Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow Read online

  I was always following her to the market place and she kept a watch on my movements knowing my propensity to get lost in the crowd. Khala Mariam and Phoopi Babjan were not very cordial with each other, though both were very fond of Amma. They dressed up in silks while Amma preferred cottons with small prints. I seldom saw her buy things for herself. She was always buying things for the house. The market was crowded on Fridays because the men too made their purchases after the Juma prayers in the main mosque. When Amma wanted me to get her favourite bath soap, she would call out to me, saying: ‘Yousuf mera Pears soap saboon laana.’ That was how she referred to the soap she used.

  One side of the market was lined with eateries that served chapli kebabs with anardana (pomegranate seeds) and rotis besides rice preparations and light snacks. There was always a crowd at the eateries because the tempting aroma of gravies and kebabs wafted to the nostrils of passersby so strongly that it was difficult for the susceptible to resist a bite.

  There were shops that sold beautiful silks and cottons, laces of all colours, dupattas and parandhas (braid tassels). We were living in undivided India at that time and there was a sizable Hindu population and the menfolk as well as the women mingled freely with Muslims in the market square wishing each other and exchanging pleasantries ever so cheerfully. Aghaji had many Hindu friends and one of them was Basheshwarnathji, who held an important job in the civil services. His elder son came to our house with him a few times and he stunned the ladies with his handsome appearance. That was Raj Kapoor’s father Prithviraj Kapoor.

  Basheshwarnathji was very friendly with Aghaji and I often heard them discuss an impending war (the Second World War) and what was in store for the inhabitants of Peshawar. I listened to their talk intently but I could not fathom what they were talking about. They were talking about a city called Bombay where business opportunities were many. Then one day I heard Aghaji tell Dada that he was going to Bombay to explore such opportunities and he intended to go alone first. The war was inevitable and it was bound to impact the fruit business as transportation of marketable produce from the orchards in Peshawar to markets elsewhere would become difficult. Before I knew it he was off to Bombay one morning.

  When Aghaji was away something silly occurred. As always I was the centre of the excitement that mounted one afternoon in the house. I vividly recall that afternoon when a cousin, who was somewhat older than I, was injured in the eye by something that had hit him while he was out in the orchards. He was brought home by the servants and all my aunts rushed to inspect his injury. It was found to be minor but my aunts decided to treat it with their own prescription. I was playing quietly in one of the rooms in the house and was startled by an aunt coming into the room to drag me out. ‘You can play later,’ she ordered me as I reluctantly walked by her side, her hand holding my arm in a tight grip. She took me to the terrace, made me stand next to an earthenware pot and commanded me to pull down my pyjamas and underwear and told me to urinate into the pot. I was so terrified that it was all out in a jiffy straight into the pot with my aunt watching over me with satisfaction. She then took the pot to the other aunts who were waiting to wash my cousin’s wounded eye with the precious excretion. I was overwhelmed by a strange feeling of fear, shame and disgust and, for days together, avoided my aunts and the cousin who had benefited from me.

  As mentioned earlier, the eldest of my parents’ offspring was my sister Sakina Begum. She was most unlike Amma in her nature and demeanour. When we were in Peshawar, she was quite young. She was attractive in her own way, though not blessed with the serene beauty of Amma. She was stubborn and difficult by nature. I can recall now that she disagreed with Amma often and there was a mild but ceaseless conflict brewing between them all the time. Aghaji took little interest in their altercations and I think he feigned ignorance only because he felt that women had their own way of solving the internal riddles in their family life without external help.

  My elder brothers were Noor and Ayub. Noor Sahab (as I was supposed to call him) was a good five years senior and Ayub Sahab was just a year and a half older. Noor Sahab was a colourful character right from his juvenile years and he dazzled me and my cousins with his escapades, which came to light from time to time and provoked Aghaji to use a cane on him.

