Every Bharatiya Must Salute Mr. Bharat! By Late. Ali Peter John

I don’t know why I grew so fond of Manoj Kumar, the actor whose films I had the good fortune of watching since I was seven or eight years old. I was lucky enough to see him in person as he walked in and out of Mohan Studios and Prakash Studios while shooting for some of his early films.

My admiration for him grew with time and experience. I wanted a photograph of him to adorn the entrance of the hut built by my mother, who was also a fan of his. I knew I could find one at the Taj Haircutting Saloon—the only place I could afford once in a while. The saloon had a barber who was also a practicing lawyer at the local courts of Bandra and Andheri. I still remember how he would finish his shift at the saloon before 10:30 AM, then put on his black coat (washed just once a week) and a tie, usually bought from the pavements of Flora Fountain for only two rupees.

One evening, while at the Taj—what I considered the ultimate luxury of my life—I spotted a full-page color photograph of Manoj Kumar in Filmfare. I was determined not to leave without it. I waited for two long hours until everyone got busy with their own work and, carefully, I tore out the page. I took it home and pasted it on the bamboo-and-mud front wall of my hut. The photograph of Manoj Kumar at my doorstep became a highlight of the Latif Abdul Cyclewala compound where I lived. That hut, in all its simplicity, was far more comfortable than any of the homes I have lived in over the past fifty years.

One day, I heard that Manoj Kumar and Nutan were shooting for Yaadgar at an iron factory just five minutes from my house. No one had to tell me twice—I skipped school that day. After all, it was a double celebration for me, as both Manoj Kumar and Nutan were my favorites (and still are).

Years passed, and I kept changing my mind about what profession I would pursue. But one postcard worked greater wonders than all the exams and competitions I had faced—it led me to join Mr. K.A. Abbas as his literary assistant, turning my world upside down. That one postcard led to a letter from Mr. Abbas to Mr. S.S. Pillai, and my life took a new leap. Soon, I was meeting some of the biggest celebrities in the industry. Imagine my joy when Mr. Pillai asked me to go and interview Manoj Kumar—now known as "Mr. Bharat."

That was the beginning of our beautiful relationship, one that has endured through good and bad times—though, mostly, good times.

The Stories That Define Him

I remember every story he has told me over the years, but the ones that stand out are those where he played a vital role in the lives of Dharmendra, Raj Kapoor, Sadhana, Nanda, and many others he worked with.

His dream of becoming an actor was sparked by watching some of Dilip Kumar’s best films. He never imagined he would one day work alongside the legend in Aadmi. Later, he even got the opportunity to direct him. It was a daunting task, but he took on the challenge and made Kranti, where he and Dilip Kumar bonded like brothers. They spoke in the purest Punjabi, and whenever they disagreed, they would take a break, head to the terrace of Manoj’s bungalow, and fly kites—something I was fortunate enough to witness several times during the filming of Kranti.

Manoj Kumar has always been a cricket enthusiast. Once, he hosted a rare party for the visiting Pakistani cricket team, which included some legendary players. That night became the talk of the town. I still remember how some Pakistani cricketers mysteriously vanished from the party with my junior colleague, Anita Triloksingh—a beautiful and charming woman—who was never seen again. I don’t know if Manoj Kumar is aware of this incident, but for me, it remains one of the strange “haadsaas” of my long career. The only thing I disliked about that unfortunate event was that it happened at a party hosted by Mr. Bharat himself.

Despite the tensions between India and Pakistan, Manoj Kumar always had a soft corner for Pakistani poets, especially Qateel Shifai, whose verses he can still quote. He was also a dear friend of Pakistani actors Mohammad Ali and Zeba. Defying criticism, he cast them as a married couple in one of his final films, Clerk. Instead of putting them up in a hotel, he provided them with an independent bungalow within his own property in Juhu, where they stayed until their work on the film was complete.

A Man of Many Roles

Visiting Manoj Kumar’s sprawling mansion was always a memorable experience. He ruled the second floor like a king, and our conversations spanned not just films but also philosophy, poetry, and politics. Interestingly, he also acted as my homeopathic doctor. Aware of my struggles with alcohol, he prescribed remedies to help me quit. However, I doubt I ever followed his advice because I remained an alcoholic long after he gave me his prescription.

I was genuinely surprised when Jaya Bhaduri, who was working with him in Shor, confided in me that he, too, drank.

One of my fondest memories is of the legendary song Lag Jaa Gale from Woh Kaun Thi. Initially, director Raj Khosla rejected the song composed by Madan Mohan. A heartbroken Madan Mohan turned to Manoj Kumar, who had a single conversation with Khosla. The director realized his mistake, and the song was recorded in Lata Mangeshkar’s voice—going on to become one of the greatest melodies in Indian cinema. This was not the only time Manoj Kumar’s interventions saved careers and films.

A Patriot and a Legend

Beyond cinema, Manoj Kumar was also an accomplished homeopath. Some of his notable patients included Atal Bihari Vajpayee, L.K. Advani, and Murli Manohar Joshi. At one point, he even ran a private clinic near Prithvi Theatre in Juhu, where crowds would gather to seek his treatment.

In recent years, his health has declined due to a serious spinal problem, but his face remains as radiant as it was during his prime. His mind is a beautiful blend of poetry, philosophy, and patriotism.

One question I have always wanted to ask him, but refrained from out of sheer respect, is the one many have been asking for the past fifty years:
"Why does he never touch—let alone kiss—his heroines?"

Manoj Kumar’s contributions to Indian cinema and national pride are immeasurable. And yet, all India has given him is a Padma Bhushan—a mere token of appreciation for a man who kept the soul of India alive through his films.

I have heard of barefoot doctors and social workers, but did you know that Manoj Kumar never wore shoes while directing a scene? When he took up direction, he even gave away his wristwatch to his wife, Shashi Goswami, and has never worn one since. He owns a mobile phone but rarely uses it. When asked why he doesn’t answer calls, he simply smiles and says,
"Arre yaar, phone to charge par rehta hai. Main kya karoon?"

A Personal Honor

I cherish every moment I have spent with him. But the greatest honor came when he sensed my presence in his room, turned to me, and said,
"Ali, aaj se tum Allah, Parmeshwar, aur Jesus ho."

What greater honor could a boy—who once ran after his car—ever dream of? I ask myself this question time and again, but I still struggle to find the answer.

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