Rajeev Sethi writes: When Shyam Benegal and I agreed that Raj Kapoor was an exception in Bollywood

Working for the government meant making documentaries. The filmmaker who created celluloid with a powerful narrative was Sukhdev. The support came from the Film Division Department. Doordarshan, which mostly meant pro-government propaganda, had a token Krishi Darshan programme, but coverage of poverty was gradually disappearing from the mainstream. In this milieu of official patronage and myopic agendas, there could be no easy marriage of talent and opportunity. Compromises were not unheard of.

The new tech master came in the form of the American NASA geostationary satellite with the SITE (Satellite Instructional Television Experiment) positioned in 1971 over an Indian sky to beam programmes directly on battery-run TV sets with the help of indigenously produced Chicken Mesh Antennas. Villages that had not even seen an electric bulb were going to light up for the first time with the magic of moving images. Cinematic devices taken for granted, like flashback, fading or zooming in and out, hadn’t even been tested in rural pockets chosen for the experiment. Shyam Benegal, who hadn’t come out of a formal film school, knew all this better.

Benegal, who was clear about the relevance of transdisciplinary content creation, agreed with IDLI about leapfrogging into the space age. Diverse inter-departmental convergences, an orientation workshop with the moving image in remote areas and engagement of communities as crucial stakeholders were nascent projects and required experienced actions.

This needed political conviction. We continued to critique the imperial system of governance as a colonial excess baggage inherited with top-down hierarchies. In my first published article in the State magazine of INFA (Indian News and Feature Alliance) in 1972, I argued for a more equitable allocation of resources to rural programming and the empowerment of “village republics”.

Benegal, who grew up watching France’s Nouvelle Vague on celluloid, started his career in commercial advertising. We used to call it the “kiss of death” because it was derivative and all too self-conscious. He resolutely grew out of his urban gaze and sharpened an astute focus with his erudite mind. Honing his own search for the indigenous, his “upaj” inspired a different view from that of Tollywood and certainly beyond Bollywood.

Appearing like a cool morning breeze in hot summers – Benegal unleashed his own alternative narratives – Ankur (1974), Nishant (1975), Manthan (1976) and Bhumika (1977). Till then, software objectives were understood by few outside ISRO conferences. Benegal had hands-on skills. His profound action and inspiration led to applications that the world today rarely knows.

IDLI grew into the “Asian Heritage Foundation”. Benegal’s scriptwriter and formidable support over decades, Shama Zaidi, became our humsafar and noble guide, keeping us close to his charming circle. His daughter Pia also came to work with us to create costumes for the expansive theatrical production of Sangram aur Azadi with a cast of 2,000 at the Red Fort to celebrate 150 years of the Rebellion referred to by our colonial masters as “the Mutiny”.

I, along with Shama and Shyam, had convinced the team that real storytelling is yet to make Indian history. The potency of oral narratives in a shabd pradhan desh spawned words and poetry that inspired visual imagery. Bards put ballads to songs. Sculptures turned to wood, stone, and metal. Painters painted murals and manuscripts. Its most contemporary avatar in the 20th century became popular cinema that attempted a hold-all melting pot.

Commissioned to produce films for SITE and supported by the Homi Bhabha fellowship of the Tatas, Benegal had first hired Habib Tanvir’s group of Nacha artists to act out some scripts prepared for rural audiences. I recall with affection my collaboration with Tanvir’s Charan Das Chor, filmed later by Benegal in 1975 with the smouldering Smita Patil.

Launching my attack on our inability to source authentic talent, I would often highlight the limitation of city-based artists unknowingly marginalising rural India’s original content creators. I discussed this issue with Benegal many times, and despite him being a nephew of Guru Dutt, he agreed that only Raj Kapoor was an exception. RK’s music and frame-by-frame visual rhythm suggested a natural appropriation of tradition with new India’s mainstream aspiration.

Since I had worked with Tanvir as my true mentor from my college days and knew him well enough, I was a little weary of the timing of their collaboration. Tanvir supported Indira Gandhi during her elections after the emergency and produced a street play, “Indra Sabha,” that secured him a nomination to the Rajya Sabha. Benegal also joined the Rajya Sabha and later introduced guidelines for the Censor Board that were seminal.

Nervous about the tentative patronage of the Government and financial exigency with the dubious demands of the powerful – artists have all had to play their own cards. The desired free flow of creative growth remains extremely difficult.

Once, I found myself with Shyam in Prime Minister Shri Chandra Shekhar’s antechamber at his salubrious farmhouse/ashram in Bhondsi, Haryana. While we waited for more than an hour for the PM, we mused on the long hand of power and our vulnerable position as artists. To what extent can creativity seem doable? While we bantered, we saw emerging from the skyline of manicured meadows a kind of blurred heat mirage. Dozens of black cat commandos were scurrying around a short, plump foreigner being escorted to where we sat. Shyam and I looked at each other and whispered incredulously, “Adnan Khashoggi… the Arms dealer?? Here at the PM’s house???” We had surely stumbled on a top-secret visit and both of us made a quick exit, slinking out from the back door, without meeting the PM.

That’s the moment I remember most with Shyam Benegal.

The writer is the founder-trustee and chairman of Asian Heritage Foundation