, prepared some points of discussion, despite my nervous excitement. Those days he went for dialysis thrice a week, his wife Nira Benegal had said, but on other days he was in his office at his usual time. He would be very happy to speak to The Telegraph, she said enthusiastically.
So one evening in June 2024, I called Benegal’s number at the appointed time. “Where is the need for Zoom and things like that when you can just pick up the phone and talk,” the unassuming filmmaker had said.
I had to only float a question about the making of Manthan, and the 89-year-old embarked on a commentary of the period. The film is really the story of the Amul cooperative and the subsequent White Revolution. Benegal gushed about the context — the problem at hand, the struggle of the dairy farmers, the limitations, the courage and brilliance of leaders… all part of a fairly newly-formed nation trying to build and consolidate its being. He spoke of how Nehru and Patel played their part in the hustle and bustle, and the joy of things taking shape in the context of Anand. “The interest of the farmers was of utmost importance,” was his refrain every few minutes.
It was as if Benegal was reliving those times.
Every time I wanted to ask him about his film, I was silenced; some of it was awe and some his infectious joy.
At one point the phone connection snapped, and he called back. Not once but twice. The connectivity, however, could not be established. Not wanting to miss the moment, I tried calling Nira’s number to see if that would work. And it did.
Benegal continued with his notes on social history with the effervescence that is perhaps the easy terrain of only the knowledgeable and humble.
“We went from being a milk-deficient nation to being the largest producer of milk, earning valuable foreign exchange and also raising the living standards of dairy farmers. It was a win-win situation,” he said, the pride in the “we” was unmistakable.
The success of Amul led to the downfall of Polson, a flourishing brand that had till then monopolised the market. Polson didn’t care much for the farmers’ profit, and this may have been a moral push for the adman Benegal, who was handling the Amul account at Advertising, Sales and Promotion. “After Amul came, they got wiped out,” he said, excitedly, as if the farmers’ betterment was a personal victory.
A few days before the maestro flew to another world, I tried calling his number several times. To think he was at the other end of the phone line only days ago, and now, gone.
Perhaps he will make a sincere, realistic film on the other world. One cannot even begin to imagine how that will give the cinema of the mortals a run for their money.