Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow

by Dilip Kumar

  AS THE WAR SITUATION WORSENED, SOME INEVITABLE CHANGES occurred. The office bearers of the club changed and the contractor, Taj Mohammad Khan, was replaced by someone whom the new executive committee chose. The manager too did not wish to continue and he advised me to move on. By that time, I had earned a bundle of currency notes, which I counted for the first time. I had a good five thousand rupees, which was a great deal of money those days. The month of Ramzaan (when Muslims are supposed to keep a roza or fast from sunrise to sunset) was coming to a close as I found out from the maulvi sahab (religious scholar) and others I kept in touch with at the local mosque. I thought it was time to return to Bombay and seek a job that Aghaji would approve of or assist him in the running of the fruit business. I was now a far more confident and free-spirited young man than I was earlier and I wondered how I would explain my going away to Aghaji. I was certain that he would be unforgiving till Amma pacified him in her own gentle way. In fact, had I not gone away in a huff over the trivial incident and Aghaji’s rage over it, the whole situation would have returned to normal the next day itself, with Amma’s winsome persuasive abilities coming to the fore in blowing the crisis over. It was sheer Destiny that I did not give her or myself a chance to normalize the situation.

  I was now happy that I had ventured out on my own and gained some valuable experience but, as I had tasted a little bit of ‘freedom’, I was unsure whether I would be able to continue to submit to Aghaji’s will and do everything as he wished.

  I returned to Bombay a few days before Eid-ul Fitr, which is celebrated with gaiety and bonhomie after a month of roza on the sighting of the crescent moon. My elder brother Ayub Sahab knew the date of my arrival but he kept it a secret to give a surprise to Amma. My younger brother Nasir and my sisters were also aware that the prodigal was coming home but they too remained tight-lipped. My youngest sister was still a child and knew nothing more than to cry for her feeds when she was hungry. When I climbed the stairs to our house on the fourth floor, I could hear my heartbeats loud and clear. The familiar sounds of the street, the nosy neighbours staring as they always did and the screeching horns of the few cars that plied on the street and begged cool, indifferent pedestrians to move out of the way were all so welcoming and lovely for once. I realized how much I had missed all these sights and sounds while I was away in a city where I imagined I was revelling in my anonymity, whereas, in reality, I was subconsciously pining for the warm, indescribable security of my family and familiar surroundings.

  When I entered the house, my younger sisters first saw me and they ran to give Amma the news. She came out hurriedly and I stood transfixed where I was, unable to take a step forward because I was trembling with relief and happiness. In the next instant, while I embraced Amma, who was talking inaudibly in the din my sisters and brothers were making, I heard footsteps near the door, which I feared were Aghaji’s. It turned out to be Chacha Ummer who had heard from the men on the first floor about my reappearance and had come up to verify. To put it briefly, the reunion was of the nature one saw in the good family films we used to make at one time except that nobody knew who was saying what to whom and why somebody was laughing and somebody was clamouring to be heard. Amma’s sobs turned to gentle laughter and then her habitual concern surfaced as she asked me if I was on roza. I was not, I told her. There was no way I could observe the fast in the club where the discipline and abstinence expected of one during the holy month of Ramzaan were hard to observe, thanks to the irregular hours of work.

  I soon found myself sitting with Amma in her room after all the months of separation from her. It took me some moments to believe that I was actually back home and sitting by Amma’s side on her nice, big bed. She was looking pale and tired, her lace-bordered dupatta covering her jet-black hair combed back neatly. I remembered that it was the same dupatta that was covering her head on the day that I had set out for Poona. I had got her the lace from a place close to Crawford Market from where English and Parsi ladies bought borders and laces to add elegance to their attire. Amma was least bothered about the glamour of her dress but my aunts were extremely choosy and they always picked on me to go to the cloth stores and get them yards and yards of silk and cotton for their attire. They liked my selections but they always complained that I brought the best colours for Amma and not for them. The fact was that I always chose colours that suited Amma’s complexion and, despite her indifference to what she wore, she always looked elegant and beautiful.

