Jaagte Raho: A Night of Truth

(Click through to read my post on Learning and Creativity’s Silhouette Magazine)

December 14th 2024 marked the birth centenary of actor/film-maker Raj Kapoor. I commemorated the day by posting a review of one of my favourite Raj Kapoor films (as an actor, not a director), the delightful Chori Chori. Simultaneously, the online magazine for cinema, art and literature, Silhouette, was hosting a month-long extravaganza on Raj Kapoor, the man, his films, his music, and more. The event is on till January 13th.

As part of this online celebration, I too was invited to contribute an article (as Anu, who curated the event, said: “I know there are RK movies you like!”). I chose to write on Jaagte Raho, a film I’d seen earlier (and reviewed, on this blog), and which I had liked enough to now want to rewatch it, and review. On purpose, I did not revisit my earlier blog post; I approached the film with new eyes, and found myself liking it even more than I had the last time.

Here, then, is my review of Jaagte Raho. Do also check out the other articles that form part of this RK fiesta: lots of good stuff here!

Famous songs, Not-so-Famous Faces: The Magic of Mohammad Rafi

Some days back, in celebration of the birth centenary of Mohammad Rafi, I posted a list of ten Rafi songs, picturized on ten different actors. Each of those men—Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Shammi Kapoor, even Johnny Walker—were immediately recognizable. Big names in their own ways (yes, even Johnny Walker, whom I personally think of as the greatest comedian to have lit up the Hindi silver screen). But even as I was compiling that list, I was thinking of all the many other times I’ve listened to a Rafi song, and have been unable to put a name to the man who’s lip-syncing to his voice.

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Ten Men, One Voice: The Magic of Mohammad Rafi

Today, December 24, 2024 marks an important birth centenary: that of one of the greatest singers ever to hail from the Indian subcontinent, the inimitable Mohammad Rafi. Born on December 24, 1924 in Kotla Sultan Singh (Punjab), Rafi would go on to dominate the world of Hindi playback singing in a way few of his contemporaries could, singing thousands of songs, winning awards by the dozen—and rarely (a rarity in itself, in a competitive industry) antagonizing those he worked with.

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It Happened One Night (1934)

Last week, to commemorate the 100th birth anniversary of Raj Kapoor, I reviewed my favourite film of his as an actor: Chori Chori, which was a remake (uncredited) of It Happened One Night. I had seen Chori Chori before; I had also seen It Happened One Night before, though in both cases, I had not reviewed the film in question.

Since I’ve finally reviewed Chori Chori, it seemed to me about time I reviewed It Happened One Night as well (which is why there’s also a comparison with Chori Chori further along in this post). Directed and co-produced by Frank Capra, this film was based on a short story, Night Bus, by Samuel Hopkins Adams. It is generally regarded as the first ever screwball comedy, having pretty much invented the genre; it was also the first of only three films so far to have won all five major Oscars: Best Picture, Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay.

But, to start at the beginning: on a private yacht moored off the coast at Miami, where Ellen ‘Ellie’ Andrews (Claudette Colbert) has been confined by her banker father (Walter Connolly). Mr Andrews disapproves, unreservedly, of Ellie’s having gotten married to a man named King Westley (Jameson Thomas), whom he (Mr Andrews) is convinced is a rotter: only interested in Ellie’s wealth, nothing else.  

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Chori Chori (1956)

Happy 100th birthday to one of India’s greatest film makers, Raj Kapoor!

RK was born in Peshawar on December 14th, 1924. What can I say about him that hasn’t already been said or written, and by people much more erudite, well-informed, and more fond of RK’s cinema than I am? Yes; I will admit that I am not the greatest of Raj Kapoor’s fans, but let us keep the whys and the wherefores of that, the debates and the discussions, for another time. As Anu Warrier (of Conversations over Chai, not just a fellow blogger I admire hugely, but also an RK fan) said “I know there are RK films you like!”: and for RK’s birth centenary, I decided it was high time I finally reviewed an RK film that I particularly like.

I have watched Chori Chori several times, and always with great satisfaction. Even though it starred Raj Kapoor (opposite Nargis, moreover), the film is not at all the sort of film RK was known for: this was the light-hearted romp that younger brother Shammi was to go on to make his own. A road trip, a pampered heiress, a romance. Lots of songs, great chemistry.

