Dharmendra: A Farmer at Heart

I was a rookie reporter in the mid '70s and sent to interview superstar Dharmendra for his comments to be featured in a more comprehensive story compiled by a senior writer. I was repeatedly warned to not return without his quote because the story had to go to print the follow­ing evening. I was informed he was shooting at a suburban studio in Mumbai and reached Natraj Studio in Andheri by 4PM. It was a 2PM shift but Dharmendra had not yet arrived. I waited pa­tiently for a couple of hours, observing studio hands and thinking about their lives but as the skyline changed and dusk fell over the ancient studio, my heart sank as well because it meant going home without a job accom­plished and I dreaded my editor’s reaction.

Then at 6PM suddenly, there was magic in the atmosphere. The superstar arrived in his limousine fol­lowed by his faithful staff in a smaller car. He ran up the staircase to his makeup room and for a while, there was a flurry of activity, when his staff and studio hands rushed in and out of his room, carrying food, his costume and more. Soon the writer was summoned to narrate the scene they were shooting and after a brief rehearsal, the actor was ready to roll. I was waiting at the entrance of the set and made sure to catch his attention before he was lost to the unit. I introduced myself, the rea­son for my visit, he heard me in silence, then checking his wrist watch, said, “Isn’t it too late for you to be hanging around the sets? I suggest you go home now and we will do the interview tomor­row at lunch break”.

I was happy to leave the studio instantly but my editor wasn’t. He described my exit as a gross error over the phone and assured me that the interview would not hap­pen the following day. I reached Natraj Studio at 2PM as promised and Dharmendra recognised me instantly and kept his promise. The film industry was a different world in the ’70s and the superstars, strangely sensitive. The studio gates were always open and we walked in and out. Nobody fixed ap­pointments then, you knocked on their doors and chatted about their films and lives. In the olden days, movies operated on a foundation of trust and superstars were human not robots managed by half a dozen managers who isolated them from the rest of the world. The old stars made their own decisions, and prioritised who they wanted to work or spend time with.

In the ’80s while Dharmendra was still raining hits at the box-office, I was assistant editor of Movie magazine. He was now a producer as well and preparing to launch his first born, Sunny Deol, in Betaab (1983). Glamorous photo shoots were a big rage in the eight­ies and Dharmendra had promised debut pictures of Sunny-Amrita Singh to the Movie magazine. The photoshoot, organised at a resort, unfortunately was a disaster because Sunny was immensely self-conscious of his father and Dharmendra sensed this and exited the location discreetly. A decade later, when Sunny was launching his younger brother, Bobby Deol, in Barsaat (1995), Bobby was equally inhibited and relaxed only after Sunny Deol had exited the location. Barsaat was not as big a hit as Be­taab but Bobby was an instant star signed up by all the top banners.

It is not common for a family of three generations to be simultane­ously pursuing a career in movies but it was happening with the Deols and Dharmendra, at 70 plus, four decades and 300 movies, was a revelation. The audience had loved watching him sing, dance, fight, and romance different gen­erations of heroines in his younger days. They cheered him when he beat up the vil­lains in Sholay (1975) and Dharamveer (1977), whis­tled when he was a scene-stealer in Chupke Chupke (1975) and cried with him in Yaadon ki Baraat (1973) and later, Apne (2007). He worked with different sensibilities of directors be it mainstream mes­siahs like Ramesh Sippy and Manmohan Desai to the super sensitive and artistic, Bimal Roy and Hrishikesh Mukherjee.

We often spoke of these special characters when we bumped into each at his private theatre, Sunny Studio in Juhu or when I was visiting Hema Malini and we relished a cup of tea together. He regretted not doing more artistic films, saying there were no opportunities, “Log bas ek hi prakaar ki filme banate hain, dekhte hain aur ilzaam hum ac­tors ko dete hain”. (People make and watch the same kind of films, but blame us actors).

Dharmendra was always eager to embrace adventures. Amongst the first to imbibe physical fitness as a routine, he believed exercising was both an anti-depressant and a stress buster.

For a tentative phase, when mov­ies stopped coming his way, Dhar­mendra flirted with politics. When I congratulated him on his victory he said, “Paaji jeet gaye par party haar gayi”. (I won but the party lost) He quit politics sooner than expected because he felt rajneeti (politics) is not a place for artistes. He said, “All we endure is heartbreaks”.

A farmer at heart, the village boy had a dream and one day, he hopped onto a train to the city of dreams, Bombay. Inspired by Dilip Kumar, Dharmendra followed into his idol’s footsteps and may not have become a legend like the thes­pian but carved a unique place for himself in the world of stardom.

Not many know that Dharamji was a poet by heart and regularly wrote Urdu poetry in a notebook, which he frequently recited to his loved ones. We have all been an audience at many such emotional moments at Advitya, Hema Malini’s Juhu home. The last time I met Dharamji was at the Ganpati festival at Hema Malini’s residence. He was not in the pink of health but made an effort to offer his thanks giving to the elephant deity. That evening he de­parted earlier than usual and when I insisted he stay longer, he looked at his wrist watch and said, “It is sleepy time for me.” A thought crosses my mind: had Dharmendra lived another week, his family would have celebrated his 90th birthday on December 8 and had he lived another few days, the film fraternity would have cel­ebrated his last film ‘Ikkis’.

But that is not how it works, you have to go when you have to go.