That musical, be-bop voice was unmistakable: “Come over, come over... we’ll talk... thoda khayenge piyenge... come over, come over.” That’s how his invitations would go for a no-agenda chatfiesta at his permanently-booked suite in an oceanfront hotel. And he would ring off with a concerned “Don’t forget. Come over, come over.”
His den shifted to a capacious, parquet-floored library-cum-thinkspot at his Ketnav recording studio on Pali Hill. Once in a sepia-moon, he would request me to drop by at his pebble-patio bungalow in a leafy Juhu lane. He had also called over the fast-rising Sridevi then. He solicited a second opinion: “She’s coming over for dinner. Tell me what you think. Sri, Miss Sri’s sister... don’t know her name... and I’ll be there. I’ll ask Mona to join us. Come over, come over, don’t forget.”
Expectedly, he nursed a single Scotch the entire evening. Financial negotiations didn’t gel with Sridevi and sister, his radar upped immediately for another heroine. As for Mona, screen-named Kalpana Kartik, she did not emerge from her secluded chamber. Mona, whom Dev saab married after teaming up in a series of successful thrillers and romantic dramas (mmm Nau Do Gyarah, House No. 44, Taxi Driver), stuck to her Garboesque resolve of “I want to be alone”.
By polar contrast, Dev Anand was people-affectionate. A wannabe-actress aunt of mine would recapitulate: “When I was 15, I sneaked into a studio to ask him for a role. He told me I was too young, to complete my studies. Some 30 years later, I met him at an airport. He remembered my name and even asked me if I had completed college.”
The aunt was his lifelong devotee, ditto the movie lovers weaned on the glorious age of Bombay cinema, notably during the 1950s.
The triumvirate was boss then: Dilip Kumar was the facilely anointed tragedy king, Raj Kapoor the showmanship shahenshah. Dev saab was the coolest, a man of urban tadka, courting beauteous women gallantly. Puffed vaselined hair, a disarming grin, a loose-limbed swagger that constituted the romantic’s self-styled charisma. Over time he has been imitated extensively, but none could equal his sophisticated signature.
He may have been the down-at-heel Paying Guest, the crime-busting reporter of Kala Pani, the cinema ticket blackmarketeer of Kala Bazar or the fantasy hilltown hero combating the evil designs of Pran in Jab Pyaar Kisise Hota Hai. In effect, though, Dev saab was in sync with the aspirations of the post-Independence youth of the ’50s. He would surely zip up the social ladder. So when an ending would be somewhat downbeat — take the vastly-underrated Bambai ka Babu — the audience would be disappointed. Dev saab had to win, like a champ pugilist in the boxing ring.
In 1951, Dev Anand’s Navketan production banner introduced Guru Dutt as director, with Baazi. Raj Khosla, with CID, was another Navketan discovery. Vijay Anand was allotted stewardship of the plum projects.
Expectedly, Dev saab turned to direction too. If there were creative snafus between Dev, Vijay and Chetan Anand — brothers from Shakargarh, now in Pakistan — with dignity they kept the differences within the family.
The Chennai-produced Insaniyat featured Dilip Kumar and Dev Anand for the first and last time together. Dev saab would say deadpan: “That trained chimp, Zippy, who did all the stunts, stole the show away from us.” Pause, and then over to his mantra: “It’s
now, it’s now... that matters. Doesn’t it?” On badgering, he would admit he was in love with Suraiya: he had given her a `3,000 wedding ring (a raja’s ransom in those days), but her orthdox Muslim grandmother had told him to beat it.
The actor’s ear for imperishable music was spot on, especially in his collaborations with S.D. Burman, Jaidev and R.D. Burman. Technically excellent cinematography was extracted from Fali Mistry and V. Ratra.
He didn’t lose sleep over the fact that he had nixed Teesri Manzil and Zanjeer. “That happens, that happens. Shammi Kapoor and Amitabh Bachchan did very well in them. If Dadamoni (Ashok Kumar) had not seen me hanging around a studio, he wouldn’t have offered me Ziddi and I would have not been in the motion pictures,” he reasoned.
If you asked Dev saab for a photo session in his famous Jewel Thief cap or Guide shawl, he’d mull: “Let me see if the Navketan godowns still have them... or we can always have them remade!” Not the same thing, but then Raju the Guide’s attitude was always stubbornly about today and tomorrow. No time for faded memorabilia.
He groomed Zeenat Aman and felt let down when she opted to move on to Raj Kapoor’s banner with Satyam Shivam Sundaram. After that he erased any signs of possessiveness, allowing Tina Munim and Richa Sharma to quit the Navketan fold instead of becoming his protegees. In his autobiography, Romancing with Life, he wrote frankly about his private and professional life, explaining why it was the topmost seller in its genre.
Waheeda Rehman, whom he introduced to Hindi language cinema with CID, wasn’t his first choice for Guide. Saira Banu was. Arguably, it turned out to be Waheeda Rehman’s career-best performance. When she was to receive the Filmfare Lifetime Achievement Award, she had requested: “Do ask Dev saab to present the trophy to me. I haven’t seen him in years, it would be such a warm reunion.”
Dev Anand’s last batch of films — be it Chargesheet, Mr Prime Minister, Love at Times Square or Censor — are curiosity pieces, their sheer existence affirming his never-say-surrender spirit. It is conjectured that he could finance them from the revenues accruing from his vintage movies and from the support of unwavering NRI fans.
The last encounter with him was at a magazine’s anniversary party. Besweatered and mocassined, he talked of his son Suneil Anand who has been planning a martial arts extravaganza. Then he looked me in the eye and said: “Dev Anand is Dev Anand... and you are you. Let’s meet. I’ll phone you... your number hasn’t changed, has it?”
My only regret is that he never called. Now there’s no one to say: “Come over, come over... Don’t forget.”
I never will.