Over a decade ago, when Rajesh Khanna passed away, my maternal aunt cried a lot. I did not understand all that fancied association she believed she had with the actor. It was unfathomable to me.

With the passing away of Irrfan Khan, it hit me. I began to understand what it meant&nbsp;to feel the ache in one’s heart and to whimper. It felt&nbsp;strangely personal. Sometimes, the make-believe world we see on screen can blur our individual lives, allowing us to drift away. In this imaginary personal realm, I had met Irrfan Khan many times. He would come to me in different avatars – every single time.

It has been four years since Irrfan Khan left, yet it is difficult to accept that this magnificent actor is no longer with us and that we won’t ever see him play another real-life character with much nuance, conviction, and excellence.

Irrfan Khan’s character in every film stood out - irrespective of the film’s commercial and critical acclaim. One wonders if any other actor with the same script, dialogues, and director, would have exhibited the same brilliance as Irrfan did in all his films. He immortalised several significant characters on screen.

I have watched many Irrfan Khan films, but the ones that truly stayed with me over the years are - The Namesake, The Lunchbox, and Piku. Several scenes from these films have remained etched in my memory. Moreover, every character that Irrfan portrayed on screen, felt like that of someone close I know. It is magical, to say the least. 
 
On his death anniversary, I revisit some of my favourite scenes to marvel over Irrfan’s acting skills:&nbsp; 
 
* In The Namesake&nbsp;– Ashoke Ganguli is like my father. Not only does my father share the same first name with the character (with a slight variation in the spelling), but he also is the quintessential overprotective Bengali parent&nbsp;we all know about. Like his namesake character - Ashoke, my father understands the unspoken wishes of his wife and children; and wants us to remain rooted in the story of our lives – the very origin of our being.

‘The Namesake’ is a package of emotions on a continuum.&nbsp;

Scene 1 –

Ashoke looks at his shrunk clothes and tells his wife -Ashima, why she had to venture out into an unfamiliar world to get the laundry done. Ashima, who tries to do things as a dutiful wife, feels hurt by her husband’s charge and locks herself in another room. And then it is Ashoke cajoling his wife to let go and begging her to smile a little. The scene is a must-watch to understand the emotions of slight annoyance, persuasion, respect, and affection – all blending to create Irrfan’s dialogue delivery.

Scene 2 –

Ashoke goes to his son - Gogol’s room to gift him a book – The Overcoat by Nikolai Gogol on his birthday. Ashoke wants to narrate the story of the origin of his son’s name. But he doesn’t get the opportunity to do so, as Gogol seems least interested in knowing anything about the book. He rather wants to concentrate on the music he is listening to. Ashoke sits in his son’s room as Gogol puts the music off. Ashoke understands that his presence is unwanted; he pats his son and quietly leaves. As a construction of the scene – it could be a simple one. But it is not. Watch it to understand how a father runs through an emotional quandary and feels uneasiness in approaching his son. And, in all this, Ashoke chooses not to overstep Gogol’s personal space. A lot is conveyed through Irrfan’s expressions in this scene – between his want to tell the story and not being able to do anything – he decides to leave.

Scene 3 –

Ashoke walks with his son to the seashore but forgets to bring a camera. He then asks Gogol to capture the event in his mind forever, that he had visited such a beautiful shore. The dialogue in this scene has been a favourite for many over the years – “Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there was nowhere left to go.”

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Back in 2007 when I first watched the film, this scene had moved me to tears, and it still holds the same power. It numbs me, whether I am in a happy or vulnerable state. The scene manages to shake up the equilibrium – whatever it is.

Over the years, several times, I remembered Ashoke’s lesson and captured the moment in my mind and heart, when a camera wasn’t handy.

* In The Lunchbox&nbsp;- Sajjan Fernandes is like my first love. Like Sajjan, G had waited it out several times, without expecting much in return. The best part about having a platonic relationship is that you put a lot of emphasis on emotional bonding. And sometimes, that’s all you require when everything else fails. Between being unable to see each other for months together and then sitting next to each other, without uttering a word – a lifetime seems to pass by.

There are several scenes that I like in the film. Most scenes are just driven by Sajjan’s terrific expressions and not dialogues. Sajjan’s childlike anticipation of the lunchbox, touching and sniffing - to reaffirm that it is from Ila (his love interest), plating of food items, savouring and even assessing them critically, his long glances at the ceiling fan or that look at his neighbour’s dining table – all laced up with the feeling of immense solitude and desire for companionship.

