Roundabout: Visiting the legend of evergreen Devanand in his centenary year
The heroes of childhood are hard to forget so it is with the Gurdaspur boy who rose to great heights winning female hearts and was referred to as the ‘Gregory Peck of India’
Cinema was the only source of entertainment during our childhood besides books and of course the radio. Cinema, however, headed the list because that was an occasion to dress and go out and did not happen all too often in the mid-’50s and ’60s when discipline was the keyword of kids. When it did happen, say once in a month or twice, the excitement was irrepressible. The best dress would be taken out of the cupboard and my mother would put a drop or two of her cherished “Evening in Paris” perfume, otherwise kept carefully in her almirah.
Thus, one went to the dream world often riding Saharanpuri rickshaws, the common transport of Chandigarh of the late ’50s. There would be stars in the eyes wondering what would unfold on the silver screen. The other excitement would be the snack in the interval, usually a crisp fried samosa with a dot of tomato sauce for popcorn had not yet caught the Indian imagination.
Choosing a favourite hero
I would hear my mother and bhabhi, who took me to see movies, often discuss their favourite heroes. My bhabhi, then in her 20s, was smitten by Dilip Kumar and saw his films over and again. My mother dismissed the new crop of heroes and remained faithful to the singing star of her times Kundanlal Saigal, who had passed away a few months before Partition in 1947 and I was to learn later of excessive alcohol.
I wondered if I would ever have a favourite hero. Well it happened in 1961 when I was a six-year-old and saw the film “Jab Pyar Kisise Hota Hai” with this tall, gangly, handsome and truly amazing hero called Devanand. He could jump out the train and land on top of a moving car and start singing to the comely Asha Parekh as she smiled through the window of the train: “Tum ek hasin ho lakhon mein bhala paake tumhe koi khota hai”. The final winning over came when he pointed to a donkey that appeared from nowhere by the rail track when he said “khota hai” because it seemed so funny to a child’s mind. The hero worship had begun and I was not the only one.
Dev, as he was often referred to, formed the famous trio that ruled the silver screen. The other two were the tragic Dilip Kumar and the comic Raj Kapoor.
Tale of the star’s black coat
The fanfare Dev enjoyed among girls was unprecedented. As the lore goes, there was a court order banning him for appearing in public in a black coat. According to the old tale, he appeared in a 1958 movie “Kala Paani”, along with the the top heroines of those times, Madhubala and Nalini Jaywant, wearing a white shirt and a black coat. It is said that not only did the girls swoon over him but it is believed that one was so overcome by his look that she jumped from the balcony and died. True or false, the story is still remembered in print. Ironically, this heartbreaker on screen was heart broken himself when he could not marry his first love, the famous singer-actor Suraya. Dev moved on, but Suraya never married anyone.
Another interesting story doing the rounds on the internet on how his style was shaped by the culture of Doon School, which he visited 80 years ago to stay with his elder brother, celebrated filmmaker Chetan Anand, who was teaching there. The actor wrote in his memoirs “Romancing with Life” that he picked up a lot by watching the Doscos in their British style at the school’s dining table. He also loved to wear and flaunt his brother’s big leather boots, imported from London, as well as his woollen check-shirt, black and maroon, typically English!
He earned me my first tight slap
Thus, life went on worshipping the star for many years. When we moved to Delhi to briefly live with my brother in the Wesley Officers Mess, India Gate, in 1966, there was a fixed playing time for us girls, but one day we heard that a Devanand film was being screened at the ground at the workers’ quarters. A few of us rushed to the spot and sat right through the family propaganda film, wherein our hero played the sympathetic brother-in-law to his bhabhi who bore one child after another. When I reached home, a tight slap from my brother awaited me and he roared, “Why did you go there to watch the film?” I replied sobbing, “It was a Devanand film!”
