Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow Page 2

  In our homes at Pali Hill in Mumbai we have always slept inside old-fashioned net curtains around our beds to ward off the onslaught of so many mosquitoes breeding amidst the lush greenery of our garden. Once we had tucked ourselves into our bed, I always mischievously requested him to help me get a glass of water placed on the other side of the bed. In my laad (affection or endearment), I loved to see him deftly scramble out of the netting and give me that precious sip of water. Never once did he have a grudge or make a face; he always gracefully and lovingly sat by my side until he had the empty glass back in his hand. I have always blessed him for his gesture of love with a peck on his great forehead and it has been a regular ritual between us for all these years.

  On one occasion, a new refrigerator arrived in the house and, on opening it excitedly, I found one of the racks inside the door broken. I was in tears that the new fridge had a broken rack. Dilip Sahab calmed me down and within no time he had shaped a metal clothes hanger into a rack and fitted it beautifully. That’s how he is – ever the chivalrous, helpful husband who hates to see his wife in tears over anything. I wonder how many star husbands or for that matter how many husbands would try to do something like that to cheer up a tearful wife! Truly, Dilip Sahab’s greatness can be best seen in his unaffected simplicity and the complete absence of ego.

  Early in the evenings, he loved to fly kites with the whole family in tow holding the charkhi (reel of thread). We maintained a treasure of kites and manja (special thread for kites) from all over India in a large trunk. The kites and manjha are carefully wrapped up in paper to preserve them and protect them from moisture. From surrounding buildings, friends like actor Tabrez Barmavar (Farida Jalal, my close friend’s husband) and others would try and cut Dilip Sahab’s kite. It was like a festival, with family, friends and visitors all participating in the hubbub, while the expert cooks Narmada and Kavita churned out delicious snacks! I remember producer-director-actor Manoj Kumar also coming up to fly kites with Dilip Sahab when he wanted to present the proposal of his film Kranti (released in 1981). He also gave us the recipe for whipping up a special aachar (pickle) omelette, which Dilip Sahab enjoyed very much.

  Dilip Sahab had suffered terrible migraine headaches for years when we had to press his head for hours with the curtains drawn to provide darkness in the room so that he could get some relief. Surprisingly, watching the colourful kites soaring in the sky gave him much relief from his headaches. In the terrace kitchen, we would whip up hot bhajias (savouries) and omelettes for visitors to relish during the kite sessions.

  Since time immemorial, my own family has loved good poetry, classical music and dance and I am so fortunate that Dilip Sahab has been like-minded in his love of the arts. Our home has resounded with the music of the great maestros of classical dimension such as Bade Ghulam Ali Khan Sahab, who was a colleague of my own grandmother, Begum Shamshad Abdul Waheed Khan (Ammaji), the renowned classical vocalist, who used to sing live over All India Radio, Delhi, and had recorded for Columbia Records. Sitar maestro Vilayat Khan Sahab, noted musicians and singers like Ghulam Ali Sahab, Ustad Mehdi Hasan Sahab, the Sabri Brothers (the famous qawwals), and Reshma, Kathak queens Sitara Devi and my guru, Padmashri Roshan Kumari, who has most lovingly taught me all that I know of classical dance, and many more illustrious performers have performed at our house.

  One day while Ammaji was at riyaz (practice of her classical singing) on the first floor of our residence, the durbaan (doorman) came to her and announced that a ‘qawwal’ fakir had defied the security at the gate and wanted to have a darshan of Ammaji and take her aashirwaad (blessing). He had come with his paytee baaja (harmonium), the durbaan added. Soon enough what do we see? Wearing a simple cotton apparel and gamcha (a kind of scarf) tied tight across his forehead, Dilip Sahab slowly climbed the stairs with his paytee baaja and started to sing, regaling Ammaji who was in splits of laughter until tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks! Such is my wonderful Dilip Sahab! My priceless gem! My Kohinoor.

