Dilip Kumar: The Substance and the Shadow

by Dilip Kumar

  Mehboob Sahab was a gem of a human being who took good care of his actors and technicians when we shot on locations. He had arranged rooms for everybody in a decent hotel. Mukri, without mentioning it to me, went to the reception desk of the hotel and told the person on duty that he would be sharing my room and so he did not really require a separate room. The hotel’s housekeeping staff therefore did not bother to keep the room allotted to him equipped with items such as blankets, towels and bedspreads.

  It was late in the night when we packed up on the first day and I retired to my room for a good night’s sleep. It was winter and it was pleasantly cold. I had a quick, small meal and slipped under a quilt on my bed and was soon asleep. I had probably not locked the door for, half way through my sleep, I felt someone creep under the quilt. I woke up with a start and, to my great surprise, it was Mukri in his pyjamas and kurta all set to share my bed!

  I was naturally very irritated because I am a normal Pathan with normal instincts. I asked him what he was doing in my bed and he went into a lengthy explanation, which was as hilarious as it was crazy.

  Apparently, Mukri did not want to sleep in a room that was cold and had no blankets. So he walked down the corridor and, without knocking, entered a room, which he assumed was mine. As he could not see in the dark who was asleep in the room, he crept into the bed and there was Nadira screaming in fright and embarrassment and showering choice abuses on him. He was too scared to move for an instant but he gathered his wits and apologized profusely before she ordered him to leave at once or else …

  With nowhere to go, he had taken refuge in my room. He expected me to be kind and understanding but I was in no mood to tolerate his nonsense. I made sure that he went back to his room and did not come back. The episode did not end there. The repercussions were even more serious the next day. While a furious Nadira recounted what had happened the previous night, a suspicious Mrs Mehboob Khan’s imagination was running wild and the question that nagged her was: why was Nadira sleeping with her room unlocked? Was the door left open for Mehboob Sahab, who was rumoured to be having a soft spot in his large heart for the pretty, young newcomer?

  A showdown was in store between the couple. I sensed it because a tearful Mrs Mehboob Khan expressed her suspicions to me in private. It took all the diplomacy and tact I possessed to erase the doubts from her mind and calm down Mehboob Sahab who was enraged at Mukri’s audacity.

  From then onwards, I cautioned Mukri against taking rash decisions of his own and gave a standing instruction about two issues. One was that he would not trail behind me in hotel rooms and make-up rooms because I valued my privacy and independence. The other request to my dear friend Mukri was to stay away from alcohol during working hours. I was aware that he slid away quietly between shots at times to gulp down a small dose of what he called an energizer. It was alright as long as it was a small measure but there had been occasions when he went overboard and embarrassed me. So he was told very strictly by me not to touch the stuff during the shooting of S. U. Sunny’s Kohinoor (released in 1960). I also gave instructions to the unit hands not to oblige him if he asked for a drink during shoots.

  One afternoon, while I was wrapped up in a serious discussion with Sunny, I was taken by surprise by a swaying Mukri walking up to me and asking me as to what I thought of myself! He was very angry that the unit boys refused to arrange a drink for him, so he had made his own arrangement and had got hold of a bottle. He repeatedly slurred the question: ‘You think I can’t help myself? I am Mukri your best friend and you told the boys not to give me a drink!’

  In that state, he was not in a position to work and it upset my concentration. I called for pack-up and drove out of the studio leaving Mukri to find his way back. He soon realized I was angry with him and for the right reasons, too. As it always happens between friends we forgot the episode when we met after a few days and he promised me that it would not happen again.

  Kohinoor will remain etched in my mind for the efforts I made to learn to play the sitar. It was another chance for me to test my flair for the comedy genre in acting. I was very confident after Azaad’s success and I had a fine rapport with S. U. Sunny, who understood me and my tenacity to get as close to perfection as is possible in everything I did. He gave me ample freedom and time to take lessons before I did a scene. I enjoyed the making of Kohinoor also for the camaraderie that grew between me and Meena Kumari after Azaad as we, who were known for our forte with emotional drama and tragedy, came together for another light-hearted film.

