Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindusthani. That was Raj Kapoor for you.

Raju Korti

Circa 1974. My first dekko of Raj Kapoor was part perchance and part choice. Untill then, I had happened to file past the famed RK Studios in Chembur umpteen number of times without ever being poked by the curious admirer in me to meet the man so often described as the "Greatest Showman" of film industry.
RK was then flush with Bobby's unprecedented juke box office draw and the launch of his son Chintu (Rishi) and a certain Miss Petitite Dimple Kapadia. A perpetual grin lighted up his face and reached right up to his sea blue eyes. The reason wasn't far to seek. The man had virtually gone bankrupt pampering his old dream of Mera Naam Joker, a heavyweight theme that nursed heavyweights. As one who knew better than anyone else in the quicksands of the fickle film industry, RK had failed to guage public pulse with the result that Joker failed to amuse the masses. Bobby was thus a case of desperate situation brooking desperate measures. But it wiped out RK's losses for good. Not that he was averse to experimentation. RK had given ample evidence that he could be sensibly inclined with meaningful cinema like Boot Polish, Jaagte Raho and Teesri Kasam.
RK ushered me into his office with his trademark smile stars usually reserve for their smitten fans. He soon realised I wasn't one and got more matter-of-fact. Actually, I had never looked at him as part of the legendary trinity of Dev Anand and Dilip Kumar. RK wasn't a style icon and didn't have the kind of urbane charisma of Dev. Nor did he put on show the weighty disposition of Dilip Kumar. Off screen, he was just the same lovable, simpleton Chaplinsque tramp who could tug at your heart-strings.
As we settled comfortably to talk about his films and his music, I got first-hand evidence of all those stories of RK being an insatiable glutton. Even during my subsequent meetings with him, I kept wondering how his tummy was flexible to accommodate all that food he relished so much. Every now and then, he would just scoop his index finger from the nearby window to order dosas, wadas, idlis and uttapams. He would also wash them down with Scotch that he would fish out from his coat pockets. And then, his face flushed and sparkling like red wine, he would unspool memories, most of which I knew and had heard.
But RK was as ravenous when it came to movie-making. He would be like a man possessed when he made his cinema. At times he gave the impression that the world didn't exist so engrossed he would get while making a film. He peaked when he would himself go through the arduous process of editing and washing the film. This RK was a complete anti-thesis of the RK people knew. He would shut himself off in the dark room for days on end, often skipping his food and his Scotch. But of course, the moment he was through with the technicalities that sometimes lasted more than a fortnight, RK would fish his pockets for the first swig.
He was, of course, a complete team man and one area he excelled in was music. Stories abounded about how he could harness the talents of composer duo Shankar-Jaikishen. I recall how music aficianados indulged in animated debate on who between the two was closer to RK. I, however, got it from RK himself though he did not say it in very many words.
I am inclined to believe that RK had just that little soft corner for the Gujarati Jaikishen, the handsome take-it-easy man who he thought was cut out for lead roles. But he also had enough head on his shoulders to acknowledge that Andhrite Shankar was the cerebral of the two. He straddled the geniuses of the two without ever losing his upper hand. I still remember how RK was anguished when a certain lady singer was responsible for knocking the hyphen out of SJ. Right from the days of Barsaat and Awaara, RK evinced keen interest in his music. And we all know how it set an entire generation aflame. SJ were to RK what SD Burman was to Dev Anand.
In his expansive moods, RK would never mince words and feelings even when it came to his lady loves. It would be out of place to dwell on those chapters of his life but if one were to learn from his capacity to absorb failures, RK would make a model example.
On his death anniversary yesterday, I went into a flashback. Curiously, I was in the night shift the day he was awarded the Dadasaheb Phalke award by then President R Venkatraman, breaking the protocol and walking upto him to hand it over. Chronic asthmatic, RK was breathless. He never gathered his breath back. More than a fortnight later, the Anaadi who made an entire Soviet Union swoon to his foot-tapping "Awaara hoon.." had lapsed into history. Coincidence willed it that as a editor in-chare of that night shift, I had the misfortune of "cremating" him.