  Evidently, Aghaji didn’t believe in sparing the rod and spoiling his son, but, from whatever I can remember of those years in Peshawar, all the blows showered on Noor Sahab had only a transient effect on his unbridled energy and enthusiasm to explore forbidden territories. After each episode, Noor Sahab would be quiet for a while. He’d wait for Aghaji to go out on his business and back he would go on his promises to him. As the eldest son, Noor Sahab had a rightful sense of seniority, which, rather unrightfully, gave him the feeling that he could boss over all of us who were younger than he.

  Thanks to the age difference, I was seldom in his company. He summoned me occasionally to run an odd errand for him in the market place and I docilely obeyed him, knowing him to be quite a bully. Without doubt, he irritated Amma who tried relentlessly to curb his mischief.

  I was close to Ayub. Since he was just a little older I kept calling him Ayub and I was rebuked often for that. I had to address him as Ayub Sahab in the presence of my parents. He didn’t go to school like the rest of us. I could never fathom why he was tutored at home in Urdu and he never received formal school education. I guessed he was not healthy like me and Noor Sahab. There was some intrinsic problem I was not fully aware of and, quite understandably, not made aware of. The divine compensation was that Ayub Sahab was blessed with an amazing intellect and sensibilities that were far from ordinary. He was very specially gifted and my parents were very proud of him.

  Aghaji’s absence was hardly felt in the house. I knew he had gone to Bombay but I did not know why. I remember asking Amma and she simply told me he had to go there for an important reason and he would be back soon. She was as usual busy and attending to something Dadi had asked her to do. I was never one to trouble Amma with questions that she had no time to answer, so I heard her reply without pausing to think too much about it.

  *Dada Khondke (real name Krishna Kondke) was an actor and film producer. His films were famous for their double entendres.

  **Antakshari is a game in which each participant begins with the consonant on which the previous participant’s song has ended.

  4

  OFF TO BOMBAY: A NEW CHAPTER BEGINS

  In Bombay I was enrolled at the Anjuman Islam High School and there was no more shaving of my pate. I now wore my skull cap over a thick growth of black hair, which elicited compliments from all the ladies who visited Amma. They would ruffle my hair and say something to her and she would wait for their departure to perform the ritual of shooing away the evil eye cast on me as instructed by Dadi.

  AS MENTIONED EARLIER, AGHAJI HAD GONE TO BOMBAY TO explore the business potential there in the wake of the news about the impending world war. He knew that the transportation of marketable produce from the orchards in Peshawar to traditional markets outside would become difficult once the war started.

  Travel was easy those days by the Frontier Mail. Tickets were purchased at the railway station on the day of the journey itself and not booked in advance. During his stay in Bombay, he often took a stroll along the Apollo Bunder (on the seafront) to while away time in the evenings. One evening, he saw a child in a pram with a healthy appearance and rosy cheeks and he was instantly reminded of me. As I mentioned earlier, I was regarded as a handsome child and Aghaji was quite proud of my appealing, cherubic looks. He picked up the child in the pram spontaneously and the parents of the child panicked and ran towards him. It was a natural reaction on seeing a strong, sturdy Pathan impulsively picking up a happy, gurgling child without introducing himself formally to the child’s parents.

  Aghaji often recalled this incident at family gatherings amidst much laughter. He apologized to the child’s parents and told them about his family in Peshawar and little Yousuf who
was as good-looking as their son.

  I would like to believe quite justly that I was responsible in a large measure for the family’s moving to Bombay. Had it not been for the incident at Apollo Bunder, Aghaji wouldn’t have returned to Peshawar to take Amma and the seven children to Bombay. Back home in Peshawar, it was Dada who sensed Aghaji’s loneliness in Bombay, especially when he heard about the amusing encounter with the baby at Apollo Bunder.

  Though Dadi didn’t quite agree with her son’s move to shift the family to Bombay, for once Dada stood firm on his decision to give his daughter-in-law the right to live with her husband.

