Raj Kapoor the person was not very different from the personality. A flair for flamboyance was the hallmark of both. And it was this celebratory ambience that formed the backdrop for daughter Rima Jain’s growing up years. Having got married a tad late, RK’s youngest daughter also happened to spend several sunsets – some sparring, some sweet - with her father in the last decade of his life. And consequently became privy to many a shielded emotion. For instance, very much like the joker Raju, Raj Kapoor was heartbroken when his dream opera Mera Naam Joker crashed at the box-office. Also, he never could overcome the void left behind by his soulmates - composers Shankar-Jaikishan, lyricists Shailendra and Hasrat Jaipuri, singer Mukesh and his heroines from Nargis to Padmini. But that didn’t deter him from moving with the times and making superhits like Bobby, Prem Rog and Ram Teri Ganga Maili. Nor was his spirit crushed by the debilitating broncho-asthma. “I want to run up that mountain. I want to do many things. My mind is still young, sadly not my body,” he’d say. It’s been almost three decades since he passed away but Rima insists, “He’s not allowed us to forget him. He’s thrown in my face every now and then. In the fragrance of mogras, in the aroma of Black Label, in the perfume Worth – all these scents were part of Papa.” RK also lives on in his grandchildren Karisma, Kareena, Ranbir Kapoor… and now Armaan Jain. “The lines, ‘Hum na rahenge, tum na rahoge, phir bhi rahengi nishaniyan…’ in Shri 420 filmed on my brothers Randhir and Rishi and sister Ritu (Nanda) couldn’t have been more predictive,” she smiles. “I only wish the e-generation would understand Papa’s genius. After all, he was the interpreter of the dreams of the youth.” In her words…

Rima with dad Raj Kapoor on his birthday (on top) and Rima with dad Raj Kapoor and mother Krishna (on bottom)

KING OF GOOD TIMES
Papa was not a regular dad, who’d be available at all times. But he was aware of everything that we did. Basically, Papa, for us, meant ‘entertainment’. Movies, vacations, parties, new outfits... He loved throwing lavish parties. He looked forward to celebrating his birthdays. For us children too it was ‘a national holiday’! We’d stand on the terrace of our building and watch filmstars stream in. He’d proudly say, “Main to sirf invite karta hoon, karti sab meri biwi (Krishna Kapoor)hai!” But when his dearest colleague, Shailendraji (lyricist), passed away on Papa’s birthday, December 14 (1966), he cancelled the party immediately.   Papa enjoyed hosting festivals at RK studio for the workers. Films were screened for their families during Ganesh Chaturthi. In fact, Mera Naam Joker was screened for the blind children at the studio, who enjoyed ‘hearing’ the film.

The Holi at RK was legendary with colour, dancing, drinking, eating – everyone left their inhibitions behind. The colour was first applied to Papa, who was then dunked in the tank and the celebrations would begin. I saw Amitji (Bachchan) for the first time when he came with Anwar Ali (late Mehmood’s brother) for Holi. Shammi Uncle’s songs would be played and later those of my brothers Randhir, Rishi and Rajiv when they became stars.

Kapoors are foodies. When Papa come home, he’d first head to the kitchen to check what was being cooked. He’d like a good spread whether it was for four or 14 people. He would eat with his eyes but never with his stomach. He’d happily settle for his dal tadka. There was always a fragrance around him. Of mogras which he’d bring from the garden in RK Studio. Of his favourite perfume - Worth Je Reviens! And of course, the aroma of Black Label. 

The room in RK Studio, behind stage 1, was his hub. Music sessions, script readings, meetings... would go on there. He was a gadda guy. He’d sit on a huge mattress spread on the floor. Even when he visited five-star hotels, he’d pull down the mattress from the bed leaving my mother embarrassed! His heart was also in our farm at Loni near Pune. He had grown grapes there and wanted to make wine from them. He travelled to Pune on the Deccan Queen and loved the samosas and cutlets they served. The staff looked forward to him because he was such an entertainer.