  Singing Naseeb dar pe tere aazmane aaya hoon …

  I leave you now to read the story of the life of this wonderful and uncomplicated man who is described as an enigma by those who know him not as well as some of his close friends and colleagues do. In the section of this book where his co-stars and admirers have drawn their own portraits of Dilip Sahab in their narrations to Udayatara, some unknown facets and some of his contributions to society as also some of the achievements he has never talked about are brought to the fore. Therefore, there is much to learn from the insightful personal accounts in that section, too, which, if I may say so at the risk of sounding vain, is as electrifying as the first part.

  – Saira Banu

  *In this book, we have used Mumbai and Bombay interchangeably as also Madras/Chennai, Calcutta/Kolkata and Poona/Pune.

  *Actually sung by Mohammed Rafi, composed by Kalyanji Anandji and written by Rajinder Krishan.

  *Born as Helen Richardson, she has appeared in more than 500 films.

  **From the 1971 film Caravan, sung by Asha Bhosle and Rahul Dev Burman, written by Majrooh Sultanpuri and composed by Rahul Dev Burman.

  INTRODUCTION: A DREAM COME TRUE

  I have consciously never oversold or overexposed myself to the audience. When I look back I feel it was quite risky to be starring in one film when other actors were busy with two or three films on the floors simultaneously. I determinedly decided to work in only one film at a time. It was simply my confidence in the subjects I chose and the hard work I was ready to put into them.

  IT WAS A SULTRY AFTERNOON IN MUMBAI’S MIDSUMMER. THE year was 2004.

  I was helping Saira Banu rearrange the books on the bookshelf in her bedroom when Dilip Sahab picked up a book written by an author who claimed to have known him as no one else did. ‘This is supposed to be my biography and it is full of distortions and misinformation,’ he told Saira. ‘Why don’t you write the story of your life yourself?’ Saira queried, gladly seizing the opportunity to pursue her continuous effort to pin him down to write his autobiography.

  Saira has always maintained that the inspiring journey of a simple youth named Yousuf Khan, son of a well-to-do fruit merchant and the story of his flight to hitherto unparalleled heights of fame and success as Dilip Kumar, who became India’s first ever superstar and one of the world’s greatest actors, had to be recounted. The real story, she was sure, would enthuse and motivate all young aspirants in any walk of life who have chased dreams of making it big in their chosen professions.

  After a moment’s silence, Dilip Sahab spoke, turning to both of us as we waited to hear his reply.

  ‘All right, I will narrate my story. It has to be compiled by someone who is enlightened and ready to put in the hard work that goes into anything I do and it should be someone who knows us really well,’ he said.

  I was listening and continuing to arrange the large collection of fiction and poetry works in English and Urdu, which had been read by Dilip Sahab seriously and meticulously, with pencil lines under sentences that piqued him and notes jotted in green ink in the margins in his elegant handwriting.

  ‘She is right here’, Saira pointed out, looking at me.

  Dilip Sahab too looked at me and laughed gently, seeing the disbelief on my face.

  ‘When do we start?’ he asked me and I could hear my heart thumping away with mixed feelings of happiness and fright. Can this be reality or is it a dream, I asked myself since I was not in the fray of renowned writers who were pursuing Dilip Sahab to tell the story of his life to them.

  Being an extremely private person, he was not always comfortable talking about himself and his unequalled achievements. He had understandably not encouraged anyone to explore his personal life for a book. As a result, some of the books that were written by people who claimed to know him and by writers who culled excerpts from published interviews and gathered dubious information from ‘close friends’ of Dilip Sahab and Saira did not tell the real story.

  Saira was gl
eefully hugging Dilip Sahab and exhorting him: ‘Let us start today, now, after lunch Jaan,* before you change your mind.’

  ‘Don’t neglect your job’s demands for this. I have chosen you because you are capable of painstaking work and you can follow my thoughts and expressions accurately. Also, I am assured you will not misquote me. We will do it at my pace and don’t hesitate to tell me if it gets boring,’ Dilip Sahab joked.

