Watch
our exclusive video interview with Amitabh Bachchan, India's biggest star
Mumbai: home of Bollywood. Home of Amitabh Bachchan. Ahh, Amitabh. How to
describe him? You have to get excited to do him justice. It doesn’t matter
how many times I have written about him and tried to communicate just what
he is, the sheer scale of what he means to people, in the end I can do it
only by donning the mantle of The Fan.
You must be willing to pay homage and obeisance, for he is no ordinary man.
Amitabh Bachchan is the living legend of the Hindi film industry, unlike any
other film star ever, more impressive and compelling than all of Hollywood’s
top stars even if you could swoosh them together to make an öberstar. They
wouldn’t come close; Amitabh is in a whole different league.
Amitabh Bachchan, superstar: king of kings in the biggest film industry in the
world. On an average day, India releases an average of 2.5 feature films;
these are watched by at least 15 million people a day in one of the
country’s 13,002 cinema halls, or projected on to a sheet in India’s myriad
villages. This industry is operating in a country with an annual per capita
income of about £160, one of the lowest in the world.
Amitabh Bachchan — Top Hero numbers one to ten, demands a lot of
capitalisation of key descriptive words: Hero; Superstar; Urban Demigod. A
cross between Clint Eastwood, Al Pacino and Elvis, but with more than a hint
of John Travolta. Nah, that doesn’t come close. I was once told, with much
conviction: “ Hero is too small a word; he was a superhero
, bhai . Perfect gentleman, a perfect gentleman, I tell you, and
he could beat 20 men in a fight, no problem.”
And I am going to write his biography, if I can get through the next 20
minutes. This guy seems to want to test how fast he can go before we
actually take off. Rickshaws are not the most stable of vehicles at the best
of times and attempting to break the land speed record in one is not
advisable. Why would anyone want to write a biography of Amitabh Bachchan
for a Western audience? My choice of subject hasn’t exactly made me a hit on
the party circuit in London.
Party me: “So what do you do?” Party man: “I manage hedge funds.” Party me:
“Oh, right.” Party man: “What do you do?” Party me: “I’m writing a biography
of the greatest movie star in the world, Amitabh Bachchan.”
Party man: “Sorry, who?” Party me: “He’s a Bollywood film star.” Party man:
“Bollywood? That’s really big, isn’t it?” Party me: “Yes, hedge funds are really
big too, aren’t they? Canapé?”
And then there is the problem that the whole of India believes they know all
about him. The Amitabh Bachchan story is everyone’s Mastermind
topic of choice.
Mumbai party me: “So, what do you do?” Mumbai party man: “I manage hedge
funds.”
Mumbai party me: “Oh, right. Uncanny.” Mumbai party man: “What do you
do?” Mumbai party me: “I’m writing Amitabh’s biography for a British
publisher.”
Mumbai party man: “If you want to know anything about Amitabh, you ask me.”
Mumbai party me: “Well, alrighty then. If you need a hand with those hedge
funds, you don’t hesitate to call me, OK?”
THE AMITABH LITANY
Amitabh Bachchan: a son of the Hindi poet Harivansh Rai Bachchan; childhood
friend of the Gandhi kids Sanjay and Rajiv (sons of Indira, grandsons of
Nehru); educated at the top private school Sherwood College; spent six years
as a shipping executive with a shipping firm in Kolkata (then Calcutta).
At the age of 27 he left his safe, well-paid job at the insistence of his
brother and went to Mumbai [Bombay] to join the film industry. His first
role was a small part as an Urdu poet in a film by the veteran film-maker K.
A. Abbas, Saat Hindustani ( Seven Indians , 1969). After the
success of his second film Anand (directed by Hrishikesh Mukherjee,
1970), in which he played a doctor, his career languished for a couple of
years, during which time he got only gentle roles, dressed mainly in a dhoti
.
He began to despair that he would ever make it big. Then he had his first hit, Zanjeer
( The Chain , directed by Prakash Mehra, 1973). The same year he
married the actress Jaya Bhaduri and they had two children, Shweta and
Abhishek (now a star himself).
In 1975, he revolutionised what it meant to be a Bollywood hero with his
portrayal of Vijay, a gangland boss, in the gritty Deewaar ( The
Wall , directed by Yash Chopra, 1975). He stalks like a panther through
Mumbai’s underworld, dishing out justice; his heavy-lidded eyes spell danger
and sex and death. Vijay is the kind of guy your mother wouldn’t approve of
(hell, his own mother doesn’t approve of him).
The same year he played the small-time crook turned people’s hero Jai in the
most successful Indian film of all, Sholay ( Flames of the Sun
, directed by Ramesh Sippy).
These films rocketed him into the No 1 slot and established him as Bollywood’s
Angry Young Man. He was the man who fought against the odds, against the
system, and won. He was ironic, hip and compelling viewing.
So from the mid-Seventies he has been, Mumbai street patter and all, too kool
for skool. His deep rich baritone voice (he made Barry White sound like a hirja
[eunuch]) fitted his standing as a colossus who bestrode Mumbai from
Chowpatty Beach to Nariman Point. Nothing, and no one, could touch him.
