Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow

by Dilip Kumar

  Chopra Sahab was visibly troubled but he agreed to wait. As Destiny would have it, Gyan Mukherjee’s film did not take off due to some financial hassles and I was ready to consider Naya Daur.

  The wonderful memory I have of the outdoor shooting of Naya Daur is the friendship that developed between me and the Chopras. Baldev Raj, the elder Chopra, and Yash and Dharam, the younger brothers, had one common love: Food! It delighted me immensely to know this. Dharam was constantly busy with the camera assistants and the lightmen as it is always quite unpredictable how the natural lights on a location would turn out as the day begins and progresses towards sundown.

  Yash was assigned by his elder brother to be with me and take care of my needs. He discovered soon enough that he and I had the same needs: a man’s breakfast, a man’s lunch and a man’s dinner. So it was agreed between us that we would get our own breakfast ready because we both loved omelettes and we knew the cook was a faint-hearted local chap who might just faint if he counted the number of eggs we consumed. So, on most days, we got the eggs from the market and, between me and Yash, we chopped the onions finely and slit and chopped the less pungent green chillies we had carefully selected from the market. We beat at least ten eggs and folded the onions and chillies into the frothy mixture and made our omelettes and burjis (another dish made of fried eggs) in the makeshift kitchen. The aroma would spread to the tables laid outside and we would have other egg lovers peeping in and joining the feast.

  I loved outdoor work because of the emancipation it offered to my spirit. I guess it had something to do with the playful days spent in open spaces in Peshawar and Deolali as a boy. It was Chopra Sahab’s idea to shoot in Bhopal and he had identified the exact locations along with Dharam. I remember all of us stayed in a large government building with an open ground near it where Yash as well as my co-artistes Ajit, Jeevan* and Johnny Walker and I played football. Sometimes, we packed up early and sometimes the man bringing the raw stock by train was delayed and this caused a lull in the shooting schedule.

  It was during the production of Naya Daur that I began to form the story idea of Gunga Jumna in my mind. I decided too that if I went ahead and made Gunga Jumna, I would cast Vyjayanti in the lead.

  Naya Daur turned out to be a huge success and Chopra Sahab invited Mehboob Sahab as the chief guest on the hundredth day of its run at the main cinema in Bombay. It was magnanimous of Mehboob Sahab to accept the invitation and tell the audience how wrong he was and how right Chopra Sahab was in judging the potential of the subject. He complimented Chopra Sahab and the two film makers stood triumphantly on the stage while coins flew from all directions. As I mentioned earlier, the audiences we had in our times were very receptive to good cinema. They showed their happiness and appreciation in overt displays like showering coins on the screen and dancing while the popular song sequences were being shown.

  *Pran Krishan Sikand, the ace villain and character actor, and Johnny Walker (born as Badruddin Qazi), a comedian par excellence.

  *Hrishikesh Mukherjee, director, script writer and editor, who went on to make a string of superb films. In fact, I acted in his first directorial venture: Musafir (1957).

  *Ajit, whose real name was Hamid Ali Khan, started as a hero but later went on to play villainous roles. Jeevan, born as Omkar Nath Dhar, appeared in many mythological films before going on to play negative characters.

  15

  ON THE DOMESTIC FRONT

  As I look back at those years when I was rising in the profession and setting my priorities, I feel a sense of achievement that I was able to live up to Aghaji’s expectations and give him the assurance that I could take over the mantle of family responsibilities from him as a parent-brother when the weariness of age began to catch up with him.

  I FELT AMMA’S ABSENCE WHENEVER I HAD TIME TO SPEND IN the house. More than any of us, it was Aghaji who was missing her quiet presence and the care with which she kept his clothes in the wardrobe and placed his personal belongings in places he liked them to be. Sakina Aapa, my eldest sister, could not measure up to his expectations in running the house, which led to frequent altercations between them. He did not approve of her high-handedness on many occasions when she unceremoniously dismissed those from the lower strata of society like the dhobi, the local baker and some of the women who came to the house to sell lace and hand-embroidered household linen. My mother had been very kind to them and she never let them go unfed or empty-handed. I remember getting into an argument with Sakina Aapa once when she spoke rudely to the barber who had come home to give me a ‘nice’ haircut.

