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Directed by: Basu Bhattacharya |
When we first see Hirabai (Waheeda Rehman), it is through
Hiraman’s (Raj Kapoor) eyes. She’s asleep and he hesitantly peeks through the
curtain that separates them, not having seen who his passenger is.
Hiraman,
viewing her beauteous countenance, spontaneously blurts out, “Abe, ye to
pari hai!” (“She’s a fairy!”)
Hiraman is a gaadiwaan, a bullock-cart driver, who used
to transport cargo for a living. Two unfortunate incidents in the past have caused
him grief and made him reevaluate his choices. The first, when he helped
transport stolen goods meant for the black market, nearly gets him arrested; Hiraman
barely escapes with his bullocks, leaving his cart behind. Holding his earlobes
in penitence, he promises his doting sister-in-law (Dulari) that he will never
transport stolen goods again.
In the second instance, his cart, laden with bamboo, runs over
a stone and causes an accident with a fast-approaching tonga. The
incensed occupants thrash him mercilessly, which leads to Hiraman settling his
accounts with the merchant and making his second vow – he will never transport
bamboo again!
Fortunately, a chance encounter with a circus troupe results
in Hiraman using his bullocks to rescue an overturned tiger’s cage for which he’s
paid a handsome sum of Rs150. This, he uses to buy himself a fancy cart with a
thatched roof. He will now transport passengers for a fee.
And it is now that Hirabai’s assistant, Birju (CS Dubey) has
hired Hiraman to take her to a fair more than 50km away. All Hiraman sees is
the flash of a shapely bare leg as she climbs into the cart as Birju hurries
away to catch the train. Hiraman is more than a little worried. Dusk is
falling, and the route to the village is through a forest. Who knows if the
passenger is a djinn or a she-demon? Spotting a forest shrine on his way, he
stops to offer prayers.
But Hirabai, awakened from her slumber by Hiraman’s outburst,
is a nautanki dancer. She has surreptitiously left her previous employer
and is making her way to The Great Bharat Nautanki Company which has employed
her as the principal dancer. She will perform at the village fair. And that’s
why she’s travelling by bullock cart – to avoid detection – instead of more
comfortably by train.
She is pleasantly surprised when she hears Hiraman’s name. She
had been addressing him all along as ‘bhaiya’ (brother) but now, she
says, she will call him ‘meeta’ (friend). After all, they share a name.
And, over the course of the long journey, these two unlikely
people will become comfortable with each other, even friends, and
perhaps more.
Teesri Kasam is not so much plot-driven
as it is character-driven. Over the 30-odd hours that it takes them to complete
this journey, Hiraman and Hirabai will get to know each other better. Hiraman’s
simplicity, innocence and obvious goodness will charm Hirabai – when she wants
to bathe in the river, he stops her from bathing at a particular ghat,
directing her towards one that’s reserved for unmarried (virgin) women.
He had been married before, she learns in conversation, but
his child bride had died before she could even step into his house. Now, his bhabhi
wants him to marry a young girl and he’s not about to do that. If his bhabhi
is stubborn, why, so is he. (When Hirabai says it’s against the law of the
land, Hiraman scoffs, “Who cares about that in the villages?”) Besides, driving
is his life and he will not give that up for anyone! Hiraman can also sing
beautiful folk songs that further endear him to Hirabai. ‘Guru’ she calls him, making
him laugh when she suggests learning them from him.
Hiraman may be a country bumpkin but he’s wise to the ways of
his world: he pulls down the curtain when they pass another cart or vehicle; he’s
mendacious when questioned about his passenger, because he’s well-versed in how
people in his world think (“They are all busybodies,” he says). And though he
warms shyly to her friendliness, he is in awe of her and has only a nebulous
awareness of the different worlds they inhabit.
Hirabai, on the other hand, is more urbane; she’s reasonably
educated, is certainly literate and has seen much more of the world (both
literally – as a dancer in itinerant theatre companies – and figuratively) than
he has.
The easy camaraderie that springs up between the two is so
warm that Hirabai is regretful when the journey ends. She persuades Hiraman to
stay back for a few days and watch her performance, even arranging for passes
for Hiraman and his friends.
Hiraman is thrilled, basking in her reflected
glory. “Kandha soongh do zara,” he tells his friends, “haath rakhi
thi.” She had placed her hand on his shoulder. His innocence is endearing.
Until he sees her on stage.
Hira ‘devi’ as he addresses her (and views her) is now the
coquettish Hirabai, dancing, singing, basking in the audience’s adulation.
An audience that consists entirely of males from different
sections of society; men who watch Hirabai transfixed at her grace; others who
pass lewd remarks about her; and still others who consider her no less than a
prostitute. It is not a world Hiraman understands. Especially when the local zamindar
(Iftekhar, cast against type) is bent on having Hirabai for his own – at least
for a while.
Over the next four nights, Hirabai performs in the dusty, overcrowded,
tent-theatre, each song reflecting the different facets of her relationship with
Hiraman, even as he watches, enchanted, discomfited, even upset, from the audience.
Hiraman’s reaction to these incidents – he sets himself up as
the protector of her perceived virtue – upsets Hirabai who had, in Hiraman’s
unconditional affection and respect for her, forgotten who and what she is –
not the ‘devi’ he thinks her; the nautanki is her life, just as much as driving
a cart is his. She cannot imagine life without the lights, the stage, the
make-up and yes, the admiration of her audience.
But there are glimpses of her yearning for another life – the pain
on her face when she listens to the final verse of Sajanwa bairi ho gaye
hamaar:
Sooni
sej god mori sooni
Maram
na jaane koi
Chhatpat
tadpe preet bichaari
Mamta
aansoo roye
Na
koi is paar hamaara
Na
koi us paar
You
can see it in her empathy for Mahua’s story, which could be hers as well, or when
she cooks for her meeta to make amends, or her playfulness when she
grabs Hiraman and asks him to take her for a drive. It is evident in her anger
after the zamindar assaults her when she wonders why she can’t leave her
profession and become shareef.