  As I sat by her side, I thought it was the right time to take out the money I had earned and give her a surprise. I opened my bag and took out the neat packet containing all the money I had earned and I placed it in her soft hands while she looked at me curiously. I waited anxiously for her to express her happiness as she untied the packet carefully. She looked at the bundle of currency notes and looked up at me with worry and fear writ large on her face.

  ‘What is this? Where did you get it from?’ she asked, her low voice betraying her anxiety. I was hardly prepared for this reaction. I told her it was the money I had earned by dint of hard work and enterprise. She stared hard at me and, without saying a word, she went up to the mantelshelf where the Holy Quran was kept and beckoned to me. She asked me to swear on the Quran that it was money earned honourably by me. Smarting inside and trying hard not to let my hurt show, I put my hand on the holy book and took a solemn oath. I could see that she was satisfied.

  Aghaji came home as usual in the evening, in time to break the Ramzaan fast with the family. I was in my room by then, bathed and wearing my crisp white trousers and shirt, ready for the repast my mother had prepared. I could hear her telling Aghaji that I was back and I heard him say he knew about it. It was typical of Aghaji to pretend to be unemotional and detached. His warmth and concern surfaced only once when Amma had a serious attack of asthma and she was choking and gasping for breath. He began yelling for someone to rush and fetch the doctor who lived across the street. His face was then a picture of helpless alarm and I still can recall the tall strapping figure bending to hold my frail Amma in his arms.

  If you can recall the famous scene in Mashaal,* I must tell you that, while going through my rehearsals, I drew my emotions for the rendering of the scene, shot over four nights in a row, from the memory of that episode and the agony of Aghaji in his urgency to get instant medical help.

  Aghaji and I met cordially as if nothing had changed. It was a relief to me, to say the least. In less than a week after Eid, which we celebrated with the usual camaraderie by inviting our friends from other communities to share a festive meal with us, Aghaji was talking to me about an apple orchard in Nainital** that was on sale. He wanted me to go there and see if I could negotiate and close the deal for a certain figure. It was a welcome situation for me because this was the first time my father was talking business with me. Though he and I never exchanged a word about the Poona episode, it was obvious from the way he engaged me in the conversation about finding newer avenues for procuring fruits for the business that he now felt I had a yen for business. He also discussed an idea he had for canning peaches and exporting them.

  Indeed, I was personally convinced, after my success with the sandwich stall, that I could do business and earn handsome profits. As I listened to my father’s idea of buying an orchard in Nainital that was apparently going for a song, I was also toying with the idea of taking up a completely new line of business: feather pillows. I had made contact with a man who was ready to make me a partner and give me a substantial commission for selling such pillows to the gentry. I accepted his offer and deposited the earnest money.

  After losing some money, I found out soon enough that the business of selling pillows wasn’t up my alley and thought it was a better idea to go to Nainital and do as my father wanted me to. I went there and met the owner of the orchard, a kind man who respected Aghaji and was keen to sell his land and trees to us. I could see that more than half the orchard had been destroyed by locusts and what remained was hardly w
orth buying. I told him we would have to negotiate the price. He said: ‘Of course, I understand.’ I had no idea what price to quote and sensing my inexperience in the business, he told me: ‘Son, I will take a rupee from you as token and we will close the deal. After you go back Khan Sahab can offer me whatever he deems good for the property.’

  I returned home with the rupee and told Aghaji about the property. He was very pleased. He was now getting the feeling that I was a good businessman and asked me to keep the accounts and maintain registers and do all that he thought I was capable of doing. He was happy that one of his sons had the acumen to carry on the fruit trade. However, something inside me was giving me the feeling that it was all very well to take over the mantle from Mohammad Sarwar Khan, the successful fruit merchant, and carry on the family trade, but this was not what I was made for.

  *Film maker Yash Chopra’s Mashaal (1984). The scene depicts me on a rainy night desperately seeking help to take my seriously ill wife (played by Waheeda Rehman) to hospital by trying to stop any vehicle that comes along, but in vain.

  *A hill station then in United Provinces and now in the state of Uttarakhand.

