Goodbye, Yusuf saab

The writer met Dilip Kumar again in 2004 when the digitally coloured Mughal-e-Azam was re-released

It was sometime in the mid '70s when I first set my eyes on Dilip Kumar. I was doing an internship with a film journal and sent for a press conference. By the time I walked inside the hall, all the seats were taken. So, I stopped half-way and focused on the happenings on stage.

Kumar was seated in the centre and as our eyes met, he succinctly guided me to walk ahead. I did so hesitantly, finding many empty seats in the front row, but was reluctant to park myself. So, I looked up again at him, and he nodded. I nervously sat on the corner chair and tried hard to focus on the boring speeches, but nothing made sense. And then Kumar rose, spoke softly and passionately, and for the first time, I understood the motive behind the conference. The film fraternity disagreed with the newly implemented government policy and declared to go on a strike. He was present on the occasion to support the cause.

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A still from Saudagar

I did not speak to any of the association heads post the conference, and did not file a report on the event either. Next evening, around 7 pm, I was near Churchgate station when a shiny black Mercedes stopped before me. The face at the window looked familiar, and as I walked closer, Kumar smiled and opened the door for me. Unthinkingly, I stepped inside the vehicle, but my mind was racing.

Why had he stopped the car for me? Was he mistaking me for someone else? Where were we heading? I am certain he was aware of my discomfort, but continued to converse casually. He spoke so softly that he was barely audible, and to not appear rude, I alternately shook my head and smiled.

Saira Banu and Dilip Kumar at the Press Club

When the car reached Pedder Road, he turned to me and said, "My destination has arrived. Thank you for your company". Still perplexed about the turn of events, I hopped into a cab, unsure if what had just happened was my hallucination or real.

Today, when I am older and more experienced, I look back on the memory with enchantment. Actors are also human beings, and respond to people and situations intuitively. Maybe Kumar sensed my anxiety at the press conference and wanted to put me at ease. As for the car ride, I can only describe it as serendipity - the superstar was spontaneous again and I submitted to the magic!

In 1990, director Subhash Ghai invited me to the shoot of Saudagar (1991) to witness the thespian and Raaj Kumar working together. Call it coincidence again, but as I walked towards the set, I noticed him in costume, walking a few steps ahead of me.

He was about to enter the set, when he noticed the trolley moving and stopped. I stopped a few steps behind him, observing him as he watched Raaj Kumar give his shot. Suddenly, he noticed me watching him and stiffened. He continued to stand in the same spot, staring at the floor. I realized that I had unconsciously interrupted an actor in preparation and trespassed his creative space. The good thing about the awkward moment, however, was that I was privileged to witness the magic!

A few years later, we met again, this time at Rinki Bhattacharya's newly launched Bimal Roy Memorial & Film Society debut screening of Devdas (1955) at a private theatre in Pali Hill. Kumar and wife Saira Banu were the guests of honour. After the screening, Bhattacharya chatted with Kumar who shared many beautiful moments from the film. He said that projecting silence on screen is the most difficult, and Bimalda was a master of it: "The climax when I travel by train to meet Paro is an immortal sequence. I have never seen something like that on screen again."

Also Read: Tribute: Dilip Kumar's incomparable acting and inspiring life

It was a sparkling but strangely reserved evening, where nobody in the audience gushed over the film or his performance. Feeling he looked demoralised, I got up and said that I loved the film, his performance and will love him forever! Suddenly, the twinkle returned to his eyes, and everyone started clapping.

Cut to 2004 when Mughal-e-Azam (1960) was the first black-and-white Hindi film to be digitally coloured and theatrically re-released. I was the editor of Screen at this point, and we decided to celebrate the milestone at our annual awards night. We invited Vilasrao Deshmukh, then chief minister of Maharashtra, to do the honours.

After Deshmukh delivered a terrific speech, it was time for Kumar to speak. He appeared a little lost. This was probably the beginning of his Alzheimer's, but not many were aware at the time, including us. It was an awkward moment for everyone in the audience, so I hesitantly walked on to the stage and stood behind him. Sensing my presence, he turned around and asked in his inimitable style, "Kaun hain bhai?" On discovering me, he heaved a deep sigh of relief and instantly thrust the microphone into my hand, saying, "Ab le lo bhai. Hum kab se khade hain yahan." With this, an emotional evening came to a dignified end.

As I write this obit, my mind rewinds to the nubile reporter aided by a charismatic superstar on her first assignment 40 years ago. Can something like this ever happen in present times? I'm not sure, because only once in a 100 years, comes an actor like Dilip Kumar.

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The writer is a Padma Shri awardee film journalist