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BLAST FROM THE PAST

Shree 420 (1955)

The landmark scene! This image of Raj Kapoor and Nargis is etched in our memories.

When an expression — a musical note, a piece of art, a sculpture or a film — transcends the barrier of individual ingenuity to encompass the community as a whole, it attains gratification as a milestone in human history. It discards its l imited identity and imbibes a universal spirit, as showcased by the immortal song “Mera Joota Hain Japani” from RK Films’ “Shree 420”. Till date, it commands complete sway over the Indian masses, and even Eastern Europe.

Ranbir Raj Kapoor, the eldest son of the doyen of Hindi cinema, Prithvi Raj, shows just why he is the only person deserving the epithet of the ‘Showman’. When the newly-independent nation was exulting in symbols of Nehruvian socialism and nationalist idealism, it required a man of courage, faith and belief to showcase, with rare sensitivity, the pitfalls on the road to actual freedom — lack of food, productive work, decent housing and basic education.

Using symbols and metaphors to devastating effect, he showed that for India’s multitudes, poverty was a far greater obstacle than imperialism had been, and highlighted the agrarian crisis, urban decay, unemployment, infrastructure, housing and forced migration from rural to urban centres — showing how these constituted a far deeper malaise. That these issues continue to dog India more than fifty years later speaks volumes for Kapoor’s foresight, and is a sad testimony to the state of affairs.

Kapoor’s script was based on the most elemental of human values — honesty. An educated, unemployed youth, Raj (a Chaplin-inspired Raj Kapoor), who carries his honesty on his sleeve, moves from Allahabad to Bombay in search of work, where he he discovers the world is heavily prejudiced against the have-nots, and sadly, the honest.

The metaphor is heartrending, and comes straight form the gut, as Raj is forced to make a choice between Vidya or knowledge (Nargis – looking simultaneously ethereal and stunning, representing the virtues of hard work and honesty) and Maya or wealth — and in a more basic way, illusion (Nadira in a deft performance). Initially, Raj is entrapped by the glitter of money, till he sees reason, and makes his choice.

Kapoor triumphs in his subtle handling of romantic scenes with Nargis, with whom he shared, perhaps, the most passionate on screen chemistry ever.

Only he could have shown a sari-clad Nargis drenched by taking a dip on the Chowpatty beach, or changing from an opulent dress into a cotton sari on Diwali night, without making it look raunchy. The nuances are sublime, yet effective; a far cry from what Kapoor drifted into in his later films.

Kapoor was beyond doubt a genius, who had a firm grip on all sections of filmmaking — he was as much a director as an actor, as much a cameraman as a choreographer, a musician. Moreover, he was a master craftsman, an astute team builder.

The story, written by left wing intellectual Khwaja Ahmad Abbas (who also wrote the simple, hard hitting dialogues) is inspired from reality. The lyrics by Shailendra and Hasrat Jaipuri carry meaning commensurate to the storyline.

What added brilliance to the film was taut editing by G.G. Mayekar (although the last half-hour makes one wish for a speedy denouement, but then, even the moon has blemishes).

Cinematography by ace cinematographer and RK Films regular Radhu Karmakar is haunting. The close-up shots enhance performances. Raj and Vidya, singing under the not-so-effective protection of an umbrella, through lashing monsoon showers, on a deserted road in Bombay, are still etched in a billion hearts. Both won Filmfare Awards in their respective categories.

What was perhaps a pioneering effort in the industry was the commendable art direction, credited to M.R. Achrekar.

The music by another RK favourite of the period, Shankar-Jaikishen, gifted the nation a string of masterpieces, including the poignant “Rammiyya Vasta Vaiya”, the achingly romantic “Pyar Hua Iqraar Hua” and the childlike “Eechak Dana”.

There were brilliant performances by the supporting cast. The most befitting was by Nemo as the suave but dishonest Seth Sonachand Dharmanand. He wreaked of meanness, without going over the top, and the ever reliable Lalita Pawar as Gangabai, the Marathi speaking, banana selling poor mother-like figure with a heart of gold.

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