3 hours Ago By Sudhir Srinivasan
There’s a particular pleasure in engaging with a mind like Manoj Bajpayee’s — a precision in his responses that doesn’t veer into the perfunctory, an introspection that feels inviting. So, when the 55th International Film Festival of India invited me to moderate a conversation with him, it felt like an opportunity to both savour and share. At the session titled ‘Mastering the Unseen’ at the packed Kala Academy, Manoj held forth on the art of acting, his aversion to the trappings of stardom, and his enduring commitment to indie cinema.
He began with dialogue — the lifeblood of cinema, the thread that connects characters and binds stories. “I think my understanding of dialogue began with an obsession for poetry recitation as a child. That’s when I realised every word carries weight, every line holds rhythm and music,” he shared.
Yet, his confidence was shattered in acting school when a teacher berated him for failing at even the basics, suggesting he showed no understanding of pitch and rhythm. Where others might have resigned in despondency, Manoj sought instruction from unlikely sources, embracing every fragment of advice he could find. “One mentor told me to read Sanskrit literature aloud; another helped me see the invisible threads that connect ideas in even the worst scripts.
Over time, I have learned that the hardest dialogue to master is silence.” It is this mastery of silence that Manoj wishes was celebrated more. “We see Insta reels with actors delivering long monologues.
But why not share a moment from a film like where I’ve tried to say so much without words?” He mused about the challenge of conveying the dialogue within — a task that separates good acting from great. “When there’s no dialogue, there’s too much dialogue — in the head, in the unspoken glances, in the flickers of emotion. That’s when the actor’s job begins,” he mused.
“Are you aware of the unspoken? Can you reveal them without saying them?” Manoj’s approach to acting mirrors his stoic protagonist in where the boundaries between duty and identity blur. When I asked about the toll of internalising so many characters, his answer carried the weight of personal truth. “Suffering,” he said, after a pause.
“That’s the right word. All my characters live inside me — their bruises, their quirks. I’ve never been able to cast them out.
Perhaps that’s why actors like me grow reclusive. We absorb so much, and when the acting stops, we want nothing more than to sit in a corner and observe.” For Manoj, it’s a sacrifice — of identity and self, in a way, but one he embraces willingly.
“The joys of acting are worth the cost. I know I’m a more dedicated actor than a parent. I know I’m better on a movie set than at home.
Thankfully, my family understands this.” Manoj’s journey has been one of constant reinvention. Around the time of Gangs of Wasseypur, he felt trapped by the industry’s tendency to offer him ‘carbon copies’ of his previous roles.
He had turned 40 recently and had grown disappointed, waiting for scripts that would allow him to blossom as an actor. Desperate for meaningful work, he began seeking out promising directors (from YouTube work), many of whom had no mainstream credentials. “Eventually, I found Kanu Behl, Devashish Makhija, Dipesh Jain, whose Gali Guleiyan remains one of my most challenging roles.
..” With their help, he discovered parts of himself as an actor, parts he always knew existed.
That’s why his frustration with the current state of indie cinema is so palpable. “Indie cinema seemed to be thriving a few years ago, but now, we have hit rock bottom again. Even OTT platforms aren’t as welcoming anymore; weren’t they supposed to be the vistas of better cinema? Indie cinema is the lifeblood of the art form.
Without it, cinema becomes only a business, and we, as a culture, stop growing.” Yet, Manoj remains hopeful. “Indie cinema will rise again; it has to.
” The tempting roads of stardom have waylaid many a promising actor, but despite mass popularity and acclaim, Manoj has shown remarkable resistance to the charms of stardom. “Thank you for noticing that,” he said, lighting up. “I think I love other things too much — like strolling in a market to buy vegetables.
That gives me more joy than selfies with strangers. Even for a photo, I don’t enjoy the attention or people getting too close to me; even my wife isn’t that close!” he joked. On a serious note, he explained his aversion to the isolation that comes with internalising so many characters, that comes with carrying as much fictional baggage.
“If I black out my car windows, how will I see the people? Stardom thrives in mystery and secrecy. But for an actor like me, it’s important to see people. It’s crucial to know their lives.
As an actor, I need to be a fly on the wall — present, but invisible.” The conversation turned to physicality in acting. In Joram, Manoj’s portrayal of a man on the run with a baby is a study in subtlety.
“He’s a rebel in his youth, but by the time we see him, he’s beaten down by life. That weariness had to show in every movement, in his posture.” He spoke of Aligarh to illustrate the power of restraint.
“I played a gay man, but I didn’t want to signal his sexual orientation with exaggerated physicality. Many gay friends move in ways contrary to how cinema often depicts them. It’s important to break such stereotypes.
” Manoj’s love affair with cinema began in the dim glow of a theatre, where a young boy sat transfixed by Amitabh Bachchan’s Zanjeer. “I’ve never watched it again,” he admitted, “because I want that first magical memory to remain untouched, unspoiled.” His passion has only deepened in the decades since.
“I realised in a movie theatre that an individual can become so much more. I fell in love with performances; I am still in love. I have realised that performances must not only entertain people but also represent people and touch them in unusual and profound ways.
” As a final thought, he reflected on the job of acting. “It is the hardest job in the world, but society doesn’t think so. In fact, people think anyone can become an actor.
An aunty at a wedding will point at her nephew and say, ‘Give him a role in your film.’ They have no idea of the suffering it entails — or the joy.” As applause thundered through the hall, I found myself verbalising our collective, almost selfish, sadistic wish: that Manoj Bajpayee may continue to torment himself in his pursuit of excellence, so we may bask in the brilliance of his art.
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