“My name is Mr Khanna”

I remember being a pigtailed schoolkid in a navy blue pinafore, walking up to the video library with my mom. Mr Bhogale, the library owner, had an unusual way of getting Hindi movie cassettes. They were brought over from India in suitcases belonging to travelling expats. You see, I grew up in Nigeria in the 80s and Bollywood was an exotic world in a foreign land, far
far away, and managing to watch a Hindi movie was a big deal. My dad would always pick Dilip Kumar movies. My mom was partial to Sanjeev Kumar. I had no clear preferences, except for a hatred of black and white. “Uncle, is it in colour? Does it have nice songs?” is all I asked.

I was nine years old and visiting India for my annual summer vacation. We were flying Indian Airlines from Mumbai to Delhi and the flight attendant seated me next to a friendly looking uncle clad in a white kurta pyjama. His face looked familiar but at that age, all 'uncles' looked the same to me. I was bored and as it appeared, so was he. He struck up a conversation and I wondered why random people kept walking by to sneak a peek at him. He
asked me which school I went to, what subjects I liked, why I was traveling to Delhi. I asked him what he did and why *he* was traveling to Delhi. His name was Mr Khanna (“You can call me Khanna uncle”, he said), he used to be an actor and he was visiting Delhi because he was in politics. I smugly
told him my dad said politicians were terrible people. He laughed. We had a gala time chatting and joking and laughing. When we landed in Delhi, he was whisked away in a fancy looking car with flags on it and as I exited the airport, we waved to each other.

A few years later, back at the dusty, musty video library at the end of the dirt road, I asked Bhogale uncle if he had any movies starring a certain Mr Rajesh Khanna. I was sent home with cassettes of Aradhna, Amar Prem, Anand and Bawarchi. I watched wide-eyed, as this gorgeous man lit up the TV screen with his easy smile, wooing glamorous sirens through picturesque valleys, while Kishoreda's voice crooned in the background.

THIS was that uncle I'd met on the plane? THIS GORGEOUS MAN? I rewound the tapes over and over and obsessively watched his songs. I asked my mom if she could send me to school in a bouffant. I wanted a chiffon sari and a backless blouse for my birthday. I wished I had kohl-lined eyes. I rejoiced in the fact that he and I shared our birthday. I kicked myself for not being older, for not knowing who sat next to me all those years ago on that
boring flight. I wished I was a grown-up, instead of a teenager with
acne-prone skin.

I grew older and Shah Rukh Khan became my favourite. I watched all Tom Cruise movies. I hooted when Hrithik Roshan shimmied across the theatre screen. But even now, decades later, I hear a line of a Rajesh Khanna song on a chai tapri transistor and my eyes light up. I close my eyes and see him smiling in front of snow-capped mountains, crinkling his eyes, turning his head and singing 'Kora Kagaz Tha Yeh Man Mera'. I smile, starry-eyed, and
my heart skips a beat. Actors will come and actors will go, but India's first and greatest superstar will never fade.

RIP, my dearest Mr Khanna, and thank you for all the memories.

— The writer is a film blogger and calls herself Pitu Sultan. She tweets @pitusultan