Deshmukh who was a true Vilasrao!

Raju Korti

In my three-decade career as a journalist, I have met two Maharashtra-based politicians who could be given the benefit of doubt of being considered as handsome. One was Rajarambapu Patil, the sugar baron from Walwe tehsil of Sangli district and the other; twice chief minister Vilasrao Deshmukh.

Patil, was of course, cast in the typical western Maharashtra mould. Looking at him, it occurred to me that with his height and face, one could look debonair even clad in a simple cotton dhoti.

At one of his election meetings – ironically soon after the one held by then chief minister Vasant Dada Patil, his rival in the same cooperative sector – I told the ever-smiling Rajarambapu that he could also diversify as a film hero. Never confronted with a compliment like that, Bapu, going into his sixties, was flummoxed for several minutes before it sunk in. He actually blushed and just shook his head, but I could see he was genuinely thrilled. Putting an affectionate arm around me, he made me sit next to him and shared one of the best rustic meals I have ever been treated to. In those days I keenly followed the cooperative lobby in Maharashtra thanks to Vasant Dada Patil who acquainted me with the intricacies of the movement. So pleased was Bapu with me that he insisted I be his guest for two days. Like his appearance, he jealously guarded his reputation as a magnanimous host and by the time I took his leave, I was in the awe of the man. Not just for his good looks but for his dignified demeanour. This was sometime in 1981.

Around this time, Vilasrao had just made his maiden entry into the legislative assembly having had his political grinding, first as Zilla Parishad member, then as Sarpanch of his hometown Babhulgaon and as a youth Congress leader. However, it wasn’t until 2003 and 2004 when he ascended the chief ministerial gaddi that I had an audience with him. I happened to tag a fellow journalist who had an interview appointment with him Although a mere piece of furniture in that meeting, it was me who broke the ice. Vilasrao himself gave the opening. He had fished out a comb from his kurta and was styling his already elegant flick of the hair. Later, I learnt that Vilasrao was fond of “combing operations” as I called it.

“You could double up as a Marathi film hero”, I told him, not sure how he would react to a crack like that. His facial muscles broke into a sheepish but pleased smile. I guess he wanted to say something to that but stopped just in time probably seized of the office he held. It is another story that this obligation to history was fulfilled by his son Riteish. Vilasrao must have had it in him. When handling the Culture portfolio, he hobnobbed with stage, theatre and art, a fascination he carried far enough to fall into the wilderness of an insignificant portfolio of the union cabinet when he took producer Ram Gopal Verma and actor-son Ritesih to the November 2008 terror attack sites. 

As an individual, Vilasrao was flamboyant, but his traits were typically Congress. He could never summon the courage to take on Delhi like his detractor Sharad Pawar did. Like many of his senior leaders he allowed things to go adrift, giving the impression of being patently adventitious. He knew when to be astute, when to lie low and when to be expedient. Occasionally, he would display political acumen like when he paid back Sushilkumar Shinde in the same coin to become the CM. He displayed this characteristic by playing a political ping pong with his senior comrades Ashok Chavan and Sushil Kumar Shinde in the Adarsh scam.

His party bosses knew his strong affiliation with the grassroots was his biggest asset and couldn’t afford to antagonize him beyond a point. Those who knew him closely, were familiar with the Stephen Leacock-ish humour to his side. I have seen few people with a smile that could have different connotations as Vilasrao did.

This is no comparison between Bapu and Vilasrao. Both came from different backgrounds and nursed different values -- political and otherwise. There was one common chord though. Both did justice to their names. You may read between the lines.

