Anirudha Bhattacharjee—who has gifted me quite a few of his books on Hindi cinema in the past—sent me this book last year. I accepted his offer of the book for two reasons. For one, there isn’t a book by Anirudha that I have not enjoyed. For another, I really like Kishore Kumar the singer.

Note that disclaimer: the singer. When it comes to Kishore the actor, I’m not so sure. While I find him quite enjoyable in films like Pyaar Kiye Jaa and Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi, his over-the-top antics in films like Half Ticket and Naughty Boy make me grit my teeth, they’re so unfunny.

Given Anirudha’s obvious expertise (and interest) in film music, I’d guessed the focus of this book would be Kishore’s music, with perhaps some attention also being given to his acting and directing.

What this book is, though, is far more wide-ranging. It is not just about Kishore’s songs and his films, but also about him on a personal level: as a brother, a son, a husband, a father. A boss, an associate, a friend, an irate citizen standing up for his rights against a tyrannical government.

Bhattacharjee and Dhar have arranged their book in chronological order, starting it sometime in the 1800s, by tracing Kishore’s ancestors, focussing importantly on his father Kunjilal Gangoly. They recount Kunjilal’s early life, his marriage to Gouri Devi, and their life in Khandwa (in present-day Madhya Pradesh), where Kishore was born. There are some delightful anecdotes in this section of the book (one, involving the young Kishore and a maths test that he did not ace, is particularly hilarious). Not only do the authors show Kishore’s deep attachment to Khandwa and its people—several of them close friends of Kishore’s—they are also able to show how Kishore’s early years in Khandwa and his affection for his hometown affected his cinema. Kishore ‘Khandwawala’s ‘badhiya khaale karaari gajak’ is not just a random line.

Elder brother Ashok Kumar’s entry into Hindi cinema, and in the years following this success, Kishore’s own attempts to break through, are described. The late 40s and early 50s, when Kishore, despite having sung for cinema, found himself only getting work as an actor, rather than a singer, segue into Kishore’s rise as a singing star: an actor who could sing, and sing well enough to sing playback for others… and with him becoming the ‘voice’ for major stars like Rajesh Khanna, there was no looking back. Whether in Hindi cinema, or live shows, or even in Bengal, what with his films, his poojo albums and his (sadly all too occasional) singing for Satyajit Ray.

Interwoven with his career is Kishore’s personal life: his four marriages, with a special focus on the first two. The first marriage with Ruma Guha, which ended in divorce; and the second marriage with Madhubala, which ended in her tragic death. In this context, what touched me most was the account of Kishore’s relationship with Madhubala: the sense of loving care, the desperation, the inevitability. It made me also marvel at just how good an actress Madhubala was, how well able to disguise the fact that she was so ill. (Just after reading the chapter on Chalti ka Naam Gaadi, I watched Paanch rupaiyya baarah aana—which, by the way, has an interesting Khandwa story behind it—and was both saddened and amazed by how radiant and effortlessly glorious Madhubala looks in it).   

All (almost all?) of Kishore’s films, both the ones he sang and/or acted in, as well as the ones he directed feature in this book, the more landmark films (Chalti ka Naam Gaadi, Padosan, Door Gagan ki Chhaon Mein, etc) discussed in detail—not so much the film itself, but its making, interesting behind-the-scenes anecdotes, and so on. There are, too, the films that never got made, or sank without a trace, or were left only partly done.

It’s obvious that Dhar and Bhattacharjee have done a lot of hard work. The extensive end notes are nothing short of academic, and even if it wasn’t for that, the width and the depth of this book are proof enough. The angles from which Kishore is observed, the number of people (and their relationship with Kishore) whose words are quoted here: it’s clear that this is a labour of love.

And yet, it’s not hagiographic. Though it’s apparent that the authors admire Kishore immensely, they rarely go overboard with their praise. The overall picture one gets of Kishore is of an interestingly nuanced personality: a man who could be many things at once. Penny-pinching, or generous to a fault. Eccentric and uninhibited, or shy, even, of appearing onstage. Whacky, sensitive, a loyal friend, an infuriating (and refusing-to-be-co-operative) ‘adversary’.

That, really, is what I liked the most about this book: it does an excellent job of showing its readers who Kishore Kumar was. Not just the actor or the singer, but the man.

Was there something I didn’t like? Not really, though I do wish the editing had been marginally better.