by Dilip Kumar
To continue with my story, it became imperative now for us to shift our residence to a suburb that was closer to Goregaon (in western Bombay), where many film studios were (and are) situated. Aghaji now visited the fruit market only once a week since my income was quite adequate to support the family. He would not stop going to the market for two reasons. First, he would not hear of letting me be the sole bread winner and wanted to contribute whatever he could get from the dwindling business to the running of the household and, secondly, he had friends whose warm greetings and conversations he missed when he stayed away from the bustle of the market for too long. With some earnest convincing, Aghaji agreed to shift to Bandra (also in western Bombay). We took a bungalow at Pali Mala in the midst of a cluster of dwellings owned by Goan Christian settlers.
Amma’s asthmatic condition needed regular medical attention and the physician treating her was accessible at a stone’s throw from our new residence at Pali Mala. Amma never got over the passing of Ayub. She did not weep in front of Aghaji or us but I knew she spent many nights crying softly into her pillow. The grief was gnawing at her from within and it began to tell on her health, which was declining steadily despite the best treatment we were providing for her at home now that we were in Bandra. She fought against the debilitating condition and put on a brave front before my younger sisters and brothers, who needed her and turned to her for even the smallest requirements in their lives. It was only when I was alone with her that she spoke softly about the inevitability of death and she would notice the pain on my face and swiftly change the subject. Aghaji was aware of Amma’s trust in me and the fact that she shared her thoughts and dreams with me in her own quiet way. One day he emerged from their room and saw me getting ready to go out. He beckoned to me and told me to go and sit by Amma’s bedside. ‘Be with her,’ he said and left the house to bring the doctor from his home across the road.
From the corner of my eye I could see him controlling his surging emotions. I hurried in, taking quick strides. Amma was relaxed but the extreme pallor on her face indicated that she needed immediate medical attention. I took my seat at the bedstead, raising her head to my chest as I always did. I held her soft hand and raised it to my lips in a silent gesture of love. I had a lump in my throat and tears were welling up in my eyes. The premonition was unmistakable and, at that point, all that I prayed for was the strength to give her the sense of assurance and security she was seeking from me. As always, she understood my feelings and, when Aghaji returned with the doctor, she was composed and bravely trying to look well. Somehow, Aghaji knew that we were going to lose her soon. He made arrangements to move her to our house in Deolali so that she could feel better in the unpolluted environment of the hill station. At Deolali, he looked gaunt and bleary eyed and he seldom went out of the house. Though he was not expressing it in words, it was obvious that his inner voice was disturbing him with anxious thoughts and the dread of losing the quiet companion from whom he had derived solace and strength for years.
In a few days, on 27 August 1948, she was gone from our midst, passing peacefully from the turmoil of life to eternal tranquillity. I did not let my pain show, concealing it from Aghaji and my siblings the way I did when Ayub Sahab had passed away. All those who knew her and Aghaji came to offer condolences when we returned to Bombay. The real mourners were the poor who lived in the neighbourhood. She never let anyone who came to our door go away empty-handed.
A regular visitor was our dhobi’s (washerman’s) wife who came with her young son Pyarelal and left the house with goodies packed for him. Pyarelal learned the art of laundering from his parents and became my personal launderer after his parents died. He is now in his seventies and he is serving in our house as the master dhobi, taking care of my white trousers and shirts as only he can besides the beautiful clothes Saira wears. To this day, Pyarelal remembers the halwas and other goodies Amma used to pack for him to take home and share with his younger brothers. All this was in addition to the sumptuous meal she would serve to him and his mother in the kitchen.
It took me all my strength and will power to suppress the pain and deep sense of loss I felt and stand up manfully before my brothers and sisters and give them the implicit understanding of being both mother and father to them since Aghaji spoke very little and kept more and more to himself now. One day when we were alone he expressed a wish: he said it was his wish to be laid to rest at Deolali, close to where Amma rested.
I bought a Fiat car (sometime in the late 1940s) not so much because I needed it but more because my sisters required a vehicle to go out. My first drive was to the Brabourne Stadium. A cricket match was going on and it must have been the second day. I no longer stood in a queue to get an admission ticket to watch a match as I was now somewhat recognized in public. I had got to know the ace cricketer Vijay Merchant, who had been introduced to me by Dr Masani, who was himself a great cricket enthusiast. I asked my driver to take me to Churchgate, from where I picked up Dr Masani and we reached the stadium in time to be ushered to the enclosure meant for special invitees, which I used to eye longingly whenever I took my seat in the stands at a lofty height from where one could see the players by craning one’s neck and inviting a crick if one was not prudent. I found myself seated beside an impressive looking man wearing an unbuttoned jacket over his shirt. He was talking to a lean man seated on his right, tilting his broad frame to hear what the lean man was trying to tell him on seeing me. I took my seat and since both of them smiled at me I thought it fit to greet them. They were obviously my co-religionists because they were in the Muslims’ enclosure, so I said ‘Salaam Alaikum’ (peace be upon you), and they returned my greeting warmly.
