THUS SPAKE KISHORE KUMAR
Pritish Nandy interviewed Kishore Kumar for The Illustrated Weekly of India in April 1985.
Pritish Nandi [PN]: I
understand you are quitting Bombay and going away to Khandwa...
Kishore Kumar [KK]:
Who can live in this stupid, friendless city where everyone seeks to exploit
you every moment of the day? Can you trust anyone out here? Is anyone
trustworthy? Is anyone a friend you can count on? I am determined to get out of
this futile rat race and live as I’ve always wanted to. In my native
Khandwa,the land of my forefathers. Who wants to die in this ugly city?
PN: Why did you come
here in the first place?
KK: I would come to
visit my brother Ashok Kumar. He was such a big star in those days. I thought
he could introduce me to KL Saigal who was my greatest idol. People say he used
to sing through his nose. But so what? He was a great singer. Greater than
anyone else.
PN: I believe you are
planning to record an album of famous Saigal songs....
KK: They asked me to.
I refused. Why should I try to outsing him? Let him remain enshrined in our
memory. Let his songs remain just HIS songs. Let not even one person say that
Kishore Kumar sang them better.
PN: If you didn’t like
Bombay, why did you stay back? Forfame? For money?
KK: I was conned into
it. I only wanted to sing. Never to act. But somehow, thanks to peculiar
circumstances, I was persuaded to act in the movies. I hated every moment of it
and tried virtually every trick to get out of it. I muffed my lines, pretended
to be crazy, shaved my head off, played difficult, began yodelling in the midst
of tragic scenes, told Meena Kumari what I was supposed to tell Bina Rai in
some other film - but they still wouldn’t let me go. I screamed, ranted, went
cuckoo. But who cared? They were just determined to make me a star.
PN: Why?
KK: Because I was Dadamoni’s
brother. And he was a great hero.
PN: But you succeeded,
after your fashion....
KK: Of course I did. I
was the biggest draw after Dilip Kumar. There were so many films I was doing in
those days that I had to run from one set to the other, changing on the way.
Imagine me. My shirts flying off, my trousers falling off, my wig coming off
while I’m running from one set to the other. Very often I would mix up my lines
and look angry in a romantic scene or romantic in the midst of a fierce battle.
It was terrible and I hated it. It evoked nightmares of school. Directors were
like schoolteachers. Do this. Do that. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. I dreaded
it. That’s why I would often escape.
PN: Well, you are
notorious for the trouble you give your directors and producers. Why is that?
KK: Nonsense. They
give me trouble. You think they give a damn for me? I matter to them only
because I sell. Who cared for me during my bad days? Who cares for anyone in
this profession?
PN: Is that why you
prefer to be a loner?
KK: Look, I don’t
smoke, drink or socialise. I never go to parties. If that makes me a loner,
fine. I am happy this way. I go to work and I come back straight home. To watch
my horror movies, play with my spooks, talk to my trees, sing. In this avaricious
world, every creative person is bound to be lonely. How can you deny me that
right?
PN: You don’t you have
many friends?
KK: None.
PN: That’s rather
sweeping.
KK: People bore me.
Film people particularly bore me. I prefer talking to my trees.
PN: So you like
nature?
KK: That’s why I want
to get away to Khandwa. I have lost all touch with nature out here. I tried to
dig a canal all around my bungalow out here, so that we could sail gondolas
there. The municipality chap would sit and watch and nod his head
disapprovingly, while my men would dig and dig. But it didn’t work. One day
someone found a hand - a skeletal hand- and some toes After that no one wanted
to dig anymore. Anoop, my second brother, came charging with Ganga water and
started chanting mantras. He thought this house was built on a graveyard.
Perhaps it is. But I lost the chance of making my home like Venice.
PN: People would have
thought you crazy. In fact they already do.
KK: Who said I’m
crazy. The world is crazy; not me.
PN: Why do you have
this reputation for doing strange things?
KK: It all began with
this girl who came to interview me. In those days I used to live alone. So she
said: You must be very lonely. I said: No, let me introduce you to some of my
friends. So I took her to the garden and introduced her to some of the
friendlier trees.Janardhan; Raghunandan; Gangadhar; Jagannath; Buddhuram;
Jhatpatajhatpatpat. I said they were my closest friends in this cruel world.
She went and wrote this bizarre piece, saying that I spent long evenings with
my arms entwined around them. What’s wrong with that, you tell me? What’s wrong
making friends with trees?
PN: Nothing.
KK: Then, there was
this interior decorator-a suited, booted fellow who came to see me in a
three-piece woollen, Saville Row suit in the thick of summer- and began to
lecture me about aesthetics, design,visual sense and all that. After listening
to him for about half an hour and trying to figure out what he was saying
through his peculiar American accent, I told him that I wanted something very
simple for my living room. Just water-several feet deep- and little boats
floating around, instead of large sofas. I told him that the centrepiece should
be anchored down so that the tea service could be placed on it and all of us
could row up to it in our boats and take sips from our cups. But the boats
should be properly balanced, I said, otherwise we might whizz past each other
and conversation would be difficult. He looked a bit alarmed but that alarm
gave way to sheer horror when I began to describe the wall decor. I told him
that I wanted live crows hanging from the walls instead of paintings-since I
liked nature so much. And, instead of fans, we could have monkeys farting from
the ceiling. That’s when he slowly backed out from the room with a strange look in his eyes. The
last I saw of him was him running out of the front gate, at a pace that would
have put an electric train to shame.What’s crazy about having a living room
like that, you tell me? If he can wear a woollen, three-piece suit in the
height of summer, why can’t I hang live crows on my walls?
