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Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema
Sone Chandi Ke Buth is a collection of writings on cinema that includes the observations, thoughts and reflections of one of the pioneering film directors and journalists in the country, K.A. Abbas. This book includes incisive profiles of personalities such as Prithviraj Kapoor, Amitabh Bachchan, Dilip Kumar, V. Shantaram and others; film reviews and essays that interrogate the line between art and stardom in the Hindi film industry; and short stories that lift the veneer of Bollywood's glamorous world.
256 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 11, 2022
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6 people want to read
About the author
Khwaja Ahmad Abbas
80 books17 followersKhwaja Ahmad Abbas (Hindi: ख़्वाजा अहमद अब्बास) (7 June 1914 – 1 June 1987), popularly known as K. A. Abbas, was an Indian film director, novelist, screenwriter, and a journalist in the Urdu, Hindi and English languages. He was the maker of important Hindi films such as Saat Hindustani (1969) and Do Boond Pani (1972), both of which won the National Film Award for Best Feature Film on National Integration, Palme d'Or nominated (Cannes Film Festival) Pardesi (1957) and Shehar Aur Sapna (1963), which won the National Film Award for Best Feature Film.
As a screenwriter, Khwaja Ahmad Abbas is considered one of pioneers of Indian parallel or neo-realistic cinema, having penned films like the Palme d'Or winner at the Cannes Film Festival, Neecha Nagar (1946), Jagte Raho, Dharti Ke Lal, Awara, Saat Hindustani and Naya Sansar. Apart from this, he wrote the best of Raj Kapoor films, Awaara, Shri 420, Mera Naam Joker, Bobby and Henna.[1]
His column ‘Last Page’, holds the distinction of being one of the longest-running columns in the history of Indian journalism. The column began in 1935, in Bombay Chronicle, and moved to the Blitz after the Chronicle's closure, where it continued until his death in 1987.[2] He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1969, by Government of India.
As a screenwriter, Khwaja Ahmad Abbas is considered one of pioneers of Indian parallel or neo-realistic cinema, having penned films like the Palme d'Or winner at the Cannes Film Festival, Neecha Nagar (1946), Jagte Raho, Dharti Ke Lal, Awara, Saat Hindustani and Naya Sansar. Apart from this, he wrote the best of Raj Kapoor films, Awaara, Shri 420, Mera Naam Joker, Bobby and Henna.[1]
His column ‘Last Page’, holds the distinction of being one of the longest-running columns in the history of Indian journalism. The column began in 1935, in Bombay Chronicle, and moved to the Blitz after the Chronicle's closure, where it continued until his death in 1987.[2] He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1969, by Government of India.
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January 8, 2023
Film aficionados will know of KA Abbas – a a pioneer of the progressive, neo-realistic cinema in India, as the director of Dharti ke Lal (based on the Bengal familine), Saat Hindustani, etc; as Raj Kapoor’s frequent collaborator (he wrote Awara, Shree 420, Jagte Raho, Bobby, Mera Naam Joker); as the writer of films like Neecha Nagar, Dr Kotnis ki Amar Kahani and Garm Hawa. Readers of Blitz will recognize him as the columnist who wrote the longest-running column in Indian journalism – The Last Page for the Bombay Chronicle and later, Blitz.
But how many people know KA Abbas, the author? A prolific writer, he wrote 73 books (in Urdu, Hindi and English) in 74 years. One of those 73 books is Sone Chandi ke Buth, published in 1986. Now, for the first time, thanks to his niece, Syeda Hameed and journalist Sukhpreet Kahlon, we get to read an English translation of his last published work.
Divided into three sections - Funn aur Funnkaar, Kahaniyaan, and Articles (including some from The Bombay Chronicle), the raconteur’s pen is gives you a clear view of the glamorous world of films, and the decay under the glitz.
In Funn aur Funnkaar, he takes us behind the screen to reveal his insights into personalities as diverse as V Shantaram and Satyajit Ray; Prithviraj Kapoor and Raj Kapoor; Dilip Kumar and Amitabh Bachchan, Sahir and Meena Kumari.
KA Abbas also admits to being thoroughly influenced by V Shantaram, but that does not stop him from ruing that the film-maker had traded his social consciousness for technical wizardry and production gloss in his later films.
His reminiscences of Sahir are of the man, not the poet, but his admiration for Meena Kumari and Balraj Sahni are for their commitment to their profession.
He remembers giving Amitabh his first role only after writing to Harivanshrai Bachchan for permission and talks of how the actor would always refer to him as ‘Mamujaan’ (uncle) even after he became a superstar.
The second section, Kahaniyaan, is a set of stories of people from different hierarchies in the film industry. The mother who drugs her child so she can earn enough money to take the child to a doctor; a ‘duplicate’ who dies while performing stunts; an actress whose desire to die far outlives the doctor who’s fighting to keep her alive; another actress whose search for the fountain of youth ends in tragedy… what seeps through the writing is the compassion for their struggles, and the stinging indictment of the industry as one given over to crass commercialism. It was his avowed belief that films needed to have a heart and be a medium of social change. In a story called ‘Actress’ he also castigates himself for falling into the same trap that he despises. To me, this section was the weakest because the stories, while heart-wrenching in essence, didn’t make me feel what the author wanted to convey. Perhaps reading it in the original Urdu may evoke the emotions the stories deserve.
