‘Don’t leave the akhada’

Maverick film-maker Yash Chopra, who has the rarest of rare distinctions of being a film director for 50 years, shares the ups and downs in his career with another director Mahesh Bhatt. Yash sir

Don’t ask me why, but as I journey from the dilapidated bunker that I call my office to the state-of-the-art studio complex known as Yash Raj Studios, I am reminded of the words of George Burns, that Hollywood comedian who lived for a hundred years. “I am going to stay in show business until I am the only one left,” he had once famously said.

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Perhaps it is only natural that I should think of those words, as the man I am going to meet is none other than Yash Chopra, who has the rarest of rare distinctions of being a film director for 50 years.

A huge, ornate face of the Buddha looms in front of me as I step out of the lift and am ushered into his plush office. He is waiting for me, clad in his trademark white attire. The walls of the room are adorned with national and international awards, and an army of Filmfare Award figurines sits on one shelf. Right above him, three black-and-white garlanded photographs of B R Chopra, his father and his mother stare down at one from their exalted position on the wall. On his uncluttered table sits a photograph of his two sons. The room is full of light.

“How much is your empire worth?” I ask, just as I settle down to chat with him.

“A hundred crores I guess,” is his answer.

Now this is one hell of a journey. For a man who came to the city of Bombay on the first of January 1952, with just two brand new hundred-rupee notes which his mother had given him, he must have certainly surpassed even his own dreams!

But I am here today not to talk to him about his successes. I want to talk to the most successful man in the film industry about failure.

Even before I have finished phrasing my question, he starts with his answer. “It is my failures which have taught me the most important lessons of my life, not my successes,” he says. Then, reflecting on the past, he begins to unspool the memories of his first brush with the goddess of success.

“There was a sea of people below me who had come from their homes to catch a glimpse of us that day. We were in Belgaum, Rajender Kumar, Mala Sinha and I, and my first film, Dhool Ka Phool, had become a big hit. It was right there, on the peak of that intoxicating high, that I felt the icy breath of fear in my belly. A voice within me whispered, ‘What if you cannot repeat this again, Yash?’” he says and looks at me like a person would look at a trusted friend in a confession session.

“Has that fear left you, sir?” I ask him, knowing what his answer is going to be. “No,” he says, looking very human at that moment. And with that this emperor connected in a flash with the rest of humanity.

With his second film Dharmputra, the inevitable happened. Yash Chopra tasted failure.

“I was down in the dumps. When you are down, not many come to steer you out from that all-encompassing darkness. The only person who did so was Dilip Kumar. I still remember, he took me for a long ride in his car. His words still echo in my head. He said, ‘Failure makes you. I know how you feel today. But keep making films on your terms.’ “Which I did. After biting dust, I made Waqt, which put me on top of the heap. But then, life in the movie business is chequered with highs and lows. With Lamhe I was once again licking my wounds of failure. Once again, the person who bailed me out from my depression was Dilip Kumar. I remember going to see him in a hospital. He gave my face one look and he knew what my heart was feeling.

“In spite of being told not to talk, he asked everyone to leave. And from the hospital bed spoke words that breathed new life in me. ‘I loved that film, Yash,’ he said to me. And then went on in his characteristic way to re-instil life in my ebbing confidence. Subsequently, I went on to make Chandni and Darr. And finally, with Adi, my son, taking centrestage, my life has taken a new course.”

“What is your advice to all those youngsters who are listening to you right now and are going through the throes of failure?” I ask.

“Don’t leave the akhada (the ring). This is what the masters said to me and this is what in turn I say to you. The game exists as long as you play. Once you stop playing, there is no game.”

As I leave his office, marvelling at the journey of this brave Indian who began his journey from the blood-soaked borders of Partitioned India, I ask him, “How do you want to be remembered, sir?”

“As a good man and a good film-maker,” he says. “But do you know, although I love being a producer, I would rather write a scene and direct it than sign cheques. I’m dying to say ‘Lights, camera, action’ once again.”

“Has the world given you what you rightfully deserve?” I ask. ‘Not really,” says he. “They may not remember me for my films, but at least they will remember me for this marvellous studio, which people from all over the world come and praise, and which my sons will take from strength to strength.”

How aptly our ancestors have summed this up when they say: ‘The waters that we drink from today are the wells that our ancestors have dug for us.’

As he bids me goodbye I ask him what the statue of Buddha is doing at the centre of his lobby. "I don’t know,” he replies, “I just like it!”

“That could be because, actually, you are a fakir at heart,” I observe. “You live in the world, but you are not touched by it.”