Lately, it’s been raining awards and accolades on the path-breaking multi-media achiever. And she has preserved a child-like persona, open to new ideas and projects. For an update, Khalid Mohamed interviewed the ever-feisty Sai Paranjpye. Excerpts:

Filmmaker and writer Sai Paranjpye reflects on her life, legacy, films, family, and unfinished projects in this expansive conversation with Khalid Mohamed. Covering Chashme Buddoor, Katha, Sparsh, Disha, Indian cinema, theatre, literature, women filmmakers, creative resilience, and cultural memory, the interview captures the enduring spirit of one of India’s most original cinematic voices. 

Perhaps if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have been the journalist I was, imbued with the lust for writing, multi-tasking occasionally and ingrained with a sense of what is just and what is not in the societal conditions during the span of a lifetime -- which never has that longevity to express all your thoughts, seesawing between certitude and anxieties.

That’s the backstory to express my gratitude for knowing the tireless Sai Paranjpye, who would call upon me to conduct an interview with her on Doordarshan on the heels of the success of her iconic comedy Chashme Buddoor or invite me to a film script reading at her compact Juhu apartment. For a rookie, that was a heaven-sent opportunity to observe the fundamental mechanics of filmmaking.

The script narration was complete with punctuation marks. It was a story related to the Orwellian theme of robots replacing mere mortals; the actors were on the dot of time so that Sai (I think I’m allowed to call her that) wouldn’t get offended.

At the end of the reading, Naseeruddin Shah and Farouque Shaikh were more than gung-ho, and the seemingly round peg in the square hole, Dimple Kapadia, had tossed her mane of hair to remark, “Beautiful, count me in.” The project didn’t fructify for a multitude of factors, a financial backer being the prime reason.

Sai Paranjpye was born to the Russian artist Youra Sleptzoff and Shakuntala Paranjpye, graduate of Cambridge University, writer and social worker. Sai’s parents divorced shortly after her birth, and she was primarily raised in the household of her maternal grandfather, Sir Raghunath Purushottam Paranjpye, a mathematician and educationist who also served as India’s High Commissioner in Australia.

Currently, Sai shuttles between Pune and Mumbai, and there’s that uncanny drive to move effortlessly from one creative pursuit to another without any let-up. For an update I contacted her to ask:

Knowing you, Sai, there must be some tricks and treats up your sleeve. So what’s up?

Ha, tricks and treats indeed! Okay, to keep you in the loop, a few of my friends were just shooting the breeze, and I managed to talk about my passion for the sound medium and the attention for proper dialogue delivery in all my work, be it in films, stage or television: of the pronunciation, the clarity, the nuances, the stress and the pauses.

Maybe this is the result of my having had to read books aloud to my grandfather from the age of seven. I had to read from the same page over and over and over again till I was word perfect, and was also ready to scream. To give you an aside, nowadays I cringe aboard an Air India ’plane to hear the horrid garbled flight announcements, be they in Hindi or English, really abominable.

Anyway, a friend suggested that I should make a ragtag, compact collection of my body of work: film screenplays, plays, telefilms, short stories and so on. A one-woman show was born and we called it Darwal, which means Fragrance, a Fragrance of Flowers or in this case the Fragrance of Words.

To blow my own trumpet, I do read rather well and our very first show at Kirti College went off with a bang, warmly received. Then I was invited to the National Centre of the Performing Arts, and that too went off like a dream.

After that followed a show at the Dot Line Space Foundation and Nine Fish Art Gallery at Byculla. It was a scintillating experience at a most unlikely venue — a wondrous space, magical, surrounded by all sorts of artefacts, treasures, ancient furniture and household effects. And there was a lake shimmering right next to the hall where I was to read. Gourmani Das is the imaginative brain behind the studio. Nita Ambani’s theatre team was there, and we’ll be doing the show at the Nita Mukesh Ambani Cultural Centre in March.

Meanwhile, the Publications Division of the Government of India will be bringing out a Hindi version of my memoir written in Marathi, Saya Maza Kalapravasa, which incidentally is in its seventh edition now. As you might know, it was also published, marvellously, in English as A Patchwork Quilt by HarperCollins.

The Publications Division also wants to bring out my film screenplays right from Sparsh to Angootha Chaap. Expectedly, because of my lackadaisical ways, I haven’t kept track of where the scripts are. Still, we’re hunting for them high and low. The only one I have in my possession is Saaz, which is the least favourite of my films. The screenplays of Sparsh and Disha were given to the National Film Archive of India, Pune; typically, they can’t locate them either. Yet I’ll keep soldiering on.

