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Dear Deceiver: Agni Pariksha versus Chhoti si Mulaqat

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In 1954, the Bengali novelist Ashapurna Debi’s book Agni Pariksha was adapted for the silver screen, into a film starring relative newcomers Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen – who had made a mark as an onscreen couple just the previous year, in Shaarey Chhuattar.

Agni Pariksha was the story of a woman caught in a dilemma, torn between the man she loves and the man (whom she hasn’t met for more than a decade) to whom she was married as a 14-year old. The film was a smash hit, with great music, and succeeded in cementing the Uttam Kumar-Suchitra Sen pairing.

… and then, 13 years down the line, Uttam Kumar produced and starred in a Hindi remake of the film: Chhoti si Mulaqat, opposite Vyjyanthimala. The film flopped miserably.

Why? Why was Agni Pariksha such a hit, Chhoti si Mulaqat such a dud?

I examine these two films for LnC’s Silhouette Magazine, for the ongoing retrospective on Uttam Kumar. Click here to read the full article, and do check out the other articles that form part of the mahanayak‘s centenary celebrations.

Nayak (1966)

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In Satyajit Ray’s 1966 film Nayak (‘The Hero’), the eponymous ‘hero’, the hugely popular superstar Arindam Mukherjee (Uttam Kumar), is travelling by train from Kolkata to Delhi to receive an award. He is sharing a compartment with a family, of whom the father, Mr Bose (Ranjit Sen) spends most of his time outside the compartment. The mother (Bharati Devi) is left pretty much on her own to look after their teenaged daughter Bulbul (Lali Chowdhury), who is unwell and is lying on the upper berth.

When Arindam first enters their compartment, the effect of his arrival is palpable. Bulbul has been reading a book; one look at him and the book ends up beside her, forgotten. On the berth underneath, Mrs Bose, having settled in (and informed Arindam that her daughter is a fan of his) surreptitiously opens her handbag, takes out a mirror and takes a quick peek at herself.

Such is the effect of close proximity to a celebrity.

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Shahu Modak, Manhar Desai, and Secularism in Old Hindi Cinema

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Some time back, I was standing at the gate of our housing society, waiting for my daughter’s school bus to arrive. A neighbour, the mother of one of my daughter’s classmates, began complaining about the poor standard (according to her) of teaching in the school, which is Christian mission-run. Her contention was that teachers who aren’t qualified, or don’t really excel, are allowed to stay on in the school simply because they’re Christian. “You see them in the school photos,” she said. “All converts, you can see by their faces.”

I pointed out gently that most Christians in India (or actually, across the world) have been converted, at some time or the other, either in their own lifetimes or through their ancestors.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” she said. “I mean people who have been given incentives by missionaries to convert. I have lived in South India, I have seen a lot of this.” She must have seen the look on my face, and she hurried to clarify. “You can tell they’re converts, because of their mixed names.”

“I have a mixed name,” I said. Madhulika Liddle.

And then, I think, the penny dropped. So far, she had forgotten, perhaps, that I am Christian.

She blustered. “Of course, of course. But not you. I mean people who look perfectly normal but are Christian.”

“Normal? So Christians are not normal?”

By which time the school bus had arrived and I think both of us were relieved to have an end to what had become an awkward conversation.

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Thank You, Jeeves! (1936)

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What I didn’t like about this film:

Yes, I am breaking with tradition: this is not going to be the usual type of blog post format I use for film reviews on Dustedoff. For the simple reason that this travesty of a film doesn’t deserve that much time and effort.

So, what I didn’t like:

The mockery they’ve made of a Wodehouse story. Writers Joseph Hoffman and Stephen Gross, and director Arthur Greville Collins, give credit to Wodehouse but all that remains in the film that is even vaguely connected to Wodehouse and his style are the two main characters: Bertie Wooster (David Niven) and his gentleman’s gentleman, Jeeves (Arthur Treacher). Nothing else, not the elements of the story, not the language, not the story, is anything like the Jeeves-and-Wooster stories.

