by Dilip Kumar
I have been with Sahab and Sairaji for five decades. Sahab told me recently: ‘Hum ko kabhi chod ke nahin jana. Mere bhai jaise ho tum.’ (Don’t ever leave me; you are like my brother.) I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t sleep that night.
*Personal dhobi.
VEERA RAO
I WAS A SHY YOUNG WOMAN WITH A POSTGRADUATE DEGREE FROM THE esteemed Tata Institute of Social Sciences in Bombay wanting to make a mark in the field of social work and social reform when Dilip Sahab took charge as the chairman of the National Association of the Blind. He was a superstar and everybody asked: what will an actor do for an organization like the NAB? At the most, they said, he will make an appearance once in a year and pretend to be concerned. They were all talking from general experience and certainly did not know how different Dilip Kumar was from other stars.
When Dilip Sahab took over as the chairman of NAB, the great challenge was to generate funds for the work we had on our agenda to improve the lot of the visually challenged and provide facilities for the specialized education they required. He had a meeting with all of us office bearers on NAB and I spoke about an idea that I had put forth to people in the management earlier and had got the cold shoulder.
The idea was to run a train once a year during the Derby races in Poona with double the charges of the normal train and call it ‘the NAB train for charity’. The idea took birth in my mind when I had gone to Poona once during the Derby days and I was almost stranded there as I could neither get a bus nor a taxi nor a seat in a train to return to Bombay.
I had to come back the same day because I had left my small baby behind in my mother’s care. Eventually the local station master helped me get a seat in a crowded train.
I had read about a train that ran during the Christmas season in London, which carried passengers who did last-minute shopping for Xmas and the train’s collections were used for charity. I presented this idea to Dilip Sahab and very timidly suggested that it would be a good idea to make it the NAB train in which people could travel with Dilip Kumar. It did not take Dilip Sahab more than a minute to welcome the idea and he asked me to start working on it.
The very first year itself the train was a huge success. Dilip Sahab boarded it at Victoria Terminus station and set it on its journey by waving a green flag. He announced the first donation of Rs 50,000 and he walked from one end of the train to the other talking to excited passengers who had purchased tickets only to travel with Dilip Sahab. The word spread and every year people waited to be in the special NAB train to Poona. Dilip Sahab was such an attraction not only because he was a huge star but also because he was so down to earth and he mixed freely with all the passengers. He was so committed that he did not ignore a single passenger who wished to chat with him. In fact, if a passenger came once and made it again the next year, he would recognize him or her and pick up the threads of the conversation he had the previous year.
For ten years we ran the train and Dilip Sahab never let us down. The ample funds collected were used for many useful equipment and books that were bought. Dilip Sahab came up with many more ideas to encourage education of the blind and along with the ace cricketer Vijay Merchant initiated the social movement to provide job opportunities and absorb the visually challenged into the mainstream of life.
Whenever we approached Dilip Sahab with an idea for a good cause, he obliged at once. There was no dilly-dallying or finding excuses. He came out with the first donation always from his pocket. At one large event for school children at the Brabourne Stadium in Bombay, we had invited Dilip Sahab and a couple of new stars to distribute prizes. I noticed that everybody was wearing dark glasses since it was afternoon. Dilip Sahab alone was not without sun glasses. I realized that Dilip Sahab never ever wore dark glasses. I asked him why he never shielded his eyes from the sun and he said: ‘I like to talk to people without hiding my eyes.’
I have been in the social service field for decades now. I have yet to come across someone as genuine and unselfish as Dilip Sahab.
WAHEEDA REHMAN
MY FIRST FILM WITH DILIP KUMAR SAHAB was Dil Diya Dard Liya. I remember it took me a while to get adjusted to his style of working. I had been working with Guru Dutt and Dev Anand who were celebrated for the kind of work they were doing. With Dilip Sahab the difference was that he prepared a lot and he involved himself and others in the discussions about the scenes to be shot, taking care of the minutest of details and only then would he be ready for the shot. I was basically a spontaneous actor and I did not do much preparation. By and by, I got accustomed to his way of working and it was smooth sailing.
A piece of advice from my father stood me in good stead when I faced the cameras with Dilip Sahab for the first time. He said to me when I was very young that an artiste should never get awed by the presence of any dignitary or celebrity before whom she or he may be performing. He gave me the advice when I was to give a dance recital in the august presence of C. Rajagopalachari, the governor general of India. I was nervous, but he advised me to concentrate on my performance and not be conscious of the governor general’s presence. I did just that.
I got accustomed to Dilip Sahab’s painstaking preparation to bring realism to his acting but I continued to work the way I always worked, getting into the role and scene when the lights were switched on and ‘action’ was called. It was customary when we were shooting for Aadmi [released in 1968] to have the scenes and dialogue handed over to us a day in advance so that we could be fully prepared for the work. Even though the director was Bhim Singh it was Dilip Sahab who was at the helm. So, when I did not get my scene and dialogue one day when pack-up was announced, I asked Dilip Sahab why nothing was given to me. Was I not required the next day, I wanted to know. He said: ‘You are required but in the shot you are not going to act, instead you are going to react exactly the way you react in real life flapping and waving your hands and speaking through your eyes to convey your excitement.’