  We travelled by the Frontier Mail to Bombay. I can’t recall when exactly since I was quite young then, but I think it was some time in the mid-1930s. If I remember correctly, the terminal those days was in Colaba. It was our first train journey and was very exciting for all of us. At some of the stations on the way, friends of my parents came to meet us with refreshments that we could consume on the way. Some of them were Hindus. I recall now the boxes they brought for us contained vegetarian items like puris and stuffed brinjals. The train sped past green pastures and valleys and, at times, dark mountains. The visuals are still vivid in my mind, especially the grandeur of the mountains. When the train stopped at stations, there were men carrying casks of tea and water in pots calling out: ‘Hindu chai, Hindu paani, Muslim chai, Muslim paani.’ My parents, I remember, took little notice of the difference. They drank water and tea without discrimination and so did many others in the compartment. The train had a dining car, which was meant only for the English officers and their wives.

  In Bombay we alighted at Colaba. It was in the morning hours and my younger siblings were sleepy. Aghaji had arranged for a tonga (a horse-drawn carriage) to take us to the house he had rented out. It was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives as we stepped into an altogether new environment filled with excitement and wonder.

  The apartment rented out by Aghaji was in a four-storeyed structure called Abdullah Building on Nagdevi Street, near the bustling Crawford Market, where he had set up his fruit business on a wholesale basis at first. Our apartment was on the top floor and though we missed the spaciousness of our home in Peshawar, all of us settled down quite well in the fairly large space we got over the entire floor with individual rooms for us children and a separate room for Aghaji and Amma besides a guest room. There was a terrace, which was a luxury, because the other houses in the neighbourhood did not have one. All of them had flat roofs.

  Amma initially faced only one problem – she couldn’t speak Hindi. But it was amazing how she made friends in the neighbourhood. In fact, soon after our arrival in the locality, we were being discussed as the nice Pathan family that had occupied the fourth floor of the Abdullah Building. Amma with her chiselled features, flawless rosy complexion, slight build and gentle smile radiated instant warmth. Aghaji, strong, well-built and virile like most of his clan, was already known as a gentleman and a pious Pathan.

  Amma had two friends on Nagdevi Street, who were close to her. How they communicated with her was always a mystery to Aghaji because she didn’t speak Hindi. One of them had a son with whom my eldest brother Noor Sahab struck a rapport. Noor Sahab, with his adventurous nature, had become popular on Nagdevi Street in a short span. He had begun experimenting with cigarettes as did other boys of his age group. It was all done covertly with that spirit of discovery and bravado commonly felt in adolescence among boys who are in a hurry to attain manhood.

  One afternoon, there was bad news for Amma. Her friend’s son had been stifled to death with a pillow in his room and the mother of the lad was naturally inconsolable.

  I was confronted once again by the dread of seeing a dead body and the coming and going of policemen. Being somewhat older now, I was less terrified. But Amma was shocked beyond belief.

  We grew up quite happily in the large apartment on Nagdevi Street. Aghaji seemed satisfied with his fruit business, which was prospering. He didn’t have to go to the fruit stall at Crawford Market every day as he had employed men to receive the consignments and deliver them at the market besides managing the daily sales. He only paid a visit once a day to see if all was well. As such, he had time to spend with us and with his friends who enjoyed his company and visited him regularly.

  We had a family doctor who was tall and well built and I can vividly recall his visits to our house and our visits to his clinic in the evening when he would examine patients and prescribe medicines. Aghaji often gifted him fruit baskets. Something funny happened one evening when Aghaji took me along to his clinic to get a medicine for Ayub Sahab. I was carrying a rubber ball, which I played with, bouncing it on the floor and testing my ability to catch it without a miss. At the clinic after Aghaji had had a good ten-minute conversation with the doctor, he came out to get the mixtures from the compounder. I was playing with the ball in the corridor outside and, on seeing Aghaji come out of the doctor’s chamber, I missed the ball, which fell on the floor and rolled into the doctor’s cabin. While Aghaji was exchanging pleasantries with the compounder, I hurriedly ventured into the doctor’s chamber to find the ball. I was on all fours looking for the ball, so the doctor did not hear or see my entry. I found the ball and I also witnessed a sight I described to Ayub Miyan when I returned home to his great amusement. The doctor’s nurse, a fair, plump woman with light eyes and dark brown hair tied up high in a knot stylishly, was seated on the doctor’s lap and they were talking and laughing about something. I quickly crawled out before they went on to something that could have been outrageously bold, considering that the door was not locked and anybody could have walked in.

