A brush with Feroz Khan

Raju Korti
500 years before the legendary Mohammed Rafi was born, William Shakespeare is reputed to have said that a rose is a rose is a rose. Even if called by any other name, it would smell as sweet.
This small piece of literary history came to fore so resonating and how! And it needed the somber reflection on the past of a good-looking actor called Feroze Khan, who lost his battle with cancer in Bengaluru a decade back.
Among the spectrum of stars rising from relative obscurity to the portals of commercial fame in the early sixties was Feroze Khan. No one had the slightest misgivings about Feroze’s talent as an actor, but you had to hand it to him for his musical instincts.
I had met the actor a couple of times fleetingly and never had the opportunity to talk to him on many of the songs – most sung by Rafi -- during the sixties and early seventies.
On a professional commitment to Amby Valley (a picturesque locale between Mumbai and Pune) on one hot and humid afternoon, I drove with the handsome Khan. The event was occasioned to herald the crushing season of the wine festival.
FK didn’t bother to mingle with anyone. He just chose to recline in a quiet corner nursing a glass of South African wine. We had been discussing some formal gibberish when abruptly I decided to test his memory. Slanting his head towards me, I just hummed the first line of a song pictured on him. FK already looking redder than the wine in his glass paused and shot back: “Ah! Reporter Raju?” he said with a smile, happy to pun on the name of one of his earlier films. “I am not a reporter any more, I am the editor”, I shot back jovially.
A few quick sips in that sweltering heat were already having their effect. He blanked me by putting his large palm on my mouth as he caught on to the song “Gussa fazool hai” (Reporter Raju, 1962). “My vote goes for “Jaag dil-e diwana” (Oonche Log) he quickly retorted. Running his fingers on his bald pate he said, “You know I am one of the only two actors in Hindi cinema for whom Rafisaab has yodeled. I consider it an enviable landmark in my career.”
Just to test him a little, I asked him if he remembered a film called Mai Wohi Hoon. “Of course, I do, he replied his eyes now bloodshot. I had two gorgeous solos in that film “Aankhon pe palkon ke ghunghat” and “Bahut haseen ho bahut jawan ho”but try as he might, he couldn’t remember the composer (Usha Khanna). The quintessential hero that he was, it wasn’t surprising that he could remember his heroine Kum Kum with whom he sang an unsurpassing duet “Aa jaa re mere pyaar”.
If FK was embarrassed with the kind of films he did then -- one of them was Samson -- he wasn’t so with a duet from that film “Ek baat hai kehne ki aankhon se kehne do.” But I had opened a can of worms. He just went on and on with his films like Tarzan goes To India, Suhagan, Bahurani, Char Dervesh, Suhagan and Teesra Kaun. But one mention about Ek Sapera Ek Lutera and FK spun into his emotional spiral with two solos “Hum tumse juda hoke..” and “Tera bhi kisi pe dil aaye..”
I lost him after the crowd caught up with him. The only aside in that conversation was his aversion for film journalists. “Whenever they want to meet me, I tell my secretary: Saale ko ek daaru ki botal de do aur dafaa karo.” My only takeaway was he didn’t offer me one.