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The List of Adrian Messenger (1963)

YouTube suggested this film to me, and when I looked up a synopsis, it sounded fairly interesting. A man asks a favour of a friend who is ex-MI5: here is a list, of ten men, living in various parts of Great Britain, nothing seemingly to tie them together, no similar occupation, no similar background, nothing. But find them , ask each of them if all is well, whether they’re still living at the addresses given in the list.

The important word here being ‘living’. Because, when the friend—Anthony Gethryn (George C Scott) sets about tracking down the men, it doesn’t take him along to find out that most of the men on the list are already dead, killed in accidents over the past five years. They couldn’t really be accidents, could they?

Very interesting. Rather like And Then There Were None (which, by the way, is referred to more than once in the course of The List of Adrian Messenger). I decided this was a film I had to watch.

When the credits began to roll, I sat up, because suddenly here were familiar names, one after another. Tony Curtis. Robert Mitchum. Burt Lancaster. Kirk Douglas. Frank Sinatra. Why on earth hadn’t I heard of this film before, I wondered. Tony Curtis, Kirk Douglas and Robert Mitchum, especially, are among my favourites, and even if I haven’t seen all their films, I am mostly at least aware of many of the films they worked in. And one that seemed like such a casting coup? How come I hadn’t known about this?

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Kundan (1955)

Some days ago, in this delightful post about chai in Hindi cinema, I came across a mention of Kundan. Aao hamaare hotal mein chai peeyoji garam-garam sounded so interesting that I bookmarked the film without even really checking to see what it was all about (though the cast, barring Nimmi—whom I often find very irritating—appealed to me). Then, just a couple of days later, Anu posted this wonderful tribute to Sohrab Modi, in which she listed Kundan as one of her favourite ten films directed by Modi. Adapted from Victor Hugo’s classic Les Miserables.

That sealed it. I had read Les Miserables a couple of years ago, and had been blown away by it: by the depth and width of it, the characterization, the sheer scope of it all. And now, it looked as if the universe was pushing me towards Kundan. I had to watch this one.

The story gets off to a flying start. Kundan (Sohrab Modi) is a very poor man who lives with his very ill sister and her little daughter Radha. Unable to earn [it’s not clear why, given that he looks able-bodied enough], a desperate Kundan finally steals a loaf of bread from a bakery and runs home to give it to Radha. Since he’s made no attempt to commit this theft in secrecy, the alarm has been raised and Kundan is arrested even as Radha is eating the loaf.

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Ten of my Favourite ‘Multiple Version’ Songs: Duets

By which I mean two versions of the same duet.

This is part of an admittedly sporadic series of posts that focus on multiple versions of songs in old Hindi cinema. Composers and film directors have, again and again, homed in on songs that have staying power: songs that audiences wouldn’t mind listening to repeatedly in a film. Multiple version songs, as I’ve shown in previous posts of this type, take various forms. The type, for instance, where both a woman and a man sing the same song, but as solos. Or where a song is sung both as a duet and as a solo. Or, even, where the same singer (male or female) sings the same at two different points, but usually in two different moods.

And then there’s this: where a duet is repeated. Invariably, in two distinct moods. Given that the overwhelming number of duets in Hindi cinema tend to be romantic ones, there’s a certain predictability to the tones of these songs. One version is, more often than not, a happy version: two lovers celebrating their love and vowing eternal fidelity. The other version, just as often, is the complete opposite in tone. Things have fallen apart, fate (or disapproving parents, nasty relatives, lecherous villains, etc) have intervened and either sown the seed of suspicion, or used emotional blackmail to force one of the couple into giving up the other. There are also sorts of possibilities—and they lead, as below, to the old duet being again sung (often as an impossible duet, the estranged lovers physically too far apart to be really singing together).

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Chaar Darvesh (1964)

YouTube suggested this film to me, and for a few days, I was torn. Should I watch it (Feroz Khan is not a favourite of mine, though I don’t find him as irritating as some others), or should I not? Sayeeda Khan, after all, is someone I’ve wanted to watch, mostly because I was intrigued—she was married to film director/producer Brij Sadanah, and was murdered by him on their son’s eleventh birthday party (Sadanah also shot and killed their daughter, before committing suicide). Yes, macabre (not to mention tragic), but that’s how it is.