  While on Kohinoor, I must narrate an interesting and eerie experience while location hunting for that film. Sunny and I decided to go by road beyond Nasik (in Maharashtra, about 190 km from Bombay) to find an apt location to shoot some nocturnal outdoor scenes for the picture. I suggested to Sunny that we start in the evening so that we could reach the proposed location after dusk and thus gauge the appeal of the place in the night. Sunny agreed and he went home to pack a few essential things for our travel and was to return by evening to my house.

  With Meena Kumari in Kohinoor (1960).

  Sunny’s wife always seemed to be a mysterious lady, full of unusual and curious questions. She was greatly interested in the supernatural and kept asking him if she could accompany us for the trip. She was perhaps in no mood to buy Sunny’s genuine reasons for setting out in the evening and his sudden decision to go with me. Sunny at once dismissed her request to go along with us and he quickly packed his bag and came to my house much in the adventurous spirit of the Sagitarian in me.

  He neither told me about his wife’s desire to travel with us nor did he let out the secret that his wife practised witchcraft. We were four men (including the camera assistant and the driver) in a car and there was no room for a woman and Sunny thought it pointless to explain this to his indignant wife.

  As we drove a few miles, the sun began to go down and the night was steadily setting in. Quite unexpectedly, the weather changed, taking us completely by surprise with gusts of wind and rain beating on the car’s front glass ferociously. We still had quite some distance to go. Sunny and the camera assistant, who was seated in front beside the driver, felt we should stop somewhere and wait for the rain to cease and then proceed on our onward journey. I agreed and we began looking for any sign of habitation along the stretch of barren land on either side of the highway we were cautiously moving on.

  Soon, we spotted a remote, dilapidated shed and we stopped the car gingerly. Sunny and I got out and began walking to the ramshackle shed that we could now clearly see. It had a broken thatched roof and there was an open gunny bag tied across with a bit of rope, like a curtain while a goat tied to a shrub was shivering and eyeing us with the forlorn hope of being taken into the shed for shelter.

  Inside the shed, there were logs of wood, some debris and a broken bench. I sat on the bench and Sunny strolled over to the goat to see if he could free the poor animal. The gunny bag fluttered in the wind and lightning flashed in the sky. The gale continued unabated. Sunny was walking back to where I was seated when the gunny bag parted and there in front of us was, suddenly, believe it or not, Sunny’s wife. She was standing defiantly and staring at us puissantly with a victorious smile on her face as her hand crossed over her face to mysteriously wipe something crimson from her lips. If I remained unshaken by the sight of the woman who was physically miles away from us, it was because of my steely Pathan grit. The camera assistant was trembling and Sunny was rooted to the spot he stood on.

  The downpour ceased and we silently resumed our journey in the car. Sunny was speechless with shame or embarrassment and the camera assistant had no words either. The driver was oblivious of the whole episode since he had remained in the car. I tried to ease the chill I could feel by humming a song I knew in Pushtu.

  We reached the location, surveyed it and returned to Bombay. Back in the safety of my home, the next afternoon I had just narrated the grisly experienced graphically to my sisters who heard me out spellbound as if
they were watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie when we heard the horn of a car that had entered through the gates of our bungalow. The girls ran to look down from the terrace on the first floor as is their wont when a visitor drove into the front yard. To my shock they were shrieking with fear and the younger girls were trembling. The visitors were none other than Sunny and his wife. Was it coincidence or some mumbo jumbo of black magic?

  21

  TAKING CARE OF SAIRA

  Sir Francis Avery-Jones [the doctor treating Saira Banu] paid a handsome tribute, saying that he had never seen such loving caretaking of a patient by a husband and a mother. He went on to say this could only happen with Eastern people with Eastern values and emotions. Saira recovered almost miraculously as a result of our collective efforts and by the grace and benevolence of Allah.

