Mohan Segal with Rekha during Sawan Bhadon, her big break

When I was in film school in Pune (FTII), one day a small, sprightly man, wearing a cap and sunglasses, came to visit. He was my friend and senior Uma’s dad, and he had lunch with us at the girls’ hostel and chatted with us. That was my first conversation with Mohan Segal (b. 1921). We were totally charmed by his sharp, quirky wit. I remember my classmate and best friend Bela commenting, “He’s so cute!” At the time she had no idea she’d become his daughter-in-law (she married his son Deepak, also an FTII contemporary).

And I had no idea he had produced my favourite old Hindi movie, Lajwanti (1958), an unusually progressive film exploring a married woman’s angst-ridden loneliness. Or that he’d directed the golden oldie, New Delhi (1956). I had no idea then about the remarkably versatile Mohan Segal. Veteran producer, director, choreographer (trained under Uday Shankar), playwright and committed theatre person involved with IPTA and Prithvi.

How would I know? Uma and Deepak never said anything. The only buzz around our institute campus was that the man gave Rekha a break! But the man himself laughed loudest, at such funny reduction-ism. He had a wacky sense of humour. Which, along with his comic timing and eccentricity, often kept his family and friends in splits. Like (the fitness freak that he was) when he jogged inside his house, in full sports gear, cap, tennis shoes. And he could never resist a good (or bad) joke.

What a paradox. Because his personal life had its share of grave tragedy. The most devastating being the sudden death of daughter Uma. But he endured it with quiet courage and dignity. As he did the demise of his wife, Asha, a glamorous movie star in the 40s and 50s. He hardly spoke about his private grief. Only, sitting silently in his living room he stole glances, when he thought no one looked, at photographs of the two beautiful women, kept at an altar, lit by scented candles every evening. And he survived. As he did the highs and lows of unpredictable tides in a fickle film industry. He may’ve lost some money at one point (a common phenomenon in big gamble movie business), but he never lost self-respect or the respect of his colleagues. Evident from the stream of film-fraternity folks who called on him. Rekha dropped in whenever she could to see “Mohanji”.

But he was a loner at heart, who avoided socialising, and preferred to engage himself with more introspective activities like writing or reading or speaking into the dictaphone his little grand-daughters, Sharmin and Simran, gifted him to record his memoir. In his last years, pretty much confined indoors due to old-age ailments, he surrounded himself with books and music. Though he lost much of his sight and hearing towards the end. But his mind was amazingly alert. My last conversation with him was a few months ago. I told him I was going to Calcutta. “Bhai,” (he used Bhai like Beta or Yaar to punctuate his sentences), “didn’t you go on the 17th of last month?” he exclaimed.

What acute memory! I myself had completely forgotten the date of my cancelled trip. Then I told him about a particular crisis I was facing and asked his blessing. “My blessings are there always,” he assured me with an affectionate, fatherly hug. And added, “Bhai, sab theek hi hoga.”

Last week, when Bela called and told me he had to be taken to the hospital, something told me he would never again return home, aptly named, Aashray ? where everyone was always welcome. And on October 20, when he passed away, one suddenly became aware of a long-tapering closure. Not only of an illustrious life, but of an entire epoch.