In this age of stars kissing but not telling, having relationships but not ratting on them, and putting a holier-than-thou spin on even the most salacious scandal, thank God for one hand-kissing, posh-speaking, beret-doffing romantic, at ease with kings and beauty queens, with corporate czars and saucy 16-year-olds, a man who can still go weak in the knees when he sees a beautiful girl-and be happy to admit to it. The tempestuous Raj Kapoor-Nargis love affair, Dilip Kumar swearing undying love for Madhubala or Guru Dutt’s doomed love for Waheeda Rehman, this is the stuff that legends are made of, their stories acquiring currency by being repeated across bucolic barbershops and bored babu offices. The feeling of being let down is especially acute when it comes to the shining stars of the 1950s, the golden age of Indian cinema. Readers are rarely allowed a peek into the private hedonism whose delicious tales adorn magazine covers and tabloid front pages. I wanted to commit suicide because of Suraiya! Zeenat Aman broke my heart! I got Sanju Baba his bride! Bollywood autobiographies are sanitised accounts which either deny the star’s love life, like the recent palimpsest by Vyjayanthimala, or are ghost-written gushfests that keep the third person aura alive.
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