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April 4, 1997
BILLBOARD
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Talk about the Dev-il
Varsha Bhosle salutes that effervescent icon of Indian cinema, Dev Anand
I remember toddling down from the recording theatre of Mehboob Studios and
sneaking into its musty sound-stage. Amidst the bustle and flurry of
shooting, Dilip uncle leaned down and, lower lip jutting slightly, spoke
respectfully, so gently, just as if I were Meena Kumari: "Aap kaisin hain?
Badmaash,school nahin gayin?"
Of the third member of the holy trinity, I have no early recollections at
all. I'm convinced that during my teens, some defence-mechanism erased all
childhood memories of him. Perhaps, my mind couldn't handle the incestuous
reek clinging to the feelings he evoked. For, even after strong forays by
Shammi Kapoor and Bachchan, my heart remains wholly and solely Dev Anand's.
I will always be passionately in love with the black and white Dev Anand of
Taxi Driver (1954), Nau Do Gyarah (1957), Amardeep (1958) and Kala Bazar (1960). Even in colour, and after he got more stylised, my mind perceives
only the Anand of Asli Naqli (1962). Therefore, do not expect my
characteristic pot-shots -- one cannot be objective about a man whose mere
mention effects a serious quivering in one's innards. Men, poor souls, have
not been granted the depth to experience such phenomena.
What made Devsaab tick? (Notice, no 'uncle'). It wasn't his cocked hair,
since he got rid of it mid-career. It wasn't nimble-footedness, since he
couldn't dance. It wasn't a happy/comic persona, since Raju Guide (1965)
was anything but. Ditto the tragic figure, as evinced by the delightful
Banarasi Babu (1973). Perhaps, it was his smile, which revealed those
devastating gaps near the canines. Or, it may have been that equally
ravaging horizontal dent on his forehead. Which are only ways of saying
that Devsaab's charm is beyond all definition.
Whether in battle (Hum Dono, 1961), or torn by professional ethics (Tere
Mere Sapne, 1971), or on the scent of villains (CID, 1956), the common
thread through the screen personae in Devsaab's 105 films is the image of
the supreme lover. Not a lusty sex symbol, but the wholesome boy-next-door
we all want to drag home to mommy. Some say that Rajesh Khanna was India's
ultimate lover – he had his moments, I agree. But, the crucial difference
is that Devsaab never really tried -- he simply was. Even when he straightly
played the hood-winked sleuth in Jewel Thief (1967), all I wanted was to
throttle Vyjayantimala.
One magical day, while calling Suneil, I mistakenly dialled his father's
number. "Varsha! This is Dev speaking. Are you the one who writes?" "You
pick up your own phone?", I stammered. "Oh I'm easily accessible -- I've no
secretary screening calls. What's the big deal? But tell me about yourself:
did you Honour in English?" No. Is that so terrible? "I'm not hung up on
English, but I do believe that the day every young person will know the
language, you will see a change in the intellect, mood and sophistication
of the people. They will be more broad-minded, large-hearted and
international. English is not the monopoly of the British. I object to
being parochial: I've been here since 1943; mujhse bada koi aur
Maharashtrian ho sakta hai?"
I fell prey to the euphoria of that day: While blowing my trumpet to the
devious editor of this webzine, he cunningly slipped in a demand for
spiking 200 words from some article. I, who tug and tilt for even two dubious
punctuations, said, "Yeah, yeah, strike whatever you want, but listen to
this…" After which, I was snared into interviewing Devsaab.
I thought it would be very clever of me to intellectualise scenes from
Devsaab's movies. As preparation, I dug out a stack of videos and, notebook
in hand, switched on my all-time Dev Anand favourite: Kala Pani of 1958…
The lantern of Navketan glows, and the lean and tall Karan enters my life.
Open-necked, standing-collared shirt, cuffs rolled up loosely; high-waisted
baggy trousers; and an intensity that makes me wilt. If Madhubala flits in
and out, I do not notice. My notes go well -- till the first song-sequence:
Devsaab, in achkan and makhmal ki topi, swinging a cane and chewing paan,
saunters into the kotha of Nalini Jaywant: Nazar laagi raja tore… Karan
slides his topi forward onto his forehead, as one perfect eyebrow arches in
displeasure. "La haul-wila… Tauba, tauba, tauba!" he scowls. Jaywant
freezes. I crumple up my notes.
Song-end, Karan tells the smitten Jaywant, "Is shakal se aap jaisi bahuton
ne dhokha khaya, aur baad me mar miti… Zara dil thaam ke baithiye-ga! Humne
aise bahutse dil uda liyen hain." I fumble for my heart in vain. Then, Hum
bekhudi me tumko pukare… begins , and Karan flings out his arms on …chale
gaye. There is nothing else to be done but fl-y-y-y into them. End of
preparations.
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