The third and final section is a series of articles that he had written at various times, including those he wrote for the Bombay Chronicle. As a film-maker, writer and critic who watched at least one film a day for over 50 years, he’s uniquely placed to offer his views on what plagues Indian cinema. They include reviews of films, his analysis of what’s wanting in the cinema of the day (and remember, the articles curated for this book were written in the late thirties/early forties) and his views on workman compensation and equity in the industry. It’s a shame that while much has changed, much remains the same.
I have one bone to pick, however: the article where he suggests that films be used to spread ‘Hindustani’ as the ‘national’ language. “Indeed, the considerable resources and influences of the persons and organizations engaged in the work of evolving and spreading the national language,” he wrote, “could be used very effectively to encourage the production of films in Hindustani only, aiming at a gradual elimination of films in provincial languages.”
To me, it’s shocking that someone of the stature of KA Abbas, and someone who loved cinema as much as he did, could express a view that there should be one ‘unifying’ language and that other industries should stop making films in their respective languages. It is even more troubling to read this view in the present climate where a government is set on imposing one religion, one language, one identity on the country. I devoutly hope that in the ensuing four decades, his views had changed.
Complemented by photographs from his personal collection and the posters of his films, Sone Chandi ke Buth is a welcome addition to writing on Hindi cinema. I did find the writing slightly didactic and wished that the translated articles at least had not stuck so close to the same tone as the articles written in the English of the 40s by the author himself.
But how many people know KA Abbas, the author? A prolific writer, he wrote 73 books (in Urdu, Hindi and English) in 74 years. One of those 73 books is Sone Chandi ke Buth, published in 1986. Now, for the first time, thanks to his niece, Syeda Hameed and journalist Sukhpreet Kahlon, we get to read an English translation of his last published work.
Divided into three sections - Funn aur Funnkaar, Kahaniyaan, and Articles (including some from The Bombay Chronicle), the raconteur’s pen is gives you a clear view of the glamorous world of films, and the decay under the glitz.
In Funn aur Funnkaar, he takes us behind the screen to reveal his insights into personalities as diverse as V Shantaram and Satyajit Ray; Prithviraj Kapoor and Raj Kapoor; Dilip Kumar and Amitabh Bachchan, Sahir and Meena Kumari.
KA Abbas also admits to being thoroughly influenced by V Shantaram, but that does not stop him from ruing that the film-maker had traded his social consciousness for technical wizardry and production gloss in his later films.
His reminiscences of Sahir are of the man, not the poet, but his admiration for Meena Kumari and Balraj Sahni are for their commitment to their profession.
He remembers giving Amitabh his first role only after writing to Harivanshrai Bachchan for permission and talks of how the actor would always refer to him as ‘Mamujaan’ (uncle) even after he became a superstar.
The second section, Kahaniyaan, is a set of stories of people from different hierarchies in the film industry. The mother who drugs her child so she can earn enough money to take the child to a doctor; a ‘duplicate’ who dies while performing stunts; an actress whose desire to die far outlives the doctor who’s fighting to keep her alive; another actress whose search for the fountain of youth ends in tragedy… what seeps through the writing is the compassion for their struggles, and the stinging indictment of the industry as one given over to crass commercialism. It was his avowed belief that films needed to have a heart and be a medium of social change. In a story called ‘Actress’ he also castigates himself for falling into the same trap that he despises. To me, this section was the weakest because the stories, while heart-wrenching in essence, didn’t make me feel what the author wanted to convey. Perhaps reading it in the original Urdu may evoke the emotions the stories deserve.
The third and final section is a series of articles that he had written at various times, including those he wrote for the Bombay Chronicle. As a film-maker, writer and critic who watched at least one film a day for over 50 years, he’s uniquely placed to offer his views on what plagues Indian cinema. They include reviews of films, his analysis of what’s wanting in the cinema of the day (and remember, the articles curated for this book were written in the late thirties/early forties) and his views on workman compensation and equity in the industry. It’s a shame that while much has changed, much remains the same.
I have one bone to pick, however: the article where he suggests that films be used to spread ‘Hindustani’ as the ‘national’ language. “Indeed, the considerable resources and influences of the persons and organizations engaged in the work of evolving and spreading the national language,” he wrote, “could be used very effectively to encourage the production of films in Hindustani only, aiming at a gradual elimination of films in provincial languages.”
To me, it’s shocking that someone of the stature of KA Abbas, and someone who loved cinema as much as he did, could express a view that there should be one ‘unifying’ language and that other industries should stop making films in their respective languages. It is even more troubling to read this view in the present climate where a government is set on imposing one religion, one language, one identity on the country. I devoutly hope that in the ensuing four decades, his views had changed.
Complemented by photographs from his personal collection and the posters of his films, Sone Chandi ke Buth is a welcome addition to writing on Hindi cinema. I did find the writing slightly didactic and wished that the translated articles at least had not stuck so close to the same tone as the articles written in the English of the 40s by the author himself.
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