by Dilip Kumar
Peshawar was no longer occupying my thoughts, though Raj (Kapoor) and I often recalled our childhood years spent there whenever we met. The invitation to visit Peshawar for a worthy cause was, however, irresistible. I discussed the invitation with Saira and she too was of the opinion that I should lend whatever support I could to the Fatimid Foundation, which was setting up the blood donation centre and the blood bank. I accepted the invitation and was surprised when I was informed that Pakistan President General Muhammad Zia-ul Haq had come to know of my acceptance of the invitation and he had decided to host my visit and invite me as a state guest.
The simple invitation to inaugurate a blood bank had turned from a quiet personal visit into a big event now, with the Pakistan president declaring it a state visit by an Indian dignitary, which somewhat both appalled and humbled me for the simple reason that I have never ever seen myself as anyone but an industrious actor who made it to the top by dint of hard work and some luck. I was no head of state or envoy of the Indian Government to merit the honour. As can be imagined, the preparations for the visit from our side had to be on a much bigger scale since I was going to travel with an entourage of attendants, family members and media persons.
In the midst of the flurry of arrangements for the journey that was being marshalled by Naseem Aapa and Saira, I found myself overwhelmed by the prospect of setting foot once again in Peshawar on the soil that once belonged to India, the country I proudly call my own. When the partition of independent India occurred in August 1947 and Aghaji came to know that his land and his belongings were now in Pakistan, the new country that had taken birth, he was no doubt disturbed. Even so, his first spontaneous reaction to those who urged him to go to Peshawar and hold on to his properties was: ‘We will remain in India and die in India.’
A caravan of memories kept passing before my inner eye as I immersed myself in the mental preparation for the visit. The sounds and smells of our house and its surroundings, the faces of friends and family members, the resounding sound of the temple bells that often merged with the deep-throated azaan (a call to prayer) resonating from the nearby mosque in the twilight hours, the commanding voice of Dadi, the chill of winter and the heat of summer … were all back in my consciousness. I felt a pang in my heart that Amma and Aghaji were not with me to share the jubilation of my visit as a state guest, an honour conferred usually on heads of state. Aghaji would certainly have felt proud, as proud as he would have been if I had secured an OBE!
We were due to travel in early April 1988 to Karachi. Ahead of our visit, we learned that the pilots in Pakistan were vying with each other as to who would be flying the Pakistan International Airlines flight carrying me on my first-ever visit to their country. Anyway, the captain’s excited voice welcomed me and my entourage with emotion-packed words conveying the pride he and his crew felt to have me on board and be part of what was described by them as a historic visit. Likewise, when he announced the transit of the flight across the Indo–Pak border into Pak territory, his voice was once again full of pride and happiness that PIA had been accorded the privilege and honour of flying me to Pakistan.
It was understandable that mine was a significant visit that gave the inhabitants of Pakistan a sense of jubilation and thrill because Peshawar, my native city, was now in their country. The boy, Yousuf – with the shaven head and disfigured face who had left Peshawar in the mid-1930s for Bombay with Aghaji, Mohammad Sarwar Khan, who had a good social standing in that city as a prosperous fruit merchant – was now returning as Dilip Kumar, the actor who had worked hard and earned a fine reputation for his work. It gave the natives of Peshawar and Pakistan a just sense of pride that was natural and expected in the circumstances. It was appropriate from their point of view, but for me, the emotional import of the visit had more to do with the reliving of a past that had receded from my mind in the perennial bustle of my professional and personal commitments in Bombay, where I had long since grown roots.
On the appointed day, 2 April 1988, Saira, yours truly and a group of close friends and family members besides our attendants and a camera crew, took off for Karachi. We landed to a tumultuous welcome at the Karachi airport and, for every single day thereafter, we moved around in a motorcade that took hours to reach any destination because of the excited crowds breaking the security barricades and making a beeline for the open car that I travelled in. We lived through an unforgettable experience of love and adulation that moved all those who were accompanying me, including my brother Ahsan, to tears.
