by Dilip Kumar
One person who was a steady friend at Bombay Talkies was Jairajji. He was very different from the other people like Shah Nawaz Khan and he took a keen interest in my work and gave me useful advice in his quiet manner. Jairajji and David Abraham were good friends and they exchanged naughty jokes, some of which they let me into and others they told me were not for my ears yet. The notable fact was that all the wonderful people I got to know and share great times with were older than I except Raj Kapoor. I was barely 21 when I faced the camera for my first shot and it was indeed my good fortune that senior professionals in the acting department and writers like Pandit Narendra Sharma and Bhagwaticharan Verma were there. Jairajji was very protective and, even though we made very little conversation while travelling from Churchgate to Malad by train, we were very close as professionals.
Bombay Talkies was in the process of changing hands at that juncture as Devika Rani was sure she did not want to continue with the management of the studio after her marriage to Svetoslav Roerich. By the time I had made my debut in 1944 she was contemplating voluntary retirement. She had appointed S. Mukherjee Sahab and Amiya Chakraborthy to take care of all the productions. She would, nevertheless, take her rounds of the studio and talk to everybody warmly. She was so stunning in her appearance that everyone in the studio stopped to look at her when she moved around. She made it a point to ask about me if I was not around and, if I ran into her, she asked me how I was doing and about my progress as a learner. Ashok Bhaiyya was the only one who joked with her and S. Mukherjee Sahab was the one she consulted about every step she took in the running of the studio.
She introduced me once to Svetoslav Roerich, the famous Soviet painter she was going to marry. She told me how much Svetoslav loved the Kulu Valley (now in Himachal Pradesh) and she told him about my family’s fruit business and how we got fruits from the valley: apples, cherries and juicy pears. I looked at Roerich, who had a stately gait and a twinkle in his eyes exactly like Aghaji. I thought she would be very happy with him the way Amma was with Aghaji.
As 1945 rolled by, the Second World War was coming to an end and the freedom movement was gaining momentum in the country. At the studio every day, Ashok Bhaiyya and S. Mukherjee Sahab would engage in discussions about what they had heard or read. They would seriously discuss Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s speeches and ask me for my opinion. Having had a ‘memorable’ experience when I spoke my mind at the Wellington Soldiers Club in Poona, I thought it best to maintain a discreet silence. At home, Ayub Sahab used to be extremely well acquainted with the developments on the freedom movement front and he would hold forth before awed listeners who were friends of Aghaji and Chacha Ummer. Aghaji would feel very proud of Ayub Sahab’s accomplishment and his fluency in Urdu, both spoken and written. Personally, I was equally awed by Ayub Sahab’s ability to speak and write well in English and Urdu despite not having had formal school education. As mentioned earlier, he had been taught at home due to ill health as a boy and he was studious and painstaking as a home-bound student.
By the time I finished my work in Jugnu, our country was heading for its emancipation from British rule. I remember the day – 15 August 1947 – vividly when independence was won for us by the great men and women who fought for it tenaciously and relentlessly for decades. I was walking on the pavement near the Churchgate station, quite unnoticed despite having acted in three films – Jwar Bhata (1944), Pratima (1945) and Milan (1946) – when I noticed people were rushing homewards with joyous expressions on their faces. It was only when I reached home and I saw the whole family together for a change with every face shining with happiness that I realized it was independence day. I wasted no time in being a part of the celebration of the independence of India.
With Noor Jehan in Jugnu (1947).
Jugnu was released in late 1947. The film became a hit and the hoardings were put up in many places, including a site near Crawford Market. One morning while Aghaji was supervising the unloading of a consignment of apples at his wholesale shop in the market, Raj’s grandfather, Basheshwarnathji, walked in and the two greeted each other warmly as always. They had been friends for years and Aghaji used to tell him jokingly that it was no use twirling his impressive moustache because his son and grandson were in the acting business. Aghaji felt the Kapoor boys were worthy of being in government service, which was the aspiration of most fathers for their sons those days. He knew Raj and I were studying in the same college and those days getting a college education and acquiring a graduation certificate at a convocation held by the Bombay University was a big event. He was mighty displeased therefore that Raj had chosen to be an actor and not an important government official like Basheshwarnathji who had held a high position as a commissioner in Peshawar. Basheshwarnathji, however, was not at all unhappy that his son Prithvirajji had chosen to become an actor and was very famous already and his grandson Raj had begun to follow in the footsteps of Prithvirajji.
It was Aghaji’s ambition that I, too, would find a respectable government job and I would attain such an important position that I would have OBE as a suffix to my name. Aghaji had seen that suffix somewhere and it fascinated him as a mark of esteem and honour. When I started going to college, he felt proud and he confided to me that his big dream was that I should write my name as Yousuf Khan OBE.
That morning Basheshwarnathji had a naughty smile playing beneath his moustache. He twirled his moustache and told Aghaji he had something to show him: something that would take his breath away. Aghaji must have wondered what it could be. Basheshwarnathji took him out of the market and showed him the large hoarding of Jugnu right across the road. He then said: ‘That’s your son Yousuf.’
