Some thoughts and recollections on the death of a pop-culture phenomenon, and the gradual dying of an era.
When news broke of Rajesh Khanna’s death, and as countless Indians grappled with the shock with tweets and Facebook posts, I was wandering aimlessly around the stores at Hong Kong airport, having hobbled off a 16-hour flight. That’s a long time to spend scrunched up in a chair, willing sleep that won’t come and yet not fully awake, and being force-fed Asian vegetarian meals that, when opened, flood the stale air with a swift pungency that’s borderline embarrassing. The ensuing layover isn’t much fun either. You’re too tired to read and you force yourself to walk because your legs need the circulation. And everything is so brightly lit that the disorientation is doubled – it’s endless daytime, no night in sight. This is not a state of mind that allows intense emotion. I logged into an airport computer and saw a message on my blog: “Rajesh Khanna RIP.” I paused for a second. Then I signed out.
I expected that, once back home, I’d be flooded with grief, not so much because I was a bloodletting fan of Rajesh Khanna – I liked him a lot, but I wasn’t exactly a twentysomething girl in the late 1960s – but because every time a touchstone of an era crumbles to dust, we lose another link to our past. Our childhoods become evermore distant, ships on a sea of time that become increasingly speck-like as yet another mooring cable snaps off. We pine partly for Rajesh Khanna, partly for the era when he was a star, when we were younger, when things were simpler. Nostalgia is selective about what it enshrines. We don’t remember, for instance, what a nuisance it was to place an STD call; we only recall long, food-filled train journeys with the promise of excited cousins at the destination. These fond flashbacks, I imagined, would finally dredge up all that emotion.
But I felt nothing, and I think the reason is the recent ad that Khanna made for Havells fans. The opening is tremendous, with his voice booming over the screams of hordes. “Ask me about fans,” he says, over images of him from his heydays, filled with affectations like the one where he looks at the camera and squeezes his eyelids shut, as if squinting from sunlight. These images are intercut with those of Khanna in the present day, striding towards a doorway framing a powerful white light – he appears to be heading to some sort of stage. Only, he steps into a room filled with fans – actual fans. He turns to us and says no one can take his fans away from him, and it comes off like a cruel joke, as if these whirring contraptions were the only admirers he was left with, this cadaverous man whose voice still dripped with delusions of grandeur. You can tell, sometimes, when someone is dying. Rajesh Khanna, from this ad, was clearly slipping into a different kind of white light. The subsequent hospitalization wasn’t a shock. His death wasn’t surprising either.
Rajesh Khanna, on screen, was less a painter with a boundless palette than a mechanic with a serviceable toolbox. His tools included a pair of twinkling eyes, a slow-spreading smile, a rapid patter that would slow down suddenly into a drawl, like a train whose driver had spotted an elephant crossing the tracks and applied the emergency brakes, and an acute-angle nod that made his neck appear as if it were a tensely coiled spring sheathed with skin. When the part came along that could be assembled with these tools, Khanna was very good, the way he was in Anand, a movie made at a time when an audience did not know to smirk when a man embraced another man and declaimed, “Maroge to meri baahon mein.” (You will die in my embrace.) Off-screen, Khanna’s story was more fascinating, a life filled with hubris and bad judgment. In our country, we tend to revere the superhumanly humble, as if famous people owed it to their devotees to become saint-like, even godlike. But Khanna stayed resolutely lifelike, till the end a thrillingly flawed human. These are the stories of which exciting biopics are made.
I was too young to be in thrall of Khanna’s pan-nation stardom, but as if in compensation, I seem to have undertaken a pilgrimage trailing him across a portion of the country. There was Madras, of course, where I saw his films, in theatres and on TV. (His astounding songs, needless to say, were always around, as inescapable as the swelter of summer.) Then in Bangalore during a holiday, my mother (a fan of Jaya Bhaduri more than Rajesh Khanna) and I kept seeing ads announcing a re-release of Bawarchi, but both times we went to the theatre, the film playing was Prem Kahani. (Both times, naturally, we watched Prem Kahani.) In Kanpur, my uncle took me to see Ashanti, a Charlie’s Angels-inspired revenge saga of which I remember but two things: an exciting (for its time) chase where a car veered into the middle of the road and plowed up the median, stake by stake, and a fuzzy scene where Shabana Azmi’s character was photographed in the altogether. (You can’t hear a line like “Woh meri nangi tasveerein thi” and not have it scorched into your brain.) Lastly, in Pilani, where I studied, I ended up being ragged by seniors, one of whom bore the name Suraj. He wanted me to guess how he, a Tamilian, came to be called something so unusual. He must have taken pity on my terrified silence, for barely moments later he told me why. His mother, he smiled, was quite the fan of Aradhana.
Lights, Camera, Conversation… is a weekly dose of cud-chewing over what Satyajit Ray called Our Films Their Films. An edited version of this piece can be found here.
Copyright ©2012 The Hindu. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety without permission. A link to this URL, instead, would be appreciated.
jussomebody
July 27, 2012
Cruel joke is correct; I cringe every time I see that super-sensitive ad, how it managed to reduce a huge name to a pitiable figure. Rajesh Khanna does not affect me in any way otherwise, but his death made me really sad because of that ad. The part about knowing when someone is going to die, so true.
