India’s first talkie: Not a glorious affair

It is sometime before March 14, 1931, and Bollywood, as we know it today, is taking its first breath — but make no mistake, it is not a glorious affair.

On the sets of Alam Ara (1931), actress Zubeida, who plays the titular role, sits grease-painted in a chair — this is an era before the glitz and glamour of air-conditioned vanity vans where greasepaint was used to make actors stand out in harsh lighting — while director-producer and Imperial Movietone chief Ardeshir Irani is figuring out where in the set’s foliage to hide microphones (and live musicians), trying to make do with the small pool of resources, and an even smaller pool of expertise.

With nightfall, the crew rushes to roll, racing against the dawn to escape the distant rumble of passing trains at the station next door — not a glorious affair.

Beneath the unforgiving glare of the blindingly harsh lights, beads of sweat glisten on actors Zubeida and Master Vithal’s faces as they struggle to find their pitch, delivering dialogues in a medium they are unfamiliar with.

Meanwhile, Irani laments the absence of Baghdadi-Jewish Ruby Myers, aka Sulochana, his first choice for Alam Ara, whose Hindustani was too weak for the role.

Critics of the time claim Vithal, an established face in silent films, delivers dialogues underwhelming. The trailblazing project will, however, work wonders for Prithviraj Kapoor, a seasoned theatre thespian who plays a secondary character, launching him to super-stardom.

The true stars of the show — the musicians — conceal themselves uncomfortably within the oblivion of the set, playing live, for playback singing is yet to be born.

Not a grand spectacle, but a relentless pursuit.

Wazir Mohammad Khan makes history by singing De De Khuda Ke Naam Pe Pyaare, the first-ever song in Hindi cinema, and Zubeida sings a few others.

Riddled with hurdles, India’s first sound film, Alam Ara (the light of the world), was a diamond in the rough. The celluloid dream would go on to become a cultural landmark. It not only marked the beginning of the musically rich filmy cinema, but also played a huge role in shifting the paradigm away from western talkies.

The idea of the film was conceived by Irani after he watched Show Boat (1929), a talkie, at the Excelsior Theatre in Mumbai.

Adapted from a Parsi play by Joseph David, Alam Ara wove a tale of love, betrayal and destiny.

In the court of Sultan Mubarak, jealousy brews between his two queens, leading to the exile of General Adil (Prithviraj Kapoor) and the suffering of his wife. Amidst the turmoil, their lost daughter, Alam Ara (Zubeida), is raised by nomads, unaware of her royal blood.

In the shadows of fate, she finds love in Prince Qamar (Master Vithal), and together, they unravel the palace’s secrets.

Irani decided to take it upon himself to record sound for the project after learning the basics from Wilford Deming, an American expert who had come in to assemble the recording equipment. Deming had asked for Rs 100 a day — an exorbitant amount for Imperial at the time.

Vithal, driven by ambition, had leaped at the chance to play the lead role of Prince Qamar, despite being bound by his contract with Sharada Studio.

When the studio took him to court, he sought one of the sharpest legal minds of Bombay — Mohammad Ali Jinnah — who managed to help him get out of the contract.

The film first opened to an overwhelming reception at Bombay’s Majestic Cinema. According to historical accounts, shows were jam-packed, and crowds stepped out of the theatre in utter disbelief.

The demand for the movie far exceeded the number of theatres equipped with technology to showcase talkies. According to reports, the police had to be deployed outside shows to manage crowds.

Sadly, the film has since vanished unceremoniously, leaving behind only some posters, a promotional booklet and a vintage printing machine as heirlooms — with the footage believed to be permanently lost.

Made on fragile nitrate film, Alam Ara’s reels likely succumbed to decay and neglect, dissolving into dust before history could hold them close.

It was the Indian cinema’s first song, its first spoken dream, yet it lives now only in memory.

Often unceremonious in process, history is always glorious.

In that sense, Alam Ara is majestically glorious.

And, in that sense, Alam Aras are birthed daily, as a young child writes her first whimsical poem; as a PhD scholar sets out to forage for the unknown in a dusty old library; as theatre artistes, with nothing but delusional optimism and matching kurtas, scavenge for funds for the ‘next big play’.