  With Udayatara Nayar and Saira.

  Saira, the perfectionist that she is, arranged for high-class tape recorders and writing pads to take notes if the recorders failed. She suggested to Dilip Sahab that it would be a good idea to sit on the lawns in her garden and talk to me, knowing him and his impatience in case his work was interrupted or disturbed. Anywhere else in the house, she knew the phones would ring incessantly. More importantly, Saira knew her husband’s love for nature and open spaces. She knew how he disliked talking about himself and how disinclined he was to do an autobiography because that meant, in his words, the profuse use of capital I, which he abhorred. And now that he had agreed, she wanted to make sure he did not lose interest on any account.

  It was not the easiest assignment of my life for sure. The mood had to be created every day and that was something only Saira could do. The gentle prodding to get him to talk about the leading ladies was again something only Saira could do. Even the untold story of how he decided to marry Saira in late 1966, who was the country’s most sought after and highest paid actress at that time, and the charming sequence of the dignified Dilip Kumar style courtship that preceded his proposal to Saira to be his wife had to be gently coaxed out of him. Needless to say, his account of the love story is one of the best chapters in this book.

  Week after week I sat with him, sometimes in the shade of the large mango tree in the garden, sometimes in the drawing room, sometimes at the Otters Club (a sports institution in Bandra, Bombay) on the lawn facing the sea from where he loved to watch the sun go down, leaving behind a trail of gold and vermillion in the sky. The tape recorder accompanied us wherever we went and, quite often with his permission, a video camera, too, followed us unobtrusively.

  As the recordings continued, the real picture began to emerge. I began to see the unfolding of his saga like the scenes in a movie. While he narrated his story in his soft voice, I noticed how much he enjoyed the recapitulation of his childhood years in Peshawar and Deolali. I could equally feel the pain in his heart when he talked about his elder brother Ayub Khan’s brilliance and his chronic ill health, which cut short a promising life.

  His was simply not just the amazing story of the young graduate Yousuf Khan, who excelled in school and college sports, seriously searching for a job in British-ruled India and hesitatingly accepting the job of an actor from the premier film studio of Bombay, Bombay Talkies. It was also not just about Yousuf Khan’s unrelenting hard work, which propelled his rise to superstardom as Dilip Kumar and his occupying the pedestal as the icon of acting in Indian cinema for more than seven decades. I also learnt, more interestingly, how he set an example by the management skills he evolved by instinct and native intelligence to manage his career and create his USP.

  In the early 1940s, when Dilip Sahab started his career, the concept of management had not arrived in India as far as actors were concerned. Actors, as professionals in their own right, had no need to acquire management skills or even understand the concept of management. The majority of actors believed that an actor’s business was to act as instructed by the director, take a fee for the time and effort put into their work and take no responsibility for the quality and success of the movie. Among the few actors who thought differently and worked differently was Dilip Kumar.

  As the young actor progressed from Jwar Bhata (1944), his first film, to Jugnu (1947), his first hit at the box office, he began to grasp the essential secret of making a successful film. By his own study and observation of the process of film making and marketing of the end product, he arrived at the conclusion that an actor’s responsibility did not end with his work as an actor. The actor had as much of a stake in the quality and finesse of a film, which ensured its commercial success. It meant an efficient and dedicated management of the infrastructure and resources of the production as well as a creative management, which started with the writing of the script and the screenplay.

  He was just twenty-two when Jwar Bhata was made and released and he had quickly understood that enterprise and courage to think differently would pay handsomely as it did during his stint at the British Army club in Poona. Instead of just doing the jobs allotted to him by the club manager, he had ventured to seek permission to set up a small sandwich and fruit stall. It not only helped him earn extra money and establish a rapport with the British officers but it also attracted more visitors to the club; its revenue showed a marked increase.

  The rising star who had no one to show him the way asked himself: ‘Why not think differently and take the initiative to get involved with the creative management of the different departments of a film to ensure that a quality product was delivered?’