After the match started and progressed, the impressive looking man felt he should speak to me. He introduced himself as Mehboob Khan and introduced his friend as Naushad Miyan. It was the beginning of two enduring friendships and professional relationships in my life and career. Naushad Miyan (basically a music composer) had written the story of what became the film Mela and he invited me to meet him and the director, S. U. Sunny, the following week. Both Naushad Miyan and Mehboob Khan had seen Shaheed.
My meeting with Naushad Miyan took place in Sunny’s small office where he narrated to me briefly the story of Mela. He also told me that they had recorded the title song with which they would like to start the shooting. It was a bit awkward for me to ask questions about the details of the story but I thought it would be a risk if I did not know enough to be in a position to accept the film.
I must mention here that my work choices from the very beginning were not governed by the remuneration I was offered. This was something I learned from Nitin Bose and Devika Rani who were my first and most influential teachers. While working with Nitin Bose during the making of Milan (1946), I understood how vital it is for an actor to get so close to the character that the thin line between the actor’s own personality and the imagined personality of the character gets ruthlessly rubbed off for the time when you are involved in the shooting. To get that close to the character it is very important to know everything about the character and his mind and emotions.
While I was deeply involved with Milan, one day Nitinda asked me whether I had seriously read the novel Nauka Dubi (written in Bengali by the Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore). I told him that I had read the translation given to me and, of course, the script, which was very detailed. We were preparing to shoot the scene in which the character named Ramesh has travelled all night by train and has reached Varanasi (now in Uttar Pradesh), where he has to immerse the mortal remains of his mother in the Ganga. He performs his duty with a heavy heart, tired and weather-beaten as he is bound to be after the overnight journey. Nitinda asked me if I had given sufficient thought to the state of Ramesh’s mind and his feelings during the journey by train sitting up all night holding the urn securely so that the last remains from it did not spill out. Nitinda also asked me to think over the scene, imagining the disturbed state of Ramesh’s mind as he sa
t looking at the urn and remembering his mother who used to talk to him affectionately and serve him food and wake him up in the mornings with a cup of hot tea. He finally asked me: ‘Don’t you think Ramesh would have thought to himself, this is my mother who has been reduced to ashes, my mother who had such soft hands and such gentle eyes?’ I told Nitinda frankly that I had not thought so deeply because such depth was not in the script. Nitinda of course understood but he gave me a valuable lesson that has stood me in good stead. He made me write four to five pages expressing my feelings as Ramesh during the journey. I sat up half the night and wrote and rewrote until I was overcome by sleep. The next day the scene was to be shot at a location in Ghodbunder in Bombay. When the camera started to roll I was into the scene emotionally and the experience was satisfying for me and Nitinda.
That was how Nitinda groomed me. He explained that a good script always helped an actor to perform effectively but there were areas beyond what was given to him in the script that were waiting to be explored by one who wished to rise above the given areas in his performance. When Rabindranath Tagore wrote Nauka Dubi, he would never have thought that the fine literary work would become the base of a feature film. So it was entirely up to the script writer to take the work to another level as a visual experience with the characters coming alive and living through all the experiences narrated in the book. ‘There is no stopping you if you as an actor felt emboldened to discover niches in the character’s emotional make-up that you would like to bring to the fore even if they are not there in the script,’ he advised me.
He agreed that it was not easy for an actor to rise above the script, but it was not impossible either if the collaboration among the writer, actor and director worked well.
What Devika Rani had told me was also a lesson I have borne in mind and applied to my work sometimes to the surprise of my directors. She had pointed out that a director may be satisfied with the shot an actor had given but it is for the actor to discern for himself whether he had really given his best. The actor, she told me, was within his rights to request for another take if he felt he could do better.
I have not only borne all this in mind where my own work is concerned but also respected my co-actors’ wishes if they wanted another take when it seemed fine for the director to can the shot. Devika Rani had advised me and all the actors she employed at Bombay Talkies that it was important to rehearse till a level of competence to perform was achieved. In the early years, it was a necessity for me to rehearse, but, even in the later years, her advice stayed with me when I had to match a benchmark I had mentally set for myself. In fact, I am aware that I am known for the number of rehearsals I do for even what seems to be a simple scene.
With Nargis and Ashok Kumar in Deedar (1951).
Let me give an example. There was a situation in Nitin Bose’s Deedar (1951), in which Ashok Bhaiyya and I had lines to deliver and the cue for his lines had to be taken from my lines. In our rehearsals we had mutually decided that the word ‘mulayam’ (meaning soft) in my dialogue would be his cue to speak and turn his face towards me. Being a Bombay Talkies man, Ashok Bhaiyya had as much of a fetish for rehearsals as I had and so we had already had almost eight to ten rehearsals. The director told us to be ready for the take and he called for action. When I spoke my dialogue, quite inadvertently, I replaced the word ‘mulayam’ with ‘narm’ (also meaning soft) and Ashok Bhaiyya was thrown off track. I don’t know what went wrong with me that day. The director called: ‘CUT’; and I need not tell you what followed. Though not one to lose his temper, Ashok Bhaiyya gave me a piece of his mind and said gruffly: ‘OK, now we will stick to “narm”.’