The Black and White of Cricket

Raju Korti
It is not for me to even talk about something as barbaric and inhuman as the color of human skin. To me, it has always been one of the worst forms of torture because it is directed at something you never asked for and something you can never change.
I came to grips with this bitter truth as a youngster who was the only dark boy amongst all cousins. "Look, the other children in the family are so fair," was thrown at me with such regularity that a time came when I actually started to feel proud about the color my skin.
Racism is taught in our society, it is not automatic. It is cultivated behavior towards persons with dissimilar characteristics. That is the simple, unvarnished truth when you see racism travel from the four confined walls of your house to even playgrounds. Through subtle references and these days in more violent ways, racism continues to scourge all walks life even in this millennium.
The immediate provocation for this blog is the racist slur by Pakistan cricket captain Sarfraz Ahmed ridiculing South African Andile Phehlukwayo as "Abe kaale..."  (you dirty black). Sarfraz has since apologized as most others do after being caught in the eye of storm but his so called regrets were also colored, as in his skewed wisdom, his remark was "unfortunately captured" by the stump mic. Indians, by and large, have always been the target of racism although they are not entirely clean themselves. I recall BBC Test Match Special commentator Brian Johnston referring to the Indian crowd at the Oval in 1971 as a "dirty black crowd". Johnston tried to cover it up later by saying it was a slip of the tongue as what he actually intended to say was "dirty black cloud because it was overcast. Chuckles from his colleagues in the commentator's box proved that the tongue had not slipped. Slip of tongue is not associated with the silver-tongued British. Not at least when they make racist comments. In the past teams from Australia, England and New Zealand would make an exaggerated show of their anti-India expression. Indian food made them puke, Indian beds with their bugs gave them sleepless nights and the drive across to venues creaky and back-breaking. Of course, they wouldn't mind playing in India for money because the gains in their own country were nothing to rave about. That most foreign players now sing paens to Indian hospitality, especially during the Mr Moneybags IPL is conclusive evidence.
A number of Indians see Australia as a nice place, but with racist people. Just as the western world's concept of India is frequently based on the stereotypes of poverty and exotica, many Indians' idea of Australia is that it remains a land of boorish ex-convicts. Remember how the talented David Hookes was punched to death by bar bouncers after a drunken argument. It is equally true that many Indians are boorish, racist and therefore culpable themselves. They commonly use offensive labels to describe ethnicity. Many think nothing of subjecting visiting players to vile abuse. In Mumbai, considered the Mecca of Indian cricket, Brad Hogg was jeered some years back as a b- - - - -d.
Hogg is probably just another player. Geoff Boycott (and Andrew Flintoff) poked fun at the West Indians yesterday after being thrashed by 381 runs. Barely a few weeks earlier, Australia's greatest non-turning leg spinner Kerry O' Keefe made cheap cracks at Mayank Agarwal and Cheteshwar Pujara. The comments were not per se racist but they were born out of you-know-what. Keefe finished his bowling career with an average of 31 plus and doing better in one-dayers averaging almost 40. A classic case of pot calling the kettle black. I remember to have read a story in The Guardian where Boycott, while speaking at an informal gathering, claimed that the Knighthood honor was handed out like "confetti" to West Indian greats like Viv Richards and Curtly Ambrose while ignoring English cricketers since it was (then) last received by Alec Bedser in 1997. Note that Ian Botham was Knighted in 2007 not for his cricketing exploits but for his services to charity. The racist undertones in Boycott's irritation was unmistakable.
Australian and English teams have routinely included sons of immigrants even as their cricket boards have, as a matter of regulation, claimed to have zero tolerance towards racism in cricket. The cynical may view this as good optics and nothing more, but it can't be entirely like that. In school we often referred to the England cricket team as "bhaadotri team" (team made up of mostly foreign players). Unlike South Africa which has a racial quota in its team, Australia and England are not mandated to select players on the basis of race. In 2011, Islamabad-born Usman Khawaja made his debut a mere five years after moving to Australia. He even married an Australian woman who later converted to Islam.

The truth in Black and White: Boycott & Richards (File grab).