PN: Your ideas are
quite original, but why do your films fare so badly?
KK: Because I tell my
distributors to avoid them. I warn them at the very outset that the film might
run for a week at the most. Naturally,they go away and never come back. Where
will you find a producer-director who warns you not to touch his film because
even he can’t understand what he has made?
PN: Then why do you
make films?
KK: Because the spirit
moves me. I feel I have something to say and the films eventually do well at
times. I remember this film of mine - Door Gagan ki Chhaon mein - which started to an audience of 10 people in
‘Alankar’. I know because I was in the hall myself. There were only ten people
who had come to watch the first show! Even its release was peculiar. Subhodh
Mukherjee, the brother of my brother-in-law, had booked ‘Alankar’ (the hall)
for 8 weeks for his film April Fool – which everyone knew was going to be a block- buster. My film,
everyone was sure, was going to be a thundering flop. So he offered to give me
a week of his booking. Take the first week, he said flamboyantly, and I’ll
manage within seven. After all, the movie can’t run beyond a week. It can’t run
beyond two days, I reassured him. When 10 people came for the first show, he
tried to console me. Don’t worry, he said, it happens at times. But who was
worried? Then, the word spread. Like wildfire. And within a few days the hall
began to fill. It ran for all 8 weeks at ‘Alankar’, house full! Subodh
Mukherjee kept screaming at me but how could I let go the hall? After 8 weeks
when the booking ran out, the movie shifted to ‘Super’, where it ran for
another 21 weeks! That’s the anatomy of a hit of mine. How does one explain it?
Can anyone explain it? Can Subodh Mukherjee, whose April Fool went on to become a thundering flop?
PN: But you, as the
director should have known?
KK: Directors know
nothing. I never had the privilege of working with any good director. Except
Satyen Bose and Bimal Roy, no one even knew the ABC of filmmaking. How can you
expect me to give good performances under such directors? Directors like S.D.
Narang didn’t even know where to place the camera. He would take long, pensive
drags from his cigarette, mumble ‘Quiet, quiet, quiet’ to everyone, walk a
couple of furlongs absentmindedly, mutter to himself and then tell the
camera-man to place the camera wherever he wanted. His standard line to me was:
‘Do something’. What something? Come on, some thing! So I would go off on my
antics. Is this the way to act? Is this the way to direct a movie? And yet
Narangsaab made so many hits!
PN: Why didn’t you
ever offer to work with a good director?
KK: Offer! I was far
too scared. Satyajit Ray came to me and wanted me to act in Parash Pathar - his famous comedy - and I was so scared that
I ran away. Later, Tulsi Chakravarti did the role. It was a great role and I
ran away from it, so scared I was of these great directors.
PN: But you knew Ray.
KK: Of course I did. I
loaned him five thousand rupees at the time of Pather
Panchali when he was in great
financial difficulty – and even though he paid back the entire loan, I never
gave him an opportunity to forget the fact that I had contributed to the making
of the classic. I still rib him about it. I never forget the money I loan out!
PN: Well, some people
think you are crazy about money. Others describe you as a clown, pretending to
be kinky but sane as hell. Still others find you cunning and manipulative.
Which is the real you?
KK: I play different
roles at different times. For different people. In this crazy world, only the
truly sane man appears to be mad. Look at me. Do you think I’m mad? Do you
think I can be manipulative?
PN: How would I know?
KK: Of course you
would know. It’s so easy to judge a man by just looking at him. You look at
these film people and you instantly know they’re rogues.
PN: I believe so.
KK: I don’t believe
so. I know so. You can’t trust them an inch. I have been in this rat race for
so long that I can smell trouble from miles afar. I smelt trouble the day I
came to Bombay in the hope of becoming a playback singer and got conned into
acting. I should have just turned my back and run.
PN: Why didn’t you?
KK: Well, I’ve
regretted it ever since. Boom Boom. Boompitty boom boom. Chikachikachik chik
chik. Yadlehe eeee yadlehe ooooo …
[Goes on yodelling
till the tea comes. Someone emerges from behind the upturned sofa in the living
room, looking rather mournful with a bunch of rat-eaten files and holds them up
for KK to see]
PN: What are those
files?
KK: My income tax
records.
PN: Rat-eaten?
KK: We use them as
pesticides. They are very effective. The rats die quite easily after biting
into them.
PN: What do you show
the tax people when they ask for the papers?
KK: The dead rats.
PN: I see.
KK: You like dead
rats?
PN: Not particularly.