  8

  THE TURNING POINT

  His dark hair was combed back and he smiled through his eyes at me. Devika Rani introduced me, saying I had just joined as an actor. He held my hand in a warm handshake that marked the beginning of a friendship that was to last an entire lifetime between us. He was Ashok Kumar, who soon became Ashok Bhaiyya (brother) to me.

  ONE MORNING, I WAS WAITING AT THE CHURCHGATE STATION from where I was to take a local train to Dadar (in central Bombay) to meet somebody who had a business offer to make to me. It had something to do with wooden cots to be supplied to army cantonments. There, I spotted Dr Masani, a psychologist who had once come to Wilson College, where I had been a student for a year. Dr Masani had then given a lecture on vocational choices for arts students. At Churchgate, I went up to him and introduced myself. He knew me well since he was one of Aghaji’s acquaintances. ‘What are you doing here Yousuf?’ he asked me. I told him I was in search of a job but since there was none in sight, I was trying to do some business. He said he was going to Malad (in the western suburbs) to meet the owners of Bombay Talkies (a movie studio) and it would not be a bad idea if I went with him and met them. ‘They may have a job for you,’ he mentioned casually. I pondered for an instant and then I joined him, giving up the idea of going to Dadar.

  I had a railway first-class season ticket only up to Bandra. (Malad is about 18 km beyond Bandra.) Dr Masani knew the ticket checker, who gave me an extension chit up to Malad. Though Bombay Talkies was not very far from the Malad station, he, nevertheless, took a cab to the studio since it was almost lunchtime and he was afraid that Mrs Devika Rani, the boss of Bombay Talkies, may go home for lunch.

  I had never ever seen a film studio in my life, not even in photographs. I had heard of Bombay Talkies from Raj Kapoor who spoke about it as the studio where films starring his father Prithvirajji were shot. Bombay Talkies was a complete surprise. It was spread over several acres and there was a garden with a fountain in it. The office building looked more like a lovely bungalow and less like a typical office structure. When Dr Masani entered, there was warm recognition from Devika Rani who offered him a seat and looked at me wonderingly while I waited to be introduced. She was a picture of elegance, and, when Dr Masani introduced me, she greeted me with a namaste and asked me to pull up a chair and be seated, her gaze fixed on me as if she had a thought running in her mind about me. She introduced us to Amiya Chakraborthy (a famous director, as I later came to know), who was seated on a sofa. She asked me if I had sufficient knowledge of Urdu. I replied in the affirmative and Dr Masani intervened to give her my background, going back to my antecedents in Peshawar and told her about Aghaji and the business we were in. She listened with interest and I observed her face, which had a natural glow and the flush of good health. I wondered what sort of a job she was going to give me since she was so keen to know about my proficiency in the Urdu language.

  She turned to me and, with a beautiful smile, asked me the question that was to change the course of my life completely and unexpectedly. She asked me whether I would become an actor and accept employment by the studio for a monthly salary of Rs 1250. For a moment I did not know what to say. I looked at Dr Masani, who was equally surprised but was not showing it. He merely shrugged and I knew it was a silent hint for me to take a call and give her a reply. I was never one to lose time in futile thinking. So I returned her charming smile and told her that it was indeed kind of her to consider me for the job of an actor but I had no experience and knew nothing about the art. What’s more, I had seen only one film, which was a war documentary screened for the army personnel in Deolali. She was quick with her reasoning. She asked: ‘How experienced are you in the fruit trade of your family?’ I told her that as I was learning, I could not claim much experience. She then said: ‘There you are. If you can take pains to learn about fruits and fruit cultivation you can surely take pains to learn the craft of film making and acting. I need a young, good-looking, educated actor and I can see that you possess the qualifications to become a good actor.’

  Devika Rani.

  It was soon lunchtime and she asked us graciously if we would care to join her. Dr Masani declined politely and we took leave of her. On the way back, Dr Masani did not talk much. The rattling sound of the speeding train and the conjecture that I needed to contemplate over the offer that was least expected by both of us must have silenced him. It no longer worried me that I did not know anything about cinema and acting. As the train rocked me to a state of relaxation, I was actually feeling good and thankful that a job with a handsome remuneration was waiting for my acceptance.

