Although critically acclaimed, Teesri Kasam was a commercial disaster when pushed out of cinema theatres to make way for potboilers. It recovered after winning two National Film Awards and was publicised thus.
That was an era when good, wholesome cinema received, if not always funds, official recognition. Today, much of the recognition is reserved for ‘Files’ that align with a political agenda and fuel hatred among communities.
Made in 1966 on a story written in 1954 by the renowned Hindi writer from Bihar, Phanishwarnath Renu, the film, although shot largely in Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh, depicted the simplicity of a poor, rural Bihar. That poverty persists. Bihar remains underdeveloped, in the news for many wrong reasons.
Deeply embedded in the prevailing values of rural India, healthy or otherwise, Teesri Kasam was based on Renu’s original short story, Marey Gaye Gulfam. Nabendu Ghosh, who wrote many films for Bimal Roy, introduced it to Shailendra, the renowned lyricist, himself a son of the Bihar soil.
In a rare literary and cinematic confluence, Ghosh wrote the script as well as the screenplay. Cinematographer on Satyajit Ray’s early films, Subrata Mitra, lensed it. Basu Bhattacharya was its debutante director. He went on to make some significant films.
Nautanki is a major prop in the film. Developed in the ‘Bhagat’ and ‘Swang’ musical theatre traditions of north India, it was once the biggest form of entertainment in its villages and towns. Today, Nautanki, like Tawaif, is a bad word. Waheeda Rahman’s Nautanki performance in the film looks way too decent when compared to the present-day vulgar, public performances, patronised in the Hindi belt.
This then-and-now comparison would be incomplete without asking how many filmmakers, in their race to join the global cinema, explore themes rooted in India.
Teesri Kasam took five years to make and contributed to Shailendra’s death before it was released. Short of funds, he wanted to make a simple, low-budget film. He selected comedian Mehmood and Mumtaz to play cart-rider Hiraman and Hirabai, performing for a Nautanki company. But Bollywood biggie Raj Kapoor, whose discovery ‘Kaviraj’ Shailendra was, insisted on playing the lead.
Although he charged only one rupee, the canvas widened with Kapoor’s entry. He advised Shailendra to add some commercial elements to an otherwise melancholic story. Shailendra disagreed and did the movie the way he wanted.
Shankar-Jaikishan composed ten songs, each one a masterpiece that made the film memorable. Shailendra delivered his best, including the award-winning Sajan Re Jhooth Mat Bolo. Yet, the most heart-rending song, crooned by Mukesh, was Hasrat Jaipuri’s Dunia Banane Waley. Each line of these songs carries deep philosophical meaning, each word resonating with our individual journey of life wherever we be.
With his light eyes, Kapoor looked too well-fed for a poor cart driver. However, shorn of the Chaplin-sque image that had won him global fame in Awaara and Shree 420, his performance, comparable with his earlier Jagte Raho, is among his best.
Waheeda, riding on her previous year’s performance in Guide, was outstanding. On Shailedra’s tearful pleading, it is said, she worked for a nominal token amount. She is perhaps the only survivor of that magnificent experiment in cinema.
Six decades is a long time to judge a film for its critical content and the relevance of its message in the present times to be called a classic. It is tempting to say that Teesri Kasam fills all the slots. Had it been made on a larger budget and in colour (arguable, since its black & white photography was excellent), it would have been a greater film than it is.
Bhattacharya won the National Award for direction and was nominated for the Grand Prix at the Moscow International Film Festival. But not everyone was satisfied with his treatment of a simple, yet deeply meaningful theme.
Underlining the differing approach between an art-laced film and a Bollywood commercial, Kapoor disapproved. In an interview in 1977, he said, “Basu (Basu Bhattacharya) is a pseudo, and I didn’t like the film. He was risking somebody else’s money. What did he have to lose?”
Looking back, it would be unfair to blame Kapoor and his RK team’s support. Views have also differed about the film’s ending, and blamed it for the box office failure. Some felt that rather than separating Hiraman from Hirabai, the two should have walked away from the world. Comparison has been made with another classic, Pyaasa, where a roadside hooker, incidentally, also played by Waheeda Rehman, joins a poet that society has rejected.
Such a debate marks out Teesri Kasam. But note what Hirabai has to say of her own identity. Hiraman thinks she is a goddess, and the landlord who wants to bed her thinks she is a prostitute. But both are wrong, she insists.
She definitely loves Hiraman, the first man who has treated her with respect. But she realises that if she hides her tainted social status from him, they would live in falsehood. The shock for him on knowing the truth would be unbearable and would ruin their relationship.
‘Libbers’ today may fault Hirabai for lack of courage to break her social shackles, but not for allowing her head to reject the heart’s desire. She comes across as a worldly-wise winner, even as Hiraman, rejected and dejected, takes his frustration out on the poor bullocks. He takes his third vow: never to seat another “company ki bai” on his cart.
In a noteworthy flaw, the first two vows, rushed through at the film’s onset, are of no real consequence to the story. They only lay the ground for the third.
Yet, it remains a simple story simply told of the fragile love between two social misfits. It does not have a happy ending, but it is not a tragedy either. A character-driven film, it offers several insights into human relationships, the likes of which are seldom seen on the Indian screen these days.
Much like its protagonists, Teesri Kasam was also a victim of its fate. Watching it today, it is hard to decipher why a film with such emotional depth, popular music and stellar actors did not get accepted in that “Golden Age” of Hindi cinema.
Despite the abundance of talent, money and technology, a “fourth vow” to pursue meaningful cinema seems remote in this era.
