It’s midnight. The city is Mumbai. The population is in the millions.

As if ripped straight out of The Lion King, hordes of Mumbaikars take to the streets, swarming and occupying the road outside Mannat, India’s Pride Rock, eagerly awaiting a sighting of a figure, a silhouette illuminated by the halo of public worship.

What does it mean to be a king who’s loved by his people? What does it mean to have one’s name be synonymous to an entire industry, to inhabit the lives of 3.5 billion people? What does it mean to be a nation’s language of love? 

It means being Shah Rukh Khan.

***

“I truly believe that humanity is a lot like me,” SRK said and the audience of his TED talk laughed at what they perceived to be a claim of ironic self-importance. “It’s an ageing movie star,” he went on, “grappling with all the newness around itself, wondering whether it got it right in the first place and still trying to find a way to keep on shining regardless.”

Silence. 

He’s onto something and he knows his audience knows it. His talk uses varying degrees of humour and vulnerability but tempered with wisdom, with honesty. There’s flair, some showmanship and style. Not everything he says lands, but he leaves behind a sense of reward. 

And that’s my SRK experience in a nutshell. Always a sense of reward.

***

“Papa, such a big TV!”

That was me at age two when I first entered a movie hall. The movie in question was Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. Yes, I’ve always had a flair for the (melo)dramatic. 

And I distinctly remember everything about the man in a black turtleneck descending from a helicopter towards a grand mansion as Diwali festivities went on inside. His shoes enter the frame and, much like Jaya Bachchan’s character, as if assembled with a built-in SRK homing device, I knew this man was special.

My childhood was shaped by watching him on the screen. Save for Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy and Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy, my formative years perhaps knew no other richer cinematic gift than watching a dimpled man invite me to an embrace with his arms wide open. He was far removed from me but his cult of personality transcended the screen. He was always more than a cumulation of pixels. There was a comfort in knowing that he’s right there. 

SRK has been everything I needed him to be on screen. A star in Om Shanti Om. A dreamer in Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa. A hero in Main Hoon Na. A villain in Darr and Don. Something in between in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. A tragic figure in Dil Se and Devdas. A mentor in Chak De! India. A reformer in Swades. An emblem of love in Veer-Zaara. An ambassador of peace in My Name is Khan. And, of course, a friend in Kal Ho Naa Ho and Dear Zindagi. 

Most importantly, he’s been there, teaching me that some people stick around. In the process, they build trust and love – something he peddles to the entire nation. 

Is it any wonder we consider him the king of romance?

***

The S in SRK does not stand for subtle. But it is precisely this lack, this profuse overflow of emotions, that sets him apart. Here is a man who is instantly smitten by beauty. He’s captivated by its abundance, disturbed by its dearth. He’s a voice of longing, bleeding on the first punch, crying till his eyes puff up. In a time when movies championed the tropes of machismo, invulnerability and anger, SRK’s first appearance on the big screen was, while wearing a brown leather jacket, singing “Koi na koi chahiye, pyaar karne waala.” I need somebody to love me.  

Bearing the aspiration and ambition of love was almost an act of subversion.

Few actors possess the gravitas and the vulnerability required portray a person falling and rising in love. While vulnerability has been mischaracterised as a sign of weakness, SRK’s unabashed portrayal of men in touch with their emotions and their expression is a welcome departure from toxic standards of masculinity.

But I digress. This isn’t about what he means to billions of people. This is just about me. SRK says one must be self-obsessively in love with oneself. And he has this ability to make my day, wound my heart, rile me up, and leave me bathed in nostalgia. He can take a beaten guitar or mandolin, play his iconic Raj-major chord or Rahul-minor chord, and bring dead flowers back to full bloom by the sheer perfection of his smile, a tilt of the head, a look. He can take a hammer and crush my glass heart to pieces and I would say thank you.

From dancing atop a moving train to the infectious rhythm of Chaiyya Chaiyya to kneeling in the hallway with violins playing in the background; from roaming the streets of London like a troubadour to returning to the big screen with three projects next year – thank you for the magic of a lifetime.

Tareef yeh bhi toh, sach hai kuch bhi nahi. If this is praise too, then nothing else is the truth.

Wishing the king a very happy 57. Here’s to 150 more years of him reigning supreme.