The actor’s worth is measured in many parts but the best measure is his influence. In that, Dev Anand was unique. A generous trickle of his influence made its way down the years and filled not just one age of cinemagoers but many generations with flights of fancy. The only other actors of yesteryears with that sort of wide appeal were Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor and Shammi Kapoor. Dev Saheb might have forgiven the comparison but not the word “yesteryears” for he was an actor right up to the time he died yesterday.

The boy from Gurdaspur began acting in post-War 1946 and over the course of his films developed a fashionable presence that became a style that would remain entirely his. Style was the hallmark of the greats; they had style, the others only fashion. This was as true of Dev Saheb as it is of Dilip Kumar and later Amitabh Bachchan, or was of Raj Kapoor and Raj Kumar.
Post-Independence India needed a new hero and didn’t really have a ladies’ man. Others had tried, like the always impeccable Motilal, with varying degrees of success. Dev Anand understood that very early and filled that space as easily as he would much later wear a suit as the moustachioed and hatted card-sharp Raja in Gambler. He became every bit the ladykiller and the ladies loved him for it. Swooning was not uncommon. How could they help it when they heard Khoya khoya chand, khula aasman, aankhon mein saari raat jayegi, tumko bhi kaise neend aayegi in Kala Bazaar, or Aise to na dekho ki humko nasha ho jaye, and Aankhon hi aankhon mein ishara ho gaya in CID. Dev Saheb, his heyday being the time of Dilip Kumar, the tragic hero, and Raj Kapoor the tragi-comic tramp, found his place as the young romantic.
But Dev Anand’s real influence on the young men and women of his age, and on those not fortunate enough to have beaten the censor’s age certification during his heyday, stemmed from his style, the way he spoke, carried off his clothes, his carefree manner, and, of course, the pomaded puff balancing dangerously above his forehead, threatening to come unstuck but never quite. It had a vocabulary of its own, tossing and bouncing as his mood changed with those famous jerks of his by then famous head. Brilliantine should have probably paid him royalty for what he did for their products. His voice was modulated and dialogue delivered in signature style: flawlessly, very quickly, and in one breath. It was known to have quickened many pulses. Consider a scene in which he tells a lady: “Hum baaton se nahin apne sheron se apni awaaz se dil jeetete hain.” Not a breath. Not a comma. It wasn’t needed. He was Dev Anand. He was copied, and some times unkindly critiqued for taking on some of the mannerisms of another great man of his era, Gregory Peck, but to millions he remained the original.
Who else could have carried off the trademark hats? The scarf returned to wardrobes once Dev Saheb threw it insouciantly around his neck when only thugs and lotharios wore roomals. Interest in his life bordered on the crazy. One rumour went around that he would wed the beautiful Suraiya at the greatest monument to love, the Taj Mahal. But he didn’t. Her family objected and he married Kalpana Kartik instead, in Russia. Suraiya never married. There are other things for which we have to thank Dev Saheb, such as Zeenat Aman and Tina Munim, and the carefree melodies of his peak. Remember Hum hain rahi pyaar ke, hum se kuchch na boliye and Hai apna dil to awara? As a cinema man he remained true to his profession, making movie after movie.
Seeing his work fail at the box office didn’t bother a man who had lived famously. Age did weigh down that puff of hair but the sheer insolence of that bright scarf at 88 still said DEV ANAND.