Johny Lever's home is not what I expect. It's all cream curtains and glass tables. Very muted, very sober. As I wait for him on his sofa, looking out of the window of his 15th floor apartment in Andheri, I think of the Pagliacci joke from The Watchmen.
Man goes to doctor, says he's depressed. Life seems harsh and cruel. Doctor says, "The great clown, Pagliacci, is in town. Go see him. That should pick you up". Man bursts into tears. "But doctor", he says, "I am Pagliacci."
Maybe Johny Lever the man, is not the laugh-a-minute, elastic-faced clown I've seen on screen. Maybe he is a sober man in private. Maybe, like Pagliacci, he's sad. I make a mental note to ask him whether he's sad.
When he walks in, Lever's wearing a simple white t-shirt and black tracks. When I rise from my seat to shake his hand, he asks me to sit back down.
Humble beginnings
Johny Lever is a bona-fide institution. In the nineties, it was hard to find a movie that didn't feature him. Pulling his over the top antics, acting every bit the clown. He is the iconic comedian of his generation. His beginnings were humble though. Born in 1950, in a small village in Andhra Pradesh and later growing up in Dharavi, his opportunities were limited. He had to leave school at the age of 14 and John Prakasa Rao Janumala, as he was then known, started selling pencils on the streets of Mumbai. He rose through the ranks to land a job at a Hindustan Lever factory, where his colleagues, presumably intoxicated by his brand of comedy, bestowed upon him the name that he later made famous. Johny Lever.
There is a sense when you speak to Johny Lever that he hasn't forgotten his roots. His lunch is a plate of poha with no vegetables to speak of, and very little oil. He prefers it that way, he tells me. His success seems to have largely left him unaffected. He still does stand-up shows, and keeps in touch with the original fan-base that propelled him into stardom when he released his first audio tape in 1981. He says he's more a stand-up comedian than a screen actor.
Even so, he's not exactly humble about his achievements in cinema. When I ask him whether he regrets that his roles on screen weren't meatier, he slaps my knee and pulls a face. "I got the opportunities. I was just too busy to take them up. All through my career I've done (stand-up) shows alongside my films. I just didn't have the dates to give for meatier roles. In fact my dates were at such a premium that the producers would get my dates first and book the lead actors accordingly."
Performer, not an actor
At this point, having been exposed to the familiar wide grin and bulging eyes and rather endearing knee-slapping, I'm wondering whether Lever has a private persona. Maybe he is his on screen persona. He definitely doesn't seem sad. Or maybe like all celebrities, when they're doing media interviews, it's a performance.
Lever is the consummate performer. And though his on screen appearances have reduced substantially in the new millennium, he keeps his craft sharp through his shows. Stand-up is his first love. "My first show was in Patkar Hall next to Bombay Hospital. It was a total flop. I was so nervous standing in front of all those people that I completely froze. I forgot all my lines and the audience booed me off the stage. I realised that day that you have to earn the audience's appreciation. They aren't fools."
To his credit Lever didn't slink off, tail between legs. He practiced long and hard, got back on the same stage, and won the audience over. "I had this determination to make it, on that very stage. It was like a fire within me. And I did. Even today I consider Patkar hall as my lucky venue. I try out all my new material on that stage."
Lever has learnt the lessons of that first, humiliating day well. It's what drives his almost protestant work ethic. "I practice for hours in front of the mirror. I constantly deliver my routine in front of my friends." And it is this devotion to his craft that he finds missing in contemporary comedians.
"Today no-one has the time and no-one is willing to make the sacrifice. In any art, if you want to become successful, you have to be willing to sacrifice. Look at Dadasaheb Phalke, he sold off his wife's jewellery to make his film, look at Guru Dutt. They sacrificed their lives for their art, which is why people still remember them and their work after all these years. Today who has the time?"
Lever doesn't make any direct references to people active in the industry, if he has something negative to say. He prefers to use analogies.
I make the point that today the likes of Boman Irani and Paresh Rawal, more sophisticated actors if you will, are preferred over him for comic roles. Does it hurt him? He turns the tables on me. "It's the times. Today you're wearing jeans. Why not dhoti-kurta? I'll tell you why — you're scared that people will laugh at you. But if today you came to me in dhoti kurta and I told you that I won't give you an interview because you're not in jeans, would that be right of me? Par sab ko appearance se matlab hai. (Everyone's hung up on appearances)".
As Hindi cinema becomes more suave and up-market, the man who fought his way from the choked streets of Mumbai up to the rarified air of his spacious, 15th floor apartment seems unable to keep up. He's aware of the fact that he doesn't quite fit in to the look and tone of today's films. "I would love to do a substantial role but it has to suit me, my personality. Only then will I take it up." Unfortunately, the lovable clown who pulls faces and puts on funny accents is no longer in vogue. Comedies are becoming more situational. The clowning around is now done by A-list stars. And though he puts on a brave face, maybe Johny Lever, the man who's made us all laugh, is a little bit sad about that.
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