by Dilip Kumar
I could understand how Panditji had been impressed by my ability to speak effectively. In late 1960, my film Gunga Jumna had been refused a certificate by the Film Censor Board. This refusal was most unjust as Raj Kapoor’s Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai, which had also been seen by the board in the same week had been cleared with minor cuts. Raj’s film too had dacoity and dacoits as the backdrop and also its fair share of depiction of violence.
My appeal to Dr B. V. Keskar, then information and broadcasting (I & B) minister, fell on deaf ears because he had his own ideas about morality, decency and violence and had urged a stringent application of the censorship guidelines to all mainstream films. He would not listen to my reasoning and it became difficult to communicate with him. Desperate, I had sought a meeting with Panditji and had made a strong plea before him not only for my film but also for all the films held back by the Censor Board for flimsy reasons. Convinced by my appeal, Panditji ordered a review of Gunga Jumna. The board cleared the film just days before its scheduled release; not just that film, but also all others held up until then.
As I took leave of Krishna Menon, Rajni said we should meet the following day to plan and discuss the campaign strategy and other details. When we shook hands, it was a firm and warm clasp.
Rajni Patel and I became close friends as our meetings became regular and purposeful from then onwards. His intellectual sharpness was complemented by his caring nature and the principles he stood for. The 1962 election for the North Bombay Lok Sabha seat was one of the most dramatic contests in the poll history of the city. I went wherever I was taken by Rajni and it was customary for him to acquaint me with the agenda of each rally that I addressed only at the last minute.
Actually, the very first large political gathering I addressed was at the Cooperage grounds in South Bombay. Rajni and I were travelling by car to the venue and I had no idea that I would be called upon to make a speech. Somewhere near Marine Drive, Rajni informed me that I was among the speakers who would be called to address the large crowd. I got annoyed with him and told him it wasn’t funny. I pointed out that I was no politician to take off on a topic and enthral a crowd with extempore verbiage. He merely patted my hand and said: ‘Who expects a political speech from you? Leave that for the politicians. You speak to the crowd as Dilip Kumar.’ I could not fathom what he was saying. We were at the venue by then and I could sense the excitement of the crowd waiting to see me and hear me. Rajni was avoiding eye contact with me now, having put me in the most challenging situation of my life.
As I was ushered in, I heard people calling out for Dilip Kumar and it became imperative for me to go on the stage, grasp the microphone and speak. The shouting was more audible now that I was face to face with the crowd. I remembered how I recited the poem, ‘I have two eyes …’, before a cheering audience in Peshawar and the repeated encores I received. I drew a deep breath and spoke for 10 minutes! The applause was deafening when I concluded. The crowd was reluctant to leave the grounds and Rajni was beaming at me with a look of triumph. It was the start of a new chapter in my life as a public speaker.
I have been complimented so frequently by my relatives and friends for the many speeches I made during my campaign for Krishna Menon. I had to address not one but several public meetings every day. Everywhere, I was given the microphone and asked to speak. It required some amount of preparation but generally I relied on the knowledge I had gained by reading books on virtually all subjects. I am a book lover and my closest friends and my sisters and brothers knew how happy I was when they brought a good book for me as a gift.
My campaigning for the Congress party became a regular exercise after the splendid success achieved by Krishna Menon, who emerged victorious. My bonding with Rajni became stronger as we discovered our common goals, interests and values. Although Rajni was leading the Congress party in Bombay, he was not a politician in the strict sense of the term. He was more of a barrister and we had many common friends from the legal fraternity. Neither he nor I yearned for power and recognition. One day, while chatting casually, I told Rajni that a cosmopolitan city like Bombay deserved a spacious and grand venue to hold exhibitions and classical dance and music recitals, literary exchanges between eminent writers and a science centre that would give a fillip to the young upcoming scientists of the city. I had immense admiration for the work going on in the field of space technology and I was keenly following the progress and advancements in the field under Professor Vikram Sarabhai. Rajni responded excitedly and, in the early 1970s, he began preparing the first-ever proposal for an art, culture and science centre in Bombay to be presented to Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Like her father Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, she too took very little time to decide and she categorically stated that a cultural venue that would also exhibit the progress of science and technology was a requirement in Bombay; she gave the green signal to Rajni to prepare a proposal. Thus the first step towards the creation of the Nehru Centre at Worli was taken.
For Rajni and me, the meaning of politics was to serve the common people. Both Rajni and I could have won elections and been in the fray as active politicians but that thought was far from my mind and his. We were happy and satisfied every time we organized a fund collection drive to swell the government’s kitty for flood, famine or earthquake relief work. It took considerable planning and logistics management prowess to organize the processions of stars in vehicles moving slowly through the busiest roads of Bombay. I remember the truck processions we took out in Bombay after every natural calamity to provide relief to the victims.
We had to be very polite to the people who brought clothes, money, medicines, groceries, blankets and other items as their contribution to the relief funds and wanted to shake hands with their favourite stars in return. At the same time, we had to take optimum care of the safety of the actors as well. Not all fans behave with decency and respect when they are allowed to shake hands with the leading ladies. It was up to us, the men, in the trucks to take care of that aspect. On the whole, all of us enjoyed the drives through the main roads of the city and experiencing the adoration of the people we entertain with our acting. At the end of the day our collections made us feel rewarded and proud that, in our own small way, we had done our duty as citizens.