THE ARTISTE
Papa’s love for music is legendary. There would be dhols, dholaks and harmonium at home. He wanted us to learn the piano. My father was not against me becoming an actress. But my mother wouldn’t have allowed it. (Laughs) Also, body bhi toh honi chahiye! But I enjoyed going to the set. I’ve heard Lataji (Mangeshkar) record for Satyam Shivam Sundaram (SSS, 1978). She had to render high-pitched alaaps. I heard her telling Papa, “Aap toh meri saans hi nikal lete ho!” During the recordings Papa would go into a trance. 

I remember Neetu (Singh) and I were like assistants on the set of Prem Rog (1982) in Amsterdam. We’d iron outfits for Rishi and Padmini Kolhapure. Papa was bad with money. He’d say, “Either I create or become an accountant.” That’s why he never imagined that his extravaganza Mera Naam Joker (1970) would be such a debacle. It was his heart and soul. A lot was mortgaged, including his respect. He was devastated. After Joker, people dropped him. Distributors and financiers abandoned him. People said, “Raj Kapoor satthiya (crazy) gaya hai. He’s finished.” But Papa had strong conviction. Much like his character in Sangam who tells his friend, “Main wapas aaonga!” he was sure he’d come back. He returned with a sixer of a film - Bobby (1973), inspired by Archie comics, almost to prove, “Is this what you want? Take it!” 

He played the hero in Barsaat, Awaara, Boot Polish, Shree 420, Chori Chori, Sangam right upto Mera Naam Joker (between 1949-1970), films where he was both actor and director. But when he was only directing, the protagonist was the woman as in SSS, Prem Rog and Ram Teri Ganga Maili (1985). He believed a woman is a goddess. Satyam… had a lot to do with Lataji. She has got the most beautiful voice but she’s not the most beautiful woman. You find her beautiful because of her voice. He ‘exploited’ Zeenat Aman’s form because he wanted to show that a man primarily views a woman’s physicality whereas beauty lies within.

Raj Kapoor pressing wife Krishna’s feet (top) and Aadar Jain, Manoj Jain, Rima and Armaan Jain (bottom)

PAPA and I
I got married (Rima is married to businessman Manoj Jain) at 31. So I happened to spend more time with Papa than my other siblings. He shared many things with me. Occasionally, we fought too. I was rebellious and would say it the way it is. Every evening he wanted someone to sit with him when he drank. My mother retired early. So, I’d sit with him. And after a few drinks, if he happened to say something off track, we’d end up having a tiff. I’d bang the door and leave. Then he’d write me a ‘sorry’ letter. He’d say what you find harsh today, you’ll understand later. And I do. He’d often tell me, “Rima, life mein kuch toh karna jisse yeh duniya ko pata lage tum aayee thi, most people come and go without creating any ripple.” Once when I was heartbroken he told me, “Yeh pyaar jo kisiko nahin de saki, yehi pyaar unko jaa kar do jinko zaroorat hai.” That made me work for children in the cancer wards, for spastics and the visually challenged. In fact, I worked with Nargisji (Dutt) and Namrata Dutt at the Spastics Society. Nargisji was warm and looked after me. I’ve even been to their home and had lunch with her and Dutt saab (Sunil). Papa and Nargisji had worked together to create great cinematic moments and shared great times, happy and unhappy moments. There may have been some aches and pains. But our mother never made us feel it was something bad.

Woman in white
His ‘woman in white’ fascination can be traced to my mother. He had gone to see her as a prospective bride along with Premnath uncle (the late actor was Krishna’s brother). There from the window he saw a young girl in a white saree with mogras in her hair, playing the sitar. That was my mother Krishna taking music lessons. Being an artiste, he reacted to the visual. He was reminded of Goddess Saraswati. The image of the ‘lady in white’ stayed in his mind and was later seen in his films. My mother always wore white and had a flower in her hair.
No matter what was said and written, Papa loved mother deeply. The truth is that all life he remained obsessed with her. He may not have expressed it to her the way she’d have liked him to. She may not have been a big part of his life. But whatever Raj Kapoor did, he came back home. His love for her was immense. He’d even press her legs and joke, “Raj Kapoor ka kya haal bana diya! Meri biwi mujhe pair dabane lagaa rahi hai. Ghar ki murgi dal barabar!” He loved celebrating New Years because it also happened to be mom’s birthday. 