Family, Legacy, and the Personal Archive

What prompts you to keep taxiing off to Pune so often?

Quite simply because that’s where my roots are. I go to relive the glorious days of my childhood there, though my Appa, grandfather and mother are no longer around.

Gone too is our wonderful ancient mansion forever bursting with vivid memories. That has been razed to the ground despite a plaque proclaiming it to be a heritage site where Appa, India’s first senior Wrangler mathematician, renowned educationist and reformist, lived. Oh well, Poona, Pune now, still has many people I can relate to, literally and figuratively — cousins, aunts, uncles, classmates, and dear, dear friends. I can be a Peter Pan there, a child who never grew up.

What’s the update on your daughter, Winnie, who as an actor in Chashme Buddoor, Katha, Papeeha and Raen Basera retains her loyal fan base? And do her son and daughter aspire towards acting at all?

I know that about Winnie too well. I’m often asked about her, very loving inquiries from total strangers.

Winnie had a terrific sense of comedy, sophisticated with perfect timing and an utterly unself-conscious approach. Alas, she hated acting. She would beg and plead not to be cast in any role but silly me, I’d think she was just pretending to be camera shy, a strange rebel, and I would go on pushing and forcing her. But then one day I did get convinced and stopped bullying and freed her.
Her daughter Anshunee is equally talented with an impish demeanour and breaks into Bollywood-style dances with such a wicked sauciness that she brings the house down.

As for Abeer, at the age of seven he did play the role of Dhishum in my kiddo film Chakachak and stole everyone’s heart. This is not just a fond grandma talking; truly, he is very, very talented but he grew up and alas again, followed his mother’s footsteps, turning his back on acting. He is now in the film direction department of Manish Malhotra’s unit and seems to be enjoying his work hugely.

The Films Made, the Films Lost, and the Ones Remembered

Are there any projects which were ‘aborted’ either at the very start or midway?

If I rue anything from what has been an otherwise rewarding career, it’s my ‘aborted’ projects as you call them. These are my scripts written with great love, research and application up to the very last shot, mind you, which languish in the deep recesses of my file cabinet of forgotten scripts.

For example, there’s a triangular love story with an Ayurveda backdrop: an aspiring doctor who’s scheduled to travel to Harvard for further studies, a brilliant tribal girl and a German doctor who lands up in India to research Ayurveda. This trio gets entangled in a heartwarming saga unfolding in the deep forests of Madhya Pradesh.

In fact, Dr Raghunath Mashalkar, the eminent chemical engineer who brought the patent of turmeric back to India from the U.S. after quoting documented proof from Indian scriptures, loved the script and said, “Sai, this will be your gift to the nation.” Despite Dr Mashalkar’s unstinted support and us contacting countless pharmaceutical companies to mount the film, we couldn’t find a single helping hand. So there it is, a script which was so precious to me, in the file cabinet collecting cobwebs.

Another virgin script which lies dormant is Xapai, meaning grandfather in Goan Konkani, based loosely on a unique one-act play by Vrindavan Dandavate.

The plot is located in Goa in a beautiful, if by now tumbledown, house. This film, to my mind, would have been a true-blue entertainer with a gripping story, song, dance and humour, with scope for ensemble acting caught in family intrigue. It could well have proved to be a milestone in Indian cine-entertainment. At the very least, it would have put Chashme Buddoor and Katha in the shade.

To talk of Bichhoo, then, it was a film which nearly got made. We had shot excellent material with two cans to our credit.

The film was commissioned by Dharmendra, who was the producer and of course the leading man. It was loosely based on the 1964 Marlon Brando–David Niven film (The Bedtime Story). We had great fun shooting Bichhoo. Dharmendra was wonderful, warm, simple and friendly, but somewhere along the way we both realised our space, spheres, backgrounds and sensibilities were vastly different. Our understanding of cinema was not at all in sync; everything we believed in was poles apart. While constantly proclaiming that he wanted to make a different film, hatke, Dharmendra would be constantly making ‘formula’ suggestions. The gap became too wide between us to bridge it.

Finally, very quietly, without a bitter word exchanged, we retreated to our separate worlds. There was never any formal termination. I must add he was a gentleman throughout; he didn’t utter a single word against me or our debacle.

What’s a typical day of yours like?

Each day brings something new, depending on where I am. In Pune, I’m quite the social butterfly booked for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with film and theatre visits squeezed in between. Pune is chock-a-block with friends and distant relations though the distance, mind you, has been bridged.