The trip was hectic and tiring, with ever so many grand state functions hosted by Zia Sahab, plus dinners, lunches, teas and visits to familiar and now-famous places, such as my house in Kissa Khwani Bazaar, besides get-togethers with cousins and their families, umpteen interactions with the electronic and print media and powwows with school friends who were surprised that I had not forgotten their names and their pranks! What gladdened my heart was that I was able to make my visit to Peshawar purposeful with the inauguration of the Fatimid Foundation’s blood donation centre and blood bank. What was even more heart warming was the loud and clear affectionate response I got from the crowds when I addressed them and I visualized a day when the two countries could have friendly ties and fruitful and productive trade relations for the mutual betterment of their economies.
No striking changes were visible in Peshawar. Our old house was as it was and so were the other houses in the street. The bazaar bristled with the appetizing flavours and the sizzle of chapli kebabs and the man who was at the tea stall, where the men accompanying me stopped to have the hot, fragrant brew, was as friendly as his predecessors were. The tea served in the tea stalls always had a strong aroma whether it was served with milk or without milk as kahwah. The old places I passed by were unchanged except for a new structure here and there but the cityscape at other places certainly confirmed the impact of welcome modern architectural influences.
The drive through the main roads, especially at night, was an unusual experience. The roads were carpeted and, at every hundred feet, there were decorative arches with lights and chandeliers hanging from them. It was as if the city was celebrating a festival of lights. The crowds lining the two sides were too excited to be kept back by the policemen on duty. They were daring enough to defy the police officers and climb on to the bonnet of my car to shake hands with me. The experience was like a dream and it filled me with a feeling of gratitude to the Almighty.
During my visit to Peshawar in 1988.
I returned to Bombay to receive the bad news that my dear friend Raj (Kapoor) was in hospital in Delhi. The news shattered me completely as I had spoken to him when the invitation had come from Peshawar and again before I had left for Karachi. I flew to Delhi to visit him at the Apollo Hospital where he had been admitted. I prayed in vain to Allah not to take him away from us. Raj passed away on 2 June 1988.
My second visit to Pakistan was in the latter half of March 1998 to receive Pakistan’s highest civilian award, the Nishan-e-Imtiaz, which translated means Order of Excellence. It is more or less equivalent to the Order of the British Empire and the United States Presidential Medal of Freedom and it is not restricted to Pakistan. The recognition stirred a controversy when the Shiv Sena supremo, Balasaheb Thackeray (known for his anti-Pakistan stance), proclaimed that I should not receive the award. He indirectly cast aspersions on my integrity and patriotism, which were uncalled for and hurt me deeply. I sought the advice of the then prime minister of India, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, and he declared categorically that I should receive the award. As he eloquently put it: ‘You are an artiste and as such you are not restrained by political or geographical barriers. You have been chosen for the humanitarian work you have done and your efforts to improve the relations between the two nations is well known.’ Had I even considered declining the award, which had no political or communal colour to it at that juncture, it could have only soured relations further and produced bad vibes between India and Pakistan.
The p
leasant part of the story, which must be told, is that my dear friend Sunil Dutt (a noted film maker, actor, Member of Parliament and cabinet minister known for his humanitarian work) came to my house and asked me if he could go with me to Pakistan to witness my receiving the award. I was naturally more than delighted and it was agreed that we would all travel together up to a certain point and, after that, Sunil would take off to his birthplace, Chotala (in the Punjab province of Pakistan), while I was visiting Peshawar. During this visit I had also undertaken to inaugurate, in Lahore, Pakistani cricketer Imran Khan’s charitable Shaukat Khanum Memorial Trust Hospital, for cancer patients, named after his mother, Shaukat Khanum.
