He listened. In my three-film-old experience as a director, Karisma Kapoor was quite simply he’s the best actress that I have had the privilege to work with. Shabana Azmi, arguably the most accomplished actress Indian cinema has known, and Tabu, extraordinary in her own right, are excellent but not for me.
L’Azmi would argue every morning during the shoot of Tehzeeb although we had gone through the script (‘bound’, as they say) and revised it earlier. On some dawns, I wanted to plunge a dagger deep into my chest, or run straight into a truck on the Pune ghats. We were shooting in Lonavla, and although it was summer, I felt Siberian frost in the air. Bicker, bicker, bicker. To be fair, Shabana Azmi did invest boundless feelings, commitment and her artistry into her performance, but her arguments left me shaken... and stirred.
In her absolute belief in the real and the natural, Ma’am Shabana refused to play her death scene with her eyes open. Doctors were consulted minutes before the shot was to be taken. I begged for that cinematic refuge called ‘dramatic licence’. Still no go. It was eyes tight-shut, subtracting the impact she has on her co-star who then had to add a line of dialogue, “Mum, have you fallen asleep?” By the time the shot was over, I had — fallen asleep that is.
Truly, and I sincerely believe this, if you don’t trust the director, then the artiste just takes off on a solo trip. Indeed, Shabana Azmi has touched upon all our lives deeply — as an artiste and as a socially-aware doer — but in my heart there will always be a residual regret. Ma’am, when there’s no synergy while filming, the audience can sense it. She was doing her number, and I was trying to adapt to it. No choice, the shooting was already underway.
Tabu is far more malleable, discursive and at many levels — like spontaneity — superior to her aunt Shabana Azmi. Both have portrayed much older women during their prime (Tabu in Astitva and Chandni Bar, Shabana Azmi in Avtaar). And they have cared a damn for their fees, fetching up in movies for free or almost, mine included, the benefit of which was reaped by the producers. Grateful, I always will be, but again with a rider.
For a scene, Tabu had to fiddle with the knob of a jammed toilet door. Suddenly, she piped up, “But why am I doing this? What sense does this make?” Right before the hundreds of the gaping eyes of the unit, I had to cite the reasons. “You can feel all locked up, trapped... claustrophobic... at times, you know when a door knob is stuck,” I explained. To which the response was a disdainful, “Okay, whatever.” Now that’s one scene I’m proud of in Silsilaay which the producer — Vashu Bhagnani — developed an allergy to midway, and six years later has still to pay up the dues. How come no one protests against producers? Go configure.
By contrast, Karisma Kapoor on being faced with a complicated scene in Fiza asked, “May I spend some more time revising my dialogue in my room. Like 15 minutes? I’ll do it... don’t worry.” Every time, she delivered more than I could imagine. She had to spar with Hrithik Roshan, a perfectionist from the very outset. As brother-and-sister, I couldn’t have ever dreamt of a more remarkable pair.
Whether she was in a vanity van or before the camera, Karisma Kapoor was all there. No extraneous thoughts distracting her from the character she had slipped into. For a howl of grief, she banked on emotional memory. She did one such shot in a single take and immediately ran from the sets to her car. At the premiere too, she bolted out of the auditorium when that scene came on. “I drew on something very painful in my life,” she told me, but has never said anything more.
After a break of six years, Karisma’s reappearing in Dangerous Ishhq. We’ve lost touch. Now whatever the quality of this reincarnation thriller may be, I’ll be there first-day-first show for the actress, who in my little book, actually listens.