Indians are no less racists. West Indians and Zimbabweans are referred to as "kaale kalute" (contemptuous term for blacks). But then, let's face facts. India is estimated to have around five million immigrants. If one of them were to qualify for selection in the Indian team, are we ready to accept him? In the 85 plus history of Indian cricket, no player of foreign origin has played for India. That sums up the story.
The Australian team battling a crisis of credibility, promised 'elite honesty' as they prepared for a home Test series in India. There was a heated racist banter between rival players during the Border-Gavaskar Trophy although the dust settled down as quickly as it rose. What grabbed attention is the noise outside the field. During the Melbourne Test fans were ejected from the ground after multiple warnings following racist chants of "Show us your Visa" directed at Indian players. The atmosphere in the Australian commentary box was also unhealthy although not as toxic with rabble-rousers adding fuel to fire. While the Indian management expressed its hurt at the caustic Australian commentary the Australian commentators did not even receive a rap on their knuckles. Fox Sports in particular. Worse, Dean Jones called South African Hashim Amla a terrorist, least bothered he was on air and the cricketing world was listening to that insensitive and intemperate innuendo. It was almost a month later after coming back home, Jones said rather condescendingly he was sorry for making that "stupid remark."
Anyone who cares to listen to the audio of those barbs in the veil of commentary will recognize the tone of contempt and rabid racism. What was seen in Melbourne was disgraceful. Commentators mocking players, their achievements, their system, their names. The funniest part of this charade is contrite apologies are accepted later with a resolve to move on but no one realizes the damage is done.
I guess what remains now is outright abuse and physical fights.

Think before you tell people you are a journalist

Raju Korti
It is risky these days to tell people that you are a journalist. Knowing that I have banged my head in that profession for more than three decades, my friends and relatives -- and their number seems to only increase -- never fail to rub it in that the credibility of media is at an all time low. (With the probable exception of the Indian Rupee). The small consolation is I left the mainstream media in 2009, around the same time my good friend and colleague Smita Deshmukh left. But reality never hit me hard as it did this morning.
Although she did not specifically mention what provoked that post, I could latch on to the reason. On her Facebook wall Smita wrote she did not regret her decision to leave Journalism. I read the comment and smiled it away but by a strange coincidence, I was witness to an embarrassing situation a little later while on my way to work. I had boarded a local train which was packed at that peak hour with people jostling for space. Suddenly I heard two persons, whose faces I couldn't see, arguing for reasons I couldn't gather. Soon the argument got heated and one of them said "don't mess around with me. I am from the media." The others who were watching the drama with stony faces suddenly sprang to life at the mention of media. I will quote their exact words: "MC media, BC media, saale bikau haraami naalayak humko media ka darr dikhata hai? Jaa kis ko leke aana hai leke aa. Khud dukaandaari karte ho aur duniya ko akal seekhate ho. Bhaad me gayi tumhari media.". I am sure none of us is so innocent that we do not know these expletives and what they mean. By the time I got down a couple of stations later, the public outrage continued and I could just catch the redder-than-beetroot face of the person who thought being in media made him invincible. The seething anger of the people against the media was an eye-opener although in the past, I had heard adverse comments about my profession. I chose not to dwell on them being one of their ilk. A few years back an acquaintance of my in-laws had told me bluntly on my face that :"Journalism and journalists are humbug." For someone who practiced his profession with utmost sincerity, this was ultimate insult. Today, it has reached a stage where even politicians -- people with lowest credibility -- feel free to advise journalists that they must act responsibly and introspect about what ails their profession.
The sad truth most of us journalists refuse to acknowledge is the skepticism about what they see, hear and read in the media. No major news outlet -- whether broadcast or cable, print or online -- stands out as particularly credible. The media agenda is often euphemistically described as "narrative." The television has particularly queered the pitch in manufacturing public opinion and dumbing down news. Opinions, often puerile and silly, are passed off as information. I would like to know how many old-timers like me feel offended that they too have been painted with a black brush because of the growing number of black sheep in the profession. Excuse me, but it is difficult to find sensible, intelligent and conscientious journalists these days. Professional smartness is all about personal and political affiliations and prejudices. In my years of teaching media students, I am witness to the rot setting in. Sample some of their questions: Does the Press card allow you to go anywhere and enjoy free lunches and gifts? Can I get easy access to celebrities and pose with them for pictures? Will politicians do our bidding like paying our phone and petrol bills? As a journalist will I get to talk to gangsters? What do journalists do to make "side income" and such stuff. Its stifling.
I have always felt and realized that journalists and policemen have one thing in common. Both hallucinate that their clout comes from their profession. Aggressive jaws drop to their crotch once they are (thrown) out of it. With social media and the concept of Citizen Journalism, every person is an erudite  journalist now. No one is any less expert than the other on any issue under the Sun. The definition of News Media was never so diluted as it it is today. The unvarnished fact is people's trust in the media began to deteriorate long before the industry's finances began to drop and the Internet hatched a cut-throat competition -- as well as more gossip and speculation.
The great deluge that goes under the heading "News Media" has been poisoned by junk blogs, gossip sheets, shout radio and TV partisans who have confined the word credibility only to the dictionary.
I am waiting for the day when I would die "live" on TV and people spouting condolences while I watch mortified wondering if I would have been better off dead instead.