Eventually, it was the music—by the very talented but vastly underrated GS Kohli—that tipped the scales in favour of my watching Chaar Darvesh. Kohli, who did a lot of work as assistant to OP Nayyar (and it shows, in the rhythms and styles of much of his work), composed music on his own for several B-grade films, of which among the best-known are Shikari (1963; easily his magnum opus, with one great song after another) and Chaar Darvesh. Even if just for the music, I wanted to watch this film.

The story is set in some fictitious fantasy kingdom somewhere in the Middle East. At a shrine, three bearded darveshes, clad in flowing robes, have gathered to pray for boons. One is seeking a treasure [that sounds a little shallow, for a darvesh]; another is searching for his sweetheart, who’s gone missing.

These three men have learnt, though, that their wishes will only be granted once they have been joined by a fourth darvesh… who, thank heavens, arrives soon after. This is Qamar (Feroz Khan in blackface), and he proceeds to tell them his tale of woe and to explain how he happens to have turned so black.

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Announcing a New Book: Unlocked Lunches

(and, free right now on Amazon Kindle for the next three days!)

If you’ve been visiting this blog over the past couple of years, you may have noticed that I published a cookbook sometime back. Lockdown Lunches: The World on a Plate was a documentation of twenty-six lunches, one for every fortnight of the year starting April 2020, when Covid struck and India went into lockdown. As I’d explained when I introduced that book, the lockdown meant that my family—my husband, I, and our daughter, ardent foodies who enjoy eating out and exploring interesting new cuisines—found ourselves stuck at home and getting increasingly bored with the mundanity of everyday meals. To relieve the boredom, I decided we’d party at home: every two weeks, a three-course meal featuring the cuisine of a different country. Complete with a specially curated playlist of music from that country.

Those twenty-six lunches, menus, recipes, and some background food history about the countries in question, were chronicled in Lockdown Lunches. However, our lunches didn’t stop there. By the time I’d published Lockdown Lunches, we’d already done quite a few more of our lunch parties. 

A sequel, I decided, was in order. This, therefore: Unlocked Lunches. Because, of course, by the time I finished with this batch of twenty-six lunches, the lockdown was over and done with. Like Lockdown Lunches, Unlocked Lunches too is divided into chapters, each chapter prefaced with a short insight into the country’s food and how it’s evolved, what are the important elements of the cuisine, and so on. Then, there’s the menu, and all the recipes.

In the making of Lockdown Lunches, because our daughter (then all of six years old) had been so excited and had so many interesting insights and anecdotes to offer, I had included that—by way of comic relief, really—for each chapter. In Unlocked Lunches, I decided to skip that, so if you’re a fan of the LO (the ‘Little One’, as I used to call her; she’s now nearly eleven and no longer little), sorry. What I do have, though, is a brief introduction to the menu, some tips and tricks for distributing the work involved, and such.

Some notes. For one, while most of the main courses are based around animal protein, I made it a point to have vegetarian starters and side dishes to compensate for all that meat. You will therefore find plenty of vegetarian recipes here. Also, I made an attempt to curate my menus in such a way that they could be easily made in the average Indian kitchen: without too much fuss, without too many exotic ingredients that might break the bank or be impossible to get hold of. And, importantly, recipes in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts: delicious without involving a lot of backbreaking work. Among the countries whose food you’ll find featured in Unlocked Lunches are Thailand, Lebanon, Morocco, Mexico, and Belgium.

Here, then, is Unlocked Lunches. It’s a digital-only book, available on Amazon Kindle. All Amazon sites worldwide have it, and for the next three days, starting today, it’s free for download.

Click here to buy it on Amazon India; here for Amazon US; here for Amazon UK; and so on. Whichever Amazon website you opt for, simply search on it for ‘Unlocked Lunches Madhulika Liddle’, and you should be able to get it. Happy reading!

If you enjoy exploring food cultures, if food interests you, give this one a try. Bon appetit!