In many ways, Dilip Kumar is an enigma, even if part of the enigma is designer stuff. Very little is known about his early life, and he quit films in 1998, so even less is known about the last 17 years of his life. It is in this scenario that we see the publication of his long-awaited autobiography, written with the help of chronicler Udayatara Nayar, among the senior-most film journalists and editors in Mumbai and the daughter of a the well-known S.S. Pillai, who edited Screen (she was to succeed him at this post in later years).

Published by Hay House, India and priced at Rs. 699, it is presented in hardcover, with a B & W sleeve and mostly B & W photographs, as it should be, for an actor who debuted in the mid 40s. It is dedicated to Amma and Aghaji. Amma, obviously, was his mother. Agha is a common word in Persian that means Sir or Mr., used here for his father. Arriving when he turned 92, it is not a day too early. The book is divided into 25 chapters, Filmography and Awards and nearly 100 pages of reminiscences of over 40 family and extended family members, friends and associates. At 456 pages lus the covers, in clearly legible type and matching paper, it is value for money, running @ INR 1/page.

‘Sukoon-e-dil ke liye kuchh to ehtemaam karoon

Zaraa nazar jo miley phir unhey salaam karoon,

Mujhey to hosh naheen aap mashvaraa deejiye

Kahaan sey chhedoon fasaanaa kahaan tamaam karoon’

This piece of verse appears in the beginning, and a great piece of poetry it is, to start an autobiography. I have taken the liberty to phonetically correct part of it and linguistically correct some more of it. Roughly translated for the benefit of those who do not understand Urdu,

‘To console the heart, I need to do something

 Let our eyes meet, I will greet them again

I am not in my senses, you advise me

Where should I begin the tale, and where should I end it’

If you are 92 and come from a family of 12 children, were born in Peshawar, have worked and lived in Deolali, Pune, Mumbai and Chennai, got all possible recognitions and awards (the latest being India’s second highest civilian honour, the Padma Vibhushan), served as the Sheriff of India’s urbs prima, Bombay, spent years with the National Association for the Blind, postulated the Film City (Chitranagari) on the lines of Hollywood and a cultural centre that ultimately took shape as Nehru Centre (Worli Mumbai), you have so much to say. By that yard-stick, the book does not say too much. A lot of the content is well-known: the great admiration he has for Ashok Kumar (mutual), how Amitabh Bachchan worships him, how Dharmendra idolises him, how Manoj (Harikishan Goswami in real-life) Kumar named himself after Dilip Kumar’s character in Shaheed, how Raj Kapoor was a pal, and how devoted and loving Saira Banu (former film star, often called Beauty Queen) is, as his wife and a person.

What is interesting is his candid admission that he ghost directed and even edited several of his films, that he was almost entrapped by Madhubala’s manipulative father, that producer-director A. R. Kardar got him into trouble with Income Tax authorities, and that he was ‘involved’ with a woman called Asma. Media-persons and film-fans who were around in the 1980s, as those who have dug up the material in this information age, might feel that he has devoted hardly one scene to Asma, whereas it was material for a whole film, but they need to be pragmatic enough to realise that having married Asma and then, amid some humiliation, come back with renewed commitment to Saira, he could hardly be expected to get into the juicy (gory?) details.

What are worth enjoying every bit are the recap of the 1920s-50s, the family and the formative years of Yousuf Khan, the son of fruit merchant Mohammed Sarwar Khan and his years as a fruit trader and  sandwich-seller himself. His sense of humour and practical jokes might come as a surprise to many who might be of the opinion that he is too serious a person to indulge in such frivolities.A detailed picture emerges of Nagdevi Street and Crawford market, the trading hub of Mumbai, in the 1940s. The family lived on Nagdevi Street and traded from premises in nearby Crawford market. Crawford Market still exists, though I cannot throw any light on the Nagdvei Street building. From there, the Khans moved to PaliMala, about 1 km away from where they presently reside. Dilip Kumar and Saira Banu both own properties on Pali Hill, Mumbai’s Beverly Hill, among other places, 1.5 km from my humble abode downhill. I have had the pleasure of seeing him come from walks at Joggers' Park on Carter Road very late in the evening, dressed in his usual spotless white shirt and trousers.

Language is occasionally uneven, and there is more than acceptable repetition. This is possible due to the recording in instalments and the transcripts then arranged as a fresh chapter. Halfway down the track, it appears that Saira Banu has contributed more than Dilip Kumar, but how in heaven could that have not been the case? Firstly, she is his self-confessed better ¾ths and secondly, he has been in and out of hospital at least a dozen times in the last six years, suffering from a variety of ailments that include some loss of memory! But yes, the tomes of tributes at the end could have been avoided, or, at least reduced, or pages increased, to add other content as balance. A second edition is in the offing. Rumours declare him dead every month for years now. Let’s pray that he is around when the revised, updated version is released. AS they say, the more one is killed off in rumours, the longer he lives. A century is in order.

(I thank PadmaShri Dr. Roshan Kumari, a family friend of the couple, kathak dance guru and choreographer of some of the songs picturised on Dilip Kumar and Saira Banu, for lending me her copy of the book for this review).