Of Alan Wilkins, his autograph and biography

Raju Korti

If talking about sport is better than playing it, Alan Wilkins should be its best example. This smiling Welshman has been a very eloquent face on the small screen for over 20 years now. My cricketing instincts brought up and fed on the iconic voices of John Arlott, Brian Johnston, Alan McGilvray, Trevor Bailey, Fred Truman, Christopher Martin Jenkins and Henry Blofeld, could never reconcile with the commentators of the post 90s until Alan took over the mike with his subtle laconic humor.
Composed, relaxed and with a smiling visage, Alan glides the viewer with vividness and a narrative to match. The craft comes to him with a fluency that one rarely sees in those of his ilk now. I was witness to it once when I saw him sitting alongside Harsha Bhogle in the commentator's box. After Harsha was done with his garrulous self with the post-match description at the end of the day, the camera panned on to the Sun going down and Alan, true to his laconic style, latched onto that one like a trice: "The Sun sets on Harsha Bhogle", he said with a mischievous smile that he wears on his face all the time. As I gave him a thumbs up from close by he just smiled in acknowledgement.

Given his articulation as a commentator and his exemplary career as a bowler with Glamorgan and Gloucestershire, I wonder why his book is titled as "Easier Said Than Done: A Life in Sport". I suppose it has something to do with his anguish of a cricketing career cut short by a debilitating shoulder injury he couldn't cope up with. His shift from a prodigious swing bowler to an evocative commentator was seamless. It is no surprise that 35 years since he first stepped into the realm of sport broadcasting, the 64-year-old has now chronicled his journey from cricketer and rugby player to a broadcaster. My gut feeling is that his sense of anguish has now been eclipsed by his proficiency with the microphone and camera rather than with a bat and ball. And when you know he has a degree in Sports Science (Psychology), it is easy to understand why he has been able to forge great friendships with legends of the sporting world and put his finger on the pulse of the game. The "swing" of his life makes for an absorbing reading mainly because Alan keeps the narrative simple and flowing. Yet, Alan is much more than than the man we always see in front of the camera. Maybe that's how he justifies the title of the book.

When I saw the book at Crossword I did not even blink before buying it. The very thought of reading someone who spoke as well was tempting enough. As someone who often covered matches from the Press Box I crossed his path several times and even thought of meeting him for a write up but somehow it never happened.
The small consolation, however, is this book that he specially signed up for me yesterday. I am sure I will catch up with him in flesh and blood to partake of his playful witticism one day. That he continues to be a revelation each time I see him commentating is quite another story.

