Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow Page 3

  I do not know how I came to be known as a method actor. Marlon Brando [an acclaimed Hollywood actor] was called a method actor …. The epithet was used to describe me much before it was used for Brando. The truth is that I am an actor who evolved a method, which stood me in good stead. I learned the importance of studying the script and characters deeply and building upon my own gut observations and sensations about my own and other characters. It was always meaningful for me to study even those characters who would be close to me or opposed to me. I was lucky to have worked with directors who trusted me and allowed me to work without restraint. They believed as much as I did in the necessity for team work. Unlike other arts and crafts, the art of film making draws its sustenance from team work.

  Yet another lesson to be learned from Dilip Sahab is his unflinching awareness of his social responsibility as a star and a role model. He has plainly revealed in the chapters related to the formative years of his career that he chose a film in terms of its totality. He tried even at that early stage to look for stories that had a certain social relevance and a meaningful message. He also made sure his love scenes with heroines did not embarrass family audiences.

  In one of his enlightening interviews, he confessed:

  I have sincerely tried to be a good role model. I strongly subscribe to the belief that an actor should be aware and conscious of his social responsibilities and contribute as much as he can to build the character of the admirer who looks up to him and derives inspiration from his work and personality.

  The Dilip Kumar I know is a simple man with simple but fine tastes. At times Dilip Kumar is a bit bewildered and wonders how he accomplished all that he is credited with when he did not have any teacher or role model to guide him. Yes, Dilip Kumar had a robust, earthy upbringing from parents who told him that he should be faithful to his occupation whatever that may be and sincerely earn his wages. So, the hard work and dedication were never lacking. Also a strong sense of integrity, commitment and compassion came naturally from the Pathan genes.

  Hence, it was not surprising at all that it was Dilip Kumar who set the example for his contemporaries to take the initiative to use their stardom and popularity to support good causes and raise funds for the government’s relief work during times of national distress and deprivation.

  He led the first troupe that visited the Himalayan border areas to boost the morale of the Border Security Force personnel stationed there after India’s humiliating defeat in the 1962 Indo–China war. He has distinct memories of one such arduous trip when his friend Mohammed Rafi (the renowned singer) developed a throat irritation in the freezing cold and felt awful that his voice had gone for a toss. ‘We consoled him and kept giving him hot water and honey at hourly intervals till he got back his splendid voice. Rafi was a teetotaller and would not touch any of the strong liquids the other members of the troupe drank to beat the cold. Needless to say he was the star attraction with the jawans [soldiers who are not officers] and the young newly commissioned officers,’ Dilip Sahab remembers.

  With Mohammed Rafi.

  In his recollections, veteran actor Chandrashekhar speaks about all the star processions in trucks on the streets of Bombay, about the many benefit cricket matches and about the live entertainment shows he had witnessed with Dilip Sahab at the helm and how Dilip Sahab was never on the dais when the spotlight was turned on. The funds raised under Dilip Sahab’s capable and tireless management, upon his insistence, had to be handed over to the chief minister or the prime minister.

  Ages before the concept of corporate social responsibility made its entry into management mantras, Dilip Kumar took the responsibility of serving the National Association of the Blind as its chairman. In her heartfelt appreciation of the work Dilip Sahab did for NAB, esteemed social worker Veera Rao, who worked enthusiastically with him in the fund-raising efforts for the association to become a self-sufficient body, describes the joy with which Dilip Sahab lent his support to every occasion to raise the money needed to motivate, educate and train the visually handicapped to lead their lives purposefully.

  Readers are bound to ask what made us add the section to this autobiography where actors, directors and eminent friends of Dilip Kumar, apart from relatives and others, have contributed their personal and professional experiences and provided insights into the man and his working style. There is a good reason for adding that section, which is rather unusual. The reason is that Dilip Sahab did not speak to me about his achievements and social service as his wont. Basking in self-praise was, and still is, not something he enjoys. When coaxed, he gave meagre information about, for instance, his efforts to get a huge land allotment for the industry from the Maharashtra State Government for a film city. Nor did he wax eloquent about his behind-the-scenes spadework to prepare a solid proposal along with Rajni Patel (a Congressman and a lawyer by profession) to give Bombay a first-class cultural centre with an adjoining science centre, which was eventually named Nehru Centre (after India’s first prime minister: Jawaharlal Nehru). In his very readable biography of Dilip Sahab,* Lord Meghnad Desai (an Indian-born British economist and politician) has beautifully described Dilip Kumar as Nehru’s hero. It is perhaps not too well known that Nehru was Dilip Kumar’s hero and idol as well.