At one point in the late Seventies he had eight different films running in
eight different theatres, all “house full”. He was hot, white hot, as hot as
the tight white flares that he wore as he grooved and fought his way through
the Seventies. Famous not just because he looked so great fighting, but also
because he looked tremendous singing romantic songs, dancing among the snow
and clouds of Kashmir and, not least, because he could be very, very funny.
He has ruled, more or less, ever since. Sure, new stars come and captivate
India for a time, but only Amitabh remains a perpetual star with the power
to enthral.
In 1982, he had an accident on the set of Coolie (Porter, directed by
Manmohan Desai). After being critically ill for a couple of weeks, he died.
Then he came back to life. It was widely believed that the prayers of the
nation brought about this miracle.
In 1984, after the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the Prime Minister of
India, he went into politics at the behest of his childhood friend Rajiv,
but after three years in Parliament resigned in protest at the allegations
that he had taken kickbacks in the Bofors arms deal scandal. He went to
court in Switzerland, Britain and the US and cleared his name.
By 1994 he had turned himself into a brand, the Amitabh Bachchan Corporation
Limited, but suffered a string of flops. Facing bankruptcy and thought to be
finally on the way out, he accepted the offer to host Kaun Benaga
Crorepati ?, the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
It was a smash hit, and coincided with a return to strength in film roles as
the stern patriarch. He was, once again, King of the Hill.
Amitabh in a nutshell? He is the king of celluloid space, ruler of the hearts
of millions.
BACHCHAN AND ME
I am here because A Big Respectable Publishing House thought my proposal — to
look at Amitabh’s life, his films and his star persona as a kind of running
triage — suitably exciting to give me enough cash to hurtle me to suburban
Mumbai. There is no reason on God’s good earth why Amitabh and I should
appear in the same sentence. There was nothing in my upbringing to draw me
close to Bollywood, other than suffering through orchestral versions of the
songs in Indian restaurants.
After school I went to Canada and studied clown. When I came back to Britain I
studied comparative religions. One of the courses I took was Cinema and
Society in India — and I fell in love with the films. I thought that they
were brilliant; I loved the music, the stories, the melodrama and the
magical fantasy world of glamour and high romance. I was able to escape into
a glitzy world where more is more and people didn’t just think pink, they
thought pink with a gold lamé trim and red sequins!
Then I went to India and saw Hum Aapke Hain Koun? (What am I to You? ,
directed by Sooraj Barjatya, 1994) at the Raj Mandir cinema in Jaipur. I
loved the way people threw money at the screen when the songs were playing.
I loved the whistling and kids racing about, and what else could one want to
eat during the interval but a samosa?
I am constantly being told that I am an “old India hand”, so I am determined
to deal with this and be cool tonight when I meet Amitabh. We are going to
set up a time to do the interview for the book so I have to present my most
mature and competent side.
The first time I met Amitabh I wasn’t what one might call cool. I had seen his
films, of course, and after watching Hum Aapke Hain Koun? had started
to shift my degree around so that it fed into my study of Indian cinema. But
I wasn’t prepared for the effect that he would have on me. Nor did I have
any inkling that just by meeting him I would step into the fantasy world of
Bollywood.
OK, smooth bit of road. Let’s use this opportunity to go back, back in time.
HOW IT ALL STARTED
October 29, 1995 I was in bed when the phone rang. “Good morning?”
“Hello. Can I speak to Jessica Hines?”
There is only one person in the world who has a voice like that. The world
stopped spinning for a moment, the floor seemed very far away.
“Speaking. This . . . this is me. Speaking. It’s it’s it’s Jessica Hines
speaking,” I stammered, and gave a little high-pitched laugh just to confirm
that I am, indeed, an arse.
“Hello. It’s Amitabh Bachchan.”
“Oh! Right! Hi!” “Hi” “Wow.” I sat on the floor heavily and stared at my stack
of Love and Rockets comics.
There was a pause, a brief pause; it felt like social death.
“Say something!” I screamed at myself. “ Carpe that
bloody diem, Hines.” I was in the second year of my undergraduate
degree. To continue working on Indian cinema after the course finished last
summer I had opted to do endless dissertations on the subject. This was my
first. I didn’t really have a clue how to go about it. I just thought it
would be cool to interview Amitabh so I wrote to him never dreaming that he
would respond. Now I was at a loss as to how to talk to him.
Amitabh came to my rescue: “Er, I understand that you want to interview me?”
“Yes, yes, I would love to interview you. I’m doing my dissertation on
representations of masculinity in the films of Amitabh Bachchan, looking at
the different ways in which masculinity is portrayed by you , in,
well, your films.”
He might think that I was suggesting that he was sometimes not a man. “I mean,
heh heh, obviously you’re always a man, you know, it’s just a silly, you
know, academic way of putting it.”
“Ri-i-ight.” He drew it out, his voice heavy with disbelief.
