Why Rajesh Khanna needs to be remembered as India's biggest superstar
Every journalist wants a great interview. My only interview with Rajesh Khanna was an unusual one. The year was 1993, perhaps, early 1994. A young New Delhi correspondent for a now-extinct lifestyle magazine, I remember being ecstatic after receiving a call from ‘MP saab’s office. ‘Sir has asked you to come in the evening,” Khanna’s secretary chirped. Great, I thought. My month-long pursuit had paid off.
The first superstar of Hindi cinema, who had delivered 15 solo hits between 1969 and 1971, Khanna had left his days of glory far behind. He had turned to politics and became an MP after winning the Lok Sabha by-election from the New Delhi constituency, humbling Shatrughan Sinha of the BJP by 28,000 votes.
Once I reached his official residence, I was ushered into a big room packed with people. A periodic event called ‘janta darbar’ was in progress – this was when Khanna sat among people of his constituency and heard their grievances.
Dressed in kurta pyjamas and wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, Khanna gave me a nod of acknowledgment and continued his conversation with the visitors.
After about an hour, he asked me whether I could come back on Sunday evening. “I need to hear their problems, you know,” he reasoned. I smiled weakly and left.
History did not repeat itself when I went on Sunday. His secretary guided me to a gated veranda and offered a chair. Khanna walked in soon, carrying a caged parrot in his hand. After placing the cage on the table, he insisted I must have ‘nashta’ and ‘chai’. He passed some quick instructions to the secretary and mumbled: ‘poochho.” Ask.
Nothing went according to plan. Most questions on my must-ask list remained unanswered once he started talking about his life in the movies. Familiar stories started tumbling out of the cupboard. That the man himself was sharing them gave them an element of novelty.
He spoke about how his countless fans mobbed him in the past, which necessitated police protection on occasions. He indulged in describing that one day when the late director Yash Chopra had rushed towards him while he was relaxing after a shot. “Yashji asked me to take a look at my car. I went and saw that it was covered with lipstick marks. The press had written about it. Aap us samay paida nahi huye hongey. (You wouldn’t have been born at that time),” he said.
From time to time, he took out a tiny comb from his pocket and ran it across his thinning hair. He spoke softly, stopped intermittently, and murmured strange somethings to his loving parrot. I mostly watched or listened before the interview came to an end.
My two hours with Kaka had, indeed, been unforgettable.
Criticised for having facilitated his own downfall, notorious for being arrogant, insecure and self-obsessed, nobody can question the fact that Rajesh Khanna was a one-of-a-kind superstar. For his millions of doting fans, he was the only star who made a difference to their lives.
Born in Amritsar on December 29, 1942, he was adopted by a well-off couple who were also his relatives. He grew up in Mumbai (then Bombay). Even when he was struggling, he went around looking for work in an MG sports car – without knowing what the future had in store.
Khanna made his debut in Chetan Anand’s Aakhri Khat (1966), in which he played a sculptor who falls in love with a village girl. Films like Raaz, Baharon Ke Sapne and Aurat (all 1967) did little to suggest that an undisputed ruler was about to be born.
But destiny had made some great plans for the slim guy of average height, whose charming face would light up the screen and win millions of hearts soon.
Shakti Samanta’s Aradhana, a romantic drama which released on November 7, 1969, was the first Khanna film that set the box-office on fire. Filmgoers rushed to theatres to watch the newest charmer in town, a young man who flashed his dimples and had dreams in his eyes.
The film has a famous sequence in which Khanna’s character of an Indian Air Force officer is in an open jeep that’s being driven by his friend. He is wearing a cap and singing ‘Mere Sapnon Ki Rani.’ Seated near the window of her train compartment is a young woman, who is attracted to him. She is pretending to read When Eight Bells Toll, an Alistair Maclean novel. This woman could have been one of his countless female fans in real life.
The next few years were incredible. Raj Khosla’s Do Raaste, Narendra Bedi’s Bandhan, A Subba Rao’s Doli and Yash Chopra’s Ittefaq featured among his 1969 releases. Manmohan Desai’s Sachaa Jhutha, Samanta’s Kati Patang, Mukul Dutt’s Aan Milo Sajna and Asit Sen’s Safar were released in the following year. 1971 saw the release of Samanta’s Amar Prem, MA Thirumugam’s Haathi Mere Saathi, Ramesh Sippy’s Andaz and Arabind Sen’s Maryada.
The box-office knew just one name. Rajesh Khanna.
Everybody had to concede that his magnetism was something else. Stories of girls who married his photographs, and rumours that producers gave him blank cheques even before the shooting of a film started, kept him under the spotlight.
Famously capable of conveying the fragility of emotions with his expressions, body language and tonal variations, some of his best known onscreen moments were ones that brought tears to the viewer’s eyes.
In Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anand (1971), he plays the protagonist who is suffering from lymphosarcoma of the intestine, a rare form of cancer. There is a sequence in which his doctor friend’s wife seeks his blessings. In a moment that is reminiscent of a Shakespearean soliloquy lasting for a few seconds, he turns towards the camera and mumbles, “Tujhe kya aashirwaad doon behen? Yeh bhi toh nahi keh sakta ki meri umar tujhe lag jaye” (How can I bless you sister? I can’t even say that may you live as long as I do).
Emotionally overpowering, Anand reminded the viewer of the need to remain cheerful even when tragedy is inevitable – and not far away. Friendly and yet, acutely aware of his critical condition, Anand sings ‘Zindagi kaisi hai paheli...’(what kind of a riddle is life?) as he walks by the seashore, staring at the balloons he has released from his hands. It is another telling sequence that makes the viewer realise that the ailing man is reflecting on his own life.
Indian cinema has had better star-actors than him. How, then, did Khanna become so successful? He was to films what the Beatles were to British pop music, a band with matchless popularity because of their catchy and easily hummable songs. Briefly, he was the sort of actor who could connect with the masses with effortless ease.
Unlike his successor Amitabh Bachchan’s films, Khanna’s films aren’t famous for their dialogues. However, the manner in which he delivered his best lines revealed his engagement with the moment.
Amar Prem has a sequence in which Pushpa, who has overheard criticism about her, is teary-eyed and looking out of the window. Khanna’s character of an inebriated ‘bhadrolok’ walks up to her and speaks gently. Then, he touches her chin and says, “I hate tears.” Just about everybody with an interest in Hindi cinema remembers that moment – even today.
During his heyday, Khanna found success also because of the accomplished female actors who shared screen space with him.
Names like Sharmila Tagore, Asha Parekh Hema Malini and Mumtaz were paired opposite him. Their performances not only added substance to the films but also contributed to their viewer-friendly quality.
Khanna’s enduring identity is of a great romantic hero. But he did explore a wide range of characters. He was a cheerful patient in Anand, a forest officer in Kati Patang, a flight lieutenant in Aradhana and a representative of the working class in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Namak Haraam (1973). In Bawarchi (1972) also directed by Mukherjee, he was a cook who conjured food porn and referred to ‘shukto’, a traditional Bengali dish which is a bitter blend of vegetables.
Khanna’s decline coincided with the rise of Amitabh Bachchan. The tall actor with smouldering eyes and a rich baritone seemed to be the perfect fit for the zeitgeist of the early 1970s. After Bachchan came into his own with Prakash Mehra’s Zanjeer (1973), Khanna’s life wasn’t the same again.
He did deliver films like Yash Chopra’s Daag (1973), KS Prakash Rao’s Prem Nagar and J Om Prakash’s Aap Ki Kasam (both 1974),. But, he could do nothing to stop the inexorable march of decline, his odd standout performance as the old mechanic in Avatar (1983) notwithstanding.
Rajesh Khanna passed away on July 18, 2012. Like his character Anand, he too died of cancer. Decades after his biggest films hit the marquee, his followers revisit them in the privacy of their homes to watch him act and lip-synch to memorable numbers.
Lucky to have worked in the golden era of Hindi film music, Khanna’s films were embellished by compositions of masters like RD Burman and Laxmikant-Pyarelal. Kishore Kumar’s career experienced a revival because of Khanna, benefitting both.
Andaz has a sequence in which Khanna is driving a motorbike and Hema Malini is the pillion rider. Dressed in bright clothes and wearing dark sunglasses, his character is singing: ‘Zindagi ek safar hai suhana/ yahan kal kya ho kisney jaana.’ (Life is a pleasant journey/Who knows what will happen tomorrow).
Every tomorrow is unpredictable, and shall always be. Khanna must be remembered for those times when he was the undisputed superstar. At that time, life was good. Everything seemed fine.
It was a pleasant journey.