Entering Shefali Shah’s office, you find her busy on the phone. The air-conditioner in her house malfunctioned, and she was furious, trying to get it fixed, but also joking with her manager about, possibly, sleeping in the office. There might be rats, though, the manager warns. The entire city is dug up and no room is safe.
Shah quickly settles onto the couch — all white, next to a carpet, all white, in a room, all white. I had to ask if I have to remove my slippers that have dragged the muck from Mulund to Andheri — which houses Sunshine Pictures, the production house owned by Shah's husband, the filmmaker and producer Vipul Amrutlal Shah. No need, she tells me. Brusque in her responses, she doesn’t dwell on anything, shuffling on. She has folded her feet, kneeling on the couch. She will cramp soon, and that, too, she doesn’t dwell on, shaking her feet, and shuffling back. There is a magnetic nonchalance.
She has a memoir out, a “sort-of memoir” titled The Audacity of Being, which opens by speaking about colouring her greys, and stuffing her body into Spanx. She is aware of vanity as a desire, even as she doesn’t fully subscribe to its excess. It is a tough balancing act in an industry where image is everything.
She has lined up press interviews for the book all day. Her manager told her to have a change of outfits ready, so the interviews, if on video, look like they were shot on different days. She swats this suggestion off. Push comes to shove, she will swap her clothes with her manager, she jokes.
In a conversation with The Hollywood Reporter India, Shah discusses her career, the move from theatre to television to acting, to almost retiring before her busy second innings kicked in with Delhi Crime.
Excerpts from a conversation:
I get the sense that you were made to write this memoir kicking and screaming. Your childhood chapter is titled “Do I have to write about my childhood?” There is an impatience with detail. Why a memoir? And why now?
Honestly, I wouldn't know when is a good time to write a memoir, even when I am dying. I love writing. But it is haphazard, which is who I am, and how I want to be. That is why this is a “sort-of memoir”, things spoken, thrown around, essays, poems, thoughts, excerpts, stuff like that. It is not chronological. It is conversational — candid and scribbled.
I want to take you back to your childhood, acting in Gujarati theatre—a language you were unfamiliar with. But people responded to your performance—and they still do. What about your acting or your presence do you think resonates?
The first play I did was when I was ten years old, playing a girl who is possessed. I honestly don’t know what people saw, and still see. Probably the honesty?
What does that mean, this honesty?
See, you can have a good actor and a bad actor and both can work. But if you are dishonest, the audience sees right through you.
What then is the difference between a bad actor and a dishonest actor?
Honestly, there is nothing called a bad actor because it is all subjective.
Have you ever given a dishonest performance?
No… rarely. Maybe one film, which didn’t work, I am so glad it didn’t work… Actually, no. I was pretty honest even in that. Maybe when I did television? When I am saying dishonest, it is that I am not feeling it, but I know it is the right thing to do.
Tell me about your television years—Campus, Tara, Naya Nukkad—and Rishtey: The Love Stories, where you were directed by Hansal Mehta. It was a different era, where television meant more than just casual entertainment.
The biggest strength of that era was the scripts. The shows had a beginning, middle, and end. We got full scripts. Even if scenes come in later, you know the broad storyline. It is not like today, where if a character isn’t working, you kill the character off, or change the plot because the TRP isn’t high. It was quality over quantity.
Today, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish one show from the other on television. Everyone is dressed well. I have never understood how a woman can wake up looking pretty. A cook in the kitchen with their hair open? Who the hell does that? Or sleeping with jewellery? Whether they are dying, dead, alive, in labour, cooking... everyone is looking perfect.
Transitioning from your television years to cinema, you write “I lacked ambition”. What drove you in the absence of ambition to be an actor?
I love what I do — the performance, working on the script, creating the character. The technical stuff — memorising lines, left of camera, light falling, shadow, etc. was always there. I would get offered a part. If I liked it, I said yes. Otherwise, no. Very rarely do I worry what the audience is going to think. I don’t do anything for awards.
Early in your career, you were both in a Ram Gopal Verma film (Satya, 1998) and a Mira Nair film (Monsoon Wedding, 2001).
I had a small part, a few scenes in Satya while Monsoon Wedding was a full fledged ensemble film with so many workshops. I did not understand the magnitude of these two films on the set at that time. Even when Satya released, I was like, fine, it is a great film. Now I recognise it is a cult film.
How were these sets different? You write about group yoga and home-cooked breakfasts on the sets of Monsoon Wedding. I am assuming that was not nearly the case with Satya.
No, no. But one thing that was similar was that both directors allowed for spontaneity, left actors to themselves, and things just “happened”. You are letting it flow, almost voyeuristically watching it.
And a Rituparno Ghosh (The Last Lear) set?
It was one of the calmest, most soothing sets I’ve been on. Huge female energy, everyone spoke softly and got stuff done.
I want to talk about Waqt: The Race Against Time (2005), where you played the wife of Amitabh Bachchan’s character, and mother to Akshay Kumar, who is older than you. In a chapter in the book, there is a sense that this was a rewarding performance that put you out there as a great actor. But you are also aware that this was “professional suicide” and that “it might not have been the best choice”, for you were typecast as the mother this early in your career. A gratitude with regret — would that be a good way to phrase it?
I haven’t thought about it in those words, but if I had to do it all over again, I would be smart enough to not do it.
You write that Dil Dhadakne Do (2015) got you out of retirement. Were you really thinking of hanging up your boots back then?
There was a long patch where nothing was happening.
Were you pitching yourself as an actor to people?
I don’t pitch, na. I got a manager ten years ago. Before that I had nobody. My thought process was, if they think I am worth it, they will come to me. That is what I mean when I write that I have no ambition. Now, of course, I have changed. Earlier, I wouldn’t even text directors and actors I admire.
It was not about retirement, but resignation. I could have been more pushy, you know, and just speak to people. I lived under a rock — I wouldn’t even know what projects were there in the industry.
You have said in an interview, “My career has been more about waiting than actually working.” Then, Delhi Crime (2019) happened.
That one year after Delhi Crime, I shot six projects, and the next year all six got released. I have worked more in that one year than I have in my entire career.
Why was Delhi Crime’s success different from the success of your other films that earned you raves? Has the industry and the way it looks at women changed?
OTT was a huge part of this. Delhi Crime, the first season, is one of the finest to come out of our country. The biggest advantage is that streaming doesn’t depend on the weekend — it has a long run. You are giving something a chance. Suddenly, it gave importance to characters, not stars. You remember character names.
Also, if I look back, have I ever played lead roles? I don’t think so. Delhi Crime got me Jalsa, Darlings and Human — all with two leading women, parallel heroine arcs.
Is there a failure in your career you were shocked by?
Jalsa. I don’t think got as much love as it should have.
What are your upcoming projects?
I did a film with Vipul called Hisab, shot a year and a half ago — a bank heist movie, with Jaideep Ahlawat and Abhishek Banerjee. A fun film! Then, I did one more film with a debutante director. It's a whacko character, a wicked film. I just shot for a Netflix show. I am also waiting for something exciting to happen.
What about direction, given your foray into filmmaking with the short film Happy Birthday Mummyji?
I want to, but after Delhi Crime, Vipul asked me — exactly when your career is taking off as an actor, you want to stop everything and go direct? That kind of made sense. I held off.