by Dilip Kumar
I felt instantaneously comfortable with Mehboob Sahab. There are some people with whom one starts feeling relaxed and secure as though one has known them for ages. With Mehboob Sahab it was that kind of comfort from day one. He gave me the freedom to talk to him about the way I wanted to perform a scene and he let me show him how I intended to do it before he told me how he had visualized it. He liked healthy debates and believed that it was the end result that mattered and the trivial question of whose idea it was had no relevance in team work.
We held our meetings in Mehboob Sahab’s house or at Naushad Miyan’s residence and it was in one such meeting (I think in the early 1950s) that I disclosed my intention of switching over to comedy since I had been clinically advised to do so by one Dr W. D. Nichols who had been introduced to me by Dame Margret Rutherford and Dame Sybil Thorndike with whom I had long discussions when I had met them through a drama coach in London.
With Madhubala in Tarana (1951).
Dr Nichols was kind enough to spend a good one hour with me when I called on him. I shared my fears with the eminent psychiatrist and he assuaged me saying it was not a cause for worry since many of his celebrity patients from the acting profession had come to him with the same fears and he had told them what he was going to tell me. He suggested a quick change of the genre of films I was doing. He explained to me that most actors who repeatedly worked in the same genre of films found it difficult to overcome the dichotomy that confronted them between the two lives they were leading. The unreal sometimes, or rather most times, became so overpowering that the real called for protection from caving in and getting submerged. I had been playing characters who were ill-fated and a morbid outlook had seized me as a result of my extreme involvement and my living the character beyond the working hours.
Dr Nichols said he was certain that I took my work home in my subconscious and turned the spoken lines and the scenes over and over in my mind in my bid to review the work I had done during the day. I was naturally appalled by his accuracy in diagnosing my condition. He added with utmost seriousness: ‘My dear young man, you are not alone in this crisis. It is a similar condition that a student who gears himself for excellence and top ranking goes through. The only way out is to go for variety in your work. Spend more time in leisure that you enjoy or with friends you feel happy to be with.’
I understood what he meant. Indeed, I had got so involved in the work I was doing that I had unintentionally distanced myself from my brothers and sisters, seeing them only for a short time on returning home every night and I had almost stopped playing football and cricket with my friends.
It is not as if I did not realize that whatever I was doing in the films was unreal and diametrically opposite to my real life and my real self. But the situation was such that people came and talked about some of the tragic scenes I had done convincingly or about a film that had attracted them to view it repeatedly because a death scene in it was beautifully performed and that made me think about it even if I didn’t want to. It was good to hear the compliments, especially at a stage when one was in the process of evolving as an actor but the impact was overwhelming to say the least. I was barely in my twenties and I was doing tragedy. Renowned tragedians in Western cinema like Sir John Gielgud, for example, had never done tragedy at such an early impressionable age. They were in their thirties when they played tragic roles.
I spoke at length and I remember both Mehboob Sahab and Naushad Sahab just stared at me. They were unable to grasp my dilemma and my need to get a comforting approval from them. They thought I was crazy to go and seek advice from psychiatrists and drama coaches in England. They named other actors who were sticking to the same genre and had no problems whatsoever. I went home somewhat distraught.
The next day I went over to meet S. Mukherjee Sahab and I told him I had seen a Tamil film,* which a producer from Madras (now Chennai) had arranged for me to see. The producer Sriramulu Naidu wanted to make it in Hindi and it meant a complete change of screen image if I chose to do it. K. Asif (the director of the 1960 Mughal-e-Azam) also happened to be present when I was talking to Mukherjee Sahab and, smiling provocatively, he said: ‘Karke dikhaiye.’ (Let’s see you do it.) Asif’s look was like a gauntlet thrown down for me. Mukherjee Sahab had no second thoughts about the decision I was waiting to take. He said: ‘Go ahead and do it. An actor’s business is acting and it should not matter to him whether he is doing tragedy or comedy. What counts is the actor’s ability and enterprise.’