KK: Lots of people eat
them in other parts of the world.
PN: I guess so.
KK: Haute cuisine.
Expensive too. Costs a lot of money.
PN: Yes?
KK: Good business,
rats. One can make money from them if one is enterprising.
PN: I believe you are
very fussy about money. Once, I’m told, a producer paid you only half your dues
and you came to the sets with half your head and half your moustache shaved
off. And you told him that when he paid the rest, you would shoot with your
face intact...
KK: Why should they
take me for granted? These people never pay unless you teach them a lesson. I
was shooting in the South once. I think the film was Miss Mary and these chaps kept me waiting in the hotel
room for five days without shooting. So I got fed up and started cutting my
hair. First I chopped off some hair from the right side of my head and then, to
balance it, I chopped off some from the left. By mistake I overdid it. So I cut
off some more from the right. Again I overdid it. So I had to cut from the left
again. This went on till I had virtually no hair left- and that’s when the call
came from the sets. When I turned up the way I was, they all collapsed. That’s
how rumours reached Bombay. They said I had gone cuckoo. I didn’t know. I
returned and found everyone wishing me from long distance and keeping a safe
distance of 10 feet while talking. Even those chaps who would come and embrace
me waved out from a distance and said Hi. Then, someone asked me a little
hesitantly how I was feeling. I said: Fine. I spoke a little abruptly perhaps.
Suddenly I found him turning around and running. Far, far away from me.
PN: But are you
actually so stingy about money?
KK: I have to pay my
taxes.
PN: You have income
tax problems I am told....
KK: Who doesn’t ? My
actual dues are not much but the interest has piled up. I’m planning to sell
off a lot of things before I go to Khandwa and settle this entire business once
and for all.
PN: You refused to
sing for Sanjay Gandhi during the emergency and, it is said, that’s why
the tax hounds were set on you. Is this true?
KK: Who knows why they
come. But no one can make me do what I don’t want to do. I don’t sing at
anyone’s will or command. But I sing for charities, causes all the time.
[Note: Sanjay Gandhi wanted KK to sing at
some Congress rally in Bombay. KK refused. Sanjay Gandhi ordered All India
Radio to stop playing Kishore songs. This went on for quite a while. KK refused
to apologize. Finally, it took scores of prominent producers and directors to
convince those in power to rescind the ban.]
PN: What about your
home life? Why has that been so turbulent?
KK: Because I like being
left alone.
PN: What went wrong
with Ruma Devi, your first wife?
KK: She was a very
talented person but we could not get along because we looked at life
differently. She wanted to build a choir and a career. I wanted someone to
build me a home. How can the two reconcile? You see, I’m a simple minded
villager type. I don’t understand this business about women making careers.
Wives should first learn how to make a home. And how can you fit the two
together? A career and a home are quite separate things. That’s why we went our
separate ways.
PN: Madhubala, your
second wife?
KK: She was quite
another matter. I knew she was very sick even before I married her. But a
promise is a promise. So I kept my word and brought her home as my wife, even
though I knew she was dying from a congenital heart problem. For 9 long years I
nursed her. I watched her die before my own eyes. You can never understand what
this means until you live through this yourself. She was such a beautiful woman
and she died so painfully. She would rave and rant and scream in
frustration.How can such an active person spend 9 long years bed-ridden? And I
had to humour her all the time. That’s what the doctor asked me to. That’s what
I did till her very last breath. I would laugh with her. I would cry with her.
PN: What about your
third marriage? To Yogeeta Bali?
KK: That was a joke. I
don’t think she was serious about marriage. She was only obsessed with her
mother. She never wanted to live here.
PN: But that’s because
she says you would stay up all night and count money.
KK: Do you think I can
do that? Do you think I’m mad? Well, it’s good we separated quickly.
PN: What about your
present marriage?
KK: Leena is a very
different kind of person. She too is an actress like all of them but she’s very
different. She has seen tragedy. She has faced grief. When your husband is shot
dead, you change. You understand life. You realise the ephemeral quality of all
things. I am happy now.
PN: What about your
new film? Are you going to play hero in this one too?
KK: No no no. I’m just
the producer-director. I’m going to be behind the camera. Remember I told you
how much I hate acting? All I might do is make a split second appearance on
screen as an old man or something.
PN: Like Hitchcock?
KK: Yes, my favourite
director. I’m mad, true. But only about one thing. Horror movies. I love
spooks. They are a friendly fearsome lot. Very nice people, actually, if you
get to know them. Not like these industry chaps out here. Do you know any
spooks?
PN: Not very friendly ones.
KK: But nice,
frightening ones?
PN: Not really.
KK: But that’s
precisely what we are all going to become one day. Like this chap out here —
[points to a skull, which he uses as part of his decor, with red light emerging
from its eyes] — you don’t even know whether it’s a man or a woman. Eh? But
it’s a nice sort. Friendly too. Look, doesn’t it look nice with my specs on its
non-existent nose?
PN: Very nice indeed.
KK: You are a good
man. You understand the real things of life. You are going to look like this
one day.