  The poor man always had a problem with my hair, which grew at jet speed, demanding fortnightly trimming. He was constantly crestfallen by my hair’s refusal to be combed back and kept in place the way he wanted. He was at a loss to explain to his regular patrons that my hair was naturally tousled and was not styled by him that way. He got a fillip to his business when my films, especially Naya Daur (1957), became superhits and the song, Uden jab jab zulfen teri…* topped the popularity charts. He had young men coming to him throughout the week asking for the Dilip Kumar hair cut, which, in reality, was nothing but my unmanageably thick hair falling disobediently on my forehead. I had reason to think that the growth was in vengeance at all the humiliation my poor head had to endure when, as ordered by my grandmother, a barber had come home and shaved off all the hair to make me the ugly child in the school I attended in Peshawar.

  The barber came home one afternoon and I had instructed him to wait if I did not reach the house on time. He took the liberty of sitting in the drawing room and my eldest sister took it as impudence on his part and gave him a dressing down, which was in progress when I made my entry. I apologized to him and I found him more bewildered than angry. Later, I took up the matter with Sakina Aapa and we had an unpleasant spat.

  Much as I wanted to I could not spend quality time with Aghaji. The robustness of his constitution was giving way to invasions of muscular pains and, more than anything else, I felt he had lost the zest for living after Amma’s demise. He, however, seldom missed his weekly visits to the Crawford Market. As the days passed, he needed help to get in and out of the car. Not that he couldn’t walk or any such handicap; it was a persistent knee cramp that made him halt in his steps sometimes when he walked. The ramrod-like uprightness of his walk, the broad shoulders and the twinkle in his eyes when he smiled remained intact and Naushad Miyan, who became one of his close friends, never ceased to admire his good looks and his natural noble bearing. Naushad Miyan was one of the few regular visitors he truly got along with and what made the bonding easy for Aghaji was Naushad Miyan’s ability to regale him with impromptu recitations of good, meaningful Urdu ghazals and poetry.

  Around our house at Pali Mala, there were a number people from the eastern part of India, who had built quaint cottages and followed their own distinct lifestyle. My eldest brother, Noor Sahab, had found his lady love but Nasir, my younger brother, who was handsome and articulate, had young ladies vying for his attention wherever he went. I did not fail to notice his interest in a particular girl who gave me a knowing smile whenever I passed by in my car. I used to see him talk to her and, when I indicated to him that I knew what was going on, he became wary and, like Noor Sahab’s romance at our earlier residence (described in an earlier chapter), Nasir’s infatuation also met a premature end.

  When Aghaji’s visits to Crawford Market became rare due to his losing interest in the business as most of his friends in the fruit trade had retired and handed over the management to their sons, I thought it was right that Noor Sahab, who was the eldest sibling, should run the show and keep the family’s reputation in the market alive. Like me, Nasir too was in films. Neither he nor I had any time to devote to the business. It became a matter of concern for me as Chacha Ummer, too, took ill and was no longer keen to keep the business going.

  Going from Bandra to Crawford Market did not take much time those days. It was a pleasure to drive to town when I had to
meet anybody because the very roads that are now jam-packed with vehicles used to stretch invitingly for the motorist to step on the accelerator and drive fearlessly over them. There was unlimited parking space near the market and outside the market’s main entrance.

  I liked being at the wheel if I was not tired or thinking too much about my work. I used to drive to Hughes Road (in South Bombay) and find myself a table that would not attract much notice and order a plate of chicken or mutton biryani as the mood dictated at George’s Restaurant. The dish used to be served with shorba (broth or soup) and a plate of green salad. All the waiters knew me from my college days at Wilson, when I used to take the boys who were in my team there after every victorious soccer match we played against St Xavier’s. They knew I was an actor now but, that made little difference to the way in which they greeted me and attentively served the dishes I had ordered. I always tried not to make myself conspicuous wherever I went but one afternoon, when I took Aghaji there, a crowd gathered outside. The manager came to our table and told me that there were fans waiting to see me and talk to me. Aghaji asked me what was going on and I told him about the fans. Surprisingly, he looked pleased and told me to go and meet them without delay.

