I had finished writing the first half of Mulk (2018) in three days flat – that is over Friday, Saturday and Sunday. By the end of Friday, I knew I had to reach out to Rishi Kapoor. Ten days later I was sitting in front of him with the script. Rishiji looked at the thick script and asked if I was going to narrate it to him. “Of course!” I replied.
I was fighting a battle within. If Rishiji were to say no to this script I didn’t know who else to go to. So, in my mind he had to say yes for Mulk to be made. I had to give my best shot with the narration because he was telling me, “No no… bhai I’m not used to reading scripts. Our directors used to tell us the story in brief before we signed. We’d get our scenes every day on the set. So just tell me the basic idea in a nut shell.” For a change, I was nervous. The film was trying to swim against the political tide of the country at the time. I was apprehensive that he may not want to take a political stand. By the time I finished, he had concerns completely unrelated to the script. Like there’s no hero in the film. Who will fund it? He wasn’t awfully wrong. It did take me a while to find finance to make the film.
I had heard myths about Rishiji. Like he doesn’t negotiate his price. They were right. He said, “I charge so much. For this film I will give you a 20 percent discount because it’s a different film. That’s it.” We kept looking at each other for a few moments. It was abundantly clear that that was it. Towards the release the film, we did see some cash strapped months. He happily postponed a couple of his tranches to help us. The other most common myth was that he was a difficult man to deal with. This is something I was least worried about because years back I had worked with Mr Shammi Kapoor in my first TV show Shikast (1993). I was getting similar vibes from Rishiji. His demeanour would give the impression of a difficult man but he would turn out to be such a teddy bear.
After the first shot of the film in Lucknow he politely asked me about the next shot and settled in his chair looking keenly at me. I plonked myself next to him. He said, “I’m judging you. Are you like today’s directors, who take 200 shots or someone, who knows exactly how many shots he wants?” When you’re working with a senior actor for the first time, the first day’s equation tells you how rough or smooth the ride is going to be. Yet there was something about him that didn’t make me weigh my words before responding to him. “You’re being judged too sir… Whether you’re that actor, who wants to make it work better or someone, who wants to finish the scene and go home.” Both of us had a hearty laugh. The ice was broken. Days later he did tell me that I was a mix of the two kinds of directors. That for some scenes I took too many shots. But mostly I knew my edit. I told him that he wasn’t a mix of the two types of actors. He was like a new actor, who wanted to do his best in his first film. And God he did.
Two moments stand out during the 27-day schedule. Every shoot has tough days for various reasons. Sometimes for the money involved, sometimes for a rare resource. The team is aware of that and keep their fingers crossed for the day. On one such day, Rishiji reported sick first thing in the morning. It could have cost us a lot of money. He didn’t have much to do that day. But he certainly was needed. He sent me a message, “If I feel better at all, I’ll be there.” He did make it during the second half of the day. That was nice of him. The other thing was that he hated location sound, especially wearing the mic. We were preparing for a scene when I heard him shout at the team on the set. He took off his mic before storming off. My sound designer, Kaamod, was certain that he’d cajole him into wearing it. I said, “If he doesn’t care about the film… let him be.” I walked away hurt and upset. An hour later, I saw Rishiji being helped by the sound team in wearing the mic. I was still hurt and said, “Why sir, don’t wear it na, you said you will not wear it again.” He said, “Kamaal aadmi ho aap. Woh toh tab kaha tha ki nahin pehnunga. Ab pehen toh raha hoon.” That was Rishi Kapoor. His response defines him for me.
I’d often chat with him while he was under treatment in New York. Then I sent him the trailer of Article 15. He didn’t think much of it. He believed I was repeating myself. “Arrey theek hai bhai, kuchh happy banao ab.” Weeks later he called me to say his family was raving about the film. “I’m so happy for you, I’ll catch it soon,” he said. Months later, I saw him at Amitabh Bachchan saab’s Diwali party. I hugged him from behind. I was so happy to meet him. So was he. “Is the shooting of Thappad over? I want to do a passing shot in it,” he said. We laughed and hugged each other. He said, “Let’s work again. Ab aa gaya hoon main.”
Our dream of working together again remains unfulfilled. I miss that one more with him in my filmography. He was Raj Kapoor’s son. Prithviraj Kapoor’s grandson. He became a star when he was in his teens and remained so for the next 50 years until he died. But you’ll remember him for his own legacy and not for the family he came from. Love you Chintuji. Something tells me he’s a happy man up there… laughing, cracking jokes with his Black Label. Keep laughing sir!
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