An evening spent with Dilip Kumar, the icon on Indian cinema's desktop

Raju Korti
I will never forget my first and only bearing of the Mohammed Yusuf Khan Ghulam Sarwar Khan Peshawari in 1984. The name might confound the new generation whose memories do not stretch beyond  Dilip Kumar's films like Shakti or Saudagar. It was a 'mushaira'  session and Dilip Kumar had decorously chosen to squat on the floor in the true spirit of the event. The mushaira held little interest for me as I was among the legion who knew of his prowess to hold forth with his impeccable Urdu diction. He was equally profound with English and Hindi as I found later after that long one-on-one. 

Sketch by Bhagvan Das

I had handed over my press card to him through one of the organizers and he was gracious enough to acknowledge it with an eye contact right in the midst of reciting an ornamental shayari that came so effortlessly from his literary repositories. I referred to the eye contact because in my considered belief, he was probably the only actor whose eyes spoke eloquently. The rest of the body language just fell in unison. That made up for a devastating combination of the man's histrionics, now part of legendary folklores.

True to his reputation he had arrived well over two hours late and I remember incensed and impatient people had started wondering if the organizers had taken them for a ride. But as some people in the restive crowd had started making their way to the exit, in walked Dilip Kumar, his hands touching his forehead in a theatrical 'aadaab'. It was a measure of his ability to cast a hypnotic spell on the audience that they quickly retraced their steps followed by a hushed silence that could be only explained how he overawed people. He had sensed the mood of the audience with his decades experience as an unsurpassed actor. He was dressed in a Lungi and Kurta and his apple-peach complexion glowed and stood out in the maze of people on the stage.

The programme went on till 4 but more than half way through, he exited the stage and I thought my meeting had fizzled out in thin air. Just as I was grappling with my predicament, an organizer nudged me and told me 'Yusufbhai aap se milenge.' I saw him in his room sitting the same way. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he beckoned me to sit with a 'khushamdeed' -- khu and deed pronounced with the flourish and weight of a true Urdu stickler.

He looked at me amused when I told him that in the trinity that he formed with Dev Anand and Raj Kapoor, he was the Vishnu, Raj Kapoor the Mahesh and Dev Anand the Brahma. "I don't know what makes you say this but I can guess. We were all made up differently though we found our roots in the same profession. We all started a few years plus minus of each other but grew and evolved with a cinematic vision that defined us in a distinct way.

Explaining his metamorphosis from a method and serious actor in the late forties to one who got a little melodramatic towards the later sixties with the fifties as the fulcrum of his landmark performances, Dilip Kumar told me with the same intense, understated expression that had become  archetypal: "My career gradient has seen seamless transitions. From my first film Jwarbhata (1944), I charted some serious roles. Milan, Jugnu, Shaheed, Mela, Andaz, Jogan, Aarzoo, Deedar, Daag, Sangdil, Shikast, Tarana, Footpath, Devdas got me the sobriquet of 'Tragedy King.' I think it has something to do with my resilience with tragedies. In my formative years, I struggled to look after a huge family of in-laws, cousins and other close relatives. Life can be tough and that teaches you to be plaint. Maybe that reflected in my screen disposition."

"Sometimes in mid-fifties you changed track with the likes of Naya Daur, Yahudi, Madhumati, Kohinoor, Mughal-e-Azam, Gunga Jumna, Leader and Ram aur Shyam where your character was less overbearing. You took on lighter roles. Kohinoor, Leader and Ram aur Shyam were actually out and out comedies. How did you enter these skins with the same aplomb?" Dilip Kumar smiled the same mischievous smile that was evident in 'Nain lad jai hai to manwa ma kasak hui bekari'. "Even if there is an opportunity to school yourself in different characters -- characters that have distinct personalities which may be totally different from yours, you have got to completely divorce your own personality to be able to go over to the other personality."       

I do not think that any actor has unfolded the spectrum of acting that Dilip Kumar did. From the drunken, bloodshot-eyed Devdas to the pompous and ceremonious Prince Salim of Mughal-e-Azam, to the eternal romanticist of Madhumati, to the desperate crippled of Aadmi, to the outrageous buffoon in Ram aur Shyam and the over-the-top character in Shakti, Saudagar, Mazdoor and Kranti.His roles resonated in the rotund voice of Rafi through 'Peete peete kabhi kabhi yun jaam badal jaate hai.' The heady concoction was served for sixty five plus years on celluloid.