  AS MY CAR DROVE IN TO THE LOCATION FOR HER WORK SPOT, SHE joyously came running down the hill and we left there and then in a luxurious limousine on a long drive for our honeymoon in nearby Bhutan. By now she was familiar with my preferences for obscure, or rather unfrequented, places for outings, rather than the popular, celebrity-studded areas. Having travelled the world over during her childhood and teens, first with her mother and then for her shoots, Saira was very much accustomed to Europe, seven-star comfort and the hubbub of big towns. Whenever in later years we travelled to some spot abroad, she had already been there! However, as a bachelor, I liked the solitude and the quietude of a daak bungalow. My chauffeur and man Friday used to load my car dicky with eggs, onions, potatoes and all the basic necessities for survival on home cooking. My love of nature and of pristine isolated surroundings with a good book by my side – that was my recipe for good living and a satisfactory holiday.

  Bhutan’s beautiful landscapes and difficult access through sheer drops of mountainous terrain held great promise of an unusual ‘never-before’ holiday. It was gorgeous. We had been invited to visit Bhutan by the royal family. There was a beautiful forested area wherein there were wonderfully constructed log houses amidst the greenery all around and we opted to spend our night there. It was very cold and the wind was gushing and strong, indicating the advent of a chilly winter. With no heating as such, except huge charcoal burners (sigdis) that warmed up our log cabins, we snuggled into our blankets and dozed off to sleep. Noorjehan, Saira’s chief maid-in-waiting, who came as part of the ‘dahej’ (dowry), as was jokingly mentioned, was deep in slumber in the next cabin.

  All was quiet and well as the breeze outside sang its own song merrily. I suddenly awoke to the feeling that Saira was not by my side. I hurriedly got up, looked everywhere possible and then darted to the bathroom.

  What I saw was a nightmare. She was lying unconscious, her body curled and quite still in a white nightgown, her long braid of hair cascading on the floor. By sheer providence, her head had not been injured. She had missed falling on the basin. As I quickly bent and carried her in my arms to the room, all I could utter was ‘Ya Allah! Nothing must happen to you, nothing must happen now that I have found you.’

  Hurriedly, doctors were called and they pointed out that we had made the terrible mistake of shutting off fresh air by closing all windows and since there was a sigdi with burning coal in some part of the cabin, obviously, some of the coal was left unburnt and hence the dangerous presence of carbon monoxide everywhere inside the cabin. It could have been lethal.

  My mind darted to the Coimbatore astrologer’s predictions, which I had just dismissed nonchalantly.

  We quickly returned home to Bombay. Saira had to report for the shooting of one of the films she was committed to.

  Since I had been single for so long, I sensed that it was difficult for my sisters and brother Ahsan to share me with Saira, my wife. This was something I had anticipated and was prepared for, but the surprise that awaited me was their resentment of the fact that my wife had her own fame and her own lifestyle. In her own house she lived like a princess, the apple of her family’s eye who had everything done for her without asking. Here she was in a joint family, ruled by my elder sister Sakina Aapa, who was not easy to get on with, and apart from that, my married sisters such as Saeeda and Fauzia and the latter’s husband also decided to come and stay with us after our wedding. As a working person who reported for her shoots well on time, Saira needed her own space and particular facilities to meet her schedules.

  Unfortunately, commonplace amenities, such as the availability of her own washroom for a shower, were not easy to come by, since, for instance, Fauzia would invariably want to use it at the same time. Saira never once complained and she found it easier to simply walk across in a couple of minutes to her own bungalow, bathe and then get ready in her make-up room, before leaving for her shoot.

  Saira with my sisters and bhabhi. (L to R): Farida, Saeeda, Taj, Sakina Aapa, Aquila Bhabhi and Fauzia.

  I could see that it was not the ideal situation for us. Unfortunately, our family’s old maid Rabia and my valet Anwar were on a trip of their own, making things difficult for Saira’s maid Noorjehan to muster together breakfast for her. It was in a way a very comic strategy, as you see in film situations.

  I was silent and quietly observed the happenings till a given time, always being supportive of my sisters, so that they would not feel that I was letting them down. In such situations Saira and I had an understanding and I wondered how this young person had such patience and forbearance to ignore annoying, trivial issues. In all fairness to Saira, who was at the time a very timid and vulnerable girl, I must acknowledge that she tried to cement her relationship with my sisters with a genuine effort to win them over with love and respect.

