Shyam Benegal, who passed away on December 23, a few days after his 90th birthday, had long been a towering figure in Indian cinema. I’ve known him since 1973, and every year, I would wish him on his birthday without fail. This year, though, I couldn't; I tried calling him, but unfortunately, he did not pick up. His health had deteriorated, and he was on dialysis. It feels strange not being able to wish him this year, especially when he was always so thoughtful about such things. He never missed wishing me on my birthday, right from the time we met during the filming of Ankur, his first feature film. In fact, when he was casting for Ankur, he asked me when my birthday was. On that very day, on the sets of Ankur, he wished me—an act that, though small, meant a great deal to me.

I’ve always considered Shyam Benegal my guru, and I was his patta shishya, (devoted disciple). He cast me in six of his films, including Ankur (1974), Nishant (1975), Manthan (1976), Bhumika (1977), Kondura (1978), and Kalyug (1981). He played a significant role in shaping my career, particularly during the 1970s and 1980s. Films like Manthan and Kalyug featured me in prominent roles, and I felt blessed to be part of those projects. I did miss out on working with him in Bharat Ek Khoj (1988) after I moved from Mumbai to Bengaluru, a conscious decision made due to my professional commitments here. Although I wasn't part of his later works, my admiration and respect for him never waned. He always remained my guiding force.

In the early 1980s, Shyam even considered moving to Bengaluru. He had plans to settle here and had even purchased property. However, he often said that while he loved the idea of living in Bengaluru, his professional roots were firmly planted in Mumbai. He knew that he always had the support of his friends here.

I hail from South Kanara and grew up in a coastal village—Karwara, Mangaluru. I lived in an ashram, and when I moved to Mumbai, I had no one there. Coming from a village, I felt quite lost. But when I started in theatre and later entered the film industry, I met Satyadev Dubey, who introduced me to Shyam Benegal. They became my teachers. I remember that since Shyam was also from South Kanara, I would often speak to him in Konkani, even though he expected me to speak in English. He would reluctantly reply to me in Konkani.

Shyam’s father had introduced him to the world of cameras and photography. Although Shyam initially studied economics and political science at Osmania University, he was drawn to art and films. It was in the company of greats like Satyajit Ray, Prabhat Mukherjee, and Ritwik Ghatak that Shyam’s vision for parallel cinema began to take shape. His films, especially in the 1970s and 1980s, were not just reflections of society but also bridges between mainstream and arthouse cinema.

Shyam’s commitment to parallel cinema was unwavering. At one point, he spoke of what he called a “work crisis,” a struggle that, as a young actor, I couldn’t fully understand back then. It took me a while to realise that he was referring to the constant battle to find financing for his projects. Despite these challenges, he always pressed forward, delivering something new and bold with every film. Bharat Ek Khoj, a collaborative Indo-Soviet project, was a monumental achievement for him. His other films, like Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose: The Forgotten Hero (2004), continued to reflect his dedication to meaningful storytelling. His last project, Mujib: The Making of a Nation (2023), however, was fraught with challenges, especially considering his health issues during its production.

Shankar Nag often accompanied me when I met Shyam, but it was Girish Karnad who first cast Shankar in Ondandu Kaladalli. I remember Shyam asking Shankar about his venture into commercial/masala films, given his background in parallel cinema. When Shankar created Malgudi Days (1986), Shyam was immensely proud of him and praised his work, offering generous compliments.

I also remember one memorable moment when Shyam visited Bengaluru to hold a press conference. He casually told the press that I was no longer Anant Nagarkatte but simply Anant Nag, joking about the length of my full name. He even made light of my supposed entry into politics, laughing with my friends from the press about it. Shyam, who himself had been nominated to the Rajya Sabha, was a man of strong opinions and keenly interested in the world beyond cinema. He never missed a single session during his time in the Rajya Sabha, and his enthusiasm for his role was infectious.

Our bond extended beyond films, deeply rooted in shared history. Shyam’s family hailed from South Kanara, like mine. His illustrious brothers—Benegal Narsing Rau, Benegal Rama Rau, and Benegal Shiva Rao—were well-known figures in the region, educated and highly respected. It was fascinating to see how his roots shaped his artistic journey. My closeness with him, I considered them to be the 'Saraswat' brothers. In those days, when there were no flights, crossing the sea was considered an act of religious censure. Shyam’s family, including Narsing Rau and the other brothers, had faced such censure by the swamiji of the math (a religious establishment), and Shyam was furious about it. I was involved in the math at the time, and this history was part of the deep connection we shared.

As I reflect on Shyam’s legacy today, it’s clear that he was not just a filmmaker but a true visionary. His influence on me and Indian cinema is immeasurable. While I couldn’t wish him this year, I know his spirit will live on through his films, teachings, and the many lives he touched.