  In conclusion I must say that if it weren’t for the persistence with which Saira Banu prevailed upon him to open up and recount the story of his life perhaps this book would not have come into existence. Also, if it weren’t for the long association – almost half a century – I have had with my idols Dilip Kumar and Saira Banu, I would not have been chosen to put the narrative together. I can never ever forget the encouraging words Dilip Sahab spoke to the former editor of Screen, S. S. Pillai, after I wrote a long analytical article on Dilip Sahab in one of the issues, when I was new in the world of cinema journalism. He told Pillai Sahab: ‘Groom her, make her work hard and she will go places. She has the potential to become a biographer someday.’ The words were prophetic and it is an unbelievable twist of Destiny that I was unhesitatingly chosen to put Dilip Sahab’s erudite words on paper for generations of aspirants in the entertainment industry to read and absorb.

  Thank you Dilip Sahab.

  – Udayatara Nayar

  *Saira Banu called Dilip Sahab ‘Jaan’, which means ‘life’.

  *‘What is happening, a sword has been placed in Dilip Kumar’s hands?’

  *Nehru’s Hero: Dilip Kumar in the Life of India, Roli Books, New Delhi, 2004.

  1

  BIRTH

  ‘This child is made for great fame and unparalleled achievements. Take good care of the boy, protect him from the world’s evil eye, he will be handsome even in old age if you protect him and keep him untouched by the evil eye. Disfigure him with black soot if you must because if you don’t you may lose him prematurely. The Noor [light] of Allah will light up his face always.’

  HISTORY HAS RECORDED MANY NAMES THAT WERE GIVEN TO Peshawar, the main city in the North West Frontier Province, where I was born. It was known as the City of Flowers, the City of Grain and even Lotus Land. For me the Peshawar I took birth in was a part of India and, like many of my friends belonging to different walks of life and different communities, who were also born in Peshawar in undivided India, I am proud of my nativity in the then Indian city so strategically situated in the region between Central Asia and South Asia that it came to be known aptly as the Gateway to India.

  I remember the vivid colours, the smells and the seasons of my homeland. The arrival of autumn was visible in the orchards where the apricot trees would turn bright red and orange. In the evenings, as dusk approached, the towering mountains would somehow seem taller and intimidating to me and I can still recall my little feet aching with the momentum of the speed with which I scurried home. There were men who knew my parents walking home slowly, ruggedly handsome men with bushy beards, wearing caps with the sides rolled up or the typical skull cap or the turban, and they would stare at me wondering why I was running like that.r />
  A latter-day view of Kissa Khwani Bazaar.

  Our house was in the heart of the city, in the Kissa Khwani Bazaar, so named because wandering traders stopped there either to tell their own stories or listen to stories told by the local inhabitants. The images of the Mahabat Khan Masjid (mosque), the Cantonment, the bazaar where I wandered with the ladies of the house and the street where roses of varying shades of pink and red were sold to British gentlemen who, perhaps, took them home gallantly to their women, often appear before my eyes like a motion picture when I am in a thoughtful mood.

  Winter in the North West Frontier region of Peshawar was unbearable for its inhabitants, however strong and accustomed they were to its harshness and inclemency. During winter, the days invariably dawned without a hint of sunshine and there was no knowing whether it was night or day if one did not ascertain what the time was. The mountains and the hills that rose majestically in the landscape came to sight only when a good part of the morning had gone by.

  In the winter months those who had risen early for Fajr prayers (the first of the five daily prayers offered by practising Muslims) had to go through the ordeal of breaking sheets of ice that had formed on the water stored in the tanks kept for wuzoo (ablution) near the masjid. The ice-cold water and the tingle of pain it caused when it touched the peeling skin of the body are still fresh in my memory. Whether it was due to the harshness of winter or due to the distress caused by the blinding dust storms that frequently swept the plains in the scorching heat of the summer months, life was not easy for those who toiled outside in the orchards and fields.

