Dilip Kumar: Missed Opportunity

Dilip Kumar’s “The Substance And The Shadow: An Autobiography” is underwhelming.

He may be a great actor. But the book is plain boring. It may be either due to his advanced age, wherein he couldn’t recall much. However, I suspect he chose to keep it that way. It is a please-all venture with major lacunae, bad proof-reading and certainly conceited in parts.

The discontinuity in the narrative is palpable and some of the most important parts of the 92-year-old icon’s life are missing. Even where he chooses to reveal uncomfortable episodes, he keeps them obscure and confusing, maintaining a facade of decency.

The man obviously takes immense pride in his being a virile Pathan -- a package that supposedly comes with in-built dignity, machismo, fearlessness and good looks, besides of course the inescapable sense of honour. Yusufsaab almost has a fetish for his “manhood” (he just can’t stop describing his body hair).

However, his Pathan self-image comes across as jarring when he passes unguarded comments on other communities, be it Bengalis, Tamilians or the British.

The biggest gap in the book involves some of the giants of the era completely missing from his narrative. The third pillar of the matinee triumvirate, Dev Anand, has little more than a mention here and a picture there. The singing icons Mohammed Rafi, Talat Mehmood and Mukesh, who played a humongous role in Yusufsaab’s popularity are not even named.

He makes no comment on the period and upheaval of the partition, despite the fact that he paints an extensive picture of his hometown Peshawar, where he spent his childhood. Important characters in his early life – his grandmother, his home – disappear mid-way.

No mention of the bloody riots that plagued Mumbai at the time he was already a rising star. No insights on what post-partition India felt like for Muslims with roots in Pakistan.

However, there are some three chapters on one topic – his wife, Saira Banu. He is clearly enamoured. Beyond a point it becomes outright boring.

The second part of the book has a series of write-ups about him by famous personalities and others close to him. They all sound the same – like the Gandhi family ‘yes-men’. Can’t blame them; after all, they can’t be critical of him in his own autobiography, can they? 

There's so much more one would expect out of an autobiography of India's premier movie legend. What a wasted opportunity.