The day chosen for the laying of the foundation stone for the Nehru Centre at Worli by Indira Gandhi – 2 November 1972 – was one of great fulfilment and happiness for Rajni and me. In the evening Rajni decided to add to his happiness by getting married to Bakul, a charming and accomplished colleague in his profession he had long been wanting to propose marriage to. You can read Bakul’s account of the surprise midnight event in her own words in the second section of this book.
Rajni had a habit of springing surprises. One morning (sometime in early 1980), he woke me up while I was holidaying at Mahabaleshwar (a hill station in Maharashtra, located about 220 km from Bombay) to announce that he and Sharad Chandra Govindrao Pawar, who was then chief minister of Maharashtra, had decided to appoint me the sheriff of Bombay. For a moment I thought it was a prank. I was about to laugh it off when Rajni explained that there was no going back for me as the news had been officially given to the media and I could myself hear it if I switched on the radio.
Sharad Rao (as I called him) had been introduced to me by Rajni when the former was in the Congress. (He had quit that party in 1978, but rejoined it in 1987.) I had taken time off from my work to campaign for Sharad Rao when he had contested in the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly elections from Baramati (about 250 km from Bombay) in 1967.
The three of us met often at my residence or at Rajni’s apartment at Worli. Mention of my becoming the sheriff of Bombay had cropped up a couple of times earlier and I had expressed my inability to accept the position since I had just begun work on Manoj Kumar’s Kranti (released in February 1981). In my absence, my wonderful friends, Sharad Rao and Rajni, had accepted the position on my behalf. While I was trying to deter them from going ahead, Rajni informed me that t
here would be a great controversy leading to embarrassment for both of them if I did not accept the position. He assured me my new job was not going to interfere with my work. He clarified that it was an apolitical position and it did not entail my going to an office every day. Now that it was a fait accompli, I had no option but to accept.
The first person to get wind of the news and express his happiness about the appointment was Manoj Kumar who was making perhaps his most ambitious movie, Kranti, and it surprised me that he was least concerned about the schedules of his film possibly going haywire during my tenure as sheriff. Instead, he was agog with excitement about the honour being bestowed on me. He wanted me to seek permission from the Raj Bhavan to film the swearing-in ceremony before the governor of Maharashtra, Sadiq Ali.
As expected the news created a stir as it was the first time an actor was being given the position of the city’s sheriff. There was no respite for me for an entire year from the day of the swearing in till the last day at the sheriff’s office as the number of functions to attend started as early as 10 a.m. and went on till midnight. It was so hectic that Saira used to keep a suitcase packed with the different suits I would be wearing to the different functions in the dickey of my car and she found places for me to change into the suits if she could.
Being sworn in as sheriff of Bombay.
Everywhere I was expected to ‘say a few words’, a cliché that annoys me for its silliness. How does one speak only ‘a few words’, for example, when requested to speak on the ugly state of the municipal hospitals where the poor of this country go for medical treatment and medicines? This and many other concerns had to be addressed by me on different platforms during my tenure as sheriff. I was invited to speak on every possible topic and I was aware that I was under scrutiny by the smart alecs who waited to catch me on the wrong foot when I spoke on a specialized subject.
For some reason, there is a misconception that film personalities by and large have little general knowledge compared to other professionals and are capable of talking only about themselves and their work. I had to prove that assumption wrong. Without sounding boastful, I must say that I addressed large gatherings of professionals from such diverse areas as cardiology and poultry farming, horticulture and pharmaceuticals, and anything you can think of under the sun during the twelve months that Bombay suffered me as its sheriff. Although the shooting schedules of Kranti were in disarray due to my numerous social engagements as sheriff, I found time to shoot for the film, which made Amul butter come up with a tongue-in-cheek hoarding: ‘Sorry, pardner, the Sheriff’s out shootin’!’
My stints as sheriff and much later (from 2000 to 2006) as a Rajya Sabha member from Maharashtra were significant for me only for the opportunity they gave me to do some good social work. As the sheriff I enjoyed my interactions with people from various walks of life and, as a member of the Rajya Sabha, I felt very happy when I was able to make a contribution to deserving causes from the government funds that were at my disposal. I derived immense pleasure from the contributions I made over the years. I contributed to hospitals in the state so that they could acquire essential equipment and ambulances. I provided finances to build primary schools in rural areas of Maharashtra and to schools across the state (including some in Bombay) to purchase computers and other modern learning devices. I allocated money for laying roads in several places such as Bombay, Satara, Nasik and Nanded. I allotted funds to beautify gardens and create new parks in Bombay, especially at Bandra’s Bandstand. Above all, I contributed resources to construct clean and modern public washrooms in the slum areas of Bombay.