  I have a vivid memory of Chacha Ummer, my paternal uncle who lived close by, but spent most of his waking hours in our house and went out with Aghaji, as we addressed our father, to take stock of the fruits ripening in our orchards. He complained when it was winter and he complained when it was summer. He would have very much liked to stay indoors but it did not fall to his lot to do so. He was literally the man who withstood all the seasons and my parents and grandparents turned to him when they wanted something or someone to be fetched at any odd time or in any complicated situation. He was Aghaji’s cousin and I think he quietly enjoyed the position he had acquired in the family as the indispensable man for all purposes.

  Chacha Ummer never stopped talking about the Goldsmiths’ Lane, where the goldsmiths had their shops and workshops, and about the fire that engulfed it on the night I was born. The street was one of the more busy parts of the Kissa Khwani Bazaar where our house was situated. As it housed the prosperous goldsmiths’ residences and their workplaces, there was always the bustle of business and personal interactions throughout the day and well into the night when the rest of the bazaar had pulled down the shutters. The fire had started in one of the workshops from the embers that got fanned by a gale that unexpectedly swept the locality as the shopkeepers began closing their business for the day. The blaze spread uncontrollably in no time and there was fear and panic as the men began to gather in knots to hurl buckets of water at the raging fire. The operation was tough no doubt as the water in the upper parts of most of the water storage tanks had turned to ice and it took several strong Pathan fists to shatter the ice and draw the water in buckets from the lower levels of the tanks.

  The house where I was born.

  Since the men in the house had rushed to the lane to help in the fire-fighting operations and Chacha Ummer had been asked to stay behind, as the women were alone in the house, it was he who had to go in search of a midwife when my mother (whom I called Amma) threatened to bring me into this world. He had to bring the midwife safely and then rush to inform Aghaji about the exciting development at home. ‘You know’, he related to me once when he was in a recall mood, ‘I was angry and cursing myself that night because it was so cold and the wind was blowing with a menacing strength. It was like a punishment to be out alone and entrusted with the responsibility of saving a life. But the minute the midwife completed her job and we got to see you, all ruddy and cherubic and glowing with health, I felt strangely rewarded and extremely happy.’

  Chacha Ummer always took great delight in describing my cries and the exchange of mubaraks (congratulations) as the family welcomed the grand arrival of the fourth child of Mohammad Sarwar Khan and Ayesha Bibi in the midst of all the chaos and scramble in the neighbouring street.

  The winter months’ only delight for me as a child was that I could sit unnoticed among the elders in front of the fireplace and listen to their conversations. They seldom made small talk. They either narrated bizarre stories they had heard or recalled spine-chilling events they had witnessed. I was all ears, especially when they spoke in low voices and exchanged recollections of nightmares. On one such occasion, I heard my paternal grandmother (Dadi) utter Amma’s name, Ayesha, in a low whisper, not knowing I was present. I held my breath and listened. She was talking in Pushtu and her whisper was hoarse but audible and her beady eyes had widened as wide as they could.

  Translated into English, she was saying something frightening like this: ‘Poor Ayesha, she could have died that freezing night. The men of the house opened and shut the door so many times while poor Ayesha bit her lips and suffered the acute pain. The blizzard was raging outside and, what was worse, the Goldsmiths’ Lane was in flames, blocking normal transport.’

  She was talking in a low voice to her curious audience. A chill ran down my spine. What a strange occurrence! A blizzard and a fire! And my sweet Amma, why was she in pain?

  Then, the iron lady, as Dadi was known, broke into tears, looked up at the ceiling and praised Allah profusely. The midwife was brought safely in the nick of time, she informed her eager listeners, who then relaxed and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Aur Ayesha ka sona beta Yousuf tashreef laaya,’* she announced now in her normal, sturdy voice startling everyone in the gathering. My small jaw dropped. She was yet one more person talking about my birth!