  In the course of one of our conversations Dilip Sahab explained to me how he learnt the art of managing the creative processes of film making, which was as important as the financial processes. He paused to reflect and said: ‘S. Mukherjee Sahab [more about him later in the book] used to give a lot of thought to the production and mould the project and never called himself a director. I decided to take after him.’

  The 1930s and 1940s were the decades when Hollywood set trends in the management of studios. Talking about the Western influence, Dilip Sahab observed: ‘Abroad, at the great management tables, when the financial prophets selected themes, they measured the potential of success since they were businessmen and did not want their money to sink. They set a world trend and we too began to emulate them.’

  Dilip Kumar selected his story material with utmost care. It is not difficult to see that he chose ideas and concepts for scripts that had the potential to enthral and delight viewers and went on to become blockbusters. At the same time, he also used his wisdom to choose subjects that would remain fresh and appealing decades thereafter. Take any of his superhits and you cannot miss the contemporary relevance.

  Not surprisingly, the producers and directors of his films understood that whatever he was suggesting in the choice of subject or actors or music composition or cinematography or art direction was in the interest of the overall quality of the product. ‘Nobody taught me this but I came to the conclusion that I should consider a film in its entirety as a product. It was only much later when I was reading a book on management that I read that the basic principle of good management was to take care of and ensure the quality of the final product,’ Dilip Sahab confided to me.

  Nimmi (his co-star in several films) has pointed out, in her remembrances in this book, a case in point. She has revealed that it was Dilip Kumar who suggested to Mehboob Khan to cast Premnath in the negative role in Aan (1952). It turned out a casting sensation; the media helped in whipping up curiosity about the film from the day of the mahurat itself. There was enough publicity already about the casting of Dilip Kumar in the film as the swashbuckling, sword-wielding Jai Tilak, a villager who could tame a horse within minutes and vanquish anyone in a fencing contest. The talking point was all about Dilip Kumar’s ability to make an impact in a totally different role after the mass acceptance he had gained as a tragic hero.

  ‘People said, “yeh kya ho raha hai, Dilip Kumar ke haath mein talwar de di”?’* Nimmi reveals. This was something unthinkable at that stage. The result is history. Aan, India’s first Technicolor film, was the biggest grosser of 1952 and the first Hindi film to net Rs 75 lakh in a year, then an astronomical amount.

  With no professional marketing agencies to create any kind of hype for films those days, it was left to Dilip Kumar to strategize the promotion of films and he did it with imagination and style in his own dignified manner without resorting to cheap publicity gimmicks.
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  ‘You know, I have consciously never oversold or overexposed myself to the audience. When I look back I feel it was quite risky to be starring in one film when other actors were busy with two or three films on the floors simultaneously. I determinedly decided to work in only one film at a time. It was simply my confidence in the subjects I chose and the hard work I was ready to put into them. Overselling is not good business practice. I agree advertising and publicity are necessary but only to the extent that you promise to the audience a product in which you have invested hours and days and months of relentless hard work and given your best. I therefore never appointed a publicist to promote me or my work,’ Dilip Sahab disclosed.

  Long before management gurus began to include human resources as a vital component of successful business ventures, Dilip Kumar put his finger on the need to mobilize and motivate human resources in a film production unit to deliver quick and satisfying results.

  As famous actor Dharmendra has summed up in his piece on Dilip Sahab in this volume: ‘From the most exalted admirer, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, to the lowest paid studio worker, who waited to say [sic] salaams to him, his warm extension of his hands in greeting was the same. He never faked anything be it his appreciation for another actor’s good work or his concern for a colleague who was in distress.’

  To a question I put to Dilip Sahab regarding his mingling with the production workers, he answered:

  All over the world the principles of management are the same. Only the applications differ. You have to apply the principles in a manner that anyone can understand. To make a lightman understand what you want from him in a scene you cannot do it by ordering him. If you order him he will do it but if you are good to him and you speak to him in his language he will go out of his way to give you the result that exceeds his usual performance.