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Those magic pills
I learnt about the artist who liked to paint in the nude. Another interview turned into an impromptu playback session with Anup Kumar and he singing some of his younger brother Kishore Kumar’s chartbusters. Roshmila Bhattacharya tells more.
We had a code word, Cobala. I only had to mutter it and the imposing gates of his Chembur bungalow, that kept visitors at bay, creaked open and allowed me in. Khursheed, his driver-cum-Man Friday, would escort me upstairs to the bedroom-turned-living room that was Dadamoni domain. These visits couldn’t have stretched to more than half-a-dozen but each time, a new side to Ashok Kumar’s multi-faceted personality was revealed to me.
On one occasion, I learnt about the artist who liked to paint in the nude. Another interview turned into an impromptu playback session with Anup Kumar and he singing some of his younger brother Kishore Kumar’s chartbusters.
During another meeting, I recognised some rare antiques scattered around the dimly lit drawing room and he admitted to being a collector. But the encounter that returns to mind today is the one that turned up a self-taught homeopath who quietly doled out miracle cures.
It was by chance that Dadamoni got drawn to this alternate branch of medicine. His wife, Shobha, had accompanied him to London for the shoot of the Ashok Kumar-Nalini Jaywant starrer Naaz in 1951.
On the flight, Shobha developed breathing problems. As soon as the plane touched down, Dadamoni hurried her off to a local doctor. Several tests were carried out. The diagnosis was an unpleasant shock: One of her lungs was blocked and immediate
surgery was recommended.
What’s ailing the wife?
The concerned husband got her operated upon by one of the city’s top surgeons on their return home. But instead of getting better, Shobhaji began to whither.
Alarmed by her rapid weight loss, he flew her to Bangalore to consult with a reputed doctor who was also a practicing homeopath. Under his treatment, she was soon up on her feet.
Impressed by the magic pills, Dadamoni expressed a keen interest in homeopathy. But medicine, he was told, required years of discipline and hours of study. “You’ll need a thorough knowledge of anatomy and physiology before you can take up homeopathy. It’s an intensive, year-long course. Given your busy schedule as a matinee idol, where do you have the time to pore over these books?” his saviour doctor pointed out.
Dadamoni left without argument and for the next fortnight read every book on anatomy and physiology that he could lay his hands on. Day and night he pored over words that initially seemed Greek and Latin but gradually, as the days passed, began to take on form and meaning.
After 15 days, he set up another appointment with the doctor for the express purpose of airing his new-found knowledge. “The doctor was impressed and over the next few months, gave me a crash course in homeopathy,” Dadamoni told me.
‘Save my leg’
Had I visited him today, I might have rattled off a long list of ailments that needed prompt attention. But at the time, fresh out of college and in the pink of health, I was more interested in his cases than being a case myself. I prodded him for details.
Initially reluctant, he eventually relented and over a cup of garam chai, told me about a 14-year-old girl whose left leg had developed gangrene following an acute case of polio. An eminent surgeon she had consulted, had informed the family that the leg would have to be amputated.
“I tried four different medicines on her. One of them did the trick. I wish I could tell you which one it was but I don’t have a clue,” Dadmoni smiled. “All I can tell you is that when she returned six months later, the girl was smiling and completely cured. She had been prepared to lose a leg, all that she lost was half a toe. Today, she is happily married with kids.”
Mission possible
As I watched with wide-eyed awe, he pulled out a wooden box and opened it. Lined inside were bottles of pills in neat rows. Dadamoni seemed to know exactly which would work for common colds and which for constipation. He claimed to have even successfully treated some cancer patients.
“Right now, one of the ladies who come to me is in advance stages of breast cancer. All the doctors she has visited believe there’s no hope. But I’m confident that she’ll be leading a normal life in a year’s time,” he promised.
I couldn’t tell you if he made good on his promise though I’d like to believe he did because soon after his own health deteriorated. And then, even Cobala, his version of Colaba, where I initially lived, could no longer get me past the vigilant Khursheed.
Every time I called it was the same answer, “Dadamoni is not keeping well.” On a few occasions, I even dropped by at the bungalow unannounced. But Khursheed would always pop up to turn me away. I often asked myself why Dadamoni didn’t try those magic pills on himself. May be he did, or may be they were only for missions impossible.
On December 10, 2001, at the age of 90, he left us. It’s been eight years and I still miss him and those magic pills that could have worked so many more cures.
