Dilip Kumar’s autobiography sheds light on some interesting and hitherto unknown facets of the life of Bollywood’s tragedy king. Yet it leaves the reader asking for more in terms of details on his craft and style of acting. The die-hard fan will probably love the book, the lover of film history not so much
Dilip Kumar likes the word “temperature”. He uses it quite a few times in the first part of his autobiography (The Substance and the Shadow as told to Udaya Tara Nayar) to denote the on-screen sexual tension that adds a frisson to romantic scenes between actors. “It is quite possible that the familiarity between the artistes due to their emotional involvement with each other in real life may give an edge to the emotional intensity and raise the temperature of the act to that electrifying level that is not contained in the script per se,” he writes when discussing his relationship with co-star Kamini Kaushal, who was his first big love. Subsequently, he tries to apply the same yardstick to Madhubala. Ironically, as we find out later, the ardour between Dilip Kumar and Madhubala had cooled during the making of Mughal-e-Azam and they were barely on talking terms when the famous feather scene was shot and the on-screen chemistry bordered on the erotic.
With these kinds of references, the reader may want to know if Dilip Kumar is candid when he talks about his various love interests, most of which are public knowledge. The answer is yes and no. Yes, in the sense that he admits to them and does not wave them away as figments of gossip writers’ imagination, but it is all done in a roundabout, convoluted style; one may even call it old fashioned.
Dilip Kumar is familiar with the English language, but it is of the old school kind, which takes it own time to come to the point. He sat down with journalist Nayar and spoke at length — often it appears to be a dictated book rather than a written one. A smart editor would cut through the fluff and sharpen the prose or perhaps they decided it sounded better this way. Try this: “Ashok bhaiyya was shooting for the final portions of Kismet (released in 1943) those days and there was a lot of activity going on as Gyan Mukherjee, the director, and his assistants moved the equipment on the sets according to the lighting pattern.”
Once one gets used to this long-winded way of making a point, one settles down to read the memoirs of the man most widely considered to be the best actor India, and certainly Hindi cinema, has produced. Very few would contest this point, though his batting average gets hopelessly skewed if one also introduces his post 1970s and 1980s roles into the mix. That was the period when he did some super hamming, but even in those films, he remains eminently watchable and towers over his co-stars.
For this writer, his latter phase is mostly without merit, except for his terrific performance in Shakti and arguably in Mashal and later Saudagar. But the Dilip Kumar we love is mostly rooted in the 1950s when he did some remarkable work, elevating even mediocre and forgettable roles to quite another level — the hallmark of not just a fine actor but a bona fide star. It is a pity that we tend to only know him by his roles in tragedies such as Devdas, when he also was skillful at romance (Tarana, Mughal-e-Azam) and displayed exquisite comic timing (Azaad, Kohinoor.)
It becomes clear from the book that often his work in a film was almost totally his own rather than that of the director, barring K Asif and Mehboob, both strong men, and Bimal Roy, who knew how to extract a good performance. Dilip Kumar worked with SU Sunny and Nitin Bose, neither of whom had much else to their credit. In this book, it becomes clear that Bose was nowhere in the picture when Gunga Jumna was being made — Dilip Kumar wrote the story, screenplay, was the producer, the actor, arranger of finances and evidently the director.
