Blame it on me, entirely. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth. In the company of an Actor Friend and Mrs Actor Friend, I seemed to be talking with friends, as in real friends. Forget it. Recklessly, I’d said, “Hey guys, Ashok Mehta sir is not well. I’m going to make a documentary on him.” Actor and Mrs look at me with generosity, “Great idea! We’ll produce it.”
“But... are you sure?” They were, I wasn’t. Anyway, there was this positive spirit still coursing through my veins. Actor and Mrs Actor love Ashok Mehta, cinematographer-director, deeply, they’re close to him, and are helping the Mehta family through periodic hospital visits. I am no one, just a long-standing admirer of the supreme craftsman whose visuals in Trikaal, 36 Chowringhee Lane and Utsav were unforgettably brilliant. I’d rave about his artistry in my reviews, he would ring up and say, “Thanks brother!” I’d be embarrassed and mumble, “Awwww, no no not all.”
Subsequently, Ashok sir went on to helm the Cinematographers’ Association, and dropped in one morning at my office. “Nice, nice,” he said looking 360 degrees around at the cabin. I balked, “What?” There was no window, the paint on the walls were peeling like banana skins, and the ceiling was leaking like tap water. “Yes, very realistic,” the imagesmith remarked. “Imagine this is the way an editor’s cabin looks! But our films show them to be glamorous. Let’s shoot here some day.” Oh well, not quite.
Mercifully Ashok Mehta changed the topic to suggest a series of TV documentaries on the grand cinematographers of Indian cinema. “It is pity that there’s so little documented on the great Subroto Mitra,” he reasoned. “Where would Satyajit Ray’s films have been without Subrotoda?” Correct.
Next, he suggested that we immediately set up a shoot with V.K. Murthy in Bengaluru. The project would be cleared by the association, and we’d have Murthy sir talking about his oeuvre, topped by the black-and-white magic of Guru Dutt’s Kagaz ke Phool. Exciting idea.
“But Ashok sir, I’d like to do an episode on you,” I butted in to which he said dismissively, “Sure darling, plenty of time for that.”
His dream project on Murthy and other technicians went through the cracks. But some months ago, he was quite upbeat about a documentary on his work, even if it meant straining himself during his illness. “When are we starting, darling?” he’d call. We did start, the peanut-budget shoot funded by Mr and Mrs Actor, who I might as well tell you were Arjun Rampal and Mehr Jessia. They meant well, I guess. But things went wrong as they usually do when “friends” get together on a project.
My assistant and I weren’t going to take a single rupee but the camera hire charges and assorted daily technicians would have to be paid. Then there would be a little help from friends (shudder, I’m not sure of that word anymore). Ram Gopal Varma lent his camera and studio set-up for an interview with Manisha Koirala.
And then it started. Why are you interviewing so-and-so? Why not so-and-so? And you’d better include that part of the song Ashokji has spoken about, and not anything else. And pokes in the rib, hurry up with your interview, and don’t forget to interview the director on the set, he’s been good to us and did work with Ashokji long ago. Oh brother and sister. Who needs a backseat pilot? Mrs Rampal asked, “Do you mean a producer doesn’t have the right to even say all this?” And my sign-off line was, “No right at all. Director is God.” Exaggerated that, but sounded spot-on, cool.
So, why am I bringing this up today? Simply because an extensive interview with Ashok Mehta sir, discussing his cinema and life, is languishing in a hard disk. The lost footage contains sir’s last words. He passed away on August 15 at the age of 65.
Moral of the story: I should keep my mouth shut even in front of friends... and there are none in show business.