The "Avtaar" of Rajesh Khanna

Raju Korti

Long before the 35-inch screen grappled to cope with his larger-than-life image and Jatin Khanna had shed his superficial skin to become Rajesh Khanna, I believed I knew the man well. But he never appealed to my limited aesthetic senses like he did to countless others as the quintessential romantic. Little did I imagine that there was much more to this man, who I recall in my college days, generated the kind of mass hysteria hitherto unseen in the annals of Indian cinema.
Having heard any number of stories about his airy flamboyance, casual and couldn't-care demeanour and rather intimidating presence, he was the unlikeliest of celebrities I would have chosen to bump into -- for professional or unprofessional reasons.
In fact, I took a sadistic delight in snubbing my friends who were his unabashed fans and worshipped him for whatever he did in the name of acting. At the height of one such moment -- when Khanna married the startlingly beautiful Dimple, who was almost half his age then -- I had wisecracked with an impudent and uncharitable headline "Pretty Dimple weds Popular Pimple", inviting more of frowns than chuckles from the other members of the newsroom.
Years later, I caught a glimpse of him at the Sun N Sand Hotel in Juhu, when he was still in his prime and attracting collective gasps from everyone within the vicinity. His disposition clearly betrayed an "I am the King of all that I survey" attitude with that characteristic nod of the head and eyes flickering somewhere between a blink and a wink.
It was only after he decided to contest the parliamentary elections that I decided to explore the man, who could have been a living example of all euphemisms. They called him reticent and reserved, but he could have been a snob, they called him blunt, but he could have been audacious and insolent. You could interpret Kaka Rajesh Khanna the way you looked at him.
I got to the point straight away. "You have had your grinding on Stage. Why did you allow yourself to become a slave of mannerisms and style?", I asked him. It was then I realised Kaka was quick on the uptake and that he saw through me fater than I could see through him. "Saaf kyon nahi kehte ke mere chamche mujhe ye sab seekhate hain", he replied with the same calculated calm of "I hate tears Pushpa". And then he let the words flow with the same tranquil : "I am Rajesh Khanna, the first and only superstar. Whatever I do defines acting."
To his credit, among the film personalities elected to Parliament, Kaka did much more than those of his ilk, but even in his new found avtaar, he remained self-styled and never ever lost the sight of the fact that he was and would be one of his kind. Through the small documentary of his life that he narrated to me with the precision a seasoned editor would be proud of, he laughed away all his travels and travails. It was difficult to believe that here was a man who had tasted heady success, held an unchallenged sway for two decades and wasn't able to come to grips with it. And if millions of his fans wanted him to be seen the way they wanted, who was even mighty Rajesh Khanna to refuse?
With Kaka, everything had to be brutally blunt. No hush hush affairs for him. He could obscure the line between real and reel simply because he was Rajesh Khanna on and off the screen. Now, even as I write this tribute-cum-obituary, I candidly admit my notions about him were pre-conceived. In hindsight, I felt rather than I saw in his eloquent eyes the sensitivity of an artiste and a generous human being.
I remember he told me the story of how he had cajoled the late Rajendra Kumar into selling his "Aashirwad" bungalow off Carter Road in Bandra when the latter had advised him against it, saying the place wasn't lucky. "I went ahead and bought the place. It is in this huge bungalow that my isolated heart has thudded for so many years."
Of course, Kaka hit the bottle hard in those years of self-imposed exile when everyone else distanced from him. But he didn't stoop to conquer. No ribbon cuts, no inaugurations and no rent-dancing at weddings. Not even desperation advertisements for survival even when the taxman came repeatedly knocking. And look at the supreme irony and stark message of the one and only advertisement that he did. Calculated to promote a fan, it instead stirred back to life, the memories of a hero, who made it clear to all Babumoshais that no none could snatch his fans away from him.
It could only be Rajesh Khanna's privilege to articulate:
Zindagi ko bahot pyaar hamne diya
Maut se bhi mohobbat nibhaayenge ham.

Many Measures, No Confidence!

Customary shake, usual bake!