Clearly, therefore, Dilip Kumar should get all the credit for developing his own style and fine-tuning his remarkable talent. It is a pity, therefore, that we get almost nothing in this book about his craft — why, for instance, did he underplay his characters, the manner in which he spoke and the projection of his internalised grief on screen in a unique way. That, for the reader, is a real let-down, because while there is much in this book to savour, an exposition and analysis of acting from the horse’s mouth is something that would have enhanced the experience. Some stories do pop up, such as how he ran around the studio just before shooting the death scene in Gunga Jumna, but these are hardly enough. How, for instance did he interpret the role of Prince Salim — as a defiant man who stands up to his powerful father for the sake of his lady love or as a weak, effete prince not interested in statecraftIJ
The book’s strengths lie in his memories of early childhood, his teenage and younger years and his very early foray into films after he met Devika Rani, then the powerful boss of Bombay Talkies. Dilip Kumar was one of 12 children of a Pathan fruit seller; the father-son relationship is delineated in loving detail, the child in awe of his fun-loving but somewhat formal parent. Young Yousuf (that is how Dilip Kumar spells his name) is closer to his mother and very fond of his elder brother Ayub, who passes away after a riding accident weakens him. The sisters are mostly in the background but for the eldest Sakina aapa, who remained unmarried to bring up the rest. Yousuf admires her but the book periodically tells us about her abrasive personality and tendency to shout everyone else down.
Young Yousuf, after an argument with the father, leaves home without telling anyone to see if he can survive in the big bad world. He lands up in Poona where he gets a job in the military club and is soon running a small business of selling sandwiches. He admires the British soldiers for their gentlemanly behaviour, but knows they are foreigners ruling his country. On one occasion, he gives a speech to the club members praising India’s freedom struggle and finds himself in jail overnight for his anti-British views.
Equally enjoyable are his stories about his life in Bombay Talkies where he met up with Ashok Kumar, Gyan Mukherjee, his old childhood chum Raj Kapoor and of course Devika Rani, who he finds very encouraging. It is clear that these were among the happiest days of his life — the joy in recounting is palpable.
Clearly, the actor, who spent several years talking to Nayar — the idea for the book was proposed in 2004 — had a great time recalling those very early days. Halfway through, however, there is a subtle and then quite obvious shift in the tone of the book. It becomes less nostalgic and takes on a hurried pace as he ticks off significant events in his life. The portion about the courtship with Saira Banu, who had resolved to marry the man she admired and worshipped, is delightful enough, but then the story appears to shift gears. Much of it now consists of his and especially Saira’s difficulties adjusting with his large family and their getting used to the newcomer in their brother’s life. He tells us that he had financed the upbringing and education of his brothers and sisters and they had come to depend on him. “I pointed out to her (Saira) that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for them (his siblings) to easily reconcile to a new person in my life, as also for her to live together with the family without any problems arising between them.” Even if he brought a “celestial angel from the seventh heaven” they would not be able to accept her, he told Saira. As it turns out, the angelic Saira had to deal with phenomenal stress, which affected her health and eventually led to him moving in with her at her old family house. The family does not come out well in this tale and the recent news that two of his brothers have sued Dilip Kumar over property matters is an apposite coda to the confessions in this book.
The autobiography swings between coyness and candidness. On some matters, including his late life extramarital romance and then marriage with Asma Rehman, he is tip-toeing on eggshells. His recounting of his romance with Madhubala is matter of fact since according to him it ended because of her father’s greed at the prospect of acquiring a golden couple which could be exploited for home productions. On more than one occasion, Dilip Kumar demonstrates a sly sense of humour, ensuring that the point is made without the need to land heavy punches.
When it comes to cribbing about his family, he is forthright and even repetitive to hammer home the point that he was essentially let down by them despite what he did for them. It is a glaring contrast in style and substance or as the title suggests The Substance and The Shadow.
There have been several books on Dilip Kumar but right upfront he tells us he is dissatisfied with all of them. Hence, he felt the need to tell his own story. It is undoubtedly the most detailed telling of his story so far, and very entertaining and enlightening about his early life, of which we know almost nothing. The thespian we have come to know and love is not to be found in these pages. The young man, the lover and the husband and later, the public figure, are there in differing proportions. The die-h0ard fan will probably love it, the lover of film history not so much.
The writer, a senior journalist, is the author of Cinema Modern: The Navketan Story (2011), Amar Akbar Anthony: Masala, Madness and Manmohan Desai (2013) and India Psychedelic: The Story of a Rocking Generation (2014)