By Sharayu Phalke Summanwar

Rs 2,012

His mother told him that he was born with wide open eyes, golden brown and filled with curiosity and wonder, and that is why they called him Dhundiraj, the discoverer! The moniker Dadasaheb came much later.” Thus begins The Silent Film: Dadasaheb Phalke 1870-1944, the first book in English (one biography was penned by Bapu Vatave in Marathi and later translated into Engl-ish; another was by Bham-bre) to capture the inside story of the Father of Indi-an Cinema, of his personal and family life, his roller coaster career, his heartbreaks and exultations, his plenty and penury, of Dadasaheb Phalke — forgotten as he lay dying.

Now, Sharayu Phalke Summanwar, his great-grand-niece, has recreated a life that was at once simple and complex, intensely self-involved and intensely patriotic (Lokmanya Tilak knew and encouraged him on various occasions). Through painstaking research of material in the public domain, of documents at the National Film Archive of India, of Phalke’s own writings, especially in Kesri and Navayug newspapers and, most importantly, through extended interviews with members of his family — grandchildren, daughter-in-law, grand nieces and nephews, Summanwar’s uncle Ramesh, her aunt Kumudini — she has gleaned anecdotes and nuggets of information that helped her breathe life and emotion into an otherwise well-documented career. “All the facts I have recounted,” she says “are true.”
But they have been enlivened and coloured with a dose of “logical if fictional” elaboration to capture the reader’s interest. For example, “there was a parijat tree in the Phalke house in Trimbakeshwar. But did Dadasaheb and his mother cry under it when (his brother) Anna died? Trymbak Telang was his friend and son of another priest, but whether they ran to the temple to be in time for the aarti, who knows?” Rather than write a dry, prosaic account, Summanwar wanted to bring out the adventure and turbulence that enriched yet dogged Phalke all his life.
“I was amazed at what I discovered through my readings and conversations,” says this unabashed admirer of her forebear. “Dadasaheb was a man of passion, of principles, of talent and aesthetic sense and a risqué sense of humour!” He could do with little, and was not dazzled by money, and even though he had plenty of it, he lost it quickly in new projects. When money came, this large-hearted man lived in near-regal style — a big house, gardens, animals, and a 40-member unit (including, most likely, some hangers-on). When money dried up, he turned to men who may have believed in his greatness but who entered into partnerships mainly for commercial gains. “He was not a practical person, yet his unit was most loyal to him.”
Dadasaheb couldn’t suffer fools, nor brook any opposition to his style of functioning. The book shows his many sides and moods: he was a karmapurush, a doer, hugely talented, yes, but so hot-headed and so self-absorbed as to invite his sister-in-law’s taunts and the discontent of those who invested in his projects. He spent years with Bapu (his indulgent brother, older by 12 years who was his financial prop) trying his hand at different occupations without contributing to the household. “Bapu had a steady job all his life, and joint families then supported even distant relatives on a single income. Dadasaheb, who was like a son to him, never felt insecure, indeed, he was left free to engage in his artistic pursuits.”
It was his second wife Saraswati who brought up their nine children, cooked for the unit, swept and even managed the studio, supported him and believed in his greatness. He was probably hard on her, but she was obedient, either because she was much younger or because he was quick-tempered. “But then, many women at that time were submissive,” says Summanwar. Perhaps “Saraswati was the best thing to have happened to him, but not vice versa.” This path-breaker and entrepreneur left little money for the family, disowned his eldest son Babaraya who had acted in his films, and even slapped the priest who was conducting his daughter’s wedding for slipping up on his chanting. “The family felt he was not a good example to emulate.”
Phalke, a man of multitudinous skills, endured many a tragedy in his life. The death of his brother Raghunath when he was still young, of his first wife Kamala and their three children, of his son Mahadev from his second wife Saraswati. Yet he confronted them stoically. “Dadasaheb was a workaholic (he barely slept for three hours) for whom perfection was a form of solace and escape from the misfortunes that haunted him.”
Summanwar refers to Phalke’s many enterprises that were left half-done. In Ratlam he studied half-tone block and photo-litho three colour printing, but left soon after. He attended, then quickly left, the Maulana Baksh Music School. In Kalabhavan in Baroda, he set up a lab and photo studio, an independent studio in Godhra, printing and engraving works in Lonavala (he printed seditious material there), the Phalke Engraving Works, the Phalke Film Company (from which he resigned), the Phalke Enamelling Works, the Phalke Diamond Studio, even spaghetti and soap-making machines, apart from his stint with the Archaeological Survey of India... “He was a never-say-die spirit, restless, creative, energetic with an enormous will-power, and could turn his hand at almost anything he wanted to do. When he faced bad days, he did not give up hope; he began making enamelware. Chancing up-on him with his merchandise at an industrial exhibition, passersby wondered aloud what a famous filmmaker was doing there. His retort... ‘I am not embarrassed to manufacture and sell even footwear as long as it is of top quality’.”
I asked Sharayu Summanwar if luck played an important part in Phalke’s life. For instance, Principal Gajjar at Kalabhavan helped him acquire a camera, a farmer helped him with food during the days of shortage in Godhra, R.G. Bhandarkar helped him set up the Phalke Engraving Works, Nadkarni and Abasaheb Chitnis helped him travel to England. And there were others — Gangadhar Pathak, Narayan Hari Apte, Madhavrao Shukla... Summarwar said that for her Phalke was “truly destiny’s child. I never met him, but I imagine he was a man who could charm a bird off a tree. He was brilliant, had great persuasive skills. He earned well. His salary from Hindustan Films was Rs 1,500 a month. It was reduced to `500 a month at the time of his retirement. These were enormous earnings. But other shrewd people with a healthy respect for money probably made much more money out of him and through him.”
In a bitter twist of irony, Dadasaheb Phalke who had deposed before the Indian Cinematograph Committee in 1927 (Summanwar quotes large excerpts), was denied a licence by the Government to make a film in 1944. “The reason has yet to be unearthed,” she says. “I imagine this refusal was also part of his destiny, and not a vindictive act.” But for Phalke, who had recently recovered from amnesia, it was the last straw.
Collector of equipment, books, fine furniture, paintings of Durandhar, Raja Varma, Baburao Painter, jewellery, even a car (a Morris, the only car in Nasik those days, lying, she believes, somewhere in a garage in that town) when business thrived, obliged to sell it all when he was down and out, Phalke moved in and out of prosperity much of his life. Perhaps bad business sense and a creative stubbornness, or a combination of the two, proved major setbacks. In 1939, at the Silver Jubilee celebrations of the Indian Film Industry in Bombay, Prithvraj Kapoor, descended from the stage, touched Dadasaheb’s feet and escorted him to the dais and requested him to address the gathering. Amidst thunderous applause, Phalke rose, but overcome with emotion, he choked. His speech was finally read out by actor Gajanan Jahagirdar. “I pray to God Almighty that India may never again give birth to a madman like me. A madman who sacrificed his all for the singular and boundless love of his art. May such a man of pure spirit and straightforward heart never be created in Hindustan...at least for now!”
Written with affection and admiration, this book, says Sharayu Summanwar, is only a beginning. The narrative continues...