The politics of American aid to Pakistan

Raju Korti
If the past is anything to go by, the issue of American aid to Pakistan is an unending conundrum. I say this with a certain degree of authority because the US' relationship with Pakistan has always been a transactional one marked by mutual mistrust, marriages of convenience and mood swings.
The American administration has been providing economic and military aid to Pakistan right since 1947 but somehow this roller coaster ride has smoothed out in the end. It is therefore with some trepidation that I wonder about their decision to scrap USD 300 million aid to Pakistan on the assertion that the latter has not shown any intent in support of its strategy in the region. The US aid to Pakistan has a long political history and this is not the first time that money has been withheld.
With Pakistan the Americans have always been confronted with a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don't situation. From the days of Reagan and Bush, for reasons justifiable or not, the politics of American aid to Pakistan has made bigger headlines than its nitty gritty. Understandably, the decision to scrap aid comes after President Trump made it clear earlier this year that he would suspend nearly all security aid to Pakistan -- an across-the-board freeze that is the most tangible sign yet of Washington's frustration with the country's refusal to crack down on terrorist networks.
The move underlines how swiftly relations with Pakistan have deteriorated since Trump took office. However, it also echoes several previous rifts between the countries over Pakistan's role as sanctuary for extremist Jihadi groups -- a role that has poisoned Islamabad's relations with Washington since that attack of September 2001. It might be tempting to draw an assertive conclusion at this juncture because there is a catch that dilutes this hard line as it has done for decades. The US administration points out that this freeze is temporary and could be lifted if Pakistan changes its behavior. History has established that Pakistan has neither changed nor does it show any such inclination.
Pakistan receives foreign aid from many countries and international organizations. Since the start of Afghanistan war majority aid has come from now-ally-now enemy United States through the Coalition Support Fund. This fund is justified as reimbursement to Pakistan for counter-terrorism operations. Between 1948 and 2016, the US obligated nearly $ 80 billion to Pakistan. While it has stopped foreign aid this year, it continues to mull the idea of funding its so called anti-terror operations. Pakistan has also taken substantial loans from the International Monetary Fund. What Pakistan does with this aid remains mired in mystery although it is believed that this money is spent on acquiring arms, funding terrorists and institutional corruption.
Pakistan, however, lives in a perpetual denial mode. Given the country's track record there is understandable skepticism whether the new prime minister Imran Khan will be able to change things. In one of my earlier blogs I had written that the euphoria over an elected government in Pakistan evaporates in no time. On a different turf altogether, Khan's talk of building a new Pakistan will end up as another regulation speech. The damage has already been done. Pakistan's continued support for resurgent militant groups hostile to the US, coupled with warming US military and business relations with India is sharply diminishing Islamabad's strategic importance as an ally to Washington.
India has displayed uncharacteristic diplomacy by not jumping the gun on US scrapping aid when it has always accused Pakistan of harboring, training and infiltrating terrorists in Kashmir and elsewhere. There are enough cross currents as it is. The Pakistanis have a totally different perception. They generally believe that this is America's war and not a global or Pakistani war while in some US quarters, it is argued that it would be dangerous to allow relations with Pakistan to deteriorate further. Its Catch 22 situation though. The unvarnished truth is a prosperous Pakistan is as dangerous as a failed Pakistan -- fact Americans know but won't acknowledge. 

....and you call them "machchars"!

Raju Korti

Mosquito is a mosquito from any angle.