Raju Korti

Looked from any angle, Pakistan is a nation with the proverbial two sides of a coin. The Head is set face to face with India and the Tail invariably or variably – depending on political expediencies and the mood of its hardliner Army – facing the United States of America. That, of course, is peripheral to the issue in discussion.
The immediate trigger for this blog is yet another foreign secretary-level talks have gone through diplomatic charades and consigned  to the inconclusive and senseless dustbin of the turbulent history of the two nations constantly at each others’ throats. The diplomatic tenacity between the two countries has meandered through a series of Confidence Building Measures (CBMs) that have done precious little to reduce fear of attack by both (or more) parties in a situation of tension with or without physical conflict.
History tells us that CBMs emerged from attempts by the Cold War superpowers and their military alliances -- the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) and the Warsaw Pact -- to avoid nuclear war by accident or miscalculation. In the Indo-Pak context, the CBMs haven’t had much of a connotation.
Among the scores of exchanges India has had with Pakistan, the closest one to have fructified was the Agra Summit in 2001 where, eventually, both the sides had veered round to the fact that Kashmir was the core dispute. But as it turned out, the wily Musharraf, who almost talked himself into an Indo-Pak extradition treaty during the course of the summit, left in huff and puff after Advani queered the pitch by throwing in the Dawood Ibrahim issue. I recall having seen on TV Musharraf turn red before coming out with “Advaniji yeh bahot chhota tactic ho gaya”.
Musharraf, who was yet to arrogate to himself the status of a CEO then, made a very pertinent suggestion on how the issue could be approached by eliminating irritants and zeroing in on the options that could be taken forward. It made a lot of political sense but India’s PR was a disaster and what could have otherwise ended as a watershed development in the chequered history between the two countries, reverted to status quo.
It is against this backdrop that the latest nuclear confidence-building measures have to be viewed as a stabilising force for enhanced security, and safety of nuclear facilities. The Track II process might be touted as “some success”, but in the endgame, its validity remains questioned.
An impressive range of CBMs – both military and non military – in the two decades have been overtaken by a Kargil in 1999, the massive mobilization of troops in 2002, and not to speak of the relentless terror unleashed from the Pakistani soil.
The air, road and railway linkages, the hotlines between the two countries have more or less come a cropper. The hotlines have been hardly used when required most and when matters came to the boil, it was saber rattling all the way what with the two countries staring at the horrific prospect of a nuclear war. The border crossings and trade has been almost next to nothing. There has been a specious argument in favour of a disproportionate emphasis on military CBMs with non-military CBMs not getting due appreciation.
Many CBMs originally crafted to address the stabilization between the two countries post the nuclear tests of 1998 remain only in the realms of “acceptance in principle”. The fact is they will remain so unless dominant issues mentioned in the composite dialogue are resolved. Obviously, it is a case of cart being pit before the horse. While CBMs do have the potential to create trust between two nations, trust is also called for in the very inception stage. One feeds off the other, and in the current scenario, when political will in both states appears to be waxing and waning intermittently, CBMs which are difficult to establish but easy to disrupt, have not been fully effective. There is a lack of verifiability in many CBMs which leads both countries to fall victims to mistrust, suspicion and misinformation on a variety of issues.
CBMs have been particularly ineffective, if not absent, during the times of conflict because despite declarations to that effect, neither country has moved beyond the point of “conflict avoidance”. Recall that the ceasefire effected in 2003 was violated by Pakistan in 2008. Worse still, government on both sides often deploy CBMs as a political tool to win over their respective constituencies which can be very damaging in the longer run.
Post-Abbottabad, it is not only anti-American sentiments that run deep in Pakistan: India, to many Pakistanis, is still perceived to be a greater threat to Pakistan than Al Qaeda or the Taliban, clouding the atmosphere for the civilian government's talks with India.
The CBMs have so far been a case of a cart being put before the horse. No way can the talks gallop until the core issue is addressed. And all said and done, it never will be.     

Two rounds of bout with Dara Singh

Raju Korti

For a generation that is hooked on the likes of Salman Khan, Hrithik Roshan and Shah Rukh Khan as the ultimate emblems of masculinity, Dara Singh may probably just be the mythological character of Hanuman that he essayed in his later years in long-drawn sagas like Ramayan and Mahabharat. But ask those who were privileged to see this hunk in his prime and they will assert that the man who juggled the role of a wrestler and a celluloid action hero with so much aplomb, was a hunk in true sense of the word.

In the sixties, Dara Singh held out a constituency of his own. His six feet two frame had the kind of rippling muscles that would make look Salman's pale as fragile arteries in comparison. But there was much more to the born wrestler that he was. Under those steely shoulders, he had a heart softer than butter. The face may have looked like it was carved out of hard granite and the rolled up sleeves capable enough to make sobriquets like "Rustom-E-Hind" and "Hind Kesri" sit pretty on them. On the one side there were hoards of baby-faced chocolate heroes and at the other there was Dara Singh. He was truly a class and breed apart.

