Dilip Kumar’s biographers jog their memory to tell personal tales of a man in love with Mr Heathcliffe’s grey persona
Saira Banu at the inauguration of a collection of cinema artwork of her husband and veteran actor, Dilip Kumar, in Mumbai, in 2015. Pic/Getty Images
‘He wanted Lataji to sing Jaane Wale Se Mulaqat’
Dr Trinetra Bajpai, author and managing director, ATEC
Co-author, Dilip Kumar: Peerless Icon Inspiring Generations
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Dr Trinetra Bajpai with wife Kanika, and daughter Anshula, co-author of Dilip Kumar: Peerless Icon Inspiring Generations at the actor’s residence. The two families were close and would end up visiting each other often
I fell prey to the hypnotic spell cast by Dilip Kumar way back in 1958 at an [admittedly] impressionable age of nine, while watching Bimal Roy’s timeless classic Madhumati. Ever since, I have with avid interest watched all but two films. Jwar Bhata and Pratima being the only exceptions for reasons of unavailability of his 59 released films, with my wife Kanika, who shares this unabashed admiration in ample measure, as does our daughter Anshula, co-author of our coffee table book, Dilip Kumar: Peerless Icon Inspiring Generations.
One of my most cherished moments was watching him deliver an outstanding speech at Lata Mangeshkar’s live concert at the Royal Albert Hall in London. He spoke with such fluency and command in a mix of Hindi and Urdu that he received a standing ovation. During the interval, I was fortunate to have got a chance to share a drink with him; I remember it was a very rare Scotch. Lataji was also present, but she doesn’t drink. We talked about her music and he insisted that she sing Jaane Wale Se Mulaqat Na Hone from his 1954 movie Amar with Madhubala. He had some personal memories associated with the song. He winked at me. But she smiled and said, “I’ve not prepared for this [song] and the orchestra too, doesn’t have the notes.”
A poster gifted to Bajpai a couple of years ago. “Even he didn’t know the source of the image and nor do I, but it’s a part of my collection,” says Bajpai
I would meet Yusuf Sahab quite often. He lived at Pali Hill, and I at Turner Road. He was a huge foodie and would often come over for biryani. I remember, while shooting for Sangharsh at Mehboob Studio, he was not feeling well and said, “I’ll be fine if I eat some fried fish.” And he actually did.
The Bajpai clan has no hesitation in admitting without any qualification that we owe a lot to Yusuf Sahab in shaping our personalities. Dilipian films and his personal activities have deeply influenced countless professionals. In my corporate career of 49 years in the petrochemical industry, I have seen champion professionals imitate Dilipian mannerisms and vocal intonations to their fullest advantage, with telling effect in crucial negotiations and even board meetings. Histrionics apart, he had incredible mastery over the fine arts, linguistics, music [he could sing mellifluously] and above all was a caring human being.
‘He loved grey characters’
Sanjit Narwekar, film historian and documentary filmmaker
Author: Dilip Kumar: The Last Emperor
Sanjit Narwekar
While re-watching old Dilip Kumar starrers as part of my research for the book Dilip Kumar: The Last Emperor, I realised the late actor’s fascination for negative roles. Dilip Kumar was a connoisseur of literature and, unlike many actors of his era, he was well read. I do not know if Emily Bronte’s 1847 novel Wuthering Heights was his favourite, but he did reprise the character of Mr Heathcliffe in at least three direct remakes (Aarzooin 1950, Hulchul in 1951 and Dil Diya Dard Liya in 1966) and has used shades of that character in what is his most accomplished performance, Aadmi (1968). Heathcliffe is a man on the edge: spiteful, mad, insecure and thirsting for revenge and, in film after film, Dilip Kumar played it to perfection. In fact, he always preferred to play the hero with a touch of negativism—the anti-hero, if you wish. He was not the first to play such a role—Ashok Kumar had done it in Kismat in 1943—but Dilip Kumar played it with great passion and brought an unparalleled intensity to it.
Manoj Kumar with Dilip Kumar in Aadmi (1968). Besides being noted for Dilip Kumar’s acting as a man confined to a wheelchair, the film is also known for its dialogues by Akhtar ul Iman, PIC COURTESY/ National Film Archive of India
Recall his work in Babul, Deedar, Sangdil, Shikast, Devdas and the most notable of them all, Amar. In each film, his character toys with a female protagonist, leading her along, making her feel as if he cares when he does not. He himself is tortured by this duplicity, but seems helpless to prevent the inevitable tragedy that lies ahead. And this penchant for negativism is carried forward in his character roles in most of his later films like Vidhaata (1982), Mazdoor (1983), Mashaal (1984), Duniya (1984). This theme of crossing over has its roots in the Marathi play Ashrunchi Jhali Phoolay, written by Madhusudhan Kalelkar and originally played by Ashok Kumar in its Hindi film remake Aansoo Ban Gaye Phool. Having played the wronged man in most of his earlier films, this addendum of crossing over to the other side must have appealed to the actor in him: to play both the hero and villain in the same film must have delighted his histrionic side.
‘She (Saira) is my favourite director’
Lord Meghnad Desai, British economist and former Labour politician
Author: Nehru’s Hero: Dilip Kumar in India’s Life
A photo of Lord Meghnad Desai with Dilip Kumar enjoying samosas post the launch of his book Nehru’s Hero: Dilip Kumar in India’s Life, in 2004
Dilip Kumar liked to eat samosas, but he knew that Sairaji did not approve of him eating food which she did not know about. So, at the end of the launch [of my book], we escaped to a corner in the hotel, where the function was held and helped ourselves to samosas and drinks. Our friendship grew from then on. In 2005, I invited him to come to London so I could interview him at the National Film Theatre, which is located on the Thames river across from the Big Ben. We had a packed auditorium. At one stage, I asked him who was his favourite director. So he pointed to Sairaji sitting in the front row and said, “That is my favourite director.” So then I invited Sairaji to join us on stage and carried on the conversation with them.
Whenever Kishwar, my wife and I went to see them at Pali Hill, Sairaji was very welcoming. Dilip Saheb would talk about many things and in many languages—Gujarati, Marathi and Urdu/Hindustani. He had such a lovely voice that Kishwar used to say Meghnad’s brain stops working as soon as Dilip Saheb opens his mouth.
Once, when we visited him, he did not immediately recognise us. He was very polite, but soon I realised that something was wrong. He started talking about Pallonji Shapoorji, the son of the Shapoorji who had financed Mugha-e-Azam. Pallonji was planning the technicolour version and he had apparently requested Dilip Saheb to say an opening word. Dilip Saheb was opposed to it. Pallonji had offered a lot of money. Dilip Saheb thought we were Pallonji’s friends and had come to ask him to agree. So he began to talk to us in Gujarati. He told us how much Old Shapoorji loved him and had pampered him on the set. Then he said, “Tell that Pallonji I don’t care about his money.” Then I realised he had not remembered who we were. Soon, Sairaji came and clarified the situation. He then became very friendly because in fact, we had come to invite him to London. He was most charming [during the] rest of the evening.
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