Courtesy:
IndiaFM
Thursday,
August
23,
2007
I
first
met
him
on
the
outdoors
of
Sholay.
He
had
an
endearing
presence,
one
that
was
immediately
likeable.
I
was
keen
on
knowing
who
he
was
from
day
one
because
he
was
going
to
play
the
role
that
I
had
liked:
Gabbar
Singh.
His
credentials
preceded
him.
Salim-Javed,
the
writers
of
the
film,
had
recommended
him
after
seeing
his
work
on
stage.
They
spoke
of
him
in
glorious
terms.
In
hindsight,
it
was
prophetic.
We
loved
every
thing
about
him
-
his
persona,
his
style
and
his
performing
capabilities.
But
we
were
skeptical
of
his
voice.
We
felt
it
was
too
feeble
for
a
frame
so
large,
and
for
Gabbar.
But
he
disproved
us.
That
very
voice
became
the
most
attractive
part
of
the
character
and,
indeed,
the
film.
For
Sholay,
the
selected
dialogues
of
the
film
came
out
before
the
music
on
a
33
-
1/3
rpm
record,
and
most
of
the
dialogues
were
Amjad's.
Till
date,
it
is
only
his
dialogues
that
remain
in
our
memory.
Amjad
made
friends
easily
and
trusted
them
without
question.
It
came
naturally
to
him.
He
would
be
hurt
when
they
betrayed
him,
but
was
never
vengeful.
The
tea
industry
in
India
needed
to
acknowledge
him
for
their
sales.
He
drank
gallons
of
it
during
the
course
of
a
day.
Tea
and
his
bank
of
light-hearted
banter
were
two
constants
in
his
life.
He
possessed
great
intellect.
His
study
curriculum
and
his
interest
in
the
written
word,
not
necessarily
in
English,
were
other
attributes.
Urdu
poetry
and
semi-classical
music
found
a
prominent
space
in
his
daily
routine.
Ghazal
evenings
were
often
organized
on
the
terrace
of
his
Bandra
house;
he
was
in
his
element
then.
He
voluntarily
helped
people.
Not
just
friends,
people.
I
know
for
sure
that
there
were
several
occasions
when
he
would
work
in
a
project
purely
because
it
would
bring
someone
out
of
financial
trouble,
knowing
too
well
that
the
project
would
perhaps
be
harmful
for
his
own
commercial
standing.
In
the
very
selfish
and
materialistic
environment
of
today's
world,
it
was
hard
to
believe
that
someone
would
actually
risk
his
reputation
for
an
unknown.
In
times
of
trouble,
you
could
trust
him
to
be
standing
beside
you.
It
was
ironic
and
sad
therefore
to
note
that
when
he
had
his
car
accident
driving
to
Goa
for
the
shoot
of
our
film,
there
was
no
one
beside
him.
He
was
in
bad
shape.
The
accident
had
occurred
some
miles
away
from
the
city.
His
wife
and
Shadaab,
his
son,
were
with
him.
Stranded
in
the
highway,
it
was
a
Herculean
task
for
him
to
find
help.
By
the
time
we
got
to
the
Goa
Hospital
in
Panjim,
he
was
slipping
into
a
coma.
One
of
the
most
difficult
decisions
of
my
life
at
that
moment
was
to
take
the
responsibility
of
signing
the
document
on
behalf
of
him
and
his
family,
for
surgical
procedures
to
be
initiated.
There
was
no
one
around.
His
family
was
in
Mumbai
and
could
only
come
in
the
next
day,
and
those
for
whom
he
had
come
to
work,
did
not
want
to
take
the
risk.
The
hours
that
went
by
during
the
surgery,
as
they
repaired
his
broken
ribs
and
pierced
lung,
were
a
nightmare.
When
he
made
it
out
of
the
OT,
I
drank
myself
silly
that
night
and
wept,
and
prayed
that
he
would
survive.
He
was
a
tough
cookie:
he
made
it.
He
was
shifted
to
Mumbai
soon
after
and
recuperated
at
Nanavati
Hospital.
I
just
did
not
have
the
courage
to
go
and
meet
him;
reverse
withdrawal
symptoms.
It
was
difficult
to
see
this
strong
specimen
of
masculinity,
lying
limp
weak
and
defeated.
Until,
he
wrote
me
a
note
from
his
bed,
the
contents
of
which
I
cannot
disclose,
and
I
went
across
to
see
him.
He
was
fine.
The
banter
was
back,
as
was
that
ever-present
mischievous
twinkle
in
his
eyes.
During
the
making
of
one
of
the
several
films
we
did
together,
I
think
it
was
Parvarish
by
Manmohan
Desai,
we
were
on
a
set
of
the
climax
where
a
mock-submarine
had
been
constructed.
As
was
the
temperament
on
most
Manji's
films,
other
than
him,
we
all
would
find
the
situations
he
created
greatly
illogical.
(It's
another
matter
that
Manji
would
always
have
the
last
laugh;
because
all
his
illogic
eventually
rattled
the
cash
registers
at
the
box-office.)
This
one
was
no
different.
We
suddenly
discovered
that
all
the
artistes
on
the
set
were
Librans
-
Shammiji
(Shammi
Kapoor),
Vinod
Khanna,
Amjad,
Kader
Khan
and
myself.
So
we
quickly
and
very
wittily
invented
a
little
ditty
'We
are
crazy
Librans
(beeping)
up
this
film!'
sung
to
the
tune
of
a
famous
World
War
II
British
battle-song.
This
became
our
signature
greeting
every
time
we
found
ourselves
in
similar
extenuating
circumstances
and
we
would
have
a
good
laugh
over
it.
In
1982,
I
had
my
accident
on
the
sets
of
Coolie.
Coming
out
of
the
ICU
after
two
months,
one
of
the
first
to
meet
me
in
hospital
was
Amjad.
As
he
walked
into
the
room
at
Breach
Candy
Hospital,
he
burst
into
'We
are
crazy
Librans'.
It
was
perhaps
the
first
time
the
nurses
saw
a
smile
on
my
face.
He
left
us
suddenly.
Unexpectedly,
without
warning.
In
his
sleep.
On
hearing
the
news,
I
rushed
to
his
house
and
up
to
his
bedroom.
It
was
difficult
to
imagine
he
had
gone.
This
wonderful
friend,
this
great
companion
and
colleague
just
lay
there
a
though
in
deep
sleep.
And
as
I
looked
on,
I
almost
felt
that
any
moment
he
would
open
his
eyes
and
with
his
mischievous
grin
greet
me
with
a
"Hi
Shorty"