THE Global Indian Times INTERVIEW

by Ignatius Chithelen

November 24, 2022

From 1976 to 1995, Saeed Mirza made six feature films. The first, Arvind Desai Ki Ajeeb Dastaan, (The Strange Fate of Arvind Desai), 1978), was based on a script by Vijay Tendulkar who wrote several plays and film scripts in Marathi and Hindi.

Tendulkar’s Marathi play Ghashiram Kotwal (Officer Ghashiram) has been performed more than 6,000 times around the world. In 1976, Mirza and Tendulkar collaborated with Mani Kaul and other film makers on a movie based on the play, which was produced for Rs.180,000 ($20,000, the exchange rate at that time).

Mirza, who gave up making feature films in 1995, started writing books. His first book, Ammi: Letter to a Democratic Mother, 2008, is now in its fourth edition.

His fourth book, I Know the Psychology of Rats will be available in India next month and, in the U.S. and elsewhere, through Columbia University Press in April 2023. In the book, he tells the story of his friend Kundan Shah, who, “using humor, the absurd, and the grotesque, attempted to unravel our times, and the world we had inherited.”

Last week, Mirza, 79-years-old, chatted with Ignatius Chithelen, while sipping coffee at a Starbucks in Greenwich Village, New York City. Mirza, who is based in Mumbai, was visiting his son and his family. Mirza talks about Kundan Shah, his career in advertising, his move to film making and why he stopped making feature films and is writing books.

Global Indian Times: You are one of only two people I know who beat the street smarts challenging visitors to chess games in New York’s Washington Square Park. How much did you win? You must be good at chess.

Mirza: I beat the guys in the park twice. We bet $10, though I did not take their money. But the games were stressful and exhausting. I played a fair amount of chess as a kid. My older brother Aziz was far better. I do not find chess fun anymore, unless I am playing with one of my four grandkids.

GIT: Why did you write the Psychology of Rats?

Mirza: I want more people to know about Kundan Shah – he told me he knows the psychology of rats. He was a close friend and a great film talent who grounded me and taught me a lot. He assisted me in directing Albert Pinto Ko Gussan Kyon Aatan Hai, (Why Does Albert Pinto Get Angry, 1980), and Mohan Joshi Hazir Ho, (Mohan Joshi Appear Before the Court, 1984). He also directed some of the episodes of my TV serial Nukkad (Street Corner, 1986), and Intezaar, (Wait, 1988.)

GIT: How did you two meet?

Mirza: I first met Kundan in 1973. We were classmates at the Film and Television Institute (in Pune, India.)

We were from very different backgrounds: He was from a family of traders, graduating from a government-run high school where the language of instruction was Gujarati. I am from a family of scholars and was educated in English: Bombay Scottish Orphanage (a top private school), and a degree in economics and politics from St. Xavier’s (a Jesuit-run college in Mumbai.)

Initially, I viewed Kundan as a complete nerd. He was always taking notes, whether in the classroom or in the dark, while watching a movie. I would shout at him: “why don’t you think independently?” He ignored me, viewing me as an elitist, arrogant know-it-all who came from a life of privilege.

We became close friends in the final third year. I was blown away by Bonga, the short comedic film he made for his school project. I realized the nerd had guts. An incredible talent.  

GIT: Did you start in advertising because Satyajit Ray and some other Indian filmmakers did so?

Mirza: I wanted to marry Jennifer whom I met in college. So I needed a job. I went into advertising because I viewed it as creative work which paid better than journalism or teaching or a white-collar job.   

I graduated from St. Xavier’s in 1965. I then finished a one-year course in advertising and marketing from Kishinchand Chellaram College in Mumbai. I started as an intern for three months at Lintas and then became a copywriter. Jennifer and I got married in 1969.

I wrote copy to sell soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and other consumer products made by major multi-national and Indian companies. Also, one for the India Tourism Board: “India has the heritage. Bangkok gets the tourists.”

Seven years after I started in advertising, I was the chief copywriter for ASP in Delhi, earning a high salary.

GIT: Why did you move to making films?

Mirza: After about five years, I began hating my job. In college I had read the works of several progressive social critics including Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth. Their insights on work and society made me question what I was doing for a living.  

Each morning, I got more uncomfortable when I read The Times of India. I saw my copy for seductive images of men’s suits on the same page as photos of the protests of the oppressed Dalit castes in Mumbai, the bombing in Vietnam. I am still haunted by the image of the young Vietnamese girl, running with her clothes in flames, after a napalm bombing.      

During my last year as an ad man, I got increasingly angry and irritated by the smallest things. I did not want to go to the office, even though I then had two young sons Zaheer and Safdar.

It was Jennifer who saved me. She pushed me to apply for admission to film school. She took on a full-time job and supported the family while I was in film school.

GIT: Why make films and not write books as you are now doing?

Mirza: I knew a lot about films. My father (Akthar Mirza) wrote the scripts for Naya Dour (A New Era, 1957), Waqt (Time, 1965), and other Hindi films. Though he worked in Bollywood, he had studied history at AMU (Aligarh Muslim University, India). He enjoyed and sought to learn from the works of great masters. When I was thirteen, I sat with Aziz and him and watched Sergei Eisenstein’s Potemkin Village; also, Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves and other classics.

