National Award-winning scriptwriter Juhi Chaturvedi on how she came into the film industry, the importance of strong women characters and how the chaos of her domestic life makes her the writer that she is.
You started your career as an art director in the advertising industry and now you have bagged two National Awards for your writing. How did the switch happen?
At Ogilvy, where I worked, there’s a saying: Ogilvy ka executive, na art ka na copy ka. The agency makes close to 250 TVCs a year and you may be in the art department, but at some point, the two begin to merge. That’s when I started writing scripts for ads. I ended up working with Shoojit (Sircar, director) quite a few times. So when he wanted to make his debut, he asked me if I would write for him. Growing up in the ’90s and watching cinema of that time, I had no inclination to work in the film industry. But when the offer came, I thought since he is taking the risk and trusts me, I have nothing to lose. It wasn’t until I was on the sets of Shoebite that I fell in love with the medium. But I didn’t tell anyone because almost every other person in this city wants to write a film.
What changed on the sets of Shoebite?
I had, of course, been on a set before during my stint in the ad agency, but this was different. It was more instinctive. You can’t compare an ad with a feature film. It’s too big a canvas and way more intense. I was carrying my daughter full term when Shoebite was being shot. That was Simla in 2008 and I came down with pneumonia, but by then I was so hooked that I went back for the last schedule with my two-month-old daughter. It would be easy to dismiss my change of sentiment as hormonal, but that wasn’t the case. I was alternating between the joy and anticipation of motherhood and the sadness of the deteriorating relationship between the husband and wife in my script. I’d be crying between writing — I wrote of all possible fights I could imagine between my husband and me.
Did your husband bear the brunt of your mood swings then?
Only when I was writing Vicky Donor. I wanted him to read my script and asked him to a few times, but he didn’t. That upset me. That was my first script and I wanted inputs because I wasn’t even sure I knew how a script was written. I couldn’t say this to Shoojit because he had liked my idea and asked me to develop it. My husband, on the other hand, did not want both of us to get too involved and later face disappointment in case the film didn’t work out. It was a struggle and I had to deal with it alone. I didn’t have friends in the film industry, I still don’t. I had to learn on the job. Secondly, because I had a full-time job then and a small child at home, my writing time was really very limited. Even today, I work after my eight-year-old’s gone to school and after she’s gone to bed.
Writing, for you, then, is another chore?
I don’t have the luxury of a writer’s whim. I have to work between incessant doorbells — courier deliveries, house helps — and chores. It is also why there is so much domesticity in my writing. The only time I was given my space was when I was writing Piku. When I finished writing the scene of Bhashkor’s passing, I howled for long. I couldn’t bring myself to accept that a character, not a person, had died. The loss felt personal. My husband suggested I reconsider the death in case I was caught up with the fact that it is Mr (Amitabh) Bachchan, a star we all love, who would die on screen.
So, was it the actor who contributed to your grief over Bhashkor’s death?
I knew it was the right time for Bhashkor to die — he had come back to where he belonged, visited Champakunj and had had the best motion possible. He was satisfied. He died a happy man, just what he had wished for, all his life. Therefore, his death, in some sense, is his achievement.
How did Madras Cafe fit in with these?
I admit I wouldn’t have ventured there on my own, but when Shoojit asked me to write the dialogues for the film, I came on board aware that it demanded a certain language. But I cannot do dramatic desh prem dialogues so I chose to treat them as real people. The characters were spies, soldiers and bureaucrats, but also regular people.
If Madras Cafe was being made today, would the dialogues be more “nationalistic”, given the current mood in the country?
Not everyone’s expression of nationalism is the same. It is sad that any film with such a subject has to be made with caution. Tamil Nadu banned the film even before it released, but when the DVD came out, the state witnessed the maximum sales. I don’t understand why a filmmaker is targetted for making what is an interpretation of a political event unless facts are being completely twisted. Films don’t go down in the archives of history, they go down in the archives of film history. That said, look at our own history textbooks where the content changes depending on who is in power.
Would your writing have been different had you been working on it full time?
I’m not sure I’d have become a writer at all if it weren’t for the chaos that surrounds me. I love this life but there is a need to escape from it, which writing fulfills. I am a control freak who cannot take things falling apart around me. But I am not so correct in my head. That’s where writing comes in, it channels my wild side.
Piku is you then.
I find most of my friends concerned about their ageing parents and in-laws. Piku is any woman.
But you’ve said you borrowed a lot from your experiences while writing Piku.
I think most writers do draw inspirations from their own lives or what they see around. I won’t say Piku is me or my story. but yes, I have first-hand experience of a father and daughter sharing the same home. Even though I am 40, I am answerable to my father as to where I am going and when I will return home. Champakunj is the name of our house in Lucknow where I grew up, and even though in reality, it got sold off, in the film, I ensured Piku doesn’t let it happen. The idea of constipation was borrowed from my granddad, who suffered from it, but Shoojit feels it’s unique to Bengalis. Maybe, my granddad borrowed the bowel problem from Bongs and I borrowed it from him (laughs). A lot of nuances came alive because Shoojit brought in his own life experiences too.
Part of why the audience connected with Piku is because she is so real. Do you feel Hindi cinema mostly has uni-dimensional women characters?
Most urban women characters in Hindi films are stereotypical. If they are modern, they wear a certain kind of clothes and if they are shown working, their ‘ambition’ is shown as a vice. The ‘good girls’ are expected to pay attention only to home and family, the only interactions they have are waiting for the hero to call, waiting to meet his family or dressing up to meet him. I don’t need to see other people in the film but I would like to have a sense of their world. Of course, there have been exceptions too — Alia Bhatt’s character in Highway is that of a thinking, evolving girl as is Devi in Masaan.
Do you think it is important that a woman be on board in a film with women characters in crucial roles?
It only takes sensitive people — men or women to write strong women characters. If that weren’t the case, Satyajit Ray wouldn’t have written Mahanagar or Bimal Roy wouldn’t have penned Bandini.
Where did Vicky Donor come from?
From the time I spent in Lajpat Nagar after I moved to Delhi from Lucknow. It made me understand the dynamics of refugees. The Punjabis are said to be show-offs but, during those years, I realised where that need comes from. They have suffered a lot during Partition, so what they have now is what they have earned after moving here, which, perhaps, makes them want to show off and live it up. It’s a characteristic Vicky has and so do Biji and Dolly.
And you chose to contrast it with the Bengali culture.
I grew up next door to a Bengali family and I realised their mindset is very different. They are more literary and culturally inclined, unlike Punjabis who have a fantastic business sense. Even though I come from a UP family, much like Bengalis, there is a certain openness in our conversations. We are allowed to voice our opinions, likes and dislikes. I would say that open-mindedness is evident in both Vicky Donor and Piku.
A lot of writers become directors so that they can make a film where their vision isn’t diluted. Do you have plans too?
Direction is a specific craft. As a screenwriter, I may not necessarily be a good director and vice versa. For the vision to not be diluted, it is important to work with a director who will be able to bring what isn’t on paper — the nuances. For instance, in Piku, the scene where Deepika Padukone is pumping water out of the clogged sink is there on paper, but the anger and frustration that we see in her is something Shoojit brought in. As a writer, I must acknowledge that a good director is able to fine-tune what may already be on paper. For now, I am enjoying writing.
