Ashok Kumar, Hindi cinema’s first superstar
Aquarter of a century since his last screen appearance and two decades after he died, film buffs still recall Ashok Kumar’s (1911–2001) multiple contributions to Indian cinema. Starting as a reluctant actor in 1936, his career, which spanned 64 years and 350 movies, marked an evolution of cinema in the country. Launched opposite Devika Rani in Jeevan Naiya (1936), Kumar went on to become Hindi cinema’s first superstar. Such was his popular appeal that, for seven consecutive years, Roxy Cinema in Bombay showed only Ashok Kumar films.
With no school of acting to fall back upon, Kumar rehearsed before the mirror, much like Adolf Hitler did before he appeared in public. It is a sheer coincidence that Hitler sent Kumar a congratulatory message on the success of Achhut Kanya (1936), the iconic film on untouchability. Far from drawing any promotional value from it then or later, Kumar tore and threw away the historical document. “Laurels can never be more important than principles and human values,” he said. Kumar’s eldest daughter Bharati Jaffrey mentions the incident in the preface to this reissued biography, and confirms that he valued equanimity in the pursuit of excellence.
Nabendu Ghosh (1917-2007), author of Dadamoni, who scripted cinematic classics such as Devdas, Bandini, Parineeta and Abhimaan in the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s, has drawn a warm and intimate biography of one of Hindi cinema’s great icons.
Kumar transformed the prevailing theatrical acting style into a naturalistic one, and played every role to perfection, from the young romantic to the mature hero. He was a stellar character actor too. The list of his remarkable performances is long and impressive – the suspected judge in Kanoon, an old man in Aashirwad, an unassuming villain in Jewel Thief , and a lecherous senior in Shaukeen. With his signature smoking style and distinct hand movements, Kumar was both smooth and natural in diverse roles.
But things could have been different. German director Franz Osten who was associated with Bombay Talkies, rejected him after a screen test. “You have a square jaw; you look so young and girlish,” he said. Studio boss Himanshu Rai’s insistence on casting him as a hero prevented Kumar from returning to Calcutta to pursue his study of law. The rest is history. Apart from delivering a series of hit films during the 1940s and early 1950s, Kumar contributed to building Bombay Talkies. He invited the illustrious Bimal Roy, launched Dilip Kumar, initiated Dev Anand, gave a break to BR Chopra, got Sachin Dev Burman to compose music, and introduced Kishore Kumar. He also gave a platform to writers such as Saadat Hasan Manto, Ismat Chughtai, Saheed Latif, Kamal Amrohi, and the author of this volume, Nabendu Ghosh. These writers introduced complex social realities to cinematic storytelling.
The vibrant culture of filmmaking in the formative years of Hindi cinema comes through in this slim book on Ashok Kumar’s life. Few could have imagined that the initially reluctant actor would one day serve as a textbook for actors wanting to perfect characterisation,
HE TRANSFORMED THE PREVAILING THEATRICAL ACTING STYLE INTO A NATURALISTIC ONE, AND PLAYED EVERY ROLE TO PERFECTION
voice control, timing, gestures and posture.
“In acting, you have to give so much of yourself yet not be yourself,” said Kumar, who worked with the virtual who’swho of Indian cinema.
Ghosh, an accomplished scriptwriter, has not allowed Ashok Kumar the actor to get the better of Ashok Kumar the person. His reservations about embracing female co-stars, his confidence in his fans as he drove with Manto through a tense Muslim neighbourhood during Partition, and his reallife persona as a family man are all touched upon. Ashok Kumar lives on in the minds of all those who cherish quality acting.
the Egyptians also got our khichdi and made it a part of their cuisine. As for pilaf (pulao), that great Middle Eastern dish, the earliest recipes appear as late as the 13th Century.
I do not doubt that the Arabs introduced rice to Spain. But here’s the thing: it wasn’t really theirs to introduce; it was ours, we gave it to them.
The earliest recipe for risotto dates only to the 19th Century. By then all of the famous rice dishes of the Indian subcontinent, including biryani, probably the last great rice dish we invented, had been popular for many centuries. Khichdi, for instance, may be the oldest rice dish in the world to still be eaten regularly hundreds of years after it was created. And while I am happy to give the credit for pulao (pilaf )to the Middle East, let’s not forget that a similar dish of meat and rice was being eaten in South India long before the Middle Eastern pilafs were created.
None of this is to deny Italians the credit that is rightfully theirs for their wonderful risottos. And the Spanish make delicious paellas, which probably descended from the pilafs of their conquerors.
My sole concern is with the bad deal that India gets when it comes to discussing the origin of ingredients that are now global. Even now, if you ask people in the West where the so-called ‘Moors’ got rice from, you are likely to be met with blank stares or told that rice originated in China. India never gets a look in, even though it must be clear to everyone that the trade links between India and Middle East were much stronger and closer than the links between China and Arabia. No serious food historian believes that the Chinese sent rice to Arabia. Nevertheless I admire the Italians for the care they devote to their risotto rice. Outside of Italy, chefs usually make risotto with Arborio, a rice variety that few Italian chefs of consequence will ever use. Italian chefs spend a lot of time arguing about which kind of rice is better for risotto. Carnaroli, Vialone Nano, Baldo or even Acquerello, (the Rolls Royce of risotto rice).
In India, on the other hand, we take our own khichdi tradition for granted and no chef bothers to discuss what the best rice for khichdi is. Of the great Indian chefs, only Vineet Bhatia began to give khichdi pride of place on his menus two decades ago. The rest treat it as a dish made by mothers for sick children.
So, that’s why I feel mixed emotions when I eat an excellent Risotto Milanese. I feel angry that India is edited out of the rice story. And I feel even more strongly that it is partly our own fault. We are willing to be edited out of foodie history because we are not as proud as we should be of our culinary and gastronomic traditions.