I do not wish to dwell on unsavoury memories. Balasaheb Thackeray is no more (he passed away on 17 November 2012) and we forgot our differences and re-established our relations without much ado since neither he nor I believed in making ourselves and others around us miserable. To his followers and the political world he dominated he was known as ‘Tiger’. But I always felt he led more like a lion than a tiger – inspiring trust, loyalty and admiration in his followers. We had been introduced to each other before he became the Shiv Sena chief in June 1966. We respected and liked each other’s work – he liked my output as an actor and I admired his sharp, incisive cartoons.
In our long, enduring friendship what remained constant was our respect for each other’s professions. When we met at his home in Bombay to iron out differences that arose between us, it did not take more than a second for us to overcome past differences and to put aside everything to renew our respect and affection for each other. He was witty and entertaining when he was in his element. He and his wife Meena Tai were wonderful hosts and it was always a treat to share the simplicity of their life that never changed with the passage of time and the rise of his political career. In her own quiet way, Meena Tai kept him grounded and in touch with reality. She was the one who was in touch with old friends like us, calling us over to their home for simple meals and giving us a feeling of belonging. Meena Tai was a gem of a woman who taught their son Uddhav good manners and the importance of respecting elders.
On one occasion, when Saira and I were invited to a common friend’s house where the Thackerays had also been invited, Saira was suffering from a severe backache. Meena Tai noticed her discomfort and she mentioned it to Balasaheb. He stopped all the partying and went into the kitchen, asked for an empty glass bottle, had a vessel of water heated, poured it into the bottle and brought it to Saira to rest her aching back on it. His wife and daughter-in-law told Saira that he would show the same concern for them when they took ill at home.
We saw the sensitive and noble side of Balasaheb during the trying times Sunil Dutt faced when the latter’s son Sanjay was in jail.* He responded to Sunil Dutt with patience and understanding, which was exemplary at a time when all the so-called well-wishers Sunil counted upon were discreetly distancing themselves from him.
*We cannot see but we can think, we can feel, we can laugh, we can cry’.
*Sanjay Dutt was accused of being involved in the 12 March 1993 serial Bombay blasts and in April 1993 he was arrested. He was permitted to be released on bail by the Supreme Court in October 1995 but was rearrested in December 1995.
24
‘THE SECOND INNINGS’
After the completion of Bairaag [1976], I found myself once more at the crossroads and, this time, I made a firm resolve that I was not going to work for the sake of working as many actors do for want of other pursuits in life …. It was during … this trying phase that Manoj Kumar came to me with the idea of Kranti …. By the time Kranti was released in 1981, I was once again seized with the urge to bring the curtains down on my acting career and go on a holiday. Destiny, however, would not have it my way. Subhash Ghai came to me with the story of Vidhaata …
I AM OFTEN ASKED WHY I TOOK A SABBATICAL FROM WORK FOR nearly five years after Asit Sen’s Bairaag (1976) till I signed Manoj Kumar’s Kranti (released in 1981), followed by Subhash Ghai’s Vidhaata (1982). I was fifty-four when Bairaag was released and I worked arduously to define the three roles I enacted in it differently and distinctively. I felt I had worked for long and deserved a holiday. As a matter of fact, I had seriously decided to call it a day after the release of Ram Aur Shyam (1967) when I was just a little more than forty-four. The decision shocked Saira when I disclosed it to her confidentially. She could not reconcile with my reasoning that I felt I had made an unmistakable mark and I thought I should not be accused of milking the stardom and popularity I had achieved. I explained to Saira that I was more than content with all that I had achieved by ceaseless hard work and I did not wish to continue to tire myself out. Ram Aur Shyam was heading for record-breaking collections then and I was happy about it but the mature actor in me was missing the deep sense of satisfaction and achievement that a Devdas or a Naya Daur or a Kohinoor or an Aan stirred within when the product reached the audience.
With Saira in Bairaag (1976).