I returned home with a feeling of confidence. I knew that comedy required a broad base and an exceptional sense of timing, which was a carefully honed skill more than a gift or flair. Initially, my fear was whether I possessed that skill. Now it was a challenge, a necessity that cried out for some daring on my part.
Azaad (released in 1955), in many ways, was the first film that gave me the much-needed confidence to forge ahead with a feeling of emancipation and sense of achievement. I was in Mahabaleshwar (a hill station in Maharashtra) on the opening day, deliberately staying away from home and friends in Bombay.
In Azaad (1955).
I was woken up by V. V. Purie Sahab* at midnight and he was calling from Delhi to tell me the great news that the film was a hit. We kept congratulating each other till we hung up out of a sheer need to get some sound sleep.
The delirious caller to wake me up early next morning was Sriramulu Naidu and I felt ever so happy for him because he had such confidence in me that he gave me absolute freedom to incorporate whatever ideas occurred to me to make the script and screenplay entertaining. It was also a pleasant experience working with Meena Kumari,** for whom the film offered a welcome switchover to light-hearted acting from the serious acting she came to be known for with Baiju Bawra (1952) and Parineeta (1953). She was a sprightly person who got along very well with every member of the unit and enjoyed taking lessons in Tamil from Naidu who was forever on a Tamil instruction spree during the indoor shooting we did in Coimbatore and Madras.
Naidu and I hit it off quite unexpectedly from the very first day of shooting. He was so happy about the start of the production that he insisted on hosting a lunch at a house in Madras, which belonged to a wealthy Chettiar (a business community), to introduce me to all the famous people he knew well in the southern film industry. The lunch was laid out for all the invitees on banana leaves as is customary in the South on festive occasions. It was the first time I was being treated to a typical South Indian meal served in four courses with three different desserts coming one after the other as the climax. After a whole series of vegetables were served on the leaf in an order that seemed fixed and unchangeable, a mound of rice was served in the middle of the leaf and sambhar (a kind of broth) was added to it. I was seated next to a gentleman who had a beatific smile on his face and took it upon himself to tell me in detail what each of the vegetable dishes was called in Tamil and how I should proceed from one dish to the other to get the right combinations. I did exactly as he instructed, not wanting to disappoint him and the host, Naidu, who was seated opposite me and engaged in an animated conversation with someone he seemed to know well.
All was well till the rasam, which resembles a watery soup, came in a ladle and the man who was serving stood anxiously by my side, directing a curious smile at me. I was at a loss and completely taken by surprise. I had seen my friend seated next to me take the rasam in his cupped palm ever so casually and slurp it down with relish. I was certain I couldn’t manage that!
As the man stood waiting for me to cup my palm and take a ladle full of the tempting liquid, an idea crossed my mind. I made a small well in the rice mound, made a dam around it for safety and to arrest its flow, and asked him to pour it there. He obliged with a knowing smile, which I returned. I was pleased with myself for having artfully got out of a tricky situation and hastened to finish the meal. The real test, however, was yet to come.
After the hearty meal, we retired to a drawing room where large sofas waited for the invitees to be seat
ed as relaxingly as decency permits. There was a lot of chatter in Tamil and Telugu and I could gather that they were all thinking aloud about Naidu’s madness to make the film in Hindi and court failure. Naidu had a sole ally in L. V. Prasad (a well-known producer-director from the South) who kept on speaking encouragingly and shaking his hand. All the invitees were polite and nice to me, though.
The climax of the afternoon came when a large silver bowl arrived on a plate with a semi-thick liquid in it. The valet who brought the bowl into the drawing room went from one invitee to the other and I watched each of them take a scoop and rub it all over the belly, lifting up their shirts and then cover the smeared paste with the shirt back in its place as if there was nothing on the belly. I could distinctly get the fragrance of sandalwood, so I knew it was nothing but sandalwood paste.