After the films ended, the three of us would discuss and argue about the story, the acting, the photography, the music. My father never imposed his views, allowing us to form our own opinions.

I grew up in Mahim, Mumbai, observing and imbibing the world of Bollywood cinema. But while visiting film sets with my father, I could not figure out how the elaborate sets and the slow process, with numerous retakes of a shot, led to making a film. While I was working in advertising, Aziz joined my father in the film industry.

I was also fascinated by the power of big screen images on an audience. I wanted to communicate the miracle that was India as well as its fragile nature. Just look at a one Rupee note. It contains sixteen languages. No other country has so many major languages. Then we have people from four major religions who were living in harmony. The constitution was about equality and justice for all.    

Why go to film school and not start working as an assistant to a film maker?

Mirza: I wanted to immerse myself fully in learning all I could about films. Each day at film school I would watch one or two feature films and several short films and documentaries. Films by Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen, Adoor Gopalakrishnan, G. Aravindan and other Indian film makers.

Films by other third world filmmakers like The Hour of the Furnaces (by the Argentinians Octavio Getino and Fernando Solanas, 1968.) I learnt about cinema aesthetics from the films of Jean Luc Godard, Francois Truffaut, Ermanno Olmi and Luis Bunuel.

I realized that the director can play a major role in making a film, unlike in Bollywood where the big stars often shape the films.      

I also immersed myself in reading scripts, plays, poetry and about music and politics. And I learned much from the intense debates and arguments with fellow students, faculty, visiting filmmakers and artists.

GIT: Were there any teachers you admired?

Mirza: Satish Bahadur. I took his film appreciation course for two years. He did not push his point of view. Instead, he asked questions and wanted students to form their opinions.

Then there was B.K. Nair the curator of the National Film Archives (which is located near the film school in Pune). He was an exceptional source of information, guidance and introductions to filmmakers.

GIT: You did not make any films on the advertising business.

Mirza: the main character in my first film Arvind Desai Ke Ajeeb Dastaan (The Strange Fate of Arvind Desai, 1978,) is based on folks I met in advertising. Desai is alienated and lost. While an educated man, he is trapped by his small business. He has no close ties to family and friends.    

GIT: Who funded your films?

Mirza: All my films were financed by the NFDC (National Film Development Corporation, a government of India run film-promotion entity.) They were low-budget, or no-budget films as one European film maker put it. We got Rs. 500,000 ($61,000) to make Arvind Desai and Rs.350,000 ($45,000) for Albert Pinto.

I made the films and handed the master copy to NFDC to market and distribute them. Most of my films are now available on YouTube for free. I do not know why that happened and how the economics work for NFDC.

GIT: Would you have liked to make a big budget movie?

Mirza: The low budgets instilled discipline. We shot most of the films in improvised sets in homes of friends. In fact, Albert Pinto was shot in an apartment owned by a friend named Albert Pinto. We could not afford the labor and film costs for several retakes. So, we got the actors to practice in advance and tried to finish a scene in the first or second take. At the end of each day, we would total up what was spent to make sure we were within the budget.

I did not seek investors to back me for a big-budget film. Frankly they would have little interest in my work since I did not care whether the films were widely distributed or how many tickets were sold. NFDC continued financing my films since it apparently did OK with them financially.  

GIT: Why are the titles of your film so long?

Mirza: The titles describe the film and so the audience can decide whether to see it or not. If you go to see Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai you will know why Albert Pinto gets angry. There are no surprises. There is no mystery. I want to have a conversation with the audience. The only exception was my last film Naseem, (The Morning Breeze, 1995), with one word for the title.

GIT: Why did you stop making feature films after Naseem?

Mirza: I had nothing more to say through films. Naseem was my epitaph for India as I knew it. The destruction of the Babri Masjid (mosque in 1992) was an attempt to destroy India. It triggered Hindu Muslim clashes. Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered across the country. It generated divisions, hate and anger among neighbors merely because they prayed in different ways.

I was not surprised by the changes occurring in India. There were clear signs along the way, sadly with more innocent lives lost. The communal clashes in and around Mumbai in 1984. The attacks on Sikhs in Delhi the same year (following the killing of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi). The communal clashes triggered by the Rath Yatra (Chariot Journey in 1990, with the goal of demolishing the Babri Masjid and replacing it with a Hindu temple.) 

GIT: Why did you shift to writing books and making documentaries?

Mirza: I am now merely a witness and an observer and hence write books and make documentaries. After Naseem, I traveled around India recording what I saw with a camera.  

GIT: Why did Kundan Shah call you arrogant when you first met?

Mirza:  I have strong opinions and express them. When I was ten, I refused to go to the mosque. I told my father, if there is a god, why is there so much poverty and suffering in Mumbai. He said OK I could stay outside the mosque while he went in.

Kundan was blunter in his views. He was brutally honest and had a sharp sense of justice. He passed away in 2017. I miss his friendship. I miss chatting with him and learning his insights on films, politics, life.  

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