Nostalgic about the songs that he got to lip synch in the prime of his career, Dilip Kumar considered himself lucky to get the fare he did. "The equations were set in those days. It was Shanker-Jaikishen and Raj Kapoor and SD Burman and Dev(Anand). So it was Naushad mia, Rafisaab and Shakeel (Badayuni) who took up cudgels for me. Initially, Talat (Mehmood) mia who had become my voice but you see how the film music climbed from the subdued low to the screaming high. When Rafisaab took over after his Baiju Bawra success, he was singing in low pitch but he started hitting high notes with Amar (1954) onward. If you would have seen us playing badminton together, you would have seen how well we gelled with each other. Shakeelsaab kalaam likhe, Naushadmia tarz banaaye aur Rafisaab gaaye!"  

Regretting the little fallout with Rafi who was perhaps as blessed in stature, Dilip Kumar said "He (Mohammed Rafi) was a Man of God. Nothing against Kishore but I admit 'Saala mai to saab ban gaya' (Sagina Mahato-1970) looked jarring on me. The status quo was restored with 'Sukh ke sab saathi  (Gopi) and 'Na tu zameen ke liye hai' (Dastaan). It spoke volumes about the three legendary personalities of Indian cinema that they never washed dirty linen in public.

I remember the controversy Dilip Kumar had courted in the mid-eighties when he chose to marry Asma because his marriage with reigning actress and beauty queen Saira Banu was rumored to be fledgling because of the age differences between them. After a lot of dithering, Dilip Kumar came clean and divorced his new wife. As the in-charge of Page One that day, I had carried the story as a box item given the public interest it had generated. However that chapter of his life as also the much spoken about love affair with Madhubala were of no concern to me. Love affairs in the film industry have nothing to offer than some prurient quotient.

Dilip Kumar fondly reminisced how he had reached out to people other than those from his fraternity. "Bal Thackeray was a special friend. We were a mutual admiration club. There were times when I would impromptu gate-crash into his house. We would sit on the terrace of his house and discuss this and that over red wine and a very tasty 'chakna' (a starter) his wife Meenatai would rustle up with boiled peanuts, finely chopped onions, tomatoes and lime. In fact, I so much loved this starter that I remember eating it days on end at home. Contrary to what most people think, our political views never came in between our friendship." Unfortunately, towards the late nineties that was no longer true as Thackeray had rubbished him uncharitably after he was conferred the Nishan-e-Pakistan by the Pakistan government. To Dilip Kumar's credit he did not let his dignity to come in the way in the way of what could have been a slanging match. He matched the depth of his flawless articulation with poise that many in the industry today dreadfully lack.

As someone who was passionate about football, Dilip Kumar, a product of the Khalsa College, could have well donned the cap. "At times, I was more possessed as a footballer than as an actor. My outlet found it's way on the various grounds across Mumbai -- Shivaji Park mostly. I would hop out of my car and join any match in progress much to the amusement and appreciation of the participants. They would be surprised I could dribble through and pack a lethal kick. If you allow fame to get the better of you, you become nuisance, a public nuisance, a nuisance as a friend, as a member of the family, a nuisance to yourself. So I let myself go whenever I saw people playing football."

The Dilip Kumar psyche can be understood in this context. "My becoming an actor was more a twist of tale than a chosen course because I dared not to think I could ever become an actor. I couldn't even walk up on the stage and say 'Thank You' when we were to receive trophies at our sports meets at college." How he refined himself with time to deliver those weighty speeches is another story.

It is not my case here to deal with his life that is already in public domain. For that matter, I don't know if I have contributed anything new about his persona and professional life. As he is interred in the same Juhu cemetery where other icons have also been laid to rest -- Meena Kumari, Mohammed Rafi, Madhubala, Sahir Ludhianvi, Naushad, Ali Sardar Jaffri, Talat Mehmood, Jan Nisar Akhtar to name a few -- Dilip Kumar will be in the august company.

Having lived a full life of 98 years, it probably had to be his alter ego Rafi who sang this for him much before his own untimely demise in 1980. The voice and words are tailor-made for Dilip Kumar:

आज पुरानी राहों से कोई मुझे आवाज़ ना दे
दर्द में डूबे गीत ना दे, ग़म का सिसकता साज़ ना दे
बीते दिनों की याद थी जिन में, मैं वो तराने भूल चूका
आज नई मंज़िल है मेरी, कल के ठिकाने भूल चूका
ना वो दिल ना सनम, ना वो दिन धरम
अब दूर हूँ सारे गुनाहों से
टूट चुके सब प्यार के बंधन, आज कोई जंजीर नहीं
शीशा-ए-दिल में अरमानों की, आज कोई तस्वीर नहीं
अब शाद हूँ मैं, आज़ाद हूँ मैं 
कुछ काम नहीं है आहों से
पहुँचा हूँ वहाँ, नहीं दूर जहाँ 
भगवान भी मेरी निगाहों से