One day, I found Shyam babu in Bombay halfway through his Hindustan Steel schedule, looking hassled and irritable. I discovered that none other than Indira Gandhi, the prime minister of India, had summoned him. In her infinite wisdom, she had taken a narrow victory in elections, and rendered it null and void. She then plunged the country into a mid-term election in a bid to get an absolute majority in parliament and ram through the issues that were plaguing the nation.
She gambled it all on a ‘double or quits’ move by going back to the people to decide. To make this gamble a reality and to reach out to the sweaty millions to communicate the issues at hand, she had summoned Shyam Benegal, communicator extraordinaire. She wanted us to carry the message home, in a series of films, underlying the promises she had made, and how vested interests and politicians were opposing her from delivering those, as she did not have an absolute majority to be able to do so.
Yours truly was coopted into this amazing exercise, purely because there was no one else available. I had to go to Delhi for the shoot and carry the rushes back to Bombay, then edit the material and take it back to Delhi for approval; all this while keeping Shyam babu, who was somewhere in Bhilai, in the loop. We were already running on an impossible deadline.
A lowly slave like me usually would have to slog it by train or bus or a donkey caravan to reach the location, but because of the crazy schedule, I had the privilege of travelling by air with the big boys for the first time in my life. We landed up for the shoot at 7, Race Course Road, at Mrs G’s official residence on a wing and a prayer, as there was no actual script. We met on the lawn of the imposing building, with the usual suspects in tow accompanied by Mrs G’s meagre security detail, which was nothing like what it is nowadays, bustling with Black Cats, safari suits and officious busybodies.
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There sat an imperious Mrs G, and Ike, i.e., Inder Gujral, then the minister of information and broadcasting. Her secretary, Mr Dhawan, was also present, along with a few other motleys. She looked at Shyam babu and smiled, saying, ‘So, Shyam, what do you think?’ Shyam babu, who had been furiously trying to wrangle some sense out of the brief on the flight, decided that being subtle was not going to work. He immediately grabbed the bull by its horns and settled on the best strategy—brutal honesty.
Shyam babu felt it was a gamble to call for a re-election and, therefore, it deserved a straight-from-the-heart appeal by the lady, with no holds barred. There was stunned silence from the cohorts as the last thing a seasoned politician does with their vote bank is to lay their cards on the table. Mrs Gandhi heard Shyam babu out without a flicker of expression and turned to poor Ike, who was visibly squirming. He wanted to hedge his bets; it was clear he was extremely uncomfortable allowing Madame G to take the bit in her mouth and go hell for leather after the opposition and the so-called vested interests. Ike knew if the shit hit the fan, he would be in the dead centre of damage control and would probably be the fall guy. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and muttered something inaudibly, trying to buy time and come up with a less do-or-die plan.
She fixed him with a baleful glare and said, ‘C’mon, Ike, by the time you make up your mind, the elections will be over. Should we or shouldn’t we?’ Poor Ike still didn’t want to commit himself to a path of no return. So Madame G impatiently and imperiously took the call, and said with a smile at Shyam babu, ‘I like it! Let’s put the lily-livered spineless opposition, including the fence-sitters in my party, to the sword. Let’s do it. Shyam, tell me what you want.’ Thus unfolded one of the most powerful appeals by a sitting prime minister. She urged the nation to give her the mandate to push through for reforms or remove her from office. Now or never, all or nothing! But, in execution, it wasn’t as simple. Shyam babu wrote the appeal with Madame G and shot it from multiple angles with close-ups. It was all done on film, as there was no video in those days.
I was packed off to Bombay to process, edit and sound slap the commercials, and fly back with the rough cut for approval nine times in one week. And so it went. I would fly to Delhi, show the rough cut, fly back to Bombay to make the tweaks and changes, edit all night and return the following day to Delhi. Finally, the film was ready, but I didn’t know whether I was coming or going any more.
I was jet-lagged travelling between Bombay and Delhi. We made five thousand prints and released it in theatres all over the country, and the nation woke up to an unprecedented gamble by a politician and was fired up by it. Every citizen felt it was their duty to cast their ballot and make a difference. Indira Gandhi won a resounding victory, which put her firmly in the driver’s seat. She was hugely charismatic and her timing was impeccable. Shyam went off to complete The Pulsating Giant, a massive film on the steel-making capacity of India, and I retired, jet-lagged and exhausted, to the position of a favoured son.
While Shyam babu was editing the movie, I was left to my own devices to stay busy with ad films. Soon, I got my break to see through a high-end textile film— from script to execution, all on my own. Shyam babu gave me his blessings and support, and everybody in-house toed the line.
This excerpt from ‘Adman Madman: Unapologetically Prahlad’, written by Prahlad Kakar with Rupangi Sharma, has been published with permission from HarperCollins India.