The characters are insipid. Wooster isn’t a chump; Jeeves is. In fact, Jeeves is such a moron, he doesn’t even realize he’s literally on the edge of something big. He is distinguished only by that stiff upper lip; no brilliant brains, no coming up with genius schemes to haul the young master out of the mulligatawny. In fact, when Jeeves eventually does come to Bertie’s help, it’s with fists flying. It’s Jeeves’s fighting skills, not his brainpower, that comes in use here.

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Aarzoo (1965)

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A couple of months back, my sister Swapna was invited to head a quiz team at a pub quiz (Jai Arjun Singh, who was also there, wrote about it here). Telling me about the quiz later, Swapna mentioned that there was one question that even Jai didn’t know. In Aarzoo, which place in Delhi does Rajendra Kumar’s character say he belongs to?

Nobody could answer that question. But the answer is Okhla Village.

… which sort of struck a chord with me, because till we shifted from Delhi to Noida, my husband and I had spent many years living very close to Okhla. And Noida, in case you weren’t aware of this, is actually an acronym for New Okhla Industrial Development Authority. Okhla follows us around. Or we refuse to really move away from Okhla.

This incident reminded me, though, that I have never reviewed Aarzoo on this blog, though I’ve watched the film at least twice. Time to amend that, I decided.

Newly-minted medical graduate Gopal (Rajendra Kumar) and his neighbour Ramesh (Feroze Khan) have been best friends since their childhood. Gopal’s younger sister Sarla (Nazima) and his widowed mother (Achla Sachdev) regard Ramesh pretty much the same as Gopal: a member of the family, a brother/son just as Gopal is.

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Aaya Saawan Jhoomke (1969)

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When Dharmendra passed away some months back, it reminded me that while I have seen a good bit of his filmography from the 1960s—including little-known, forgettable films like Begaana, Main Bhi Ladki Hoon, Chandan ka Palna and Jab Yaad Kisiki Aati Hai—I haven’t reviewed too many of his films. Some, yes; but plenty, even much-loved films or well-known ones, have somehow slipped under the radar. Time to correct that, I decided.

And why not with this film (directed by Raghunath Jhalani), which I had last seen perhaps a little over 20 years ago, and which I remembered vaguely. Nirupa Roy, having (once again) misplaced a child. Aruna Irani on the verge of becoming an unwed mother if some good Samaritan doesn’t come to her rescue. Asha Parekh, lower lip quivering and eyes swimming with tears. Some very well-known songs.

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Ten of my favourite Dharmendra duets

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RIP, Dharmendra.

After the recent fiasco—when several news sites (including some which are supposed to be responsible) posted the erroneous news of Dharmendra’s passing away—I was sceptical when I read, on November 24th, that he had died. Another hoax, I thought. He cannot be dead; this must be another TRP-raising technique by conscienceless brute journalists.

But no, sadly not. Dharmendra truly is gone. At the age of 89, after a very long innings as an actor. Starting as a supporting actor, then going on to play the romantic hero through the 60s (a period during which he also did some of his more nuanced roles, like in Satyakam and Anupama). In the 70s, Dharmendra finally donned the ‘Kutte main tera khoon pee jaaoonga’ persona that was to—unfairly, I think—become his defining onscreen character. He was the muscle-bound action hero, often seeking revenge, in so many films that people tended to forget that Dharmendra was actually a very versatile actor, capable of everything from comedy (remember him in Chupke-Chupke and Seeta aur Geeta?) to knee-weakeningly romantic roles, to restrained, subtle acting.

Also, of course, there was the fact that he was very handsome: one of the best-looking of Hindi cinema’s leading men. One could watch a film just to feast one’s eyes on Garam Dharam, the ultimate hottie.

