by Dilip Kumar
Ammaji (Shamshad Abdul Waheed Khan) performing at a small gathering.
I don’t recall when but at one such evening, Saira, who was on a visit to India during her school holidays, accompanied her mother to our house. Since I used to meet Naseem Aapa at many formal and informal occasions, I had understood from her that Saira was growing up in London, where she and her brother Sultan Ahmed were studying in school and they were under the guardianship of Naseem Aapa’s mother Shamshad Abdul Waheed Khan, the renowned classical singer. Apparently, Saira had seen my film Aan at Scala Theatre in London and I got to know from different sources such as Mrs Akhtar Mehboob Khan, whom I called Bhabiji, Mrs Bahaar Kardar and S. Mukherjee Sahab that this little girl was brewing up quite a storm in her mind about a liking for me, wanting to know through her letters from London to her own mother, my likes and dislikes, my way of life and even the fact that I loved poetry and the Persian language.
Later, I got to know that as soon as she finished school in London and returned to India, she convinced Naseem Aapa to get her a tutor, a Maulvi Sahab, who was a part of the Hyderabad Nizam Mir Osman Ali Khan’s royal entourage, to coach her in fine, pristine Urdu and Persian at the sprawling Hyderabad Estate on Nepean Sea Road in Bombay! This was her plan to impress me! At best, I was pleasantly amused and delighted at this wonderful effort by this youngster. Naturally, I never gave this ‘crush’, directed at me, any importance, since for me it was difficult to reconcile myself to the fact that there was anything serious in her mind about me!
Next, I got to know that this young lady was precariously perched to take off on a film career, which, all said and done, in those times, was considered taboo for girls from conservative Muslim families and I knew that this was why Naseem Aapa had wanted to send her to school in London, far away from the atmosphere of films.
Of course, when this subject was broached by S. Mukherjee Sahab, who was a close confidant and well-wisher of the family, I myself voiced an emphatic ‘NO’ to this idea and told him that Saira should be restrained from embarking on a film career.
In the early 1960s, we were about to begin the casting for A. R. Kardar’s Dil Diya Dard Liya (eventually released in 1966), when, at a close get-together at Mehboob Khan’s place, Mukherjee Sahab said: ‘Yousuf, this young girl is crazy to work with you.’ I smiled, and trying to deter her from this idea, I ran my hand through my salt-and-pepper hair and said to Saira: ‘Have you seen this grey hair? I am so much elder to you, and I eat like a pig!’ To which, I still remember, she laughed and said: ‘I think grey hair looks very distinguished on you! Very handsome.’
After her maiden venture, Junglee, there was no looking back for Saira and, curiously enough, Gunga Jumna and Junglee were released simultaneously in 1961! Both were stupendous hits! She became the most sought-after leading lady in the industry and she was paired with all the successful leading men of the time – such as Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand, Sunil Dutt, Shammi Kapoor, Rajendra Kumar, Joy Mukherjee and Manoj Kumar – except Dilip Kumar. There was a huge demand in the film market for a film starring her opposite me and talks were on, amongst many, for Habba Khatoon with Mehboob Sahab, for which the illustrious film maker required huge chunks of uninterrupted shooting dates (as the film was set in Kashmir and had to be shot there). Therefore she had to forgo doing Vijay Anand’s Guide with Dev Anand, S. U. Sunny’s Palki (also director of my 1960 film Kohinoor) and, of course, Leader for Filmalaya’s S. Mukherjee Sahab, for which they were also considering newcomer Priya Rajvansh, who had come to Bombay from The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, London. Waheeda Rehman was chosen as the heroine for both Guide (1965) and Palki (1967). Priya Rajvansh later went on to team up with producer-director-actor Chetan Anand, and worked with him in films such as Haqeeqat (1964), Heer Ranjha (1970) and Hanste Zakhm (1973).
Meanwhile, from Saira herself I would get frequent and insistent messages and requests through the popular producers whom she was already working with to pair us in their forthcoming movies!
Unfortunately, I had to withdraw from Habba Khatoon, as I could not foresee myself doing Yousuf Chak’s (Habba Khatoon’s husband) character, which had some slants of negativity. Moreover, Mehboob Sahab and I did not seem to be like-minded on this aspect and did not see eye to eye. I also remember telling Naseem Aapa at Filmalaya Studios that Naushad Sahab’s story idea of Palki had a lot of jhols. In other words, the story sagged under its own weight and lacked in content.
