Dev Anand and the untold story of his misplaced picture!

Raju Korti
There are stars, there are legends. And then there is Dev Anand. Even in a city overpopulated with charm and charisma, Dev Anand stood apart. You couldn’t quite put a finger on what made him the cynosure of all eyes, but when he entered a room, the atmosphere changed perceptibly. The air thickened with awe and admiration. My most unforgettable experience of this phenomenon was in 1982 during the premiere of Swami Dada. The cast included rising stars like Mithun Chakraborty, Jackie Shroff, Padmini Kolhapure, and Rati Agnihotri. Yet they stood almost forgotten in a quiet corner, swallowed by the magnetic presence of (then) 59-year-old Dev Anand. Angular swagger intact, toothy smile firmly in place, his screen persona had simply spilled into real life. You saw the flesh-and-blood silhouette of a man who had eluded the clutches of age and irrelevance.

Over the years, I met him several times. At events in 2003 and 2007, and many more informally at Navketan Studios over his favourite snack sukhi bhelpuri. I normally steered clear of glittery events, wary of filmy noise and flashbulbs. But with Dev Anand around, all scepticism dissolved. I saw something remarkable: even when surrounded by stars like Hema Malini, Salman Khan, Girish Karnad or Boman Irani, the gravitational pull was always towards him. It wasn’t about seniority or legacy. It was something deeper, subtler. An aura that made even the accomplished appear as part of the crowd. As Asha Parekh once narrated to me, during the shooting of Jab Pyar Kisise Hota Hai, fans swarmed the sets only for Dev Anand. And after hours of shooting, he would patiently sign autographs, never once losing his temper or his radiant energy.

However, as claimed by producer-director Raj Khosla in his autobiography, that same overpowering charisma didn’t always sit well with co-stars. During the shooting of Bombai Ka Babu, Suchitra Sen, already a reigning superstar in Bengal, would sit sulking when crowds in Kullu gravitated entirely towards Dev Anand. She wasn’t used to playing second fiddle in public affection. Things came to a head when a wrap-up party celebrating Dev Anand’s shoot disturbed her and her husband’s rest. The resulting friction nearly derailed the schedule, until she returned to the set with a pointed quip, “You think she (the body double) can act better than me?”

There was also the warmth. Dev Anand never played the aloof matinee idol. He remembered names. He connected. Picked calls himself, never left it to his secretary. He exuded the kind of friendliness that made each person feel uniquely seen. He had no need to attract attention. It came to him effortlessly, like iron filings to a magnet. He didn’t have to retreat behind walls; he remained accessible, almost humbly so.

Many people realised pretty late that Dev Anand could be easily approached. In person, even over a call. That human accessibility, combined with his surreal stardom, was the enigma. His charm wasn’t just in the way he looked, but in the way he spoke. Distinct, stylised, with that peculiar cadence of words that drew you into his world. Everyone who met him felt as though they had glimpsed something intimate, something enduring. And perhaps, that only they had been privileged to be its privy.

Through it all, he remained ever-youthful. Dev Anand refused to be defined by time. He once told me, half-jokingly, that he was life itself. And in some way, I believed him. He would smile at me and say, “Ah, Raju Guide!”, a nod to Guide, his masterpiece. There couldn’t have been a more perfect metaphor for PR and communication. He was his own brand, his own campaign, his own message. No birthday tribute or memorial event can truly capture Dev Anand’s essence. Because legends like him don’t die. They simply move offscreen, letting the reels of memory play on.

Epilogue
There is an interesting piece of history behind the picture that I actually wanted to use with this blog. I thought it deserves a honourable mention, at least as a sidelight. My father had bought an Agfa-Gevaert camera from Rangoon way back in 1950 which lay unused for years in his almirah. I was (and am) no photographer, nor had the instincts for it. Yet, on an impulse, I decided to check out if the camera worked; and took it along for this event. Our official photographer (the late) Ashok Sawane looked at it curiously, chewed his pan, spat viciously before saying, “chal jayega shayad” (it might just work). It did and I clicked a picture with Dev Anand standing and making a point. DA autographed the back side of the printed invitation for the event; which I got affixed below the picture. Yesterday, I spent hours searching for the picture which now seems misplaced from my burgeoning memorabilia. Discarding all other picture of him with me, I finally decided to make do with this picture which Ashok had clicked; for sheer topicality!
Photo photo pe likha hota hai kheechne waale ka naam!