I grew up on the mean streets of Calcutta. It was a great city in those days, full of magic and excitement, and one of my big thrills at school was to save my two anna tiffin money to watch Hindi movies. The great stars were Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand. Each had his own loyal following. And they would queue up days before a movie released, to buy tickets in advance. There was a counter for Advance Booking and fans, to mark their loyalty, would often stand in line for three days to buy a ticket for a First Day First Show. There was no black market, but yes, you could always find someone to stand in line for you if you gave him a free ticket. It was a big thing, the FDFS. It was your badge of loyalty. Many of us preserved those tickets.
Years later, when throwing away my FDFS tickets, largely of 10 anna denomination, I figured most of them were for Dev Anand movies. Dev was no actor. But, like Salman today, he was a style setter. His attitude defined the trend. His hair styled after the young Elvis with a puff on the forehead was the most popular style of the time. So was the way he kept his collar up, a mannerism that cricketers like Jaisimha and Azhar emulated in later years. Dev’s own hero was Gregory Peck and he copied Peck as shamelessly as we all copied him, including the endearing way in which Dev stretched out his arm with a limp wrist, his head cocked to one side. Dilip Kumar may have been the greater actor, Raj the bigger showman. But Dev was the hero. He was the star we loved, admired, aped, and tirelessly discussed in between geography and algebra.
Dev had a magic of his own and he eventually proved, by making Guide, that he was also an actor and a showman. Guide was one of Bollywood’s first attempts at making an international movie. Like all other such attempts before and after, it failed. It was based on a RK Narayan story. Nobel Prize winner Pearl Buck worked on its screenplay. Tad Danielewski directed the English version. Vijay Anand, the Hindi one. SD Burman scored its incredible music. It went on to win all the five top Filmfare Awards. But it never became the huge international movie Dev dreamt of. It broke his heart and he went back to making what he knew best: blockbusters like Jewel Thief and Johny Mera Naam.
When I came to Bombay in 1982, Dev was already struggling to be remembered. Raj had moved on to directing movies. Dilip Kumar was playing character roles. But Dev refused to age. He kept making movies, almost one a year, as a hero, much to the embarrassment of all those who loved and admired him. It was his ticket to timelessness, as he saw it. It was the only way he knew to fight mortality. We loved him for it; yet we grieved for him as well. For a new generation of movie watchers had long passed him by. Time is unforgiving. It was Bollywood’s worst kept secret that no one went to watch his movies any more. No one remembered Dev as the iconic hero he once was. He was but a tragic caricature of himself.
It is the tragedy of stardom. You must know when to quit. Few do. I loved Dev. I loved his movies. I loved their songs. Many of them went on to become classics, which means songs we adore but never listen to. SD was his favourite music director and Dev’s few admirers still around largely remember him by SD’s melodies. Many of these I still recall in moments of personal grief and loss. In moments like this when we grieve not just the death of a friend and a legend but also the passing of an era.
Dev Anand was actually gone long before he passed away. But no, he did not go gentle into the good night. Like all brave men, he fought, fought against the dying of the light. He was one of the loneliest people I knew. He craved for immortality. We gave him respect. But he didn’t give a damn for our respect. He didn’t want Lifetime Achievement Awards. All he wanted was adulation. And we had stopped giving him that a long time back.
http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/extraordinaryissue/entry/goodbye-dev
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