I had always thought of him as a B and C grade hero in the Wham-Bang-Thanks-Mam genre films where he would make short work of his on-screen rivals with the same ease that he did in the wrestling bouts. In the fleeting minutes between the action, he would turn a hopeless romantic and find time to fool around with Mumtaz and Nishi, his accredited heroines. Remember, those were the times when Mumtaz was just a glam doll used to fill up reels left over after Dara Singh's encounters with his villains. Mumtaz was persevering and lucky enough a decade later to fall into the arms of the country's first superstar Rajesh Khanna while Dara Singh had lapsed into friendly mythological roles of Hanuman in soaps and films. It seemed there was no one better than him in the country of billions to play the role.

But my two meetings with Dara Singh exposed me to a totally different persona of the man. I found him to be a complete anti-thesis of the rugged, raw, virile mass of flesh that I had seen fill the screen. Dressed in the conventional Punjabi attire and seated alongside his illustrious brother-actor-wrestler Randhawa, the first thing that struck me was his incandescent smile and warm disposition. His massive 130 kg body construct was every inch affectionate and affable. And though he hugged hard enough for me to feel that he had fractured some of my ribs, I couldn't mistake the warmth he exuded. It was a gesture that reminded me of a beautiful Rafi solo from his 1963 film (aptly titled) "Faulad".
"Dil hai hamara phool se naazuk, bazoo hai faulad
Toofano mein palnewaale, rehte hai Azaad"

It took a huge matka (pot) of Malai Lassi -- which he gulped down in one swig -- and some nostalgic memories that no one probably ever shared with him, to get him to rewind. His chest, already big enough to embrace two of my kind, swelled with further pride while narrating how he remained unconquered in all the 500-plus wrestling bouts that he fought. Some of them with traditional rival King Kong had become legendary and stuff folklore are made of. Yet, ironically, one of the films that he was the hero in was titled "King Kong".

Dara Singh never tired of reeling out how he maintained his physique, his grueling exercise schedules and his extraordinary and gluttonous intake. Without having to reel out those incredible details, I can tell you, most of us don't have the tummy for eating that kind of food for weeks. But then, he was Dara Singh, no less.

Dara Singh told me he was born to fight. "At an age when toddlers try to take baby steps, I was breaking things around me with my brute strength. So I was channelized into conventional pehlwaani where I could display my strength in all its rippling glory." That was the beginning of a distinguished and blemish-less career  that spanned over five decades. He was born to conquer. Rather the word "defeat" didn't exist in his lexicon.

Dara Singh never had to act or emote with his eyes and stuff like that. He let his bulging biceps do all the talking. Who would want a macho to play a tear-jerker? In that long sitting, Dara Singh gave a spell-bonding account of most bouts -- both with his rivals in the real and the ones on the screen. It had all the trappings of an international bestseller.

When the time came for me to take his permission, he raised his genially giant frame from the chair to embrace me once again, But this time I was prepared. I just extended my hand to shake with his. For the next few weeks, I was applying pain balm to soothe my aching palm. On hindsight I should have folded hands with a "Namaste". 

Loo's Motions

Raju Korti

Will the day ever dawn?