  I was thrilled not because people who liked my work had come to meet me quite unexpectedly but because I saw the glint of pride in Aghaji’s eyes that day. On our way back, he was as quiet as he always was. On reaching home, I heard him describe the whole episode to Chacha Ummer with the excitement of a child and the joy of a proud father.

  Aghaji did not meet any of the producers who came to see me at home. However, whenever Raj Kapoor came over, he was happy to see him and he made fond enquiries about Prithvirajji. He knew Mehboob Sahab vaguely. He was content just knowing that his son may not have fulfilled his dream of securing an OBE as a suffix to his name but he was certainly an achiever. At times, Chacha Ummer used to come to me elatedly and whisper how Aghaji had carefully folded a newspaper carrying my photograph and kept it near his bed after gazing at it for some time. Surprisingly, he never asked me why I had adopted a screen name. Being a man of the world and having abundant native wisdom, he must have understood the reasons.

  He was very happy that I was insisting that my younger sisters be educated at the best institutions. He never said so, but he lived with the thought that had Sakina Aapa received the grooming my younger sisters got at the more sophisticated English medium schools, she might have not been riding roughshod and unintentionally rubbing people the wrong way. He knew it was a priority for me to give my younger brothers and sisters the best education at well-known schools and colleges to equip them to meet the challenges of an advancing world they were growing up in.

  As I look back at those years when I was rising in the profession and setting my priorities, I feel a sense of achievement that I was able to live up to Aghaji’s expectations and give him the assurance that I could take over the mantle of family responsibilities from him as a parent-brother when the weariness of age began to catch up with him. I don’t think my elder brother Noor Sahab and my younger brothers really knew what it entailed for me to keep my professional values from slipping in the face of the challenge of generating a substantial income to meet the growing demands for household expenses, fees, clothes, pocket money, books, daily travel and so on.

  I remember a producer coming to me in the late 1940s with a briefcase full of money and the script for a film he intended to make. I had not seen him before or heard of him. He narrated the story to me and I listened till he came to a point where the hero starts moving around the village astride a buffalo. I stopped him there and asked: ‘Why a buffalo?’ He replied it was his idea of blending comedy into the hero’s character. When I asked if I could make necessary changes in the script, he said that I could but the buffalo had to be retained.

  I stealthily looked at the rickety briefcase on the table, which had the hard cash I needed so much at that point of time. It was shaking a little due to the breeze coming from the window and seemed to be leering at me silently.

  I then politely refused to spend more time listening to the story and he couldn’t believe that I was turning down such an impressive story and such a good amount of money. It was a learning experience for me because there were many more such film makers who wanted to cash in on the popularity I was enjoying. The spontaneity with which I refused the briefcase enhanced my self-esteem and firmed up my resolve to work according to my terms.

  I could instinctively feel Aghaji’s loneliness and pain after Amma left us all. He seemed to be living in a vacuum and he had lost the will to live. He passed away peacefully on 5 March 1950, leaving all of us in a void. I did not inform everybody I knew in the industry because I did not want synthetic sympathy and condolences from busy and materialistic people who did not know him and what he meant to me. Raj Kapoor, Naushad Miyan, Mehboob Sahab, Ashok Bhaiyya, Bimalda, Nitinda, S. Mukherjee Sahab, the family doctors, close relatives and some of Aghaji’s friends were there to console me as I quietly fought the loss of yet another precious anchor of my life. As desired and wished by Aghaji, his body was laid to rest near my mother’s qabr (grave) in Deolali.

  *Composed by O. P. Nayyar, written by Sahir Ludhianvi and sung by Asha Bhosle and Mohammed Rafi.

  16

  THE TRAVAILS OF FILM MAKING: GUNGA JUMNA AND AFTER

  Film making, unlike some other art forms like painting or writing poetry, for instance, has a great deal to do with communication. I mean the communication between the actor and the director, between the director and the cameraman and the art director, between the director and the editor, between the artiste and the cameraman and so on. If the coordination is well orchestrated, it shows in the final product. If not, it shows equally in the frayed look of the product.