  The stress began to tell on her health. Soon Saira became very ill with ulcerative colitis. It was the result of the emotional stress that had been building up within her in the hostile atmosphere that she was living in and the unfriendliness she was suddenly exposed to after leading a happy, secure and sheltered life in her own home. The physicians treating her made no secret of the medically psychosomatic causative and predisposing factors that had led to such painful intestinal inflammation. Saira and Naseem Aapa gracefully tried to cover it up by blaming it on a bad omelette that she ate. As it was, to cater to Saira’s doctor prescribed bland, stipulated diet, Naseem Aapa took it upon herself to send us breakfast and lunch, if we were home, and also dinner if we were not dining out.

  The debilitating effect of the intestinal malfunctioning began to show and, for a while, we had to treat this condition at St Elizabeth’s Nursing Home in Bombay. This decision was indeed wise and timely and she seemed to recover somewhat. However, physicians advised us that to repair the damage completely it would be recommended to shift her to the London Clinic (one of the largest hospitals in the UK) under the expert supervision of the world-famous gastroenterologist Sir Francis Avery-Jones, one of Queen Elizabeth’s doctors.

  Ammaji (Saira’s grandmother), Sultan and Rahat rallied around to quickly enable me and Naseem Aapa to carry out all the required formalities and immediately send us off to London. Amongst other dear friends, Yash Chopra, Satish Bhalla and Balraj Kohli were always around to help us and came right up to the airport to see us off.

  At the London Clinic, I felt completely humbled by my helplessness when I sat by her bedside, her beautiful eyes smiling feebly at me, expressing even in her fear and pain how much she loved me and appreciated my being there all the time. The London Clinic was very strict and would not allow outsiders in the patient’s room, but through the sympathetic good offices of Sir Francis Avery-Jones, Naseem Aapa was allowed to sit in a chair all day and night as Saira received the specialized cortisone-based treatment. Sir Francis Avery-Jones knew that Naseem Aapa herself had been debilitated earlier in Bombay with a slipped disc problem and yet she continued to sit in a small chair that was allotted to her by her daughter’s bedside. Sir Francis Avery-Jones paid a handsome tribute, saying that he had never seen such loving caretaking of a patient by a husband and a mother. He went on to say this could only happen with
Eastern people with Eastern values and emotions. Saira recovered almost miraculously as a result of our collective efforts and by the grace and benevolence of Allah. She rested for about a month in the clinic and resumed her shooting for Manoj Kumar’s Purab Aur Pacchim in London. (The film was eventually released in 1970.)

  Here I must say that Manoj’s stand as the producer-director of the film was admirable. He assured me he would wait for Saira to recover fully and only then shoot for Purab Aur Pacchim as he had written the script with Saira in mind. If she did not do it, he would shelve the project, he told me. Years later, when Manoj wanted me to consider doing Kranti (released in 1981), I must admit this one memorable deed on his part made me take up the project without my customary reading of the complete script. I agreed to work in the film after listening to the subject in a nutshell because I wanted to pay back a debt.

  On the other hand, Subodh Mukherjee – with whom Saira had made her debut in Junglee (1961) and had worked in three films thereafter for his production house (and who was considered part of her own family) – let her down completely. She had specially acquired a subject from writer Gulshan Nanda (Sharmeelee) for Subodh to make with her in the leading role and she had allotted outdoor shooting dates for the picture. However, when she took unwell, she was unceremoniously replaced with another artiste without as much as telling her! So much for courtesy and ethics! Sharmeelee was released in 1971, with Raakhee as the heroine (in a double role).

  In the early 1970s, we spent some weeks in the fashionable First-World city. (It was here that Saira had spent her childhood and adolescence.) We spent our days just being with each other or going on long drives across the countryside. As is well known to those who have been visiting London frequently, the face of the city has a deceptive constancy about its appearance and it takes a keen eye to observe and recognize the changes. At that time, the skyscrapers had not come up and the grey skyline held out a unique appeal of grandeur combined with simplicity in its famous sights.