Giving the mahurat clap for Saaz Aur Awaz (released in 1966).
As these projects fizzled out, at the same time, I was much in demand to give the auspicious mahurat* clap at many of Saira’s films. Saaz Aur Awaz was one such mahurat and Habba Khatoon was another. At the mahurat of the latter film, I told her, to her dismay, that all contenders for the role of Yousuf Chak were present, whereas I was only the clapper boy! Exasperated, she retorted that she was now grown up and taller too, to work with me, and asked if I would only give mahurat claps for her films or one day also work with her?
Unfortunately, I had to keep on refusing producers who wished to cast me opposite her, finding it very difficult to come to terms that this very fair and slim girl whom I had met on many occasions had indeed grown up, and was already doing films with Raj and Dev, who were almost the same age as I. I was working with actresses who matched my age and maturity.
I confided in Mukherjee Sahab and Sultan that I wanted to cast her in a specially written subject that I had in mind for her where our pairing would be ideal and perfect. This was a subject based with Kashmir as the backdrop, a script that I had written myself entitled ‘Song of the Valley’, where she had a wonderfully vivacious, effervescent role that ran the gamut of emotions.
At this long wait, she became very annoyed with me. I sensed that the polite, gracious and well-bred young lady was turning into an angry tigress who wilfully wanted to scorn me and seemed to be deliberately impolite to highlight the fact that she was terribly offended. For instance, in the Filmalaya Studio compound, if I were leaving in my car and spotted Ammaji (Saira’s grandmother) and Saira making their way from the stage floor towards their make-up room for a break, I would as always step out of my car and wish them Salaam Alaikum (peace be upon you). Ammaji would respond graciously, whereas Saira would turn away impetuously and strut away like a proud peacock as if she did not know me or hear me! I was amazed at this attitude! What a turn of events! She thought this kind of behaviour would have some effect on me!
In a double role in Ram Aur Shyam (1967).
The incredible beauty of life is that we never know what is about to happen next!
As we were to start Ram Aur Shyam, B. Nagi Reddy and A. Chakrapani (co-producer of the film) had, at the outset, suggested Saira’s name for the heroine opposite Ram, the timid character bullied to nervous shreds by Gajendra, his brother-in-law (played by Pran). Ram runs away from home and finds himself in a village and does not know what to do with the energetic, sprightly girl Shanta, who thinks he is her beau Shyam (a lookalike of Ram), who has mysteriously disappeared from the village for quite some time. Nagi Reddy was all admiration for Saira and her recent performances and was certain that her pairing with me in the comedy situations would be a huge draw since she possessed a wonderful flair for spirited comedy. Since it was my practice to take an active interest in the making of my film, I voiced my opinion that I did not agree with Nagi Reddy on this issue because I felt she was too delicate and innocent in appearance for a character that had to have loads of seductive appeal and a bold, buxom appearance. At the same time, Mehmood Ali, the famous comedian, was persistent that for this role we should cast vivacious Mumtaz, his co-star in many of his and wrestler Dara Singh’s movies. He was so sincere in his recommendation of her that he even carried tins of film reels depicting Mumtaz to exhibit how talented she was. Mumtaz eventually bagged that role.
My refusal to work in Ram Aur Shyam with her was the proverbial last straw on the camel’s back! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned! Sure enough,
I received more than my fair share of brickbats from Saira in various ways!
Ram Aur Shyam was progressing on the floors at a hectic pace and, as usual, I was completely immersed in my work when I received an invitation from Naseem Aapa to join her and her mother Shamshad Begum Sahiba in the celebration of Saira’s birthday and the house warming of their newly built bungalow, which was a stone’s throw from my own bungalow on Pali Hill.
With Saira and Mumtaz during the shooting of Ram Aur Shyam.
On the evening of 23 August 1966, when I specially flew to Bombay from Madras to attend the party that was being hosted by Naseem Aapa, I had no inkling that the course of my life was all set to change and the evening was destined to remain indelibly imprinted in my memory to this day!
When I alighted from my car and entered the beautiful garden that leads to the house, I can still recall my eyes falling on Saira standing in the foyer of her new house looking breathtakingly beautiful in a brocade sari. I was taken aback, because she was no longer the young girl I had consciously avoided working with because I thought she would look too young to be my heroine. She had indeed grown to full womanhood and was in reality more beautiful than I thought she was.