  On reaching home I told Ayub Sahab about the offer. He found it hard to believe that Devika Rani had offered me Rs 1250 per month. He said it must be the amount she would pay annually. He said he knew that Raj Kapoor was getting a monthly salary of Rs 170. I felt Ayub was right. How could she give me such a whopping amount every month? And, if it was for a year, I felt it was not worth accepting as it would not ease Aghaji’s burden. It was of utmost urgency for me to earn enough to augment Aghaji’s income from the fruit trade.

  Apart from Ayub Sahab, nobody in the house knew about the episode. Noor Sahab (my eldest brother) was least concerned and lived in a world of his own. He was seen in the house only at meal times. I thought it would be decent on my part to tell Dr Masani about my decision, so I went to his house at Churchgate and told him that Rs 1250 annually was rather meagre for all the travelling I had to do every day to Malad by the electric train and for all the pains I had to take to initiate myself into a challenging profession. Dr Masani was certain that the salary offered was on a monthly basis. He volunteered to ascertain the figure from Devika Rani and made a phone call to her and, from the nods and smiles he was giving as he held the receiver to his ear, I could understand that she was telling him something that pleased him immensely. When he put the receiver down, he told me she had made the offer of Rs 1250 per month and not annually because she thought I held great promise and she should make an offer that I would accept gladly.

  The next day I met Dr Masani at the Churchgate station after lunch. The year was 1942 and the day was a Friday (I cannot recall the date). I left home quietly after prayers and a good lunch. Nobody knew where I was heading.

  The gates of Bombay Talkies somehow looked more inviting and welcoming that afternoon as the watchman opened them for our taxi to enter. In her office, Devika Rani was alone, seated at the desk, which was always clean and uncluttered. The conversation was brief because she knew I had come to accept the offer. She said the employment formalities and the paper work would be done by one Mr Iyer, her assistant. She was emphatic that I should join at the earliest and get into the stride of the job. She said it would be nice if I could come to the studio the next day and meet some of the people I would be working with. My hesita
tion to talk about money prevented me from reconfirming the salary, though the prospect of earning the four-digit figure, which was a big achievement those days, had drawn me to a profession I knew my father had little respect for. On more than one occasion I had heard him tell Raj Kapoor’s grandfather, Dewan Basheshwarnath Kapoor, jokingly that it was a pity his son and grandsons couldn’t find anything other than nautanki* as their profession.

  Tea arrived for us in a tray covered with a starched white cloth bordered with English lace. The tea cups were handed to us by a neatly dressed office boy whose good training had taught him to pour the brew and the milk with a steady hand without spilling a drop anywhere. It was wonderful to see an Indian boy handle the service with the finesse that English butlers and valets thought they alone could manage.

  When I returned home late in the evening, I told Amma I had found myself a job that would get me a pay packet of Rs 1250 every month, which would take care of her kitchen expenses as well as the education of my younger brothers and sisters. There were a lot of miscellaneous expenses and some money could be set aside for that, too. She wanted to know what job it was that was so paying. I assured her it was a respectable job and I had got it because of my strong proficiency in the Urdu language. She seemed happy with that reply since it sounded like a job of some consequence if it required proficiency in Urdu especially during the turbulent times we were living in, when the Second World War was raging and our freedom struggle had gathered great momentum.

  The next day dawned like any other. I got dressed and left home quietly. I reached the studio on time at 9 a.m. Devika Rani welcomed me and took me personally to the floor where preparation for a shooting was going on. She led me up to a man who was very well dressed and looked distinguished. He looked familiar and I recalled having seen the handsome countenance on posters and hoardings near Crawford Market. His dark hair was combed back and he smiled through his eyes at me. Devika Rani introduced me, saying I had just joined as an actor. He held my hand in a warm handshake that marked the beginning of a friendship that was to last an entire lifetime between us. He was Ashok Kumar, who soon became Ashok Bhaiyya (brother) to me. (He passed away on 10 December 2001.)