Scenes at the restaurant and bathroom

Sajjan looks into the mirror as he gets ready to meet Ila at the restaurant. He is in his usual office attire – tucked-in shirt and trousers. As he is about to step out of the bathroom, he goes closer to the mirror and keeps looking at his face. Something strikes him suddenly and things change. Later, as the film progresses, he writes to Ila telling her that he is a witness to her beauty but also his ageing.

Sajjan’s expression in the bathroom changes from being optimistic to turning into melancholic – all within a few minutes. He looks around in the bathroom and gets a sense that it now smells of an old man. And, somewhere in all this, he has lost his youth. He becomes aware of it more now. Sajjan writes to Ila – “I forgot something in the bathroom, and when I went back to get it, the bathroom smelled exactly like it smelled after my grandfather took a bath. That’s when I realised it wasn’t him, it was me.” <a href="https://www.youtube.com/shorts/92B_2ildxJQ">Watch the scene here:&nbsp;</a>

* In Piku, Rana Chaudhry is like a playful neighbour or a colleague, whose style of flirting is thankfully subtle. Rana redefines old-school romances, where a lot remains unspoken and sometimes, conveyed through eyes and gestures. In the film, Rana has a good heart and doesn’t hold back in calling a spade a spade, like - when Rana tells Bhaskor that if Piku had felt him as some sort of a burden, she wouldn’t have arranged for a trip to Kolkata.

&nbsp;

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Out of all the scenes in Piku, the conversation regarding a peaceful death stayed with me over the years -

Scene

Bhaskor (the character played by Amitabh Bachchan) tells Rana at the breakfast table that he shouldn’t have allowed his father to be put on a ventilator and that the entire process must have caused him more suffering than doing any good. Rana tells him that he followed what he was told by the doctors. It’s a terrific scene where Rana looks at Bhaskor all perplexed and disoriented and is unable to fathom if he were the cause of his father’s death.

Whether it was Ashoke Ganguli, Sajjan Fernandes, or Rana Chaudhry – each brought me closer to their off-screen counterparts I have known in my physical world. The characters remained so real that I could relate to them, laughed, cried, empathised, and grew up with them. They conveyed a purpose - sometimes with dialogues and sometimes with facial expressions.

That’s the power of an outstanding performer.

And, Irrfan Khan had that kind of power.

Over a decade ago, when Rajesh Khanna passed away, my maternal aunt cried a lot. I did not understand all that fancied association she believed she had with the actor.

