Kundan Shah’s prophecy comes true

Aditya Sharma

KUNDAN SHAH’S tragi-comic body of work not only amused and informed, but also, more importantly, made the audience empathetic. 

About two years ago, I went to seek Kundan Shah’s advice on script writing at his Bandra office in Mumbai. I was then working with Reader’s Digest, but was contemplating writing for television and films. It was surprising that Shah had agreed to meet me. Usually, film directors give time to journalists only for interviews. Ask them for a little help and chances are you would be ignored. But, Shah was different — a towering creative figure with a heart of gold. 

Dressed in a white shirt and dark-brown trousers, he shook hands with me warmly. His office was simple, with basic furniture and steel almirahs stocking hardbound files. I could see several novels, mainly by Russian writers, lined on one of the shelves. I couldn’t help asking him who his favourite writer was. ‘Dostoevsky,’ he said with a glint in his eyes, ‘I have read all his books many times over.’

Shah asked me a few questions about my background, indicating his interest in people. He made queries about Reader’s Digest, its editorial staff, office and circulation, before revealing his connection with it. ‘In the 1970s, I too worked with it. My job was to type the names of subscribers and their addresses,’ he smiled, recollecting his unglamorous past. ‘They used to pay me by the number of words I typed!’ 

As I sought his advice on script writing, a cloud of seriousness hung on his face. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Instead of being an art, films are getting increasingly commercialised. I have almost retired. Try your luck, but for all I know, you might end up becoming a ghostwriter.’ Shah had spent over 30 years in the film industry and the rot he had been witnessing, I guess, made him pessimistic. 

When he learnt that I was carrying a pendrive, he said to me: ‘You are a writer. I’ll give you a few good articles to read.’ Soon, he was painstakingly transferring the data from his PC to my pendrive.

So far, he had discouraged any conversation about himself. When I told him how instrumental he was in shaping the sensibilities of innumerable people who grew up on his films and TV serials like Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, Nukkad, Ye Jo Hai Zindagi, Wagle Ki Duniya and Kabhi Haan Kabhi Na, he listened patiently to me.

‘Someone said something similar to my wife recently,’ he said, ‘It’s nice to know that my work has been useful to others.’

As I took a local train home, I couldn’t help wondering why a genius like Shah had stopped working, and why his later films couldn’t match the brilliance of what he had produced earlier. Is it because creativity peaks at a certain time in an artist’s life and starts waning suddenly, or is it because the market forces rob a talent to make his kind of cinema? Whatever it was, it is certain that his name would figure on the list of the best Indian directors. 

Just a few months ago, when I got the chance to write a few episodes of a TV script, I was told that the writing credit would go to someone else. That ‘someone’ only dictated ideas — harebrained at that. I took up the work, for I needed money. In retrospect, I realise how accurate Shah was. I had ended up becoming a ghostwriter.