If he shot a scene, he’d ask her opinion. Like he showed her the climax of Ram Teri… where Ganga (Mandakini) dies. My mother said, “Ganga mar gayi, picture flop!” But he had made two endings and showed her the other one. However, he didn’t like being corrected. He’d say, “Ab Krishnaji Raj Kapoor ko seekhayegi kaise film banana!” When she was younger he’d call her Billo. Later he began addressing her as ‘Krishnaji’ out of respect. But after 10 drinks if she chided him about going overboard, he’d shout back ‘Krishna!’ Once they had a fight where my mother picked up the bottle and threw it on the porch. The bottle rolled and rolled... hit against something and stood up! My mother couldn’t help laughing. Papa said, “Stupid woman! She thinks it will leave me, it won’t!”

Then once after a row, mom moved to an apartment elsewhere. Papa would go and knock on her door every single day. But she wouldn’t open it. Then an income tax issue cropped up and she had to return home. All life they remained companions. They travelled a lot together. He took great pride in her. She enhanced his life. At first she didn’t know to cook. Those days he’d joke, “Yeh toh meri Marie Antionette hai (the French queen asked people to eat cakes when there was no bread)!” But she grew to be a great hostess. Paya, yakhani pulav, jungli mutton… she could prepare all. Yes, there were women around him – he being an artiste. But my mother gradually learnt to accept it. 

A breathless Raj Kapoor being provided an oxygen mask during the Dadasaheb Phalke Award ceremony on May 2, 1988

LONELY SOUL
Towards his last years, Papa would spend his evenings watching songs from his films. He’d ask his young actresses – sometimes Dimple Kapadia, Padmini Kolhapure and later Mandakini to watch his heroines Nargisji, Vyjayanthimalaji, Padminiji... He’d say, “Innse seekho! Look how she smiles. Look how she lifts her eyes, so delicately.” He’d say, “They don’t make like them anymore.” He was an empty, lonely soul towards the end. All his colleagues had left him. Shankar-Jaikishen, Hasrat Jaipuri, Shailendra, Nargisji... he missed that era. And when he missed them he’d sing Jaane kahan gaye woh din.

After Ram Teri… he had begun keeping unwell. Years of neglect had taken its toll. He was suffering from broncho-asthma. His huge torso made it uncomfortable for him to lie down. He had to recline on six pillows and sleep. Yet he’d say, “I want to run up that mountain… My mind is still young, sadly not my body.”

THE GRAND FINALE
Somewhere, I believe, Papa ordained his death. He was to be conferred the Dadasaheb Phalke Award on May 2, 1988 in Delhi. He left from Mumbai on April 30. There was a dust storm in Delhi. As soon as the door of the plane opened, he was greeted with a violent gust of wind. Being an asthma patient, it affected his lungs. He attended the function with an oxygen cylinder. Through the function he was restless. He kept pressing my mother’s hand hard to show his discomfort. Finally, when his name was announced he couldn’t get up. There was hulchul. President Venkataraman saw his discomfort and came down to him to present the award. He said, “Put him in my ambulance and take him to the hospital.” Papa was put on ventilator. There were news bulletins on his health. Ministers dropped in to check on him. In a way, he prepared the family that he was going. 

The last week was particularly bad. He was irritable and spoke with his eyes. In a way we were relieved when he passed away (June 2, 1988) because he was suffering a lot. When Mukeshji, his dearest friend, had passed away in the US (August 27, 1973), Papa was distraught. He had cried, “My friend went as a passenger but returned as luggage!” But Papa’s body was placed on the passenger seats and flown back along with the entire Kapoor family. He couldn’t have gone any other way. He lived like a Showman and he went like a Showman. 
Surely, he had a premonition about his death. He was always worried about me getting married and would often say, “If… I live to see your marriage I’ll give you crystal wedding.” 
A day after his funeral, my aunt happened to suggest Manoj’s, my would-be-husband’s, name to me. I guess that was the first thing Papa fixed once he went up. Now that Armaan (Jain) is in films I tell Papa, “Look after him.” I know he will.

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