Indian cinema's desktop is dotted by any number of unused icons, but if there is one icon without whom you cannot boot in, it is Pran Krishen Sikand who virtually saw the evolution of silver screen through his 93 years.
Usually the rise to stardom of any film star is known to be punctuated with long saga of struggle. Pran who heralded his entry on the big canvas in its nascent days had nothing of the kind to confront with. It was as if he was ordained into the profession by God's decree. He had everything going for him. To begin with he came from an affluent family, and by the time he docketed his handsome frame with the tinsel town, there were few to contend with in his craft. He was entertained to entertain. And entertain he did with the aplomb and style that set benchmarks for the clones that he spawned but never got anywhere close to the original.
Like many others those days who later changed tack to become baddies from heroes, Pran started with lead roles, but he never carried any label or baggage with him. He was always perfectly at ease with any kind of role and invariable infused life into it. However, it was the sharp malevolence that defined his persona and made him stand out as a villain peerless. From a cheap shyster to a blood-thirsty brigand and from a plundering zameendar to a sauve racketeer, he was the epitome of true libertine, evildoer.
What set him apart from those of his ilk and who never made any secret of their unabashed admiration for his archetypal-yet-unorthodox acting skills was he never had to make grotesque faces or be melodramatic to look a villain. He could throw a scare into you just by blowing a stream of smoke rings, narrowing one eye; face creased into a faint, threatening smile and with a voice you cut steel on. No dramatic flurry of hands or overplay of body language. He was a vampire all by himself and possessed the unique ability to get into your skin even when he overacted. Menace flowed through his veins.
Recall the dacoit Raaka from Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hain (1960) where he looks so cold and brutish that you actually feel like shedding a few tears for the hapless Raj Kapoor when he says "Tera baap Raaka."
Remember how as the fiendish landlord in Saawan Ki Ghata (1966), the lecherous looks he casts at Madan Puri's sister when he walks up the stairs of a booze joint. Putting his hair back in place with a vigorous shake of the head, he x-rays the skimpily clad village belle and says "Kya baat hai". And when a poor Madan Puri says in a feeble protest, "Sarkar sarkar wo meri behen hai", Pran returns with a faint smile the same words on the edge of an audze: "Phir bhi, kya baat hai". No double entendres or innuendoes. Pran never had to take recourse to them. His rasping, dry voice spoke for him and he used it devastatingly to deliver a myriad of dialogues. I remember how he used a change in voice and delivery with gaps in dialogue to portray Halaku, (Halaku-1956) the grandson of Genghis Khan the Mongol warlord. The same voice could convince you as the well meaning Malang Chacha in "Raashan par bhaashan bahut hai par bhaashan par raashan nahi."
His eyes were his most eloquent facial feature. So expressive were they, he could also bring a touch of comic relief to his villain. As Naurangi Lal, his make-up, hairstyle and moustache were all based on Hitler. His look as well as his mannerism of “superciliously twitching his nose” made the character a memorable one.
He had the penchant to portray every character with a distinctive personality and peculiar mannerisms. They were all original and had Pran written all over them. It was an act that he patented over the years and virtually made it his copyright. His continuous smoking of a beedi in Dil Tera Deewana (1962) and straddling of a cigarette between his lips in Pooja Ke Phool (1964) will remain etched in movie-goers' minds.
Pran will probably be the only villain who could evoke diametrically opposite feelings like extreme public hatred and sympathy while he made life miserable for the characters on the screen. Like for instance when Kishore Kumar makes a mickey out of him and sends him on a wild goose chase in Half Ticket (1954).
Flashback Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon (1962): Asked whether he preferred the heroine or her "jaydaad" (property), he says "Mujhe ladki chahiye." And when his co-conspirator in the plot, an aged man, tells him "Bewaqoof ho, paisa chhodke ladki ko kyon haasil karna chahte ho?", he says with a lascivious smile "Tum nahi samjhoge, ye jawaani ki baate hain". The list is endless. The 400-plus films that he acted in should be considered a Bible for any actor wanting to essay an ideal villain. And to think of it, the man never went to any acting academy to hone his skills. He didn't need to. Acting was his haemoglobin.
Meeting Pran in flesh and blood could come to you as a culture shock, no less. When I met him a couple of times at his Khar residence in Mumbai, he was far removed from the man whose wicked ways had become part of the cinema's folklore. It was not as if age had mellowed him down. Off screen, he was an endearing man and gentleman to a fault.
A senior journalist friend close to Pran tagged me along and I was pleasantly surprised that the thespian himself landed up at the door to greet us. I was looking at a man whose face had creased into a benign, Bishop-like smile. While I sat a little awkwardly in his imposing presence, my friend broached a conversation in Punjabi, but Pran cut him short with a wave of his hand. "Aap ke saath ye bhi hain", he said, pointing a finger at me and my friend quickly lapsed into Hindi so I could butt in.
This was sometime in 2005-06 when Pran had retired into a peaceful life but suffered from bouts of indifferent health. He just leaned back against his chair and enquired about us. Strangely, it looked as though he was interviewing us and not the other way round.
As someone who had followed his career closely, I knew most of the things he told me. Still, in the two engrossing hours that I spent with him the first time, he took me on a nostalgic trip down memory lane and I learnt that he was an excellent raconteur too. He was articulate and weighed his words well. "I have been blessed to have ben treated by the industry well, but I do feel for all those who struggle to make a career in films. I wish the seniors take the newcomers under the wings and nurture them. There must also be respect for other artistes."
Pran recalled his meeting with Marathi actor Sharad Talwalkar who once walked into the midst of a shoot where he (Pran) and comedian Dhumal were doing a sequence. Talwalkar being Dhumal's old friend, called him out by his first name Antya (Anant). "Tumko Antya keh kar pukarne waali ye badi hasti kaun hai?" Pran asked Dhumal, wondering how anyone could use first name so easily. Few days later, Pran became close to Talwalkar.
Behind his impeccable deameanour lurked a man of conviction. Pran told me how hurt and angry he had felt when Kamal Amrohi's musical Pakeezah (1972) was not given the best music award. "Ghulam Mohammed and Naushad's music was sublime and they deserved to win an award but that did not happen. I was miffed with the commercial attitude of the industry. I went ahead and boycotted the function and also refused to be nominated for any award."
He took me by complete surprise when he told me that some of his memorable performances were drawn from real life characters. "My character in Khandan (1964) was a take off on Hitler, my role of a Maharashtrian in Aansoo Ban Gaye Phool (1969) was inspired by a man I had met in Pune, my Banne Khan Bhopali in Adhikar (1971) had a lot to do with the cycle-repairer I had seen in Bhopal, in Joshila my role was copied from Shashi Kapoor's father-n-law Mr Kendall and in Nigaahein (1989), I sported a beard like Sam Pitroda, Rajiv Gandhi's advisor."
An intense dog lover, he had quite a few big ones. He had named the Doberman and the German Shephered Whiskey and Soda. That was a concoction that he would treat himself to in the quietitude of his house that looked more like the house of an author than a film star. The Pran of real was an anti-thesis of the Pran of reel. Yet, the highest common factor in both was his zest for life and profession.
It will need one great effort to chronicle the life and times of this man who lived by the "Yaari hai imaan mera yaar meri zindagi" philosophy. With his death, the film industry has lost its pulse. The sole is gone, the soul shall prevail.
Pran is dead, long live Pran!
I loved this, sir.
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