Like many of us growing up in the 70s, I was captivated by Shyam Benegal's celluloid storytelling. His films weren’t just stories; they were revelations. Manthan was the first of his masterpieces I watched, and its refreshingly different narrative—rooted in the early career of Amul founder Verghese Kurien—opened a window to a world of cinema that defied convention. It was my initiation into alternative cinema, a realm of storytelling I hadn’t known before.
Over the years, I devoured Ankur, Nishant, Mandi, the earlier Charandas Chor, and many of his other classics, each of which resonated deeply with me throughout my university years.
I met the legend in my early twenties while working with his gracious wife, Nira, at Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle. Both of us were Associate Editors at Tinkle. At the time, I was pursuing a postgraduate qualification in journalism and had chosen for my dissertation a topic close to my heart: how India's traditional folk performing arts had been a conduit for news and information across centuries, and how even post-independence, the government continued to harness their power for mass communication. Nira, ever encouraging, suggested I meet Shyam, whose knowledge of South India’s folk performing arts was unparalleled.
I still remember walking into their flat on Mumbai's Pedder Road, nervous and unsure despite knowing Nira well. Shyam’s reputation preceded him, and I half-expected an imposing figure. He was measured in his speech, pausing deliberately, as if weighing every word. What was meant to be a brief 30-minute chat stretched into a 90-minute exchange of insights, interrupted occasionally by calls from his team. He was working on Trikaal then, I think. His inputs became the cornerstone of my dissertation, which went on to win a medal—an achievement I owe, in no small part, to his guidance.
Over the years, Shyam and Nira became family friends. When Nira and I, along with some former colleagues, launched a venture to create children’s publications, the couple often supported us with their insights. Every year, during the Ganapati festival, Shyam and Nira would visit our home, relishing the prasad lunch and lingering for lazy post-lunch afternoons filled with laughter. Shyam’s lighter side would shine through in those moments—his Konkani jokes and witty observations on life remain etched in my memory. At my wedding, he and Nira were cherished guests, sharing jokes with Veena and me, their laughter immortalised in photos I treasure to this day.
Our conversations over the years often returned to his groundbreaking work. His approach to Bharat Ek Khoj remains one of my favourites. He dared to depict historical characters in relatively simple attire, challenging the heavily adorned and idealised images popularised by the Raja Ravi Varma style and faithfully replicated in Amar Chitra Katha. The backlash he faced didn’t faze him—it was Shyam’s way to prioritise authenticity over convention.
Nira would often share behind-the-scenes stories from Shyam’s productions, recounting hilarious moments with stalwarts like Naseeruddin Shah, Shabana Azmi, Kulbhushan Kharbanda, and Smita Patil. One year, Shyam and I had developed a small tradition of exchanging birthday wishes—his birthday followed mine by a day. When I called him one year to wish him, his voice was heavy with grief. “It’s not a happy birthday this year, Dev,” he said softly. Smita Patil had passed away the night before.
December 14 always reminds me of him. This year was no different, though it coincided with a milestone in my family—my aunt’s 100th birthday, which I spent with her. Shyam had turned 90 on that same day. Nine days later, the producer in heaven made the final curtain call.
We lost regular contact after my move overseas, but I stayed in touch with Nira when I could, calling her during my visits to India. Now, as I reflect on his passing, I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of his impact—not just on Indian cinema, but on those fortunate enough to know him. Shyam Benegal was not just a storyteller; he was a custodian of culture, a purveyor of truth, and a man who lived life with quiet dignity. May his soul find sadgati.
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