I have lost count, and therefore interest, on the number of "Days" that people observe or celebrate. By sheer accident and idle meandering on the net, I discovered that today (August 21) is World Mosquito Day. A quick research told me that this day is celebrated to commemorate British doctor Sir Ronald Ross who did mankind a huge favor by establishing that the female parasite is primarily responsible for causing malaria and its more dreadful variants.
Ross is himself believed to have issued an appeal to observe the day as World Mosquito Day. I guess somewhere at the back of his mind, Ross was conscious that while he had made a great discovery, he was also duty-bound to propose a vote of thanks to the little creatures who made it happen. The fact that they are belittled as "machchars" -- now a derogatory term for trivial and inconsequential people --  has not taken any of the the sting out of their bite. I remember a decade back having read a World Health Organization report singling out Malaria as the most rampant prospect ahead of AIDS, Ebola, Bird Flu and other modern-day afflictions. The s(t)ing-and-bite brutes have belied their size to make short work of other parasites by multiplying themselves at the rate that even humans have found it impossible to match.
I have also noted with awe that observing World Mosquito Day has been a decades old tradition with the famed London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine -- proof, if it is needed, that mosquitoes have shown themselves worthy of the tradition and honor while fighting for that exalted position. All this at a time when a number of repellents are "all out" to eliminate them and ensure humans have a "good night". If some of my doctor friends are to be believed, mosquitoes have mutated into new and potentially more dangerous avtaars capable of surviving even the until-now-time-tested Quinine. There cannot a better example of truth being bitter than this.
The man who gave mosquitoes the dignity and stature they deserve is Nana Patekar through that  immortal dialogue :"Saala ek machchar bhi aadmi ko hijda bana deta hai" (Just one mosquito can reduce a person to a transgender) although it is patently disparaging for the transgenders. The creatures for all seasons sing choruses as humans provide background music with clapping.
The superiority of mosquitoes over other fleas is evident in the profound quote I stumbled upon the internet this morning. "Mosquito control is the currently the most effective measure to reduce the spread of malaria.". In simple words it means the mankind is still as clueless to deal with them as it was a number of decades ago.
A few years ago someone had come out with a brilliant idea that mosquitoes be trained to suck the cellulite/fat from the human body than the blood they feast on - a win win situation for both but mosquitoes have proved time and again they are not dumb. Anyway not as much as the victims they predate on. Ask those who try to slap them off and end up leaving a mark on their own face.
An apocryphal story about mosquitoes. Of course, it is from my own imagination. Two people sat in a bar drinking. They kept swatting mosquitoes in the humidity of the bar and got drunk enough to challenge the mosquitoes. One of them pointed to a table in the corner where a mosquito was relaxing after his own binge. "Let's see if we can kill it", he challenged. Both decided to give it their best shot. One of them drew a revolver, aimed at the mosquito and fired. The plate on which the mosquito sat broke into pieces and the mosquito fled to sit on another plate nearby. His friend jeered at him for missing the target and took the revolver to shoot the mosquito again. He fired with the same result. Now it was the turn of the first to jeer but his friend dismissed him with a swat of his hand. "That mosquito will never have children. I have shot off its testicles.".
Moral of the story: Time to find such brave-harts.
Until then, let's concede their superiority by declaring the mosquito as an International Bird. 

Narsinh Mehta documentary and the strain of Gandhi's song

Raju Korti

Narsinh Mehta, a file grab