I was puzzled. The next day, when I arrived on the sets for the shot, he reminded me that I would have to react exactly as I would if I were in the same situation in real life. He said: ‘You have this habit of gesticulating and giving facial expressions when you are talking. That’s what I want in this shot.’ It was a new experience for me and it was not only wonderful while I did what was told to me but it turned out to be a scene that got me compliments from my peers and seniors. I think this was the ‘tin ka dabba hatao’ [remove this tin box – referring to Dilip Kumar’s car] scene in Aadmi where Dilip Sahab strolls onto his property and I tick him off, thinking he is an intruder.
It was a mystery to me why Dilip Sahab did not give his name as director in the film credits when all the hard work behind the camera was being done by him, motivating both the technicians and artistes to give their best. If the artistes working with him are seen to be performing way better than they usually perform, it is because he challenges them with his own level of performance and the unrelenting effort he puts into his work.
In our time, we did not go to gyms and so on, but being the excellent sportsman that he is, Dilip Sahab never missed his game of badminton when we were outdoors or in a city away from home. He always asked what sport we enjoyed, making us take part not just to give us physical exercise but also to generate camaraderie in the unit. We were in Madras (now Chennai) for long stretches of time, sometimes for two months at a stretch shooting for Ram Aur Shyam and Aadmi simultaneously and we were all staying at the same place, which meant that we were bumping into each other after work also. Like a leader he took the initiative to see that none of us had any complaints and we shared good vibes and respected each other. There was a democratic atmosphere on the sets of all his starrers. He used to sit with us for meals and then suddenly get up and go to the table laid out for the technicians and others who were assistants in different departments to see what they were having.
Once, while we were in Ooty [a hill station now in Tamil Nadu] the weather suddenly turned bad and we could not continue
with our outdoor work for an entire week. There was no option but to stay indoors with nothing to do. Dilip Sahab disappeared for half a day and nobody knew where he had gone. His friend, Pran Sahab, got very worried. Then, late in the afternoon he returned with a pile of books. He decided to gift us all with books that we could engross ourselves with. There was fiction for those who loved fiction, crossword compilations for those who liked to solve word puzzles, joke collections for those who enjoyed humour …
There have been two regrets in my mind about Dilip Sahab’s splendid career. When I was working in Satyajit Ray’s Abhijan [1962], Mr Ray asked me if I could speak to Dilip Sahab about a film he had in mind, an idea he believed was perfect for Dilip Sahab. I spoke to Dilip Sahab but he did not give any reply. He just looked thoughtful. So I told Mr Ray to speak to him. I gathered later that Dilip Sahab did not agree to do the film because it required him to appear bare bodied. The other regret is that Dilip Kumar and Guru Dutt did not come together in Pyaasa [released in 1957]. It would have become a bigger world classic than it is today.
HARISH SALVE
WHEN SAIRAJI ASKED ME TO WRITE AN account on the traumatic experiences of Dilip Sahab leading up to the events of the summer of 1975, it brought forth memories etched deeply in my mind – some of shared joys and mirth, some of shared anger, sorrow and disappointment.
I met Dilip Sahab (my sister called him Dilip Uncle – I have always reverentially addressed him as Sir) in 1970. On a warm morning in May, my sister woke me up from a vacation-induced slumber to meet the legend who was there in person. I cannot forget meeting him for the first time. A study in sophistication, he was just as I had thought he would be – and more.
The conversation that ensued gradually disclosed the reasons why there was a visible agitation permeating his calm exterior.
His troubles began when the Income Tax Department decided to assess him on allegations of having earned black money – something for which Bollywood was, in public perception, notorious. The assessment would not only result in a large demand for escaped tax, but also penalties equal to the escaped income, and possible prosecution for evasion of tax.
The aforementioned deparment is not reputed for its fairness, but Indian businessmen have learned to take such tribulations as an inevitable cost of doing business in India. A sensitive artiste looks at life differently.
Having grown up in the household of one of India’s leading tax accountants, the sight of clients at the wrong end of the tax barrel was nothing new. Seeing Dilip Sahab in the years that followed has imbued me with a sensitivity to the feelings of those who reel at the idea of the ignominy of such allegations.
I kept track of what transpired in the years that followed – the stormy seventies leading up to the events of June 1975.
Having signed up for my articleship for chartered accountancy and having becoming a student of tax law, I came to understand the nuances of the problem. A raid conducted upon the disgruntled producer of a movie called Dil Diya Dard Liya* (clearly stage managed by him) supposedly yielded evidence by way of secret accounts maintained by him in which there was an entry against DK of a sum of Rs 10 lakh. There was no corroborative evidence to show that anything was paid by him or received by Dilip Sahab; nor indeed was there any material to suggest that the producer had a sum of Rs 10 lakh (a king’s ransom at that time) to pay in cash. Yet an allegation was made that Dilip Sahab possessed concealed income; penalties were imposed and there was a threat of a potential prosecution.
When the assessment proceedings were initiated, Dilip Sahab reached out to those in Delhi who professed friendship, protesting his innocence, pointing out the malice underlying the allegation and asking for being spared the harassment.