  Not just Dadi, but also every member of the family of Mohammad Sarwar Khan and Ayesha Begum tirelessly narrated the story of my grand arrival at every opportunity as if it was an uncommon event. The date was 11 December 1922. I suspect the date is mentioned somewhere in some chronicle of Peshawar’s history not because I was born on that dramatic day but because fire had gutted the goldsmiths’ workshops. Never before and never after that dismally cold day had any such disaster shaken up the Kissa Khwani Bazaar as the fire in the Goldsmiths’ Lane had.

  As a small boy in Peshawar.

  In Dadi’s opinion, my arrival in the midst of the blizzard and the fire meant something significant. Her belief was not taken seriously by my parents till one ordinary day, when I was playing in the front room of our house, a fakir came to the door seeking food and some money. It was common practice in the house to give good food and a little money whenever fakirs and wandering minstrels singing ballads in their own tongue came to the door. Amma hurried inside to pack the food while my Dadi sat lazily in her armchair.

  I stopped playing as I could feel the man’s gaze riveted on me. In a loud voice, which made Dadi sit up and listen, he asked her to bring me in front of him. She hesitated for a moment but the man was all excitement and was quivering with some emotion building up within him. I was now standing before him, fright and curiosity alternating in my five-year-old head. He announced that I was not an ordinary child. I shut my eyes and pretended I had not heard him. First the dramatic fire and blizzard at my birth and now this remark that I was not ordinary! I was wondering what he was going to say next.

  He fixed his stare on my face and told Dadi: ‘This child is made for great fame and unparalleled achievements. Take good care of the boy, protect him from the world’s evil eye, he will be handsome even in old age if you protect him and keep him untouched by the evil eye. Disfigure him with black soot if you must because if you don’t you may lose him prematurely. The Noor [light] of Allah will light up his face always.’

  I opened my eyes, relieved that he did not say anything untoward. I was now looking at him a
nd he was smiling a soft benevolent smile. Dadi gathered me in her arms instinctively as if she would lose me if she did not hold me close to her. The man took the food and money Amma brought and he left.

  After he left, I ran out of the house to join my cousins who were playing and were unaware of what had occurred. Little did I anticipate then what was to begin from the next day. Dadi took it upon herself to protect me from the evil eye of the world. She had my head shaven and every day, when I started for school, she made a streak on my forehead with soot to make me look ugly. Amma tried hard to convince her not to make her child so ugly that other children would poke fun and give him a complex. Aghaji tried to reason with his stubborn mother about the consequences of what she was doing to me. But Dadi wouldn’t budge. Her love and protectiveness towards me were too overwhelming for her to accept their pleadings.

  Needless to say, I was a spectacle when I arrived in the school every morning. The murmurs and sniggers that greeted me on the first day amplified in my subconscious and made me find reasons not to go to school the next day. I gave vent to my unhappiness and narrated the derision I faced from my classmates and older boys of the school who were always ready to seize occasions to have fun at the expense of any junior who was easy prey to their pranks and jokes. Amma, who rarely argued with her mother-in-law, appeared extremely pained when she pulled me close to her and told Dadi: ‘You cannot do this to my child. See how miserable he is.’

  Dadi was aghast. ‘Maine aisa kya kiya, Ayesha? Aap ne bhi suna woh fakir kya keh raha tha. Us ne sirf Yousuf ko chunke baat ki thi. Hamare ghar ke bachche sab the uske saamne,’* she was almost shouting. It was plain that she believed she was right. She tried to draw me close to her to soothe me and comfort me and explain to me why she was disfiguring me. I was so angry and hurt that I pushed her away and buried my head in Amma’s lap trying hard not to let my sobs be heard lest my cousins get a chance to make fun of me for that too. Pathan boys are told from early childhood that it is not manly to weep. Even when we hurt our knees and elbows while playing and stinging mixtures were applied on the wounds, we were told to bear the pain like men and not wail like women at the drop of a hat. Tears rolling down the cheeks were fine but not audible crying. Though the dark streak on my forehead was less pronounced the next day, the routine did not stop. I became a loner at school and played very little. I chose to stay quiet and play with the colouring books that were available in the small library of the school. A couple of kind teachers urged me to go out and play but I was loath to listen to them. Instead I found myself getting lost in the make-believe world of the pictorial books with increasing interest. I was not more than five years old then.