So Ahana, the chirpy teenaged girl-next-door, doesn’t know who on earth Dilip Kumar is. “Who’s he?” the B-wood movie addict asked. “Some newcomer or what?”

“Ouch, no,” I groaned. “Haven’t you ever seen Dilip saab’s films on TV... or on DVDs?”
“Naah. Should I have?”
“Of course you should have,” I frowned like a melancholic clown.”You should see his Devdas immediately!”
“Aaah, that I’ve seen... but I thought Shah Rukh Khan was in it. Was this Mr Dileeeep playing his father or what?”
Or what indeed? The 88-year-old Dilip Kumar, born Mohammed Yusuf Khan, may be the greatest actor Mumbai cinema has ever produced. Alas, today’s Yikes Generation has to be reminded that the thespian has been the role model of every actor — and particularly of Amitabh Bachchan whose early performances slavishly imitated the stalwart. The entire business of measured pauses in dialogue delivery, the wounded gaze darted at the camera and intuitively spontaneous comedy were perfected by Dilip Kumar. Incidentally, he acted in merely 60 films in a career span of over five decades, a gambit which is now being followed by the ultra-selective Aamir Khan.
So why bring up Dilip Kumar right here right now? One, because there are countless chirpy Ahanas-next-door out there who are oblivious of his very existence. And in this instance, ignorance is certainly not bliss. Second, because there are no definitive books on his professional or private lives, tantalising your appetite for the autobiography he has been writing along with his wife, Saira Banu, for what seems like donkey’s years. And third, well, because his very name makes you speed down memory’s highway: a smooth drive perhaps but not without its speedbreakers.
Yusuf saab can be the epitome of courtesy and he can be inexplicably cruel. One of the most baffling episodes in my career has been his assent and then, his unilateral refusal to present the Filmfare trophy to the RK Studio on the completion of its 50th year. For weeks I had worked with Yusuf saab, late into the nights, on the speech he would deliver before handing over the trophy to Randhir, Rishi and Rajiv Kapoor. On the day of the award itself, he backed out, claiming that he was suddenly summoned to Kasauli. Instead he sent a fuzzily recorded cassette, praising Raj Kapoor to the high heavens. It all sounded faux showbiz. And neither did anyone catch a train, flight, car, or bus to Kasauli that evening.
That’s one aberration. Others are too trivial to mention, like his wont of making every visitor wait for an hour or two, or more, before he descends from the marble staircase of his Pali Hill bungalow. Forget that. Unarguably, he is an amazing actor, a playful puck who wears a mask of erudition. Seriously. Tongue-in-chic, he once told me, “I sound very well-read, poetic and academic when I speak at public functions. Let me tell you I am not. I just put together some sentences which have been floating in the mind... and hope to God that I’m liked.” He’s downsizing himself, maybe. When he speaks in chaste Urdu, it’s pure magic.
He has told me of caravanserais of camels crossing the Khyber Pass or he has detailed the recipe for an almond pilaf, when I’ve simply asked him, “Sir, how are you?” He is a leisurely raconteur. And when it comes to discussing any of his performances, he can be breathtakingly demonstrative.
The finest performance I’ve ever seen of a blind man was done “live” by Dilip Kumar at the Joggers’ Park in Bandra. While accompanying him on a stroll at the park, I asked him how he had so effectively portayed a sightless man in Deedar (1951). He said, “Give me a minute.” He closed his eyes, mumbled something inaudible to himself, caught hold of my arm and started strolling as if he were absolutely blind. Unbelievable. I had to plead with him to come out of the imposed blindness. He regained his eyesight slowly and laughed, “You got scared? Acting can be scary. I didn’t see anything around me for the last ten minutes.”
Dilip Kumar’s performances borrowed elements from Hollywood’s Paul Muni, Ronald Coleman and to an extent, Montgomery Clift. Also, it was obvious that he would sometimes incorporate the body language and some facial mannerisms of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. For years, the actor immersed himself deeply in his roles to the extent of blurring the line between the real and the imagined. After Devdas (1955), he had to consult a psycho-analyst who recommended that for a change, the actor should go for larkish, light-hearted roles. Followed Kohinoor (1960) and Ram Aur Shyam (1965).
Perhaps the thespian’s filmography would have coursed through an entirely different path if he had accepted David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962). The rejected role went to Omar Sharif, but Dilip Kumar has always consoled himself, “I wouldn’t have been able to do justice to the part. David was a wonderful director but some things are just not to be.”
Neither did Kalinga, the first and last film he chose to direct officially. Lore is that earlier he had ghost-directed several of his unforgettable works, including Gunga Jamuna (1961). On the sets of Kalinga, I saw a very animated actor-director, but the content of the scene frazzled me. Shilpa Shirodkar to wreak vengeance on her two-timing husband, Raj Kiran, was about to show him the foetus of their aborted child. Good heavens! Kalinga was aborted too by its financier.
After the disastrous show of Qila (1998), Yusuf saab retired gracefully. He shouldn’t have. There is still that lust for life on his face, and a persona that is to a camera born.When I re-see him in Andaz (1951), Amar (1954), Mughal-e-Azam (1960) or Shakti (1982), the eyes moist. Hell man, they don’t make ’em like Dilip Kumar anymore. Come to think of it, they never did. Ahana doesn’t know what she is missing.