I have always carried the burden of my conviction that Faith is to believe what you do not see and its reward is to see what you believe. If I feel vindicated today it is thanks to the compelling documentary " Gandhi's Song" made by my US-based fellow journalist and dear friend Mayank Chhaya. It is remarkable how Mayank has been able to embroider the divine spirit of poet-saint Narsinh Mehta's work with the Gandhian ethos. The 15th century poet's mystique comes to the fore from a number of brilliant expositions, notable among them being "Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye peed parayi jaane re.." Venerated as Adi Kavi (pioneering poet) and occupying a pride of place in the thriving Gujarati literature, Mehta is widely regarded as a pre-eminent exponent of Vaishnav poetry. But first things first!
My first appointment with this Gandhian intonation came way back in 1974 while grappling with my Engineering studies. Each morning, we hostel residents woke up to the strains of this song which was followed by other bhajans. Without allowing the curiosity to get the better of us, we concluded in our misplaced wisdom that the song was written by Gandhi himself until the hostel rector chastised us for our ignorance and told us that it was the work of Gujarati saint-composer Narsinh Mehta. The key element of this small anecdote is the rector was a Maharashtrian. If anything, I learnt that here was a poet-devotee whose appeal had far transcended the Krishnaland of Gujarat. Proof, if any was required, came from the ubiquitous presence of the collection of his devotional songs published by the famous Geeta Press of Gorakhpur. The publishers have since faded into oblivion but Mehta remains an integral part of the psyche of those to whom devotion is the very essence of life.
Mayank's documentary flows like a stream with an idyllic beauty. Foraying into a territory that is devoid of any populism and allows no scope for playing to the gallery, Mayank gives it the character, chastity and temperance it calls for. The result is over 70 minutes of spell-binding narrative characterized by an articulation you don't get to hear in these times of frivolous.
Mayank's recountal is like a recital, a commentary that has a lyrical composition and visual appeal to it -- the words stitched more like notations. That in itself is a robust tribute to the saint who breezed into history with his extraordinary devotion through an array of resonating bhajans.
Given the guilelessness of the subject, it has been handled with the restraint it deserves. The documentary has class written all over in terms of production values, directorial effort and editing. Such features happen when the maker doesn't approach the subject with stars in his eyes. Mayank has chosen just the right people to punctuate his narrative. Dr Tridip Suhrud an acknowledged authority in Gandhian literature, Tushar Gandhi (Mahatma's great grandson) and Jawahar Baxi, well known Gujarati poet. A quick word of praise for Bill Russell for the fluent narration.
Says Mayank: "Narsinh Mehta and his work have been a lifelong passion for me. However, in so much as one needs a hook for a documentary, I could not have considered anything other than his most enduring creation 'Vaishnav jan to..' Quite apart from the fact that it became Mohandas Gandhi's moral compass and hence by implication informed his leadership of India's freedom movement, it is also one of world's most widely sung songs. There is a great story to tell. "A particular peeve for me was that a surprising number, I would say eight or nine out of ten, would say it was written by Gandhi not knowing that it is over 550 years old. The documentary tries to correct that wrong."
To follow one's instincts and choose such a theme always comes with its attendant risks. For Mayank, it was a tough slog in terms of finances but help came from three individuals, two in US and one in Bahrain, all Gujaratis who bankrolled the project. Will finally found its way to become love's labor. " It was a deeply satisfying venture for me at an intellectual level but harrowing financially. In a sense it is quite like Mehta's own life that was always penurious, he points out." The reimbursement came from the scholastic pursuit of something that was always close to his heart. A significant characteristic of the documentary is Mayank has ensured that the weight of his words does not incommode the simplicity of the theme. The words have been woven into theme seamlessly and that is not as easy as it sounds.