Saira was equally serious in her disagreement and did not give up her persuasion to change my resolve and brushed aside my attempts to tempt her with the vision of both of us going on long holidays to virgin destinations and exploring the flora and fauna of those places. Saira is no wild-life enthusiast and shudders at the thought of living in seclusion and tranquillity with only the roar of a lion to break the silence, whereas I love spending days in wild-life sanctuaries and waking up to the sight and sounds of beautiful birds with exotic plumes, cocking their heads and inspecting us from the lush green tree tops. It was a prospect that stimulated my imagination more than the prospect of perusing scripts of films that held little or no promise.
After the completion of Bairaag, I found myself once more at the crossroads and, this time, I made a firm resolve that I was not going to work for the sake of working as many actors do for want of other pursuits in life.
I thanked the Almighty that I was not desperate for work and I had other engrossing interests like reading, music, theatre, studying languages and may be writing my own film scripts. Knowing the situation in Indian cinema, which differed greatly from the situation in Hollywood and Western cinema, where actors who had attained a certain maturity and stature in the profession, got meatier roles to perform as they advanced in age, I felt the time had come for me to write my own scripts and direct movies.
Also, there was an influx of unknown and unseen faces in the production sector and they were mostly from other shady businesses, who wanted to be seen with well-known stars in public. Since they had surplus money which could not be accounted for and had to be squandered away in cash, they approached established actors with abominable scripts and tried to lure them with the promise of unheard-of remunerations. The situation was not unfamiliar to me.
I could not see eye to eye with the strangers who were trying to enter the industry through the dubious back door. It was also the time when a law suit that was slapped on me by a producer – A. R. Kardar – was coming up for repeated hearing and I was determined to fight tooth and nail to prove the falsehood of his charges. The irony was that the confrontation was provoked by an individual for whom I had done all that I could do as a star to redeem him from sinking into abject penury when his wife and children, who were in dire straits, came to my house several times to plead with me to work in the film he wished to produce. I accepted the film, Dil Diya Dard Liya (released in 1966), without giving it the serious thought I was known to give to the films I was offered. I worked tirelessly to hone the film and make it memorable so that I could give the man a place among the successful film makers of the country and end his hardships. In return, he perfidiously framed me on the basis of false allegations and accusations.
I am one of those patient men who can withstand immense trouble and pain to fight for justice if the need arose. I was so provoked by the ingratitude of the man that I diligently studied all the complex laws governing taxation in the country with the help of my dear friend, Narendra Kumar Salve (popularly k
nown as N. K. P. Salve), a professional in the field, who went on to become a Union minister in the early 1980s.
Until this vexing situation arose in the mid-1970s, Salve Sahab and I enjoyed our conversations about the splendid future of Indian cricket. Salve was an enthusiastic cricket player during his college days and so was I. We spent our evenings at the picturesque Cricket Club of India (CCI) and the Bombay Gymkhana exchanging recollections of some fine matches we had watched with brilliant players on the field in our youth. By 1982 Salve had become the president of the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and he was dreaming of India winning the one-day World Cup as a true patriot and lover of the sport. His dream came true in June 1983.
I was aware that Salve Sahab was a chartered accountant by profession but it never occurred to either of us that we would be putting our heads together to fight a legal battle one day. As a friend and well-wisher, Salve Sahab stood by me and gave me the encouragement and fillip to succeed in convincing the tax tribunal that I was no wilful tax evader or law breaker.
Salve Sahab’s able and eminent son, Harish, has given a detailed account of the trauma I was forced to experience for six long years which, like all the unsavoury memories in my professional life, I have long since relegated to oblivion. Those who will read and relish Harish’s uninhibited account in the second section of this book will not only get a picture of the mental harassment and ignominy I faced but also realize that good men like Salve Sahab, Purohitji and G. N. Joshi are God’s good men sent by Him to help the honest to prove their honesty and redeem their honour.
With Saira and Harish Salve at a party.