In Mumbai, I’m more or less a loner. I read, watch television and the internet. I’m glued to the small screen, especially when a tennis match is on. I concoct and try out crazy new recipes in the kitchen. Once in a blue moon, I do go to see a film or theatre play but there’s been nothing very exciting.

You said Saaz is your least favourite film. Why? And which ones do you look back as your most accomplished ones?

Well, Saaz is my least favourite film perhaps because I did not enjoy making it so much. With my other films like Sparsh, the visually-impaired children of a school around, I was learning new things, sharing experiences, new sensitivities and sensibilities.

With Chashme Buddoor, exploring the beautiful city of Delhi and having a ball with Farouque, Ravi Baswani and Rakesh Bedi, and of course the camera team, was exhilarating.

With Katha, all the old theatre people… cronies were around me and a fantastic chawl to work in was a blast. In the case of Disha, again it was being surrounded by immigrant millworkers, learning about their angst and resilience to live on, was again a fantabulous experience.

By contrast, Saaz was just a drag; for the first time ever I didn’t look forward to the next day of the shoot. To boot, it was the first film of mine that was criticised quite soundly by the public because they were convinced that it was a story about THE Mangeshkar sisters. It was not; it was inspired by the Mangeshkar sisters, no doubt, I don’t deny that. But after that the story went off on its own course, it was absolutely fictional, absolutely my creation. Anyway, you can’t always win.

Katha has been my most endearing project. However, Disha is my most complete film. By then I had learnt the craft properly and was no longer floundering. The script, dialogue and acting were perfect. Moreover, the rural and urban locations were so authentic that they just came to life. So, if I may say so, of all my work in cinema, Disha is my most favourite film.

Can we return to the books you read and the films you take off to in Mumbai?

Lately, I read Iru — a biography of the fascinating life of one of India’s eminent social anthropologists Dr Iravati Karve — written by her granddaughter Urmila Deshpande. Incidentally, the Paranjpye and Karve nexus has been close since time immemorial.

Bharat Ratna social reformist Mahashri Dhondu Karve, or Anna Karve as he was fondly called, was my grandfather’s first cousin and became his mentor. He recognised that little Raghu, my grandpa, was talented and took him right under his wings, in charge of his education right to the point that Appa became India’s very first Wrangler at Cambridge University. In fact, the first Indian News Review was made on grandpa’s triumph at Cambridge.

Nothing thrilling on the film front. Recently, though, I saw the play The Far Post, written, directed and performed by Yuki Ellias, which was original, surreal and extremely captivating. Ellias plays the role of the postman… or should I say the post woman?… and was thoroughly enchanting in the role. I was reminded of my days in Paris, sucking in the experimental plays performed in the salles of the Rive Gauche, Left Bank.

Lately, another stunning play I saw was Bhumika, written by Kshitij Patwardhan, excellently directed and performed, so different from the melodramatic drivel that’s usually churned out. An actor (Sachin Khedekar) submerges himself so deeply in the role he’s enacting of Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar that it becomes his magnificent obsession, a truly immersive experience.

What if someone were to make a biopic on you?

What! Are you joking? I can’t see a single person crazy enough to direct it or to enact my role. So God forbid!

You never contemplated a film or documentary on your grandfather or mother?

I never really thought of a film or even a documentary on the life and times of my grandfather. It would have been quite a daunting task and I didn’t have the confidence to take the plunge. Plus, he wasn’t too colourful a character, all white, no shades of dark, no drama, no intrigue; his was a straightforward life.

As for my mother, I did make a short video film on her family planning work. It was called Persuasion because Jane Austen’s books were like a Bible in the Paranjpye house. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice was a favourite with both my grandfather and mum. The video wasn’t a successful work since, unlike my grandfather, mum was multi-faceted, quirky, larger than life and impossible to catch on film.

Anything else to declare?

Before signing off, I’d like to mention a strange phenomenon. Over the years I’ve had my share of coveted awards. But there seems to be a marked surge in the accolades heading my way: the recent P L Deshpande Award in Pune, the Asian Culture Award from the 22nd Third Eye Asian Film Festival in January, and the Natya Gaurav Zee Award to be presented in February. Maybe it’s a way of telling me before I go that you’ve done your bit, now sit at home quietly. But that’s not my style. My body and spirit are still raring to go. Unheeded by the dormant pressure of the awards, let them come. I’m not complaining.