Dilip Kumar was, without question, the greatest actor Indian cinema had ever seen. For decades, he reigned as Bollywood’s most revered performer, sweeping awards and captivating audiences across generations. But before the legend came the boy, Yousuf Khan, born on 11 December 1922 in Mohalla Khudadad, near the storied Qissa Khwani Bazaar in Peshawar, Pakistan.
His father, Ghulam Sarwar Khan, fondly known as Agha Ji, was a respected fruit merchant who owned multiple orchards. The area was home to several prominent families, including the Kapoors. In fact, Ghulam Sarwar was a close friend of Bisheshwarnath Kapoor, father of Prithviraj Kapoor and grandfather to Raj, Shashi, and Shammi Kapoor.
Yousuf’s mother, Ayesha Bibi, was gentle and reserved, but the household was governed with quiet authority by the grandmother, a strong presence who made the rules. Among eleven siblings, Yousuf was the fourth child and the one destined to change the family's course forever.
In his autobiography, The Substance and the Shadow, Dilip Kumar remembered Peshawar as a city of gardens and fragrances, of roses and apricots, tulips and laughter. He painted vivid pictures of walking through streets lined with flower stalls, visiting the Mahabat Khan Mosque, and enduring bitterly cold winter mornings when fog blanketed the mountains, making ablutions for prayer an act of courage. Summers were no easier, marked by scorching heat and hard work in the orchards. Yet evenings spent around the fire, listening to the elders talk, remain etched in his memory.
One day, a wandering mystic appeared at their door. He took one look at young Yousuf and turned to the grandmother: “This child is extraordinary. Protect him.” Alarmed, she shaved his head and smeared a black dot on his forehead to ward off the evil eye.
Agha Ji wanted him to join the Indian Civil Service. But the Second World War had slowed the economy, and their business began to crumble
Yousuf was shy and introspective, a bright student with a strong command of English. He loved literature and absorbed words like water in a desert. But as World War II broke out, life took a turn. Business pressures forced Ghulam Sarwar to relocate first to Pune, then to Bombay. Eventually, the children joined him.
Yousuf enrolled at Barnes School, later moving to Khalsa College, where he ran into a familiar face: Raj Kapoor, the same boy who had once been his neighbour in Peshawar. Yousuf threw himself into sports; football and cricket were his passions. His dream? To become a professional athlete. Cinema did not even register as a possibility.
The family home was deeply traditional. Watching films was forbidden. Even the thought of entering a cinema hall would summon the stern image of his father. After college, Raj Kapoor stepped into the world of film, and soon his brothers Shashi and Shammi followed. When Ghulam Sarwar, Yousuf Khan’s father, found out, he said to Bisheshwarnath, “It’s a pity your children have gone into Notanky.”
Meanwhile, Yousuf continued spending holidays with extended family in Lahore and occasional visits to his grandmother’s home in Peshawar, until 1947 changed everything. The Partition carved up lives, homes, and histories. The bond with his birthplace was severed overnight.
In Bombay, his father resumed the fruit business. The Kapoor family again lived nearby. Ghulam Sarwar, known affectionately as Agha Ji, was a man of languages. He spoke Hindko, Pashto, Urdu, Punjabi, Farsi, and later picked up Gujarati and Hindi. Though he never had formal schooling, his circle included lawyers, professors, and doctors. He was sociable in public but distant at home.
He took particular pride in Yousuf. “My son will not sell fruit,” he once declared. “He will study law. He will become someone.” Agha Ji wanted him to join the Indian Civil Service. But the Second World War had slowed the economy, and their business began to crumble. Tempers frayed. One day, after an argument, Yousuf left the house quietly with only forty rupees in his pocket. He took a train to Pune, with no plan, no job, and no safety net.
On arrival, he spotted an Iranian café. Speaking in Farsi, he asked the owner for a job. The man was impressed and directed him to an Anglo-Indian couple who might help. That couple, too, was struck by his poise and manners, and connected him with a contractor named Taj, who ran a military canteen. Taj tested him on the spot. “Write a letter,” he said, handing Yousuf a pen and paper. Yousuf’s clear English impressed him. He got the job.
His role was varied: keeping inventory, ensuring cleanliness in the kitchen and pool area, and assisting at the bar, especially when British officers came to unwind. Over time, he gained their trust. Eventually, with the manager’s permission, he started a sandwich stall. It was a hit. Business grew. Yet amid the hustle, he constantly thought of his mother, imagining her worried face.
Yousuf met Mukherjee, a Bengali writer passionate about poetry. Mukherjee asked him to recite a few Urdu couplets. Yousuf did. Mukherjee was impressed and, from that moment on, insisted that he attend every story session
Months passed. One day, his younger brother Ayub appeared. Overjoyed, Yousuf promised to return home before Eid, but asked him not to inform the others. When he walked into the house, his mother and sisters embraced him, tears flowing. He handed his earnings to his mother. Even Agha Ji was visibly proud; his son had earned with honour. But fate had more in store.
One afternoon, while waiting at Churchgate Station, Yousuf spotted Dr Masani, a psychiatrist who had once spoken at his college. Masani asked what he was doing. Yousuf said he was looking for a job. Masani responded, “I’m on my way to meet Devika Rani, owner of Bombay Talkies. Come with me.”
Yousuf hesitated, then agreed. The train ride was quiet. On arrival, the studio left him awestruck. Its sheer size, the activity, the atmosphere—it was all new. Inside, Devika Rani received them graciously. She had an air of calm authority and undeniable presence. After introductions, she turned to Yousuf and asked, “Do you know Urdu?” “Yes,” he replied, “and I love its literature.” She studied him closely. Then she asked, “Would you like to act in films? The salary will be 1,250 rupees per month. I’m looking for someone young, educated, and well-spoken. You fit the role.”
Yousuf froze. He had never considered acting. He had not even seen a film. His dreams were of cricket matches, football victories, not cinema lights. And looming behind the offer was the image of his father’s disappointment. Sensing his dilemma, Devika Rani said gently, “Take your time. Think about it.” They declined the studio lunch and returned by train. Yousuf was lost in thought. He shared the offer only with Ayub, who listened carefully and replied, “1,250 rupees? Are you sure it’s per month? Maybe she meant per year?”
Even Raj Kapoor, already working in films, was earning around 170 rupees a month. The number felt unreal. The next day, after Friday prayers, Yousuf went to Dr Masani’s home and asked for clarity. Masani called Devika Rani, who confirmed: “Yes, it’s a monthly salary.” The offer was too good to pass up. Yousuf joined Bombay Talkies the same day. No one at home knew, except Ayub.
At the studio, he met the legendary actor Ashok Kumar, who was shooting for Kismet. He also ran into Raj Kapoor again. “Does Agha Ji know?” Raj asked, laughing. Yousuf smiled and said nothing.
Ashok Kumar offered reassurance: “You’re young and willing to learn. Acting isn’t so hard.” In time, Yousuf met Mukherjee, a Bengali writer passionate about poetry. Mukherjee asked him to recite a few Urdu couplets. Yousuf did. Mukherjee was impressed and, from that moment on, insisted he attend every story session.
Thus began the transformation of Yousuf Khan into Dilip Kumar, a name that would go on to define an era of Indian cinema.
(To know what happened next, stay tuned for Part 2—coming Sunday.)