As a professional journalist brought up and programmed to think differently, I wonder what's the fuss about. I mean shouldn't we Indians thank our learned Deputy Chairman of Planning Commission Mr Montek Singh Ahluwalia for making as insignificant an issue as toilets part of our national consciousness?
For a population that doesn't spend more than half an hour on shedding unwanted load off its system, Ahluwalia's expansive idea of nationalising Rs 35 lakh on the renovation of two toilets has obviously given a severe constipation to "right thinking" people. But first things first.
I do not know whether Ahluwalia has ever availed the services of the toilets, the kind of which dot the vertical landscape of Mumbai. Two things might happen if he has done that. Either he may have sprinted away from the place with the speed of Carl Lewis or probably soiled his pants even before he could take the right posture. And this I say with due respect to the man whose wisdom has constricted to the more-than-narrrow walls of the toilets used by the honourable members of the Planning Commission.
I have been observant enough to catch expressions that clearly tell you that people are holding on to their bladders or bowels, desperately to head for the comfort of the toilets in their house. I can tell you, its quite a daunting ask given that people commute for sometimes more than two hours in Mumbai's crazy life.
Of course, Mumbai is generously disposed towards its struggling populace. For those who stir out out of their house early morning and return late evenings, the metropolis has a number of Sulabh Shouchalayas (easy access toilets) to relieve them from their revolting tummies. So far so good. But such is their maintenance -- a euphemism for condition -- that you throw up a fit and decide to scurry for your home instead. The more desperate ones come out with a face of a lifetime's experience. To add insult to injury, these toilets hypothecate their services "to the courtesy of a corporator or MLA". You live in a country where you have to thank your leaders for allowing you these small mercies.
But even Mumbai, who our leaders from time to time keep assuring will become Shanghai some day, has the same earthly charms to offer as our ubiquitous ruralside. All those who have lived in Mumbai and are condemned to travel through its suburban trains will know what I mean. Not all those sitting by the window shut their eyes of exhaustion. You need to be commute-hardened and gutsy to witness a line-up of migrant squatters shedding their natural manure and upholding the cause of  environment in an otherwise concrete jungle that Mumbai is often billed as.
The diversity is intriguing. An institution that cannot be accused of having planned anything concrete in its chequered existence, fights shy of using its existing toilets that our natural squatters can't even dream of while lesser mortals are inured to be in the lap of nature. Little wonder, the stink on money being squandered on toilets is bound to linger.
I recall once being part of a popular leader's entourage. Twice Maharashtra's chief minister and presently a union minister -- by a strange coincidence handling a portfolio that's relevant to this subject -- he was then in the Opposition. Midway, most people in the retinue, including our leader, got the natural urge. So all of them got down from their cars to provide man-made Urea to the roadside trees. Nature sure is a great leveller. It got an humble (!) journalist and a top leader to unzip barely five feet away and look at each other askance and with a sly, knowing smile.
So without sounding like a socialist, I would like to request Mr Ahluwalia in all humility that he must make a matching allocation for the "other" toilets as well. Else, it will be our Mumbai and their Shanghai.      

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.

Entertainment with Red Chillies

Raju Korti

It is perception that divides notoriety from popularity. The Knight in the not-so-shining armor I am referring to is “superstar” Shah Rukh Khan whose alleged drunken hi-jinks at the Wankhede Stadium on Wednesday evening left Mumbai Cricket Association officials eating out of their hands and his side-kicks admiring him more than ever before.
True to his form that rides on a permanent ego trip, Khan has always thrived and prospered at the expense of an indulgent constituency. Of course, stories of Khan’s generosity, much in the style of his professional and personal adversary Salman Khan, abound. But generosity and decent behavior, to most celebrities drawn from the big flashlights, is an option on whim and fancy. That’s what makes all the Khans so intriguing and intimidating. You can't disagree when your learned friends in the fan magazines admiringly describe the tribe as “feisty and tough.”
Buoyed by the rare success that his “riders” have encountered in this edition of the Indian Premier League, SRK in his infinite wisdom decided to take his battalion of lackeys right onto the playing arena. It was nobody’s business, least of all, the Mumbai Cricket Association and Board of Control for Cricket in India, to have stopped SRK’s jubilant march given that the “King Khan” has served his curator’s role on bigger pitches and queered them more effectively.
Obviously, the security manning the area hadn’t counted on the famed SRK “spirit” that has in the past often dared to take on many. It is evident that the powers that be on the stadium have not read the man’s CV that has glowing references. In fact, they need not have done that. A phone call to SRK’s one-time close buddy Farah Khan’s less overbearing hubby Shirish Kunder would have given them a first-hand credential. Ignorance was no bliss here.
Courtesy, to Main Hoon Na Khan, is a one-way traffic. Meaning, it has to extend toward him. He does force a contrived smile and puts his hands together occasionally when contemporaries pip him to the post at awards functions and Tendulkar unleashes a good innings against his outfit. He is a honorable exception that proves the rule.
I believe the MCA and BCCI  (Amazing that the first two letters of these two mighty bodies are also swear words that many people use with practiced ease) have now sworn to teach the Khan a lesson and bring him down to Mother Earth. Little do they know that it isn’t easy to rein in Ra Ones and Dons, as much as it is to tackle the likes of Harbhajan Singh and his ilk. Because that’s not cricket.