Aghaji told me later on that he could not believe his eyes for a moment but there was no mistaking me for someone else because the face he knew so well was printed large and the blurb on the hoarding was hailing the arrival of a bright new star on the silver screen. The name was not Yousuf. It was Dilip Kumar.
Basheshwarnathji, who was standing next to him, was gleefully observing his expression and telling him that there was no need to be dismayed because I had adopted another name to keep the family honour intact and, what was more important, I was on my way to big stardom. All those words were not music to Aghaji’s ears. He described to me much later, after he accepted my choice of career, the awful feeling of disappointment that overwhelmed him at that moment. He was naturally very angry. Aghaji did not reveal his anger and hurt pride through harsh words or any other form of resentment. He was very quiet for some days and did not speak to me. Even at other times, when we spoke to each other in monosyllables, I did not dare to look him in the eye. Soon, the situation became awkward and I did not know what to do.
The thick layer of ice had to be broken somehow. I confided in Raj and he said he knew this was going to happen and the best person to mediate was Prithvirajji. And he was right. Prithvirajji paid a casual visit to our home one day. Amma told me when I got home in the evening that the powwow with Prithvirajji had done considerable good and she noticed that Aghaji was a lot more relaxed and cheerful. I still did not have the courage to go up to him and start a conversation.
The silence was broken by Aghaji when he came home one evening after a visit to a family friend’s house where he had heard praises about me and my emergence as the star of Jugnu. He saw me coming in and he called me as he always did and began talking to me with ease. I was relieved and happy, considering that he was always upfront in giving expression to his thoughts and sentiments. He said quite matter-of-factly that he had come to terms with the reality that I had chosen a profession he had least expected me to enter. He always spoke to me in Pushtu and his speech was clear and precise and never wanting in good taste. He was never loud and I don’t have even a faint recollection of any argument between my parents in front of us. If they had to sort out anything between them, they did it without our knowledge. He spoke to me that evening without anger or unhappiness. He was enjoying the hookah, which he usually shared
with his friends who visited him. The very gesture of asking me to sit down before him while he asked for the flavoured tobacco to be brought and filled into the hookah by the lad who attended on him indicated to me that he was not in a bad mood and it was sufficient for me to know that he had forgiven me for keeping it all under wraps. I could sense from the easy manner in which he conversed with me that evening, as he took puffs of the hookah, that he no longer disapproved even if he did not feel good about the development.
11
BETWEEN THE PERSONAL AND THE PROFESSIONAL
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.
MY HAPPINESS WAS, HOWEVER, SHORT-LIVED. AYUB SAHAB SOON took ill seriously with a lung ailment. The best doctors were unable to prolong his life with the medicines I managed to get from abroad. He knew he was not going to be with us for long, so he often requested me to take him to Marine Drive, where we could sit and watch the sun go down inch by inch into the sea. He used to tell me that he never ceased to wonder how the sun took away all the brilliance it spread in the sky when it went down, making way for the night to fall.
One day I came home earlier than usual and noticed that Ayub Sahab was looking pale and was having difficulty in taking even small breaths. I sent Chacha Ummer to bring Aghaji from the market and also fetch a doctor. I took my brother in my arms and he was calm and smiling at me as I looked him in the eye fearing the worst. Chacha Ummer brought Aghaji and hurried off to fetch the doctor. Aghaji sat close to Ayub Sahab and I could see his hand tremble while he took his son’s hand in his. Ayub Sahab was smiling and, though he was struggling to breathe, there was an unusual radiance and calm on his handsome face. Before we knew it, like the radiant evening sun he loved to watch, he went in a few moments, even before the doctor could arrive, taking away all the brilliance with him.
My contract with Bombay Talkies was coming to an end and there were changes taking place in the studio management. Ashok Bhaiyya had moved out and so had S. Mukherjee Sahab to form Filmistan. As we were no longer fettered by foreign rule, there was a surge of creative activity and spirited unravelling of the communicative powers of the medium. Movies were being made with a sense of introspection, patriotism and social purpose by many talented and dedicated film makers. V. Shantaram had already made Duniya Na Mane (1937), Admi (1939), Padosi (1941), Shakuntala (1943) and Dr Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani (1946), which were well received and appreciated for the focus on social issues. Baburao Painter had made Ram Joshi (1947). Sohrab Modi was making films with historical stories and his Minerva Movietone was in the news already as the film Sikandar (1941, with Prithviraj Kapoor in the title role) had stirred a controversy* and Pukar (1939) had become a huge hit. Mehboob Khan had made National Studios famous with his association. There was no dearth of job opportunities for me and others who had been nurtured by Bombay Talkies.
The stamp of quality and prestige that was inherent in the name, Bombay Talkies, made it easy for most employees of the studio to find worthy openings in productions going on the floors in other studios. I did not hesitate to accept S. Mukherjee Sahab’s invitation to work in the pictures to be made at Filmistan. The beneficial aspect was that he did not talk about a contract or agreement restricting me to work only in his pictures. As it was, the studio employment system was inevitably being replaced by managements seeking services of actors and technicians on a freelance basis with varying remunerations commensurate with experience, expertise and track record.