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Virginia K
July 27, 2012
I would love to see a biopic about Rajesh Khanna, even if I had to agree that the people in it bore no resemblance to anyone who ever lived — maybe you can make it happen!
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gauravvartak
July 27, 2012
Nice review. Saw Anand (for the umpteenth time) the day after he died. And the same thought that you expressed crossed my mind during the ‘Maroge to meri bahon mein’ dialog. You are right about losing a ‘link to our past’. Those were definitely simpler times.
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vishal yogi
July 27, 2012
And I still live in the past, India became kind of boring to me, post 1991 🙂
I am content to explore the literature and cinema across multiple regional languages, for the next one hundred years into the future.
I have hardly seen anything yet (as you know), though I am probably around the same age as you. (I barely remember the sunday evening movies on good, old DD)
I can already look back at the school days in the 80’s with nostalgia, and there was nary a comparable memorable time after that until now.
I guess my comment is barely related to the post, so I leave it to you to publish it or not.
Ah nostalgia 🙂
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venkatesh
July 27, 2012
“Woh meri nangi tasveerein thi” – LOL.
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Venky
July 27, 2012
How can you make your writing so delectable? Your ragging bit reminded me of my NIT days when I was ragged by seniors, ‘Yeh kya hua’ in front of a college couple lost in their togetherness. Btw, can’t wait to buy your book!!
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Venky
July 27, 2012
missed the word ‘singing’ in my previous comment!
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Chota
July 27, 2012
Baddy.. Getting better with every blog… like good old wine….
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rameshram
July 27, 2012
Listen to the Rajesh Khanna tribute Here:!
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vijay
July 28, 2012
BR, the use of first person along with quite a few personal anecdotes makes this piece much different from your other stuff. Not sure whether this was a conscious decision on your part.
Also, I liked this:
“…but because every time a touchstone of an era crumbles to dust, we lose another link to our past. Our childhoods become evermore distant, ships on a sea of time that become increasingly speck-like as yet another mooring cable snaps off. We pine partly for Rajesh Khanna, partly for the era when he was a star, when we were younger, when things were simpler. Nostalgia is selective about what it enshrines”
for I am someone who dives into nostalgia at the slightest of provocation, sort of like Cheran’s character in Autograph. Its a great feeling, and a theme worthy of many more movies.
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Shankar
July 28, 2012
Baddy, that was a really nice side story on the Prez! I have to rib him about it 🙂
And where exactly did the 16 hour flight originate from? You are in trouble, man!!
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brangan
July 28, 2012
Virginia K: …”maybe you can make it happen!” Er, no 🙂
vishal yogi: Reg, “I guess my comment is barely related to the post, so I leave it to you to publish it or not,” If that was the criterion for allowing comments, I’d let through about one a week 🙂
vijay: Yes, it was a conscious decision. I didn’t want to write an obit, and tried to do something more memoir-ish. Sometimes you write about a subject, sometimes around it. Here I went for the latter.
But every piece I write is personal in some way, you know. It’s all autobiographical 🙂
Shankar: Not your country dude. The one on top 🙂
And a comment from the Hindu web site: I have watched Anand 100 times… Anand was originally supposed to star famous Bollywood actors Kishore Kumar and Mehmood in the lead roles. I am glad that it dint work out… No other actor could have done justice to that role.. till date… from: ramesh menon
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Karthi
July 28, 2012
Who is rajesh kanna?? and i am from tamil nadu.
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raj
July 30, 2012
Karthi – Rajesh Kanna is a music director who scored a few tamil movies in the 80s. Off the top of my head, I can reacall “Namma ooru nayagan” as one of his creations. You can google for the rest. It is rumoured that renowned hack, and sidekick of hack KS Ravikumar, Ramesh Kanna is Rajesh Kanna’s brother but I cant confirm that for you.
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rameshram
July 31, 2012
cartee,
Rajesh Khanna ( pronunciation (help·info) born: Jatin Arora;[3] 29 December 1942 – 18 July 2012) was a Bollywood actor, film producer and politician. He was referred to as the “first superstar”[4] and the “original superstar” of Indian cinema.[5] He earned these titles following 15 consecutive solo hit films in the 1970s, a record that remains unbroken.[5] Khanna married Dimple Kapadia in March 1973, 8 months before Dimple’s debut film Bobby was released and has two daughters from the marriage. Rajesh Khanna and Dimple Kapadia separated in 1984. Their elder daughter Twinkle Khanna is married to actor Akshay Kumar, while they also have a younger daughter Rinke Khanna.[6]
He appeared in 163 feature films of which 128 films saw him as the lead protagonist; he appeared in 17 short films as well.[6][7][8] He won three Filmfare Best Actor Awards and was nominated for the same fourteen times. He received the most BFJA Awards for Best Actor (Hindi) – four times[9] and nominated 25 times.
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Karthi
July 31, 2012
rameshram- i was just kidding.someone was saying in twitter ‘i dont believe someone who doesnt know rajesh kanna’ . he s of course a north indian and thinks that it s sin to not to know rajesh kanna!
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rameshram
August 1, 2012
RIP gore vidal.
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