Finally a book that does justice to the legend of Rajesh Khanna
The eulogies by Bollywood's best were too late, the 24x7 coverage of his death ironic. Finally a new book does justice to the legend of Rajesh Khanna.
The era of gotcha journalism has made voyeurs of us all but it has also made the stars smarter. There is rarely an action or reaction not mediated by a phalanx of bossy managers, paid publicists and professional BFFs. Stars, whether they are loving husbands, devoted girlfriends, dedicated professionals or just 4 a.m. friends, are simply not like us. They can be lonely, malicious, monstrous, comfortably shielded by the myths they have built or helped perpetuate. Whether it is the humble superstar, the thinking actor, the working class hero, or the hard working family man, the reality is different, and often all too ugly.
Rajesh Khanna, forever frozen in our minds as Bollywood's first superstar who crashed and burned, had no such filter. His descent into oblivion was fuelled generously by stories of all-night drinking binges in a durbar where the sun never set, of his perpetually late arrival on sets, his almost pathological dislike of his biggest rival, and a string of women, only one of whom he married and some of whom he was nasty to. Other stars have done worse things than drink themselves into an early grave and love women a little too much, yet Khanna, until he died in 2012, accompanied by a frenzy of 24x7, wall-to-wall nostalgia, was always something of an embarrassment, a star that India forgot perhaps in the mass hypnosis of the Amitabh Bachchan era.
Gautam Chintamani's elegantly written and extensively researched book, Dark Star: The Loneliness of Being Rajesh Khanna, is an aching reminder of the man behind the facade. Despite being deprived of his primary source (the actor died before Chintamani started writing the book and his famously private widow, Dimple, did not oblige him with any information), the author paints a startling portrait of a star in terminal decline. Whether he is handing a half-lit cigarette to writer Gulshan Nanda to hold while he completes a shot or refusing to accompany the cast to a local collector's home even though one of his most generous patrons and long-time director friend, Shakti Samanta, wants him to, Khanna is a classic case of a man who believed he was God.
If a friend in the drunken durbar disagrees with him even on a minor point, he tells him: "Aapko humara durbar chhodna padega (You will have to leave my court)." If a film magazine denies him a best actor award, he plans a party that very night to steal their thunder (until they come begging him to attend). And if he senses a potential rival, he ensures he makes his displeasure known (he is heard calling Amitabh Bachchan manhoos: unlucky).
Yet as an actor, his films, especially those made in the four incandescent years 1969-73, broached the very themes Bollywood is tentatively returning to now after decades of outright action and bubblegum romance. The embracing of death inAnand (1971), premarital sex without guilt inAradhana(1969), romancing a widow inKati Patang(1971), having a child out of marriage inAakhri Khat(1966): even before the swinging 70s could get into full swing, Khanna had done it all on screen, all by flicking his neck just enough and closing his eyes for just that fraction. The combined talents of Anand Bakshi, R.D. Burman and Kishore Kumar have forever embalmed him in our minds as a supernova, racing across the fields in an Enfield and laughing into the setting sun on the beach. But Khanna was more than that, and Chintamani ploughs through his prolific, though not always smartly chosen, oeuvre, to remind us of his range. From the suspicious husband ofThodisii Bewafai(1980) to the psychopath ofRed Rose(1980); from the cynical politician ofAaj ka MLA Ramavtar (1984) to the father deserted by his children inAvtaar(1983), he was more than the twinkle in his eyes and the half smile delivering those immortal lines and singing those legendary songs.
But the book does brilliantly in chronicling the insecurities of actors. The more famous they are, the more fearful they are of the end. Chintamani recounts a story told to him by Rinki Bhattacharya, whose then husband Basu, was directing Khanna in Avishkaar (1974): the superstar, stung by stories of his mean-mindedness, goes up to her, looks her in the eye, and says, "I'm not a bad man." Chintamani retells Khanna's gradual descent into irrelevance as Bachchan's star rises, his fallout with the writer duo of Salim-Javed whom he helped with an independent writing credit on his hit film Haathi Mere Saathi (1971), his abandonment by Yash Chopra, and one of the biggest letdowns of his career-he was passed over for Shashi Kapoor for the male lead in Raj Kapoor's Satyam Shivam Sundaram.
These are slights and snubs magnified by increasing worries about money. The superstar exchanges his imported car for a Maruti 800 and his 555s for Gold Flake, but the show has to go on, drinks have to be fixed and dinner has to be served. The subject of a 1973 BBC documentary, Bombay Superstar, where he is described as having the charisma of Rudolph Valentino and the arrogance of Napoleon, has to suffer the ignominy in death of being claimed by an ageing starlet.
Perhaps the most telling story in the book is of 64 unopened suitcases found in his home Aashirwad, a landmark on Carter Road in Mumbai much before Shah Rukh Khan even dreamed of Mannat. They were, apparently, full of gifts Khanna bought when he went abroad, with no one to give them to when he returned. A sense of doom permeates the book. Everything Khanna pins his hopes on turns to dust. He hopes politics will give him a new lease of life and he works hard as New Delhi MP between 1991 and 1996, to no avail. He never wins again and the Congress party, having found one dependable star in Sunil Dutt, does not consider him anything more than a star campaigner. He takes on the father's role in Rishi Kapoor's directorial debut in Aa Ab Laut Chalen in 1999 but the film tanks and Bachchan corners the market for dishy dads with Mohabbatein in 2000.
Zindagi ke safar mein guzar jaate hai jo makaam woh phir nahin aate (we can never revisit the milestones we leave behind in the journey of life), he sang in the 1974 hit, Aap ki Kasam. Never was a star more prescient about his own fate.
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