Over a decade ago, when Rajesh Khanna passed away, my maternal aunt cried a lot. I did not understand all that fancied association she believed she had with the actor. It was unfathomable to me. With the passing away of Irrfan Khan, it hit me. I began to understand what it meant to feel the ache in one’s heart and to whimper. It felt strangely personal. Sometimes, the make-believe world we see on screen can blur our individual lives, allowing us to drift away. In this imaginary personal realm, I had met Irrfan Khan many times. He would come to me in different avatars – every single time. It has been four years since Irrfan Khan left, yet it is difficult to accept that this magnificent actor is no longer with us and that we won’t ever see him play another real-life character with much nuance, conviction, and excellence. Irrfan Khan’s character in every film stood out - irrespective of the film’s commercial and critical acclaim. One wonders if any other actor with the same script, dialogues, and director, would have exhibited the same brilliance as Irrfan did in all his films. He immortalised several significant characters on screen. I have watched many Irrfan Khan films, but the ones that truly stayed with me over the years are - The Namesake, The Lunchbox, and Piku. Several scenes from these films have remained etched in my memory. Moreover, every character that Irrfan portrayed on screen, felt like that of someone close I know. It is magical, to say the least. On his death anniversary, I revisit some of my favourite scenes to marvel over Irrfan’s acting skills: * In The Namesake – Ashoke Ganguli is like my father. Not only does my father share the same first name with the character (with a slight variation in the spelling), but he also is the quintessential overprotective Bengali parent we all know about. Like his namesake character - Ashoke, my father understands the unspoken wishes of his wife and children; and wants us to remain rooted in the story of our lives – the very origin of our being. ‘The Namesake’ is a package of emotions on a continuum. Scene 1 – Ashoke looks at his shrunk clothes and tells his wife -Ashima, why she had to venture out into an unfamiliar world to get the laundry done. Ashima, who tries to do things as a dutiful wife, feels hurt by her husband’s charge and locks herself in another room. And then it is Ashoke cajoling his wife to let go and begging her to smile a little. The scene is a must-watch to understand the emotions of slight annoyance, persuasion, respect, and affection – all blending to create Irrfan’s dialogue delivery. Scene 2 – Ashoke goes to his son - Gogol’s room to gift him a book – The Overcoat by Nikolai Gogol on his birthday. Ashoke wants to narrate the story of the origin of his son’s name. But he doesn’t get the opportunity to do so, as Gogol seems least interested in knowing anything about the book. He rather wants to concentrate on the music he is listening to. Ashoke sits in his son’s room as Gogol puts the music off. Ashoke understands that his presence is unwanted; he pats his son and quietly leaves. As a construction of the scene – it could be a simple one. But it is not. Watch it to understand how a father runs through an emotional quandary and feels uneasiness in approaching his son. And, in all this, Ashoke chooses not to overstep Gogol’s personal space. A lot is conveyed through Irrfan’s expressions in this scene – between his want to tell the story and not being able to do anything – he decides to leave. Scene 3 – Ashoke walks with his son to the seashore but forgets to bring a camera. He then asks Gogol to capture the event in his mind forever, that he had visited such a beautiful shore. The dialogue in this scene has been a favourite for many over the years – “Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there was nowhere left to go.” Back in 2007 when I first watched the film, this scene had moved me to tears, and it still holds the same power. It numbs me, whether I am in a happy or vulnerable state. The scene manages to shake up the equilibrium – whatever it is. Over the years, several times, I remembered Ashoke’s lesson and captured the moment in my mind and heart, when a camera wasn’t handy. * In The Lunchbox - Sajjan Fernandes is like my first love. Like Sajjan, G had waited it out several times, without expecting much in return. The best part about having a platonic relationship is that you put a lot of emphasis on emotional bonding. And sometimes, that’s all you require when everything else fails. Between being unable to see each other for months together and then sitting next to each other, without uttering a word – a lifetime seems to pass by. There are several scenes that I like in the film. Most scenes are just driven by Sajjan’s terrific expressions and not dialogues. Sajjan’s childlike anticipation of the lunchbox, touching and sniffing - to reaffirm that it is from Ila (his love interest), plating of food items, savouring and even assessing them critically, his long glances at the ceiling fan or that look at his neighbour’s dining table – all laced up with the feeling of immense solitude and desire for companionship. Scenes at the restaurant and bathroom Sajjan looks into the mirror as he gets ready to meet Ila at the restaurant. He is in his usual office attire – tucked-in shirt and trousers. As he is about to step out of the bathroom, he goes closer to the mirror and keeps looking at his face. Something strikes him suddenly and things change. Later, as the film progresses, he writes to Ila telling her that he is a witness to her beauty but also his ageing. Sajjan’s expression in the bathroom changes from being optimistic to turning into melancholic – all within a few minutes. He looks around in the bathroom and gets a sense that it now smells of an old man. And, somewhere in all this, he has lost his youth. He becomes aware of it more now. Sajjan writes to Ila – “I forgot something in the bathroom, and when I went back to get it, the bathroom smelled exactly like it smelled after my grandfather took a bath. That’s when I realised it wasn’t him, it was me.” Watch the scene here: * In Piku, Rana Chaudhry is like a playful neighbour or a colleague, whose style of flirting is thankfully subtle. Rana redefines old-school romances, where a lot remains unspoken and sometimes, conveyed through eyes and gestures. In the film, Rana has a good heart and doesn’t hold back in calling a spade a spade, like - when Rana tells Bhaskor that if Piku had felt him as some sort of a burden, she wouldn’t have arranged for a trip to Kolkata. Out of all the scenes in Piku, the conversation regarding a peaceful death stayed with me over the years - Scene Bhaskor (the character played by Amitabh Bachchan) tells Rana at the breakfast table that he shouldn’t have allowed his father to be put on a ventilator and that the entire process must have caused him more suffering than doing any good. Rana tells him that he followed what he was told by the doctors. It’s a terrific scene where Rana looks at Bhaskor all perplexed and disoriented and is unable to fathom if he were the cause of his father’s death. Whether it was Ashoke Ganguli, Sajjan Fernandes, or Rana Chaudhry – each brought me closer to their off-screen counterparts I have known in my physical world. The characters remained so real that I could relate to them, laughed, cried, empathised, and grew up with them. They conveyed a purpose - sometimes with dialogues and sometimes with facial expressions. That’s the power of