I saw him in Delhi often – at times hopeful, at times dejected, at times stoic, at times angry! It was a learning experience – one thing I learned at that young age was that there are no friends in the capital!
The assessment was made. He wisely pursued legal remedies, and there was some respite when an appeal against this perverse assessment was allowed.
The powers that be in Delhi had, in the meantime, promised Dilip Sahab that the system would be fair and would drop the matter if the first appeal went in his favour. It proved to be a ruse!
The year 1974 saw a spate of preventive detentions of those alleged to have committed economic offences (however tenuous the allegations) and personal liberties became a hostage to a shrill campaign to trample underfoot the rights of those alleged to be economic offenders in the march towards socialism.
In such a surcharged atmosphere, the promises of a sensible and humane resolution vanished as fast as the morning dew in summer.
By 1975, I remember my father, N. K. P. Salve (who later became a Union minister), angrily telling Dilip Sahab that he should now brace himself for a fight and contest the appeal in the Income Tax Tribunal.
I finished my graduation in May 1975, and my father decided to allow me to appear with him in the tribunal (carrying his files) until such time as I qualified as a chartered accountant. And my first case was Income Tax Officer vs Dilip Kumar alias Yousuf Khan, to be heard by the tribunal on a day-to-day basis in June 1975.
The hearing was set for the second week of June 1975. In the two weeks that preceded the hearing, we would sit in a suite in the Oberoi Hotel at Nariman Point, Bombay, and prepare the case. The team was headed by my father, and included his trusted lieutenant – Ajay Thakore, a tax accountant par excellence.
Then there was G. N. Joshi – Dilip Sahab’s trusted accountant.
One person I fondly remember was Purohitji – a wise old man who was in the movie finance business, but whose affection for Dilip Sahab was almost paternal.
Our meetings would start around 11 a.m. and end much after the sun had set in the Arabian Sea. Dilip Sahab would sit all day, attentive to the discussions among the team members. And when the accountants found themselves in any difficulty, he suggested a solution – at times in mellifluous Urdu and other times in English that would have been the envy of Richard Burton, a famous British actor known for his flawless diction! His clarity of thought was only matched by the magnificence of expression.
The hearing began and the department’s representative – a senior and experienced officer – tried tirelessly to put across the department’s case to the tribunal – only to increasing chagrin of the members whose tentative comments were carping to the point of being cynical as to what this case was all about.
And then all hell broke loose.
Just about this time, the Allahabad High Court (on 12 June 1975) set aside Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s election in 1971 to the Lok Sabha, and the Supreme Court vacation judge, Justice Krishna Iyer, true to his mettle, declined an absolute stay. On 25 June the infamous Emergency was declared.
My father had to seek a short adjournment as (being a Congress MP) he had to fly to Delhi for a day or two.
My youthful anger at the injustice heaped upon this iconic Indian, increased exponentially at what I considered dishonest suspension of democracy under the power of numbers and rhetoric – a view I still maintain.
It was in this surcharged atmosphere that the hearing went on for about three weeks.
Realizing the potential of his client’s skills in vocal mesmerization, my father obviously decided to unleash him upon the unsuspecting members of the tribunal at some time (although he did not, as a foxy interlocutor, disclose his intentions to us).
The opportunity presented itself in a moment when the tribunal members asked my father about how a movie was produced. My father asked for leave to ask his client to explain the process – this brought the roof down on the department’s case!
What chance did those poor mortals – of an age when they possibly swooned over Suhaana Safar* in their youth – have against the scene that had just unfolded.
By the end of that day, the fate of the case was sealed even if the arguments carried on. Dilip Sahab spoke for over 40 minutes explaining not
just how movies are made but how he had been pilloried. This was followed by a two-minute silence – almost as though to mourn the death of the department’s case.
Dilip Sahab decided to host a celebratory dinner – even though one last day of hearing remained. It was an unbridled joy to see him in good cheer – I realized the worth of hard work to vindicate the honour of a client.
The evening was magical. Purohitji produced another surprise – he brought along his two sons who were fantastic ghazal singers.
Sairaji was as always – at her best. A gracious host, charming the guests equally by turn of phrase as by her magical smile.
And on a personal note – I met one of Dilip Sahab’s dearest friends – the late Satish Bhalla. Little did I know in the summer of 1975, that I would fall madly in love with – and marry – his niece Meenakshi – in 1981.
I joined the bar in 1980 – and the first case I appeared in the Supreme Court was the petition for leave to appeal by the Income Tax Department against the tribunal judgment in favour of Dilip Sahab. To my immense joy, it lasted for all of two minutes before the judges threw it out!
A friendship made in trying times endures forever. Dilip Sahab – the consummate Pathan – was one of my father’s closest friends. My mother – an astute judge of the human character and a person difficult to please – was always very happy to meet Sairaji and Dilip Sahab.
My father moved to Aurangzeb Road in New Delhi after he became a minister in 1983 in Indira Gandhi’s cabinet. Memories abound of evenings of music, poetry and mirth spent in my father’s home with Sairaji and Dilip Sahab.