I simply stepped forward and shook her hand and for us Time stood still. For once, she let go of her annoyance with me and looked straight into my eyes and it did not take more than an instant for me to realize that she was the one Destiny had been knowingly reserving as my real-life partner while I was refusing to pair with her on screen!
We moved from the foyer to the large drawing room, which was fast filling up with friends of Naseem Aapa, who included Mrs Mehboob Khan, Mrs S. Mukherjee, R. K. Nayyar (producer-director), Shankar and Jaikishen (music directors), Fali Mistry (a famous cinematographer), Subodh Mukherjee (the producer and director of Junglee), Sanjeev Kumar (then an upcoming actor) and heroes such as Dev Anand, Rajendra Kumar, Sanjay Khan and Manoj Kumar, who were close to me as well. While conversing with Saira, I realized that for someone who had grown up in England and had studied at a privileged English school, I found her to be intrinsically very Indian and rooted to her native culture in the way she spoke respectfully to her mother’s friends and conducted herself.
My mind went back to one of my sojourns in Coimbatore (now in Tamil Nadu) where I had shot for Azaad (1955). I happened to meet, through S. S. Vasan Sahab, a noted astrologer who was known for the accuracy of his predictions. He made a chart simply by observing my facial features, expressions and the lines on my palm. I remember his narrow eyes, the sacred ash smeared across his brow and his thin arms, chest and neck. He sat before us silently studying the chart he had made and I remember the smile he gave us when he was ready to unveil my future. He spoke glowingly about my career and literally had me spellbound as he proceeded to describe in detail our house in Peshawar, the flowing water by the side, where I spent my childhood, about my parents, my siblings and my grandparents! Then, he paused and said that his forecast was sourced from ancient Bhrigu Sutras and categorically told me that I would marry late when I would be in my forties and my bride would be a girl half my age, as fair and beautiful as the moon and she would keep me on the lids of her eyes and love and worship me unselfishly, unconditionally. He also predicted that she would be from the same profession – to this I categorically commented: ‘Never! I will not marry a girl from my profession!’ Unfazed, he went on to say that, soon after the marriage, she would take the blow of my ‘karmas’ with a prolonged and near-fatal illness to absolve me and she would go through it ungrudgingly.
Both Vasan Sahab and I did not expect this categorical prediction about something that was neither on my mind nor on Vasan Sahab’s. It shook me up for a moment but, at that point of time, I was neither a believer nor a disbeliever of astral configurations that could make or mar one’s life. As mentioned earlier, I had had the childhood experience of my Dadi (paternal grandmother) who took the forecast of a fakir so seriously that she unintentionally disfigured my face with soot all through my school-going years in Peshawar. I was restored my smart, good looks as a school boy only when we moved to Bombay and I began to study at Anjuman Islam.
The whole episode did not mean much at that point of time and, as a busy young man, I gave little importance to it and moved on, forgetting about it in the flurry of day-to-day existence.
Strangely, the memory of that chance meeting surfaced now.
After the birthday celebarations, before taking my flight back to resume my shooting in Madras the next morning, I called up, wanting to thank Naseem Aapa for the wonderful get-together. Saira answered the phone and when I said ‘Main Yousuf bol raha hoon’ (I am Yousuf speaking), she mischievously replied: ‘Who? Yousuf? Kis se baat karni hai?’ (Whom do you want to talk to?) Knowing fully well who I was, she was hell-bent on pulling my leg! I then said that I wanted to thank her for being an excellent hostess at her party and that I had enjoyed the evening very much, unwinding from all the stress and hectic work that I had been ploughing through recently. I finally told her that I would call from Madras, and I did. I found myself soon calling up again after a couple of days, strangely missing this sprightly, mischievous girl who was a rare mixture of traditional, deep-rooted Indian values and Western culture and education.