Mayank Chhaya

In an interview, Mayank answered some of my questions relating to the documentary. Here they go:

Q: India is known to be a land of saints. In the galaxy of such greats who wrote poetry and ballads in their total surrender to what is believed as the ultimate force in the Universe, why did you choose Narsinh Mehta for your documentary? What distinguished his "bhakti" from others who also claimed to have communion with the God?
A: Having been born in Gujarat -- Ahmedabad specifically -- Narsinh Mehta had always been intrinsic to my life. Apart from his most celebrated work "Vaishnav jan to" I grew up listening to an astonishing range of his songs and ballads. For as long as I remember, I was always struck by his profound philosophical undercurrent. That Mehta straddled both the Saguna and Nirguna worlds with such remarkable ease as a poet was for me irresistible. His "bhakti" were secondary to me since I am personally bereft of a devotional instinct. My draw to Mehta has been the brilliant imagery of his poetry and its lustrous wonderment about the Universe.
Q: How did you negotiate a subject where there are varying impressions about his pedigree and the chronology of his compositions?
A: It is true that his period has been a subject of scholarly debate but I chose to depend on the great Gujarati litterateur Uma Shankar Joshi's perspective in terms of his era, However, in which era Mehta might have lived was of far less consequence to me than the quality and range of what he constructed in terms of his philosophical poetry.
Q: How relevant do you think is Mehta's ethos on Equality in today's context when you see the society fragmenting on various counts? Is that what influenced Gandhi to adopt his song?
A: I consider "Vaishnav jan to" as the perfect global secular standard whose relevance is irrespective of the times we live in. It is carefully shorn of the dogmatic or the doctrinaire. It offers a refreshingly uncomplicated way to conduct one's life which when you reflect on it should be obvious to anyone without being told. Gandhi's engagement with Mehta was almost entirely via this one song even though he ought to have been aware of his other works. It is my case that Gandhi did indeed construct a significant part of his personal and political philosophy with this song as the basis.He made it one of the songs to be sung at his ashram in South Africa in 1907 and continued until his death.
Q: Mehta's devotion to his Beloved as so pure that he had no qualms in singing bhajans in areas where the towns lower classes resided. It is said that "Vaishnav jan to" was born out of his wish to see an egalitarian society. Did it stem from his conviction that unless one is in tune with his soul, no human endeavor would ever succeed?
A: Absolutely. His poetry was in defiance of the oppressive societal norms of the times then and the times even now. He was treated with contempt by his own community and cast off as a pariah. He did not reach out to the grotesquely discriminated against sections of the society of his time out of a sense of condescending  to them but out of a genuine conviction about the universality of human race. His sense of egalitarianism was extraordinary and informed by his deep realization about the singular force animating us all. You are right to point out that his philosophy of being one with one;s Soul was the key definer of his life and work.
Q: Mehta's work underscores his profound understanding of the ephemeral nature of life. Was that one of the driving factors behind your documentary? Or was it because of the cosmic romanticism that he visualized through his divine vision?
A: As a student of Physics generally and Quantum Physics particularly, like you are, I was struck by his keen grasp of how evanescent existence is. His songs "Jaginejoun  to jagatdeeseynahin" (When I wake up the world vanishes) and "Hun kharey tun kharo" ( You exist because I do) are to my mind the essence of Mehta's life which capture the quintessence of Quantum Physics so unwittingly and so brilliantly.
Q: Mehta's compositions, generally categorized as Vaishnav compositions, are full of lyricism based on pastimes of conjugal love between the Supreme Creator and his most intimate devotees (the Gopis). They are not without allegorical dimensions and are devoid of the erotic element so vivid in contemporary European works. Your comment.
A: You are spot on. His communion with that singular force, as manifest in his mind as Krishna, was so deep and yet so transient that he chose to express it without much eroticism. Of course, there are some works where he does touch upon the erotic on passing. That he constructed his songs and ballads in a way that could be composed and sung shows that he was conscious of their propagation. Reputedly illiterate, it is striking that his language was so fine-tuned to address rather deep themes.
Q: From a family understood to have been steeped in Shaivism, the poet is said to have become a Vaishnava. Your documentary makes a fleeting mention of Dwaita and Adwaita (Dual and Non-dual). Viewed in that context what was your finding about how smooth was this transition?
A: As you say, the transition was so seamless as to be indistinguishable. I am not sure whether the transition from Dwaita to Adwaita came early or later in life but the traditional view is that he graduated from one to the other as he became older. I am not so sure. In terms of his so called move from Shaivism to Vaishnavism, I think he did not necessarily make a distinction in his mind because he was driven by the primordial. In any case, legend has it that it was Shiv who took him to witness Krishna Leela. Carrying a torch in his hand, Mehta was said to have been so enraptured by the spectacle that he accidentally burned part of his arm.
Q: Mehta is known as a pioneer poet of Gujarati literature. One of the important features of Mehta's work is in the language he composed them. They have been largely preserved orally. Despite this his work has found a universal appeal. How do you explain this?
A: One primary reason could be the inherent musicality of his songs and the fact that he sang them himself. As in many parts of medieval India, particularly swept by the "Bhakti" movement, the propagation was oral because that was the easiest way to remember. I suppose the levels of literacy generally were not high and people were naturally good at remembering. Shruti (Hearing) and Smruti (Memory) have always been the defining elements of Indian literature.
Q: Your documentary dwells more on his perceptions and enlightenments than the miracles attributed to him. Was that your focus when it would have been too much of a temptation to dwell on those?
A: My natural attraction has always been the philosophical even though the miraculous might seem more dramatic. I find that the miraculous tends to take away from the sheer poetic and philosophical brilliance of Mehta's works. As a documentary my objective of it was to bring those elements out for the world beyond  Gujarat and India.
Q: At least two films, both named Narsi Bhagat, have been made on the life of the saint-poet. One in 1940 by well known Gujarati director Vijay Bhat and the other in 1957 by Devendra Goel. Have you seen them for cinematic reference?
A: No.     
 
Here is the link to his documentary. It is password enabled and pay-per-view. Please do watch.

https://vimeo.com/155155514