Anyway, a tribute was definitely in order, because this is one person whose passing I sincerely and whole-heartedly mourn. I had done a post of my favourite Dharmendra solos back in 2014, to mark his 79th birthday. Commenting on that post, several blog readers had suggested songs of his that were duets, and which I had to regretfully nix. But I thought, back then, that a Dharmendra duets list was in order. So here it is. As always, these songs are all from pre-70s Hindi films (or rather, pre-1971, since a few of these were released in 1970) that I’ve watched.

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Shaheed (1948)

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RIP, Kamini Kaushal. Ms Kaushal, probably the oldest of Hindi cinema stars still living, passed away at the age of 98 on November 14, 2025.

Over the years I’ve been blogging, I’ve seen one after the other of some of my favourite stars pass out of our lives: Shammi Kapoor, Sadhana, Dilip Kumar, Kumkum… but with Kamini Kaushal, I have to admit to a somewhat pronounced sense of loss. Not because she was a particular favourite of mine (though I admitted to being quite impressed with her acting when I watched Biraj Bahu some months back). But because with her passing, the door seems to have shut firmly on those who heralded the start of the Golden Age in Hindi cinema.

Anyhow, a tribute seemed in order. A tribute to Kamini Kaushal, and to a film that I’ve been meaning to watch for a while now.

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Celebrating International Literacy Day: People Reading Things in Hindi Cinema

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Today, September 8, is International Literacy Day. In 1967, this day was designated as such by UNESCO to emphasize the importance of literacy in maintaining dignity and as a matter of basic human rights. Every year, a different theme related to literacy is used as the focus of special programmes and initiatives across the world: women’s empowerment, for instance; or the connection between literacy and controlling epidemics.

So what does that have to do with Hindi cinema? Not much, I admit, though there have been Hindi films—especially in the 50s, when India under Nehru was trying very hard to haul itself up into modernity—when there was the occasional film which made an attempt to underline the importance of being literate. Anpadh, for instance; or Bahurani, both of which showed how literacy can enlighten people. Similarly, Nartakee, and Ek ke Baad Ek, which too had literacy and education as important elements of the story.

While literacy may not be the point of most Hindi films, there’s no denying that few films go by without at least one character shown reading something. A book (to be seen in many films, even clearly identifiable books, as I’ve mentioned in these posts). A letter—at times so incriminating. A newspaper, often carrying some very vital piece of news, sometimes even shown rolling off the presses or being sold on the streets. A magazine (Life? Everybody fashionable in 60s cinema seemed to read Life).

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Sapphire (1959)

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Not even half an hour into this 1959 British film, directed by Basil Dearden, and I was wondering: “Why isn’t this one better-known? How come I hadn’t heard of it before?”

Having finished watching Sapphire, I think I know the answers to those questions. It’s not as if Sapphire is an obscure film; in Britain, in knowledgeable film circles, it’s probably fairly well-respected, given that it won the BAFTA Award for Best Film in 1960. But here in India, while British cinema of earlier years (Hitchcock’s early cinema, the films of Laurence Olivier and Leslie Howard in the 30s and 40s, for instance) were the stuff of my childhood film-watching—thanks to Doordarshan, which would air the great classics—by the 1950s and 60s, the cinema that seemed to be most popular was Hollywood. I am not talking of what English-language films were actually screened in India back then; I am talking of the 50s and 60s English-language films that were aired by Doordarshan in the 1980s and early 90s, when much of my film-watching was on TV.

Anyway, better late than never, I guess. I finally watched Sapphire (because of a serendipitous discovery on YouTube; the film is available here). And this, I can safely say, is one of the more unusual noir films I’ve seen. While it is a solid police procedural, a whodunnit revolving round a murdered woman, it is, too, a comment on society, on norms, what is right and what is wrong.

The story begins on Hamstead Heath, where two little children, playing with their ball, tumble onto the body of a young woman (Yvonne Buckingham) who’s been stabbed to death. The police are called in, and Chief Inspector Bob Hazard (Nigel Patrick) comes with his team to examine the scene of crime. The young woman’s body is taken away for autopsy.

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