Khalid Mohamed rewinds to the extraordinary but forgotten story of  yesteryear’s actor Shyam, a major star actor who lost his life at the age of 31,  after an accidental fall from a horse while readying to perform a stunt scene.  

Shyam, one of the most charismatic stars of Indian cinema’s golden era (1940s–50s), captivated audiences with his Adonis-like charm, soulful eyes, and versatile acting in films like Dillagi, Patanga, and Samadhi. Despite his tragic death at 31 in a freak accident on a film set, his legacy lives on in cinephile circles and rare film archives. A contemporary of Ashok Kumar and Suraiya, Shyam’s career was marked by emotional depth and on-screen magnetism. His close friendship with the legendary writer Saadat Hasan Manto further immortalized him in literary lore, particularly through Manto’s heartfelt tribute, Murli ki Dhun. As a largely forgotten icon of early Indian cinema, Shyam's story reflects the ephemeral nature of fame and the timeless value of true artistic and human connections.

Old timers would swear that Shyam (20 February, 1920 – 25 April, 1951) was the most charismatic, Adonis-like actor they’d ever seen. At least my grandmother and her gang of sisters would persist with their wah-wahs. Light-eyed, chiselled face, a stylishly trimmed ‘talwar cut’ moustache, and a gentle voice, he was the screen personality their dreams were made of.
He was short in height, which would be camouflaged by the camera by concentrating on his close-ups and long-distance shots. His co-actor Suraiya had once remarked in an interview, “...Shyam was very conscious of his height whenever he was on the sets with me, just as I was conscious of his short stature. He was a playful person and would often tease my grandma, and had become like a member of the family.”

Shyam – compared to Hollywood’s swashbuckling, romance-oozing Errol Flynn – passed away in a freak accident at the age of 31. He fell off a horse, fracturing his skull on the Filmistan studio sets of Shabistan. Alas, here’s a tragedy which most of the ‘now’ generation is blissfully ignorant about, for no fault of theirs in the absence of a dynamic film society movement which would screen right down from the 1950s to the early ‘80s, prime examples of world and unconventional and early Indian cinema.

The Golden Era of Heroes

Be that as it may, circa the mid-1940s and the early ‘50s, the generation of that era would also fawn over Jairaj (muscular without steroids or gym gizmos), Karan Dewan (consistently gallant) and the soft-spoken Ashok Kumar, boosted by Bombay Talkies and Sashadhar Mukherjee, major domo of Filmistan Studio.

Yet Shyam had rapidly become the nation’s poster boy, famed for his versatility acts in perilous stunt adventures, historical dramas and frequently sob stories of unrequited love—or updated versions of the fable Laila-Majnu. The Invincible Trinity of Dilip Kumar-Raj Kapoor-Dev Anand were to still emerge in the forefront.

Perhaps a majority of Shyam’s 20 films have evaporated or were sold off by the studio store rooms, which have shut shop, as junk. Celluloid would be used to make bangles according to the late P.K. Nair, the messianic chief of the National Film Archive of India, Pune. A scant few cinephiles, like Karan Bali, graduate of the Film and Television Institute of India, have sought to chronicle the life and career of Shyam. Whether quite a number of the actor’s works are accessible remains a question mark.

According to accounts, a sizeable number of vintage films in Hindustani – a combination of Hindi and Urdu – from recallable grandma’s tales and Internet sources, had languished and rotted in Pakistan.

Early Life and Career

Incidentally, Shyam Sunder Chadha, abbreviated to Shyam, was born to a father who served with the army. Shyam, who made his screen debut with the Punjabi film Gawandi (1942), had graduated from Gordon College, where his family had settled after Sialkot.

According to professor and academician Dr. Ishtiaq Ahmed, Shyam’s surviving family, his wife Mumtaz Qureshi ‘Taji,’ moved with her sister in the 1950s to Pakistan with Shyam’s two children. Their daughter, Sahira, grew up to become a popular TV personality in Pakistan whilst his son, Shakir, established a practice as a psycho-analyst in London. They had inherited vast property in Bombay and Pune but did not visit India ever to claim their rights, perhaps aware that what has come to be termed as ‘enemy property’ is officially managed by the Custodian of Enemy Property for India, since 1968.

Back then, to Shyam’s incomparable ascent to fame. Inevitably after his debut-making Punjabi film Gawandi (1942), opposite Veena, he had moved to Bombay, and after auditions was selected to headline Room No. 9 (1943). Followed Aaj aur Kal (1944), Man Ki Jeet (1944), Majboor (1948), Chandni Raat (1948), Char Din (1949), Dillagi (1949), Patanga (1949), Naach (1949), Kaneez (1949), Meena Bazaar (1950) and Samadhi (1950). Clearly the year 1949, during which he was seen in as many as five films consecutively, asserted that he was at the peak of his popularity, co-acting with the A-list heroines Nargis, Suraiya, Nigar Sultana and Nalini Jaywant. There were more films, which would amount to no more than a listicle.