I planned to fly down and meet her in the evening soon after her birthday. I had landed in Bombay when I received a call of distress from a colleague who was in a fix with regard to a tax problem and needed the help of my auditor. Saira was then shooting at Mehboob Studios for Lekh Tandon’s Jhuk Gaya Aasmaan (released in 1968) and I could not contact her as there were no mobile phones those days. She came out from the sets to Mrs Mistry’s (the studio operator) kiosk in the foyer of the studio. She was totally drenched from a rain song they were doing and, when I told her that I may not be able to see her then, well, she suggested that I had better not see her at all! As simple as that! Sensing Saira’s disappointment, I suggested that I would attend to the exigency with my auditor friend G. N. Joshi and help my colleague and then asked if I could take her to the Taj Sea Lounge for some time. We did just that, but, unfortunately, at the Sea Lounge also I was paged repeatedly on the phone by a lady friend with whom I had broken off a relationship months ago. This had been a stressful phase of my life. Anyway, as Saira and I were on our way home, I asked the chauffeur to park at the seafront on Cuffe Parade, and there was just silence between us for some time.
As she quietly gazed out at the sea, we listened to the gentle sound of waves that spread a serene calm that descended on us and I looked at her and said: ‘Saira, you are not the kind of girl I want to drive around with, or be seen around with … I would like to marry you … will you be my wife?’
Still upset with the irritating, disturbing calls that I had received and answered while sitting with her and G. N. Joshi at the Sea Lounge, Saira just turned around sharply to answer me with ‘… and how many girls have you said this to?’ Normally, I would have been enraged with such a line, but instead, enamoured with her straightforwardness and simplicity, I found myself telling her that she was loveable and I wanted her to be my wife. My inner voice, which I have always believed is Amma’s voice, had sealed the approval without hesitation and I knew deep within me that I had found the woman with whom I wanted to share my life, my sorrows and my joys. As she smiled and held me in her gaze with the love of a woman who had loved me since she was in her teens, we slowly drove back to Nepean Sea Road to her mother’s Sea Belle flat. I said I wanted Naseem Aapa, Ammaji and Sultan and his wife Rahat Beg’s approval, that I sought her hand.
I knew that Saira’s career had soared to extremely popular heights and also that she was passionate about her work, always praying every night before her sleep: ‘Allah, make me a big movie star like my mother, Pari Chehra* Naseem Banu and make me meet and Inshallah soon become Mrs Dilip Kumar.’ It would be very hard to relinquish the work that generated such euphoria of popularity.
In Leader (1964).
We found Ammaji and her
elder sister, Khursheed Bajijan, at home and I presented my proposal, like a good Pathan, to both the eldest members in the family. Ammaji most happily kissed my forehead, blessing us and was overwhelmed with tears of joy for the two of us: ‘Allah har khushi de aap dono ko aur Yousuf mian ka iqbal buland rakhen …. Aameen.’** Ammaji, always after, blessed me with this dua on every occasion throughout my life. We then proceeded to meet Naseem Aapa, Sultan and Rahat, at the Pali Hill bungalow, to which they were in the process of shifting. As a youngster, Sultan and the bunch of the Mukherjee boys, Rono, Joy and Debu, had always cycled around Pali Hill for fun and then stood outside my 48 Pali Hill gate like eager, keen children to have a glimpse of me. Later, Sultan, when he came back after schooling in London, joined the team of Leader (released in 1964) to watch the making of the film, learning the ropes of becoming a film director.
Naseem Aapa received us at her Pali Hill bungalow in ecstatic wonder; she was overwhelmed, joyously embracing us with the love that this graceful lady always showered on us. She and Sultan became my great support system in everyday life, as also my own extended family, ready to love and protect me.
We were first given the auspicious dahi (curds) and meetha (sweets) on this occasion with Naseem Aapa’s hand and then served a sumptuous meal synonymous with her refined and exquisite hospitality. Saira was so excited and must have been raring to eat, but self-consciously just bit on a morsel, chewed so slowly, until I had to tell her: ‘Saira aap issey apna hi ghar samajhiye aur khana khaiye!’ (Saira, consider this your own house and have your food!)
Soon after, Saira took permission from Naseem Aapa to go for a short drive and then to drop me home, just a stone’s throw away from her own bungalow. Although London schooled and bred, Saira had been very protectively brought up by Ammaji and Naseem Aapa as a young girl, taking the best out of Western education and upbringing but essentially and strictly inculcating Indian values. This was what appealed to me most about her personality. Hers had been a close-knit family of four members (apart from herself) – her grandmother, mother and elder brother, who were the world she grew up to know, love and understand, even as she became an entity on her own: a successful film star.