But she cannot admit to Hiraman that she’s not the untouched maiden
he thinks. As she confesses to a friend in one pivotal scene, she can only play
the part of Laila, she can never be Laila herself. For, used as she is to play
parts that end with each show, how long can she keep up the deception of being
a sati-Savitri? How long can she live a lie? And what about the toll it will
take on her? And on Hiraman?
There’s an inevitability to their parting. Yet, one is left
with a sense of loss when Hirabai decides to return to her old theatre company
and takes her leave of Hiraman at the railway station. And therein lies the
reason behind Hiraman’s third vow.
Teesri Kasam, based on a short story by
Phanishwar Nath ‘Renu’ called Maare Gaye Gulfam, stayed remarkably
faithful to its source material. With Renu onboard, Nabendu Ghosh
adapted the screenplay with only two major deviations: one, in Renu’s story,
Mahua fights and attains her freedom; two, the zamindar’s track was an
addition to the film. The original Hirabai does not give a reason for her departure.
That said, Teesri Kasam is a gentle, lyrical tale that takes us along on
a journey with two endearing individuals who forge a strange companionship. The
blossoming of their bond is slow and delicate and the dialogues (written by
Renu himself) retain a natural charm.
Directed by Basu Bhattacharya (his debut feature) and shot by
ace cinematographer Subroto Mitra, the chiaroscuro frames are starkly simple
yet rich in tone. Every frame is a visual treat – the lit oil lamp at dusk, swaying
with the movement of the bullock cart; the sight of the receding train through
the curtains of Hiraman’s cart; the undulating river by the side of the deserted
road; the arch of the cart’s roof framing the protagonists in a world of their
own… all these frames vindicate Shailendra’s decision to shoot the film in black
& white at a time when colour was in vogue.
Raj Kapoor and Waheeda Rehman turned in one of their
career-best performances in this film. Raj Kapoor lived his role as Hiraman and
one cannot help but smile as the naïve cart driver blushes and bends his
head whenever Hirabai says something affectionate.
Or remain unmoved at his
hurt when Hirabai asks him what right he has to fight on her behalf, or at his stricken
look when she bids him goodbye without giving him a reason for her leaving. Raj
Kapoor is especially effective when conveying his feelings through his eyes,
whether while retelling the tragic story of Mahua ghatwaran or blushing when
Hirabai, upon learning he had thought of her as a she-demon, asks him whether
she had harmed him. His shyness is endearing as is his conviction that his
passenger is ‘Hiradevi’, a woman worthy of respect.
Waheeda’s performance, too, was outstanding, as she gets to exhibit
both her acting chops and her talent as a dancer (choreographed by Lachchu
Maharaj). It is a performance that is both understated and perceptive and she
treads a fine line depicting the dichotomies of her character – who she really
is and who Hiraman perceives her to be. In one telling scene, when the zamindar
excoriates her as a randi, a whore, she retorts, “In your eyes, I’m a
whore; in his, a goddess.”
The fire in her eyes as she dares to dream an unattainable
dream, the attempt to fight for a life of respectability and the resignation
with which she accepts the inevitable are effectively conveyed by Waheeda, through
spoken dialogue and unspoken scenes.
They are complemented by a superb supporting cast that
includes Iftekhar, Krishan Dhawan, Asit Sen, Dulari and CS Dubey.
Songs, of course, are integral to a Hindi film, yet films that
integrate them properly into the screenplay are few and far between. Here, composers
Shankar and Jaikishan provide a cornucopia of plenty – ten outstanding melodies,
rooted in the folk music of the region in which the film is set. Four of the
songs had their genesis in Renu’s short story: Sajan re jhoot mat bolo,
Sajanwa bairi ho gaye hamaar, Laali laali doliya (which Shailendra then
expanded into full-fledged song lyrics) and Maare gaye gulfam (that Hasrat
Jaipuri fleshed out).
The mukhda of Duniya bananewale was written by Majrooh
Sultanpuri, ostensibly for Aag. (You can listen to Majrooh speaking
about it, here.)
Hasrat penned the antaras, which are interspersed with the story of
Mahua, the village girl. While Paan khao saiyya hamaaro draws us into
the world of nautanki or folk theatre, Aa aa bhi jaa, raat dhalne
lagi, filmed in the same confined setting, is a heartrending plaint that reflects
Hirabai’s conflict. Interestingly, Waheeda lip-synced to Lata Mangeshkar, Asha
Bhonsle, Mubarak Begum and Suman Kalyanpur in the film.
Though a caged bird has often been used as a metaphor for a woman
trapped in an untenable situation, Chalat musafir, a raucous (and joyous)
celebration of male bonhomie, mirrors Hirabai’s condition in a folksy, even
humorous manner. Paradoxically, Laali laali doliya shows Hirabai in Hiraman’s
world; for a few moments, the nautanki dancer is able to imagine herself
as the children see her – Laali laali doliya mein laali re dulhaniya/Piya ki
pyaari bholi bhali re dulhaniya… Each song articulates the mood, the
emotion and the context of the story, pulling the narrative forward.
Though Teesri Kasam did not do well at the box-office
when it was first released, Shailendra was proud of the film they had made. Tragically, he did not
live to see the film honoured with the President’s Gold Medal for Best Feature
Film. or its well-deserved fame as a classic. While
Waheeda can rightly be proud of having this film on her filmography, Teesri
Kasam should lay to rest any doubts about Raj Kapoor’s ability as an actor.