“So when would you have some time?” I asked before he could change his mind.
“I’m free for an hour now.” He gave me the address, the Connaught Hotel off
Grosvenor Square. Where I wittered on about how pleased I was that he was
letting me interview him. He looked vaguely embarrassed and uncomfortable
and stared at a point on the carpet. I wished I hadn’t covered my tape
recorder with Star Trek stickers.
I did the interview. I was banal and my questions were pedestrian; I was
mentally flat-footed, my thoughts had no arches. He was engaging and
charming and we talked for almost two hours.
That meeting with Amitabh was the start. The rest, as they say, was his story.
My life has revolved, in some way or another, around him ever since. A
strange friendship developed between the two of us. Every now and then, when
Amitabh came to London, he would call me and we would go out with some of my
friends for dinner or a film.
I even had the dubious honour of appearing in the Indian gossip columns, once
as “Icy Spicy”, and another time as an “English Rose”, both of whom were
apparently leading Amitabh astray when he was in London.
FLYING BOLLY STYLE
I have taken the night flight to Kuala Lumpur. Travelling with Amitabh can be
quite fraught. He has to get through public spaces in India quickly. The
idea, I think, is that if he creates enough velocity the populace will be
repelled at about the same rate as they are drawn towards him. This will
allow him free passage until the movement reaches critical mass, and their
momentum overwhelms him.
So here is how to travel with him. Get to the airport earlyish — he won’t
arrive until the plane is ready to take off, so there is no point getting
there too early. Wait for Praveen, his servant, to arrive with Amitabh’s ten
enormous bags and give him your two small ones.
Then position yourself at the entrance to the departure lounge. You will be
able to tell when Amitabh is about to arrive because, just like before an
earthquake, the birds fall silent and the horses get restless. And then he
is there. He will nod and say a curt: “Hello, Jessica.” And then he is gone,
just his scent lingering.
Get on the bus that takes you to the aircraft. During the ride he never makes
eye contact or says anything — he is still in the zone. Then he levitates up
the steps and takes his seat, always 1A, at the front next to the window. He
then busies himself with his phones and his palm pilot and various bits of
paper in his big leather briefcase. He clearly loves wizzling the lock
combination around. He reads the papers, rearranges his briefcase a bit
more, and finally he’s ready to talk.
Amitabh loves order. He loves things to be in the right place. He loves clean,
calm rooms with everything arranged just so. He is always telling me that
his life is too chaotic. I think that everyone is too chaotic, next
to him. You have to wonder why he works in the film industry, which is chaos
only, baba .
Anyway, today, it being an international flight and all, I go ahead and get on
the plane before him. I am surprised when a man sits next to me. Doesn’t he
know this is Amitabh’s seat? It turns out he is in charge of the food at the
Oberoi Hotel and we have a nice conversation about where to find the best paani
puri in Mumbai.
Suddenly Amitabh energises on to the plane, all the excess power from creating
the Public-Passing Vortex in the departure lounge flowing out of him. He is
chewing gum and looking quite rakish in jeans and a loose silky knit jumper.
He looks at the Oberoi guy and then at his seat stub. The Oberoi guy’s head
snaps back as if Amitabh had just staked him to the headrest. “Oh! Hello
sir! Is this your seat, sir?” he asks.
“No”, says Amitabh. “Jessica. How are you? Glad you could make it.” He smiles
and moves on, to a seat next to the producer Guarang Doshi.
“You’re travelling with him?” whispers Oberoi kaana-walla
, all his my- paani-puri -place-is-best bravura gone.
All is rectified after the plane takes off when Doshi comes and asks the poor
guy to move so that Amitabh can be polite and sit next to his guest. And she
can watch, enthralled, while he organises his briefcase.
Looking for . . . The Big B: Bollywood, Bachchan and Me by Jessica
Hines is published by Bloomsbury on March 5 (£12.99). To order a copy for
£11.69, including free delivery, call Times Books First (0870 1608080)
King of Bollywood: Amitabh Bachchan’s life in — and out of — film
1942 Born in Allahabad, India, son of the great poet Harivansh Rai
Bachchan.
1970 Won the Filmfare Best Supporting Actor Award for his part in Anand.
1971 Won his first Best Actor award for Amar Akbar Anthony.
1975 Made Sholay, which ran in Indian cinemas for five years.
1975 Deewar highlights Bachchan’s classic “angry young man”
on-screen persona.
1982 While making Coolie Bachchan is injured, a blow to the
abdomen rupturing his intestine.
1984 Enters politics, becoming MP for Allahabad.
1990 Role as a Mafia don in Agneepathwon him yet another
National Film Award.
1992 After making Khuda Gawah retreats into semi-retirement for
five years.
2000 Presents Kaun Banega Crorepati, India's version of Who
Wants to be a Millionaire?, finding new fame as a TV star.
2005 Wins the Best Actor Award for his role in Black, as the
teacher at a deaf, blind and dumb pupil.
2007 Bachchan continues to reign in Bollywood, and is working on a
number of productions, including the remake of Sholay .