*The film was released when the political atmosphere was in turmoil, in the wake of Mahatma Gandhi’s call for civil disobedience. Sikandar stirred up patriotic feelings and nationalist sentiments. The screening of the movie was forbidden in some British Indian Army cantonments.
*Madhubala was born as Mumtaz Jehan Begum Dehlavi on 14 February 1933.
12
REEL LIFE VERSUS REAL LIFE
K. Asif was seriously trying to mend the situation for her [Madhubala] when matters began to sour between us, thanks to her father’s attempt to make the proposed marriage a business venture. The outcome was that half way through the production of Mughal-e-Azam, we were not even talking to each other. The classic scene with the feather coming between our lips, which set a million imaginations on fire, was shot when we had completely stopped even greeting each other.
GETTING BACK TO MELA (RELEASED IN 1948), I REMEMBER driving to Filmistan Studios with S. U. Sunny, discussing the story on the way. When we reached the studio and walked on to the stage, the title song was being played. The description I got from the director of the proposed picturization was absolutely flat. I suggested changes in the situation and the picturization, which were appreciated by the director and Naushad Miyan, the music composer.
The storyline of Mela was a sketchy one and, having had the good fortune of getting involved in stimulating discussions with such thought-provoking writers as Bhagwaticharan Verma, Narendra Sharma, Gyan Mukherjee and Nabendu Ghosh, I was able to sense the absence of meat in it for the actors and I felt it had to be brought to the director’s attention at the very outset. He agreed with me, which was very good not only for me but for the other artistes as well. We had some healthy brainstorming sessions, which helped us to add depth and intensity to the story besides logic. We also managed to give the characters more emotional sensitivity and depth.
In Mela (1948).
Mela still evokes some wonderful memories of the past that I must share. First of all, it was the first film Aghaji watched in a cinema house because Naushad Miyan persuaded him to view it. He must have gone for a matinee show with Chacha Ummer and one of his friends. He was seated in the front room of our new house in Pali Mala when I returned a little early that day because I had to get some new medicines the doctor had prescribed for my mother and somehow get her to gulp down the mixture she disliked. I greeted him as I always did and he asked me to sit next to him. Chacha Ummer was already seated near him and he had a mischievous smile playing round his lips. So I wondered what was going on. Then, Chacha Ummer came out with it. He disclosed they had gone to a cinema house and watched Mela and it was a revelation that so many people had actually bought admission tickets and had filled the hall. He elaborated that it was a very enjoyable experience and it was incredible that I was right there on the screen behaving and talking very differently and wondered whatever had happened to all the shyness and the reluctance I had shown generally when it came to making free conversation with the opposite sex. He now waited for Aghaji to take up the conversation. Aghaji looked at me and his expressive eyes showed his concern for something that was going on in his mind. He then said: ‘Look if you really want to marry that girl, I can talk to her parents. Just tell me who she is. You don’t have to be so unhappy.’
For a moment, I failed to fathom what was being spoken by both of them. Then it dawned on me that they were speaking about Nargis,* the heroine in Mela, carried away as they were by the story and the performances. I could clearly see their inability, as first-time viewers of a feature film, to accept and enjoy it all as make-believe. I could not help laughing to myself but I knew it was an impression I had to correct immediately lest Aghaji and Chacha Ummer take steps to find Nargis and put me in an embarrassing situation.
Secondly, the picture was memorable for the enduring friendship that began between me and Naushad Miyan and between me and Nargis. With Nargis it was a no-holds-barred friendship. It was as though we were of the same gender because she was not at all hesitant to join the menfolk in their talks and was not one to be shocked if a bawdy remark was made in front of her. Her mother, Jaddan Bai, had become friendly with Amma and my elder sister due to her frequent visits to our home and later Aghaji came to know Nargis was an actress who feigned emotions while acting with me and there was nothing but a healthy friendship between us.
Nargis was no doubt a very capable actress who was getting better with every film. I could see that she had improved vastly when we were cast in Mehboob Khan’s Andaz (1949). It was a delightful experience doing Andaz because Raj Kapoor was there in the film and it was like the times we spent at Khalsa College when we played soccer. He used to stand red faced in the blazing sunlight, shouting and yelling in Punjabi when I scored a goal for my team.
With Nargis and Raj Kapoor in Andaz (1949).
Raj and Nargis shared a chemistry that made a good equation for their scenes together. With Nargis, in front of the camera, I shared a different equation, and I felt all through the making of Andaz that she was there and yet not there when we emoted scenes that had to have a certain temperature – to use my own coinage to describe the intensity that holds an emotional scene between two artistes.
For instance, Ashok Bhaiyya and Nalini Jaywant were able to build that temperature possibly due to their knowing each other well. Nargis and Raj could bring up the feelings demanded of them and, consequently, they did their scenes with ease. I was able to attain that ease with Madhubala in Tarana (1951), which has remained, for many reasons, one of the films I would count among the memorable ones I have done in the early years of my career. She was a vivacious artiste and was so instantaneous in her responses that the scenes became riveting even when they were being filmed. The scenes would move at a brisk speed when we rehearsed a few times and when we went for the final take. And that was because she was an artiste who could keep pace and meet the level of involvement demanded by the script.
