Although the answer was loaded with innuendo, it was disarmingly funny. On being asked, “Have you ever fallen in love ”, he had replied instantly, “No my body has only risen in love.” With a poker-Buster Keaton face, he continued, “You’re asking me that because I’m no spring chicken. Phir bhi jaani, abhi to main jawaan hoon. Next question if you don’t mind.”
No one could mind any quirk from Raaj Kumar. But the much-discussed eccentricity was a guise. The man had a regard for the literary, the poetic, Shakespearean dramas and, above all, cinema of flamboyant flourishes.
The interview had been organised on the studio sets of Muqaddar ka Faisla (1987), courtesy producer Yash Johar who had cautioned, “Appreciate the Ghalib verses he may quote to you. He thinks you are an intelligent sort and someone who appreciates poetry.” As it happened, I didn’t qualify on either of the counts. The actor was disappointed, immediately commanding his Jeeves to remove the Johnnie Walker Black bottle and the pyramid of samosas placed on the table before us. Presumably, he had expected an evening of intense sher-o-shayari.
The media-averse Raaj Kumar, born Kulbhushan Pandit in Loralai, Balochistan, retains a cult following, canonised as the “King of Dialogue Delivery”, but on Sunday a precious few recalled that his 20th death anniversary falls on July 3. If he was alive, he would have been 89 and quite likely ensconced in his Worli bungalow or gazing at the oceanfront from his Juhu shack “Whispering Windows”, which were both strictly out of bounds for visitors.
A story goes that a film producer, who wished to offer him a role was summoned for a swimming session, not in a pool but in the sea at high tide. The producer waded in gingerly but was in for another surprise. The teetotaller producer was challenged to drink a quart of whisky while they discussed the project amidst the lacerating waves. The producer returned home terrifically tipsy, elated that the project had been accepted.
To be sure, such stories — like the ones associated with Kishore Kumar — may be apocryphal. Still, they’re ceaselessly narrated by Bollywood’s senior survivors. Here was an actor who devised an aura around himself. It hardly mattered if he was scoffed at for sporting a carrot-hued wig, ear-rings, shirts which seemed to be cut from paisley-printed upholstery fabrics, besides carrying a ubiquitous briar wood pipe which gave him an element of gravitas.
In the public mind, the jaani bristled with paradoxes which made him more enigmatic than the marshmallow matinee idols of the 1960s and ’70s. Indeed even before that, the brief role of the cowardly family deserter of Mehboob Khan’s Mother India, unspools in the memory’s archives.
Initially, his roles presented him as an antagonist, a spoke-in-the-wheel of a happy ending. During the concluding years of the black-and-white era, he was a turncoat street ruffian (Ujala, 1959), an anti-labour factory employee (Paigham, 1959) and the overly suspicious (Dil Ek Mandir, 1963) or relegated-to-the-backdrop husband (Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, 1960). The black sheep of a colourfully scattered family in Waqt (1965) eventually spotlighted his potential leading hero material, affirmed by the lyrical sagas Pakeezah (1972) and Heer Raanjha (1970). Indeed, his most cherished performances are those of a gallant paramour apotheosised by his delivery of the ultimate romantic line of dialogue in Pakeezah. To a lost-in-her-dreams Meena Kumari, in the course of a train journey, he intoned huskily, “Aapke paaon dekhe, bahut haseen hain inhe zameen par mat utariyega maile ho jayenge”. (“I saw your feet, they are very beautiful. Don’t place them on the ground they will get soiled.”)
The Raaj Kumar style was theatrical but individualistic. The audience clapped and whistled at his punchlines. If he had ever opted for the naturalistic, restrained mode, he would have been unacceptable.
And he preserved the style like an indispensable overcoat, while making the transition to enormous-than-life character roles. Whether he was crossing verbal swords with Dilip Kumar in Saudagar (1991) once again after Paigham, Nana Patekar in Tiranga (1992) or Naseeruddin Shah in Police Public (1990), Bollywood’s jaani reigned in the kingdom he had created for himself.
Acting was self-inculcated and a spillover from his real life. Yet another Raaj Kumar lore claims that when he was a sub-inspector in Mumbai’s Mahim police station, he refused to salute his superiors. Perfect!
On the downside, there were rumours that in the line of duty he had inadvertently killed a man, an allegation which remained an allegation. As for his private life, it was discreet. If a Stardust reporter quizzed him about his affairs, one of them culminating in a hush-hush marriage, the journo returned to her desk with a blank. She was awed by his charm and odd behaviour though — he had poured Scotch into his right-hand palm for his dog Tobey who scampered away promptly.
Puru, who couldn’t make the cut as a hero, has stated that his father was “bizarre but never boring”. Some years ago Vastavikta, his daughter, was in the news for stalking the hero-next-door Shahid Kapoor. Their brother, Panini, has kept out of showbiz as well as the party pages.
Incredibly, no one has chosen to chronicle the life and times of an actor and a man who never fell in love. He just kept rising in love.
The writer is a journalist, film critic and film director