I am of the firm belief that the well-being of any society has much to do with the health care and basic education that it can offer to its poorer sections. There never was a request I ignored when I was approached for funds to start a school. Unfortunately, not all my good deeds bore the results I desired. I was pressurized by a friend in the political sphere of Maharashtra to give away a prime piece of land I possessed in Bombay near my residence at Bandra for development by the Municipal Corporation into a park. Unfortunately, the sad story is that the same land has remained undeveloped and unattended to this day.
The Amul hoarding.
I have always strongly endorsed the necessity for actors to possess a reasonable degree of social responsibility. The actor who is adored by millions of people owes something to the society, which has given him an elevated and highly respected position. I have considered it a blessing that I have been able to give a helping hand to the National Association of the Blind (NAB), of which I was the chairman for many years. It was something I got involved in at the instance of Vijay Merchant, ace cricketer and a former captain of India, who was a dear friend. I was called upon to play a character who loses his eyesight in Nitin Bose’s Deedar (1951) and it was rather difficult for me to determine how a blind person would look at the camera or at other characters in the film while enacting his scenes because of his handicap especially since he had had sight in the early portions of the film. I spoke to Mehboob Sahab about this aspect and he advised me to go to Bombay Central Railway Station and find a blind beggar who came there every day and sat outside the station asking passersby to drop a coin in his tin box. Mehboob Sahab said I should sit by his side, observe him, try to talk to him and understand his dark, lonely world.
I did just that and let me tell you it was a revelation. I used to go at a time when it was dark and the people passing by would be hurrying to catch the trains to their destinations and they did not bother to give the man or me seated next to him a second look. One day, I spoke to him and it so happened he had a visitor, who was also blind, sitting by his side. When the visitor heard my voice he asked: ‘Who are you? You sound like an actor whose film I have seen recently.’ I was stumped. I asked him: ‘How did you see the film? You cannot see.’ He said, very poignantly: ‘You don’t have to see a film; you can hear and feel a film if you have a heart to feel. Hum dekh nahin sakte lekin hum soch sakte, mehsoos kar sakte, hans sakte, ro sakte.’*
I was deeply touched by his courage and optimism. He blithely told me he had seen the film in which I had acted a few times because he liked the songs and the words. When Vijay Merchant placed the idea of the NAB before me and left it to me to do whatever I could to raise the funds required to champion the cause, it was the beggar’s face that came before my eyes and I felt I should not shirk my responsibility for want of time or patience. A voice inside me said that I should go whole hog and make the NAB self-sufficient and resourceful enough to help as many sightless people as possible to lead their lives with dignity and the self-respect that comes with self-reliance.
I was fortunate to get the wholehearted support of a young, vivacious, positive-thinking woman, Veera Rao, who had just emerged from Bombay’s Tata Institute of Social Sciences with flying colours, and whose forte was fund raising and fund management. She came up with several ideas and one of them was to run a special train from Bombay to Poona once every year with tickets that people would buy for the sheer pleasure of travelling with Dilip Kumar and talking to him and taking photographs with him. She had persisted in telling the office bearers of the NAB about the train that ran between Bombay and Poona on the Derby days and how the possibility of getting a seat in that train was as remote as getting a seat aboard a spaceship to Mars. Nobody paid heed to what the excited girl was saying and the idea remained in her head till I listened to her and adopted it at once.
Greeted by a passenger on the festive train.
Despite opposition from the pessimists who always like to jeopardize fruitful ideas, the train started its first journey with a large number of passengers and a lot of media attention. I was told that I would have to walk from the guard’s cabin to the very end of the train and I would stop to talk and exchange pleasantries with people along the way. I had no hesitation in doing so and, every year, I made the first announcement of the donation, which was Rs 50, 000. The first trip, in 1960, was a thumping success. So much money
was collected from donations alone that we could order the best Braille books in the world market for the blind students.
For ten years, I travelled by the special festive train to Poona. It was an experience I looked forward to because of the enjoyment it gave me and the pleasure I got when I sat down with people who had brought something special in their tiffin boxes for me and I also had food packets to offer them from the NAB. It was like a picnic and the best part of the journey was the opportunity I got to speak to the passengers in different Indian languages. They were simple folks who had seen my films and there was the initial shyness to open up and speak to me and my wife who accompanied me on most occasions. The diffidence dissolved instantaneously when I spoke in their own tongue and they realized that Dilip Kumar was a simple chap with simple tastes and a simple wife who walked two steps behind him and gazed admiringly at him when he talked in Tamil, Telugu, Konkani, Gujarati, Bengali and, of course, Punjabi, English, Hindi and Urdu. On different occasions I invited my friends from the film fraternity to join me and I recall the most popular guest I had on the train was Johnny Walker.
I do not know if it is in my genes or if it is something I have assimilated from the environment I was brought up in. It gives me great contentment and joy to espouse a good cause. Sometime in early 1988, I received a letter from a well-wisher in Peshawar (the city of my birth, now in Pakistan) saying that the city, despite all its material progress, had been without a blood bank for years to provide that vital liquid to those who suffer from thalassaemia and, for the first time, a social service body had come forward to set up a blood donation centre and a blood bank for the treatment of patients afflicted with the serious blood disorder. My well-wisher asked whether I could make it convenient to visit Peshawar and inaugurate the services of the blood bank.