  I grew up in an atmosphere of warmth and affection. I was extremely shy but not unhappy. There was no pressure on my parents. Amma’s work load decreased considerably in Bombay where she only had to care for her children and her husband. She looked healthier and happier though she often spoke nostalgically about Peshawar. She worked quietly and happily. I was enrolled at the Anjuman Islam High School in the fifth standard in 1937 and there was no more shaving of my pate. I now wore my skull cap over a thick growth of black hair, which elicited compliments from all the ladies who visited Amma. They would ruffle my hair and say something to her and she would wait for their departure to perform the ritual of shooing away the evil eye cast on me as instructed by Dadi.

  Today, in my ninety-second year, my wife Saira performs the same ritual every time a visitor says something about my looks or my good health or when we go to a gala event and dozens of people come to take my signature in their autograph books and praise my work.

  Noor Sahab had his own set of friends in the locality. Diametrically opposite our apartment was the residence of a Bohra Muslim businessman. His daughter became Noor Sahab’s heartthrob and I became a participant in their juvenile affair and, sadly enough, the climactic separation between the lovers was also precipitated by me. I must narrate the love story because it is a chapter in my childhood that I have retained in my memory more for its bathos than for its romance and humour.

  Noor Sahab had a way of ordering me to run errands for him. He was an assertive young man and he spent a lot of time with his friends who stayed in the neighbourhood. When the friends visited him, he took them up to the terrace where neither Amma nor Sakina Aapa came. His friends often brought cigarettes with them and Noor Sahab did not like to accept the cigarettes they offered him. He would summon me and send me out to get cigarettes for himself and his friends – his favourite brand was Cavender – and he would tell me to go as quickly as I could to get the cigarettes. At other times, he sent me to fetch bananas for him when he was alone and then he sweetly told me to take my own time to bring the bananas. I obliged without a murmur.

  By and by, I found out what he was up to. At a specific time in the evening when Noor Sahab was alone on the terrace, his heartthrob in the opposite apartment would take a position at a window facing our terrace. I was not old enough to know what was happening but I never
failed to notice the glances exchanged from our terrace when the charming neighbour took her place at the window to do her sewing. That was the time when the banana errand was ordered by Noor Sahab to keep me out of the way. He used to thrust a little note written on a page torn out of an exercise notebook and ask me to give it to her on the way back. I was immensely pleased with her because she rewarded me each time I sprinted across the street to her house with a poetic outburst from Noor Sahab. She would quietly thrust peppermints, lemon toffees or chocolates wrapped in gleaming silver paper into my hands and affectionately run her fingers through my hair but never spoke a word. My little mind was certainly aware that Noor Sahab, who was handsome and had light eyes that twinkled with sprightliness, was conveying something secret to her and vice versa. A few times, I mischievously chose to surprise him by doubling the speed of my sprint and completing the errand in record time and taking the stairs two steps at a time to reach the terrace huffing and panting only to spoil his flirtation through glances with the girl. He had turned to me with annoyance on those occasions with a look that said: ‘Ok, you think you can outsmart me, I will show you!’

  The next errand would be to get chana (chickpeas) from a vendor who had his stall some distance away. Not one to be vanquished, I used all the stamina I had to run and get the chana in record time! On each such occasion, I could see the girl chuckling and giving Noor Sahab a naughty glance. This silent love story enacted through glances and looks as well as the notes I carried was destined to end very soon.

  One afternoon I was on the terrace silently enjoying a toffee she had given me when Amma came searching for me and found my mouth full. She wanted to know at once where I had got the sweet from. I told her the truth.