I have rarely read a more-researched biography of an Indian popular culture figure than the recently published Kishore Kumar: The Ultimate Biography. Authors Aniruddha Bhattacharjee and Parthiv Dhar spent more than a decade speaking to literally hundreds of Kishore’s friends, family members, colleagues and associates, and hunting down obscure media reports spanning six decades. It also seems that they managed to watch every film that Kishore ever appeared in and listened to and analysed every song that he ever sang.
The book is many things in one. It is a work of exhaustive scholarship, a dizzying mass of trivia—from the number of classes Kishore attended in college to the stories behind dozens of his memorable songs—and of course, a labour of love. But then, the author’s subject matter was also a man of many facets, a persona difficult to pin down with many apparently contradictory traits.
Of course, he was a prodigiously talented singer (who had had no formal training and could not read musical notations), actor, director and composer, the likes of whom Indian cinema has rarely seen. But what this biography makes clear is that Kishore, who was known for his public eccentricities, was also a complex person whom no one may have ever known fully.
As Pritish Nandy, whose 1985 interview of Kishore for The Illustrated Weekly of India is the stuff of legend, admits in his foreword: “Yes, I knew Kishore Kumar. He was a friend of mine. A very good friend. Or I could turn around and say, no I never knew Kishore Kumar.”
Kishore was born in Khandwa in Madhya Pradesh in 1929, the youngest of three brothers and a sister. As a little boy, his parents were concerned that he had an abnormally hoarse voice and would constantly produce a coughing sound. But when he was five, a toe got accidentally severed by a kitchen knife. In excruciating pain, the child screamed and howled throughout the day and night for a few weeks. The wound finally healed, and the ordeal had also turned his voice clear and mellifluous.
The contradictions in his character were obvious right from childhood. He was a bit of a loner, but also a naughty prankster. In college, he was feted as a talented singer, but was so painfully shy that he would agree to perform on stage only from behind the curtains. Yet he was clear about what he wanted to be—he would be a singer.
His eldest brother Ashok Kumar was already a successful actor-producer in Bombay. Having failed his second-year college exams, Kishore arrived in Bombay to try his luck. Several years of struggle followed, and growing frustration that directors seemed more interested in using him as an actor than a singer. However, though he felt ill-at-ease in love scenes and did not have a very high idea of his talent for comedy, it was bringing the money in, and by the mid 1950s, he was one of the busiest actors in Bombay, though most of these films are now rightfully forgotten.
It was only in the late 1950s, with Sachin Dev Burman backing him and Dev Anand choosing him as his voice that his singing career began taking off. In 1958 came Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi (CKNG), one of the most delightful Hindi films ever made, produced by Kishore. Though the credits name Satyen Bose as director, the sheer madness and joie vivre leave hardly any doubt about who was in full creative control here.
The authors paint the most detailed picture available till date of Kishore Kumar’s second marriage, to Madhubala. Kishore was aware that Madhubala suffered from congenital heart disease; she would die of it nine years later at the age of 36. The marriage was a difficult one, both for medical and personal reasons. They lived in separate homes most of the time. Sex was strictly forbidden by the doctors; it would kill Madhubala.
Kishore spent a fortune on her medical care. But his behaviour at work became more erratic—he would not turn up for work, disrupt shooting schedules, make unreasonable demands for money from producers. Yet, this period also saw the release of some of his most loved films, like Jhumroo, Half Ticket, Pyar Kiye Jaa and Door Gagan Ki Chaaon Main, which he directed.
Madhubala passed away in February 1969. Aradhana released in October, transforming at least two careers. Rajesh Khanna shot to superstar status and Kishore became the top playback singer for Hindi films. He would maintain that position for the next 18 years of his life, except for a brief period during the Emergency in the 1970s, when Sanjay Gandhi, incensed by Kishore’s refusal to sing songs in praise of the government and its policies, had him banned from films and the airwaves for a period of six months.
In the 1980s, Kishore appeared to have cut down on his song output. A reason may have been a steady deterioration of the quality of film music during the decade; Kishore refused many song proposals, preferring to sing more serious and softer tunes. Now in his 50s, he may also have been looking for something more than just a wide fan base. He wished to be recognized by the music cognoscenti of the country as more than just a popular singer. He released two albums of Rabindra Sangeet, which sold well but met with mixed response from purist Bengali critics.
Yet, he also maintained a punishing schedule of live shows around the world, even though he had suffered his first heart attack in 1981. The trouble here was that the audience was less interested in his sober songs than in his more boisterous hits and they also demanded constant physical buffoonery from him on the stage. This took an inevitable toll on his health.
But his last days saw him regain his creative energy. In an interview given on the morning of October 13, 1987, he revealed that he wanted to start acting once more and was also planning several TV serials. He sneered at the Hindi film industry, said that all that these people wanted from him was his money, but he would cock his snook at them and die with currency notes stuck to his chest.
A few hours later, he was dead from cardiac arrest.
What made Kishore Kumar unique? Apart from his incomparable talent, it was certainly his personality. A deeply thoughtful soul who hid behind outrageous tomfoolery, impulsive yet calculating, a miser who was often given to acts of great financial generosity, he was a mystery at many levels. But at his core, he may have been defined by a streak of rebellion. As authors Bhattacharjee and Dhar note, “Even after four decades in the film industry, he remained the iconoclast who mocked the very institution that deified him. We don’t think anyone else has dared to do that in the Hindi film industry.”
As our cultural spaces become more politically correct, cautious and staid, it is impossible to imagine that a man like Kishore could have been successful today.
Some years ago, Bhattacharjee won the National Award for Best Book on Cinema for his biography of R.D. Burman. It would not be a surprise if he wins another one—along with his co-author—for this extremely authentic account of a true genius.
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