  LIFE HAD TO GO ON AND THE STORY OF GUNGA JUMNA WAS developing in my subconscious. It was necessary for me to relaunch my brother Nasir – he was facing a slump in his career after having acted in a few films – and also to have my own production house. The subject was such that it needed sound financing to depict it on celluloid in the manner I had visualized. There was no dearth of money in the market but I knew that I would have to tread carefully and avoid the Shylocks.

  I knew Shapoorji Mistry and Pallonji Mistry quite well. I had met them informally at their homes and the manner in which the ladies had placed some Persian delicacies on the table when we sat down for tea reminded me of the goodies that always appeared on the table in our house at Peshawar when we had our family get-togethers on holidays. They were good, hospitable people and I had got to know them when they began financially backing K. Asif as he set out to make Mughal-e-Azam. Shapoorji heard the story of Gunga Jumna from me and he had no doubts about its viability but my brother Nasir felt it was not a good idea for me to play an outlaw. He insisted that the public would not accept me joining the dacoits and taking refuge in their lawlessness to get back at the wicked zamindar who steals his own sister’s jewellery and frames theft charges on Gunga’s poor and honest mother. (I was planning to play the role of Gunga and cast Nasir as Jumna, a policeman.) Nasir had strong views on this subject and advised me to think about it.

  I thought about it and concluded that I would go ahead with the venture since Shapoorji was confident about the movie’s success. The more I worked on the basic conflict in the script between the brother who has to uphold the law of the country and the brother who flees from the law, which favours the rich and the powerful and unjustly incriminates the poor and the defenceless, the more I felt it was time for me to make a picture that raised some critical issues about the people of rural India who had gained little from the country’s independence from foreign rule. The oppressed farmers and tillers of the soil were leading a life of slavery and were being exploited and swindled by the mercenary landlords. The situation has not changed much today, more than half a century after both Mehboob Khan’s Mother India (1957) and Gunga Jumna (1961) exposed the exploitation of farmers, for whom the soil th
ey till and plough is sacred.

  Mehboob Sahab had made Mother India with a similar mission and the film became a classic study for the Western world of the ruthless manipulations that were prevalent in the long-existing money-lending system in the rural economy of India. When Mehboob Sahab discussed Mother India with me in the early 1950s, I thought it was a brilliant and timely concept and it had to be made at any cost. The role he could offer me was of one of the sons of the heroine Nargis and I pointed out that it would be an incongruous casting after all the romancing she and I had done in earlier films, such as Mela (1948) and Babul (1950). I felt that it was a great opportunity for Nargis to play the title role and there was no doubt that she was the apt choice. It was crucial to give her unchallenged positioning in the star cast as the most important character and the pivot of the story. Besides, I was in no mood to dip into intense tragedy again.

  Mehboob Sahab was known for the offbeat casting in his films. He had cast me in a swashbuckling villager’s role in Aan (1952), in total contrast to my public image at that time of a tragedian. He took great pleasure in doing the impossible and revelling in the applause he received when his experiments succeeded. Aan was a worldwide hit and he felt triumphant that he had made India’s first film in Technicolor. All said and done, I did not agree with him when he wanted to cast me as Nargis’s son in Mother India.

  Coming back to Gunga Jumna, I told Shapoorji about my intention to tour the interior parts of North India, especially in Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh first and then travel all over interior Maharashtra. I had decided to have the dialogue in the dialect I had heard and stored away in my subconscious as a boy squatting in the mali’s kitchen at Deolali (as mentioned in an earlier chapter). I did not know if it was a UP or a Bihari dialect at that age. It sounded fascinating and there was a vivid expressiveness about it while conveying raw emotions. The way in which Bihari, the mali, and his wife, Phoolwa, conversed and quarrelled was as amusing as it was dramatic. I needed to hear and feel the dialect again with the express purpose of using it in the film. The scenic canvas of rural regions in the states of India – be it in the North or the South – has its own variations and singular attractiveness with vivid reliefs brought about by geographical features and climate changes. I was keen to witness it first-hand.