I did not ask any questions when the bowl came to me. I took a scoop and smeared it on my hairy belly and decided to forget about it. But sure enough, it wasn’t easy for me to forget about it. The paste began to dry up and the hair on my belly was beginning to get taut and it was becoming painful for me. I could feel a hundred pinpricks on my belly and the discomfort was distracting. What does one do in such a perilous situation? I excused myself and headed straight for the washroom. I bolted the door and removed my shirt and banian (vest). I soaked the banian in running water from the wash basin and wiped out the dried paste with it. The feel of cold water gave me a great relief. I saw an open window at the rear end of the large washroom overlooking a garden. I flung the banian out, wore my shirt and returned triumphantly to the drawing room. No one there apparently noticed my absence and no one came to know about the Chaplinesque episode. The gardener certainly would have wondered the next day about the bundled banian he would have found beneath one of the bushes and he would have dismissed it as someone’s mischief.
I did not feel the need to tell Naidu about the episode. I tried to avoid formal lunches and dinners after that and Naidu imagined it was the language problem perhaps that deterred me from participating in such social activities. In truth, it was quite the contrary. I discovered a latent flair in me to assimilate both Tamil and Telugu as speedily as I had learned Bengali from Ashok Bhaiyya and S. Mukherjee Sahab. Besides, all the wonderful people I came to know in southern cinema capital were capable of speaking English with adequate fluency. We will go into that topic when I take you through my southern experiences.
If I presented myself with my first car after the success of Shabnam (1949), Azaad’s success, which gave me a true sense of achievement, made me think about having my own residence in the city, which was carving a very special place in my heart as my homeland, even transcending my sentimental attachment to my birth place, Peshawar, in the North West Frontier.
It had been my earnest desire to give Amma the security and comfort of being in a house that she could call her own when she was alive. Her health had been failing and she had to willy-nilly let go of the management of the household, which Sakina Aapa took over happily. As already mentioned, in temperament and attitude Sakina Aapa was more like my Dadi (paternal grandmother) whose Hitlerian authority pervaded the house administration in Peshawar. I had no doubt that my elder sister’s high-handedness was what psychologists call ‘learned behaviour’. But then the logical question was: Why did she not learn from Amma’s gentle and kind behaviour? I guess some questions are best left unanswered.
Memories are hard to erase from the mind. Often, when I was alone in my room I recalled how on most evenings, I returned to my house after a day’s exacting work to find Amma struggling with her asthmatic cough and feigning to be well. She had been extremely concerned about Ayub Sahab’s deteriorating health condition. Ayub Sahab, she knew, was the closest to me among my brothers. So she had never failed to ask me curious questions about Ayub Sahab’s lung functioning, which had been impaired since he fell from a horse. I was aware how much she missed him when he passed away.
I could not forget how Amma used to look up at me when I would tiptoe to her room after I had bathed and changed. She would beckon to me with her beautiful eyes and I would take my usual place at the bedstead so that she could rest her head on my chest while I talked soothingly to her. When she would be fatigued with the effort of breathing, I helped her to breathe effortlessly by giving support to her ribs, pressing with hand support then letting go. Sometimes, when she wanted to get up and sit on a chair in the room, I just carried her in my arms, amidst protests and gentle laughter from her, and placed her in the chair. Aghaji, in jest and to make light the atmosphere would say: ‘Itna shauq hai meri biwi ko utha kar ghoomaney ka, to apni biwi lao!’ (If you are so fond of lifting my wife and going around with her, then find your own wife!)
My eldest brother, Noor Sahab, was forever in the company of his friends. My younger brothers were busy with their studies and so were my younger sisters. They had Sakina Aapa’s watchful eye over them and they had been so disciplined by her that if they wanted something they dared not approach me directly as it annoyed Aapa who had made herself the sole authority in the house. My aunts too feared her and made uncomplimentary remarks behind her back. The one person who did not treat her with awe was Chacha Ummer. He made all sorts of harmless and jolly remarks about the heroines I worked with, much to Aapa’s irritation. Every time he mischievously suggested matrimony for me with one of the ladies I teamed with, she either politely asked him to go and find himself something to do or she stormed out of the room indignantly. I sensed that she disapproved of most of the actresses I was working with, though she was very civil and cordial when they visited our home. I felt that she got along well with Nargis whose mother, Jaddan Bai, was very fond of me and affectionately addressed me as Prince. It amused me when Aapa asked me one evening whether I knew what was going on between Raj and Nargis. I told her that she should ask Raj who used to drop in unexpectedly and make his presence felt in our quiet house by talking to everyone and demanding the aromatic milkless tea that Aapa made specially for him.
It was not in my nature to intrude into anyone’s personal life. I remember having lunch with Askok Bhaiyya and Nalini Jaywant one afternoon in Filmistan Studio where they were also shooting on another floor. After we finished eating, Ashok Bhaiyya headed for the washroom to wash his hands and Naliniji followed him. Quite unsuspectingly, I followed too because I had to quickly get back to work after washing my hands. In a moment, I realized how foolish I was to have followed them like that. I should have known better or at least have tried to make some sound to alert them. However, I never took the liberty to make any reference to that embarrassment in any of our conversations though I knew Ashok Bhaiyya, being the carefree man he was, would not have taken it amiss and he would probably have laughed it off.
The gossip press, even in those years, was quick to smell any emotional involvement between actors and the leading ladies they worked with and splash exaggerated and imaginary news in the columns of their publications. The spotlight then, as it is now, was always on the successful actors who had a following and whose private lives interested their readers. Initially, I was annoyed by this invasion, which was very unbecoming at times. I felt it was not fair to the ladies and it would cause them needless worry about their public image getting tarnished.
I spent time with some of the leading writers of gossip to impress upon them the role they should play as cinema journalists. I tried to explain to them that actors were like any other professionals who did a job from nine to five or two to ten or whatever the schedule was. The only difference was that we entered an unreal world as unreal people every day when we got down to work unlike other working men and women who remained themselves and expressed real emotions in their interactions with their colleagues. In our world of mimic laughter and tears, as actors emoting intense feelings for each other in close physical proximity, we sometimes lost consciousness of the slender line separating the real and unreal.
Did it happen with me? Was I in love with Madhubala as the newspapers and m
agazines reported at that time? As an answer to this oft-repeated question straight from the horse’s mouth, I must admit that I was attracted to her both as a fine co-star and as a person who had some of the attributes I hoped to find in a woman at that age and time. We had viewers admiring our pairing in Tarana and our working relationship was warm and cordial. She, as I said earlier, was very sprightly and vivacious and, as such, she could draw me out of my shyness and reticence effortlessly. She filled a void that was crying out to be filled – not by an intellectually sharp woman but a spirited woman whose liveliness and charm were the ideal panacea for the wound that was taking its own time to heal.
With Madhubala in Mughal-e-Azam (1960).
The announcement of our pairing in Mughal-e-Azam made sensational news in the early 1950s because of the rumours about our emotional involvement. In fact, K. Asif (the film’s director) was ecstatic with the wide publicity and trade enquiries he got from the announcement. It was not anticipated or planned that it would be in production for such a long period as it was and Asif was aware of Madhu’s feelings for me because she had confided in him during one of their intimate talks. And, he was equally aware of my nature as a man who made no haste in taking critical personal or professional decisions. As was his wont, he took it upon himself to act as the catalyst and went to the extent of encouraging her in vain to pin me down somehow. He went on to advise her that the best way to draw a commitment from an honourable and principled Pathan, brought up on old-world values, was to draw him into physical intimacy.
In retrospect, I feel he did what any selfish director would have done for his own gain of creating riveting screen chemistry between actors who are known to be emotionally involved. Also, I sensed Asif was seriously trying to mend the situation for her 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. It should, in all fairness, go down in the annals of film history as a tribute to the artistry of two professionally committed actors who kept aside personal differences and fulfilled the director’s vision of a sensitive, arresting and sensuous screen moment to perfection.