My preference for Filmistan, however, was not driven by the monetary increment it offered. The pay packet I was receiving every month at Bombay Talkies was sufficient to take care of some of the more critical expenses that Amma had to manage every month in the house with its growing population of visiting family members from Peshawar and all twelve of her children besides Chacha Ummer and two of Aghaji’s sisters and a never-ending stream of visitors. A substantial increase in the earnings was no doubt welcome, but I was firm in my resolve that my choice of work and my career moves would not be determined or dictated by monetary gains and the trappings of transient success. It was a hard decision to take for a young man on the threshold of a successful career. I consider it a blessing that I was able to harness the equilibrium acquired from years of upright breeding to remain level headed and not be swept away by the illusionary glory and grandeur that surround an actor when he acquires the label of a star. There were many producers who had noticed me then and had called me over to talk about the films they were proposing to make with me in the male lead. S. Mukherjee Sahab was aware of this development and he respected my decision to work in his venture at Filmistan. The film was Shaheed (released in 1948). The subject fired my imagination and I felt it was a wise decision to make a patriotic film at that juncture when we had all gone through the experience of witnessing the struggle for freedom from British rule and the sacrifices made by freedom fighters who belonged to different religions, castes, age groups and social strata. I was completely in synch with the character in Shaheed because of the social and political climate prevailing at that time and my own patriotic sentiments were seeking an outlet, which was there for the asking in the well-written scenes and dialogues. Though the film was directed by Ramesh Saigal, it was the inspiration we got from S. Mukherjee Sahab that fleshed out the performances and added momentum to the movement of the narrative.
With Kamini Kaushal in Shaheed (1948).
I had an understanding and facile co-actor in Kamini Kaushal who was very attentive to the demands of the director and had the intelligence to grasp the intrinsic sensitivity of some of the more poignant situations in the script. She was an artiste who could perform with the required authority when needed. She was not new to the profession, having acted in Chetan Anand’s Neecha Nagar (1946) earlier. Moreover, she was an educated person with whom one could have an interesting conversation. She had a noticeable fluency in speaking English, which was unusual those days for an actress and that delighted S. Mukherjee Sahab who generally preferred to talk in that language. In fact, after a day’s intense work on scenes that called for serious emoting, we formed a small circle for some nice light-hearted conversation, in which occasionally Ashok Bhaiyya also joined. Ramesh Saigal was a good conversationalist and he was the first one to address Kamini Kaushal by her real name Uma (Kashyap) and all of us followed suit.
Shaheed met with deserving success at the box office. My pairing with Kamini Kaushal in that film got an encore from the audiences and Filmistan had us teaming up in Nadiya Ke Paar (released later in 1948) and Shabnam (1949), which became even bigger successes. As far back as the 1940s, the gimmick of pleasing the mass audience by bringing together artistes who were believed to share an attraction for each other in the life they lived outside their work environment was as common as it is today. The difference was that we conducted ourselves with dignity and we did not make headlines in newspapers and magazines or let our private lives become the target of public debate and derision. There were snoopy journalists even then, although television was yet to make its appearance. If we were emotionally involved, there was no public exhibition of it and the decorum at work was consciously maintained.
I was in my twenties when I acted in Shaheed, Nadiya Ke Paar and Shabnam. I was no super human being. Cinema then did not attract educated ladies and being in cinema wasn’t a distinction for a girl or a woman. Coming as I did from a family that had a literary bent of mind and, having grown up in a house that had such distinguished visitors as Maulana Abul Kalam Azad (a scholar and close associate of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru), Sadat Hasan Manto (an acclaimed writer) and Mirza Ghulam Ahmed (another noted writer), who talked freely with Aghaji and, at times, wit
h me and Ayub Sahab, I preferred the company of colleagues who were educated and well informed. Stardom bothered me more than it pleased me and I guess I was drawn more intellectually than emotionally to Uma, with whom I could talk about matters and topics that interested me outside the purview of our working relationship. If that was love, may be it was. I don’t know and I don’t think it matters any more.
Yes, circumstances called for us to discontinue working together and it was just as well because, after a few films together, star pairings generally tend to pall on viewers, which is bad for business.
A question I have often been asked is the somewhat intrusive one whether it makes a difference to the potency of the emotions drawn from within oneself in an intimate love scene if the actors are emotionally involved in their real lives. My honest answer is both yes and no. In the love scenes, especially the scenes involving emotional warmth and physical proximity, a certain temperature is expected to be created by the director from both the actors and that temperature need not necessarily be generated by the familiarity between the artistes outside the work environment because, as actors, we get used to performing such scenes with the full knowledge that we are feigning the emotion for the camera and there is no truth or reality in it. On the other hand, it is quite possible that the familiarity between the artistes due to their emotional involvement with each other in real life may give an edge to the emotional intensity and raise the temperature of the act to that electrifying level that is not contained in the script per se.
I have been asked this question specifically with reference to the scenes I had to do as Prince Salim in Mughal-e-Azam (released in 1960) with Madhubala* as Salim’s beloved Anarkali and to that I will reply as honestly as decency permits in one of the chapters to come.