New Delhi, Nov. 28 -- He was the first person to give me an autograph. I was eight. I had handed Dharmendra a notebook with a novelty cover that made it look like a sandwich, and in his massive hand, this looked like a crouton. He smiled as he signed it, and I stared. This gorgeous 50-something man wore a black sleeveless shirt, showing off the kind of sculpted arms I only knew from my action figures, and was instantly unforgettable. He had an immense aura but wore it casually, a giant nonchalantly larger than life. A giant who knows he's a giant. An aunt who sang in the movies had taken the family to a filmi function, and I was seated next to Dharamji. (This marked the only time in my life that my mother was envious of me.)

Decades late...