Sunday morning as I was leisurely going through Hindu (Dec., 2013) with coffee glass in one hand, my eyes were attracted by the caption: “A
Legend revisited” with a byline – “a rare peak into the life of legendry actor
Dilip Kumar, who celebrates his birthday on Dec 11.” I ran through it with
interest, although there was little that was exciting to read… but as I almost
came to the end of the feature, there was a line – “[his] vehement desire to
excel made Dilip Kumar learn Sitar for Madhuban
mein Radhika naache re song sequence of
Kohinoor”, where my eyes got
stuck ….
mind transfixed on Kohinoor…
It was 1960 … exams were over and the school was closed
for summer holidays. I was packed off to Visakhapatnam—my father, literally,
loaded me into the IIIrd class general compartment of Howrah mail
through the window, and then passing on a tin box and a polyester sack filled
with lentils etc., through the same window, for the train was as usual packed
and no one was ready to open the door, perhaps, a reflection of the influence
of ‘insider-syndrome’—“Oh! Let us not allow the crowd swell up further”— advised me to sit on the sack and not to move
even if someone shouts at me. As he was airing the usual parental advices—how I
should conduct myself in my brother’s house—the train started … chugged off from Platform No. 3. Leaving Tenali station behind as the mail
came into open fields, I could see the Sun lazily rising in the east.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that
I am alone amongst the people who are talking a language of which I have no
sense whatsoever. I was a little dazed as one man clad in a lungi in funny colors suddenly started
yelling at me … of which I could make out nothing … obviously, I kept mum
… dropping my eyes to the floor. Pushing
me aside with a kind of groan he briskly walked away. As the train reached
Vijayawada station, I could, of course, hear people talking in Telugu here and
there … and obviously, felt a bit relieved.
By evening, I reached Visakhapatnam
station. Getting from the train with my belongings alright, looked for my
brother all around. And to my utter despair, I couldn’t find him… pulling up
courage, came out of the station… and again my eyes searched for my brother… he
was no where… the rush of people died down… except me and one or two rickshaw
fellows… all have left. Noticing a boy of my age with his rickshaw, meekly walked
to him and recalling all the directions that my nanna gave me to my brother’s house …
enquired if he would take me to
‘century club turning’? Saying yes, he asked for two rupees. Recalling what my
father said, I said one rupee… and after dilly-dallying … agreeing for one
rupee, he kept my belongings in the rickshaw and asked me to sit. Quietly
obeying him, I boarded the rickshaw and the wheels started moving … slowly.
. peddling through lanes and by-lanes as
he came on a wide road with a steep climb… all that I was hoping for was simple
… being young, he will not cheat me… will take me straight to my brother’s
house alright. Getting down from his seat as the boy was pulling up the
rickshaw in front of a row of giant stone buildings … reading the letters on
one of them—“Out Patient Dept”—wondered if it was KGH. Then right in front of
it, suddenly I saw my annayya (brother)
hurrying down on the other side of the road with a worried look. Happily … in a
surprised tone shouted: “Annai! Annai!” He stopped at once and with a broad smile came to me …and that’s
it , we went home happily …
I had a good time with my annayya (elder brother), Vadina (sister-in-law) and the young
nephew playing in the sprawling garden around their house… climbing the trees plucking
cashew nuts from the crawling trees, picking from this or that tree a raw mango
and biting it sitting on a low-lying branch… OH! What a pleasure to while away
the summer days amidst the trees … and
in the evenings playing in sand with my nephew at Ramakrishna beach… longingly
playing in the surf … and what not. And that was all new for me… going by city
busses , buying vegetables… walking in sand sitting in front of massive water
spread and listening to its roar all alone, watching the blinking lights of the
distantly anchored ships… … the lighthouse and its circling beam radiating
wonder (for me?)… all that was a wonder that I enjoyed to the hilt.
Finally as my brother’s last
practical exam was over, we were all headed for a movie, Kohinoor … and I was quite excited, obviously, … for I would be
watching a Hindi movie for the first time. As we were entering the theatre—the
show was already on—my vadina
whispered in my ears with a smile: “Your annayya
always prefers to walk into a theatre only after the show started.” In that
darkness, I meekly followed my vadina
and annayya and as they sat in the
chairs shown by the escort with a torch, I tumbled myself into a chair adjacent
to them, of course, without taking off my eye from the happenings on the
screen. Then started the real problem… I could not understand what the
characters were talking about … all that I could make out was … a prince was in
love with a beautiful princess who is running around the trees in long flowing
white satin gowns … like in our Telugu cinemas, a villain coming in between...
a couple of good songs … and as the movie came to an end the prince could
happily hug the princess.
What I still remember of that picture
is the beautiful rendition of the song: “madhuban me
The
other song that I remember even to date is that lovely duet … Dilip Kumar croons:
“do sitaro ka zami par hai milan aaj ki
rat / … muskurata hai umido ka chaman aaj ki rat (two stars on earth shall meet this night / the awaiting garden is
smiling this night… ) to which Meenakumari responds mellifluously “rang
layi hai mere dil ki lagan aaj ki rat / sari duniya nazar aati hai dulhan aaj
ki rat” (my heart’s success has spread colors
this night / the whole world looks like a bride this night). That Prince and
Princess were not, of course, to my eyes, didn’t appear that beautiful as the
prince and princess of Telugu movies…no match to NTR and Anjali… particularly, in attire .... their dressing was so un-princely … yet I enjoyed the song.
These two songs were so etched
in my mind that it was humming them ... na dir dir dha ni ta dha re dim dim ta
na na … madhuban me radhika nache re ; do sitaro ka zami par hai milan aaj ki
rat— of course, silently,
for my brother was around— or should I say, in that lahar, that I could
just walk on foot back home all
the way from Lakshmi theater to Maharanipet, a distance of more than five
kilometers… along with my annayya and
vadina … sharing the pleasure (or pain?) of
carrying the sleeping kid between myself and annayya ... as no rickshaw
fellow was ready to come that far at that hour of the night. That was my first encounter with a Hindi
cinema and of course, with the tragedy king of Indian cinema, Dilip Kumar. Of
course, thereafter I did see a few more movies of him but it is listening to
those melancholic songs that he sang on screen that I enjoyed most… and talking
of which I relish even more. Any way, having already spent quite a time on my
journey to Visakhapatnam, it would, perhaps, be wise to reserve it for some other
time.
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