Of them Dillagi (1949), with songstress-actor Suraiya, is considered as his topmost hit. Circa 2021, the National Film Archive of India added the film to its collection. Adapted from Emily Bronte’s tragic romance, Wuthering Heights, by producer-director A.R. Kardar, the film starred with a memorable soundtrack by C. Ramchandra and Madan Mohan – the memorable songs include Hai Yeh Mausam-E-Pyaar Ka, Hum Pyar Karna Sakta Ki Nahin Sakta, Ek Shama Do Parwane.

Years later, A.R. Kardar remade it as Dil Diya Dard Liya (1966), with Dilip Kumar, Waheeda Rehman and Pran, which was however rejected at the cash windows.

Literary Friendships and Manto

Shyam would relish the company of writers, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Ismat Chughtai and Krishen Chander. Perhaps the most eloquent description of Shyam was authored by his closest friend, Saadat Hasan Manto, the legendary Urdu writer of scripts, plays, stories and articles in highly circulated newspapers and magazines.

Their bond had begun with conversations at a staircase of the High Nest building on Lady Jamshedji Road, Bombay sometime in the 1940s. In his book Stars from Another Sky, Manto’s pen-portraits of film stars were particularly vitriolic about the footloose behaviour of Kuldip Kaur, Pran and Sitara Devi. He was less judgmental about Ashok Kumar and Nargis.

As for the chapter Murli ki Dhun, unarguably here’s the most emotionally powerful tribute to an actor ever, even if it was frankly revealed how Shyam had a glad eye for women, and would flirt outrageously with Kuldip Kaur, Ramola and Nigar Sultana. In the same breath, Manto admitted that since he was often short of money as a writer, he would cadge wads of cash, expensive cigarettes and Scotch whisky from his privileged friend, who expected no favours in return.

The ‘Hiptullha’ Coinage

It was at Bombay Talkies that Shyam’s friendship with Manto, who was working there, strengthened. Or as Shyam would say, it was ‘hiptullha’. Manto has written, “One morning while on the train from my home to Bombay Talkies, I opened the newspaper at the sports page to read the scorecard of a cricket match that had been played at the Brabourne Stadium, when I came across a strange word, ‘Hiptullha.’”

Manto had never heard such a word before. He assumed that it was a corrupt form of ‘Haibatullah’, traditionally meaning ‘God’s gift’. When he reached the studio, the script conference for Mahal (1949) was in session. In his characteristic flamboyant manner, Kamal Amrohi was describing one of the scenes. After he was done, Ashok Kumar asked for Manto’s response. To that, he found himself saying that the scene was passable but it lacks ‘hiptullha’.

The synonym for ‘divine force’ inspired variations, such as something lacked ‘hiptullhity’ or needed to be ‘hiptullised’. Ashok Kumar wanted to know just what the word meant. Shyam had joined them by then. He began to laugh and called it his friend’s latest ‘Mantoism’. The word became a part of the film industry’s lexicon. As an aside, I may mention that the late iconic painter M.F. Husain would use the word regularly, especially when it came to summarising his famous overreaction to Madhuri Dixit’s dance performances in Hum Aapke Hain..Koun! 

Parting of Ways and Aftermath

On being finally exasperated by his poverty and the unpredictable ways of the filmmaking as well as the publishing business, Manto took a firm decision to migrate to Pakistan. Shyam attempted to dissuade him, albeit in vain. The actor accompanied the stubborn writer to the Mumbai port from where he would sail to Karachi. “There was still time to board the ship,” Manto recalled. “Shyam kept telling me funny stories. When the gong was sounded, he shouted ‘Hiptullha!’ one last time and walked down the gangway, never even once did he look back.”

The friends did remain in touch through occasional letters. Shyam even visited Lahore along with character actor Om Prakash to meet his friend. After exchanging warm hugs, Manto noted that Shyam seemed to be befuddled, perhaps uncomfortable about being in Lahore, a city on whose streets he had fallen in love with one girl after another without offering a commitment to any of them.

Disappointingly, Pakistan wasn’t the haven Manto had expected, and he was dragged to court for Thanda Gosht and other stories for alleged sexual obscenity and explicit content. Stonewalled, he was being treated at a mental hospital in Lahore, when he heard of Shyam’s death. When a delirious Manto wept that his dearest friend had passed away, the inmate had reacted, “Shyam who? Was he also in the lunatic asylum?”

Shattered, Manto began hallucinating, seeing rapid images of Shyam smiling, laughing, screaming, full of life, utterly unaware of death and its ‘terrors’. He was sure that the news was just a figment of his fevered imagination, and wouldn’t part with the newspaper which had reported on Shyam’s fatal fall from a horse.

There, then, hangs a story of an actor’s tremendous success in yesteryear’s show business – with the sub-plot of the purity of friendship which can no longer exist in the film or the real world.