Rajesh Khanna dies: He gave us our first superstar

Rajesh Khanna dies: He gave us our first superstar Indian Express Shubhra Gupta : New Delhi, Wed Jul 18 2012, 21:53 hrs Rajesh Khanna A COUPLE of weeks ago, when Rajesh Khanna was declared critically ill, and survived, it seemed like a sign. That the first superstar of Hindi cinema was not meant to slide into the dark night, like an ordinary mortal, of a prolonged illness that led to a prosaic end in a hospital bed. For the kind of spectacular innings Kaka, for that was what he was universally called, had at the movies, it would have been far more appropriate for him to breathe his last, with disconsolate fans surrounding him, tears streaming in full filmi style. And Kaka singing, behind the wheel of that car, zindagi ek safar hai suhana... When he finally passed away today, he was at home, his family and friends by his side. But outside his home Aashirwad, there were the hordes he would have liked. Yes, maybe they were on a ghoulish death watch, yes, it was the kind of macabre thing people do, but yes, it was an indication that it was no average citizen they were there for, but a filmstar who induced mass hysteria of the kind that had never been witnessed before. The recent Havells ad on TV that showed the ravaged face of the star got only one thing right: the ‘fans’ bit. No star before had seen the kind of fandom he did. The people who were there today may not have seen many of his films, but they knew that he was the first Hindi cinema star to own the word ‘super’ completely. He was Rajesh Khanna, Superstar. Before Kaka, stars did live big. Stories abound of the opulence of Chevrolet Impalas with impossibly long fins, of larger-than-large patiala pegs, of secret rendezvous at the Sun n Sand, of quick and dirty liasions, of starry tantrums. But Khanna, who switched from Jatin to Rajesh, cranked up what a star could do to an unimaginable level. He had producers lined up with signing amounts never heard of before, the quantum of his tantrums was bigger than anyone had had to deal, and he wielded moods like weapons, showing up on sets when he liked — the day really began when he said it did. However, Khanna did the one thing that kept filmmakers running after him: he delivered a hit after hit, and he kept the audiences thirsting for more. Khanna arrived in the Hindi cinema in the mid ‘60s, and by the end of the decade, he had eclipsed everybody. A Nepali hat, a pair of intoxicating dimples, an evergreen song, and a film called Aradhna (1969) made sure that nobody who saw him forgot him. All the boys sang to their sapnon ki rani, and all the girls wanted to be that dream girl. Then came Do Raaste, Khamoshi, Sachcha Jhoota, Safar, Kati Patang, Anand, Andaz, Haathi Mere Saathi, Dushman, Amar Prem, Apna Desh, Bawarchi, Mere Jeewan Sathi, Anuraag, Daag, Namak Haraam. These were some of his biggest hits; what he did in between — for a star who only shot when he was good and ready, he made an amazing number of films, well over a 100 — also more than recovered the money. All the way, till the mid ‘70s, whatever Khanna touched turned to gold. He worked with Nanda, Saira Bano, Asha Parekh, Mumtaz, Hema Malini, Sharmila Tagore, Tanuja, Waheeda Rehman, Babita, Jaya, Rakhee, Rekha, Zeenat Aman, Moushumi Chatterjee, Poonam Dhillon, Tina Munim, Parveen Babi, Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil: did I miss out anyone significant? His career was a roll call of the biggest leading ladies, biggest banners, biggest everything. He had affairs, well-publicised, well-timed, for inclusion in celebrity gossip columns: Anju Mahendru, whom he never married, Dimple Kapadia whom he did (and then separated from, but never divorced), Tina Munim, with whom he liaised briefly and passionately. However, he never stopped making his movies in which he exhibited his trademark mannerisms, tilting his head, crinkling his eyes, doing that thing with his neck. Like all superstars he knew the secret of his success — never do anything that a fan wouldn’t like. Like all the most popular stars, he set trends. The guru kurta, buttoned tightly all the way up, became the national dress for all the flash males; even that awful belt over a shirt gained the kind of popularity it never should have if it hadn’t been for Khanna sporting it in film after film. There were a few films in which we did see his manly chest. Remember Roop tera mastana in Aradhana? Sharmila revealing one shapely shoulder in a sheet — the very first time such a stylish use was surely made of a humble sheet — and Khanna in a shirt that was open, damp, and a chest that had, yes, hair. And oh, the steam they stirred up, those two. It still remains one of the most seductive of ditties. Rajesh Khanna could play good or bad. He could be a bawarchi, a thief, a cancer-ridden humorist. He could do anything and he would still get ‘em streaming in. It was a reign that remained unbroken till an angry young man came and wrested his crown. In Anand, in which Amitabh Bachchan and he acted together for the first time, Khanna was clearly the bigger star; a few years later, when they did Namak Haraam, there was a role reversal. That fellow with the burning eyes, the lanky gait, and the baritone that was to become the most famous voice in Bollywood was the guy who was on his way up. And Khanna’s time, that spoke of innocence, romance and lost love, was clearly over. The time of anger, unrest, instability, corruption was upon us, and Bachchan was the likelier, younger harbinger of this new era. Bachchan was also a supertar (and still is), and his stardom may have been of a quality that was deeper and more intense than Khanna’s. But Bachchan will always be the remembered as the next superstar. The first mover was, and always will be, Rajesh Khanna. And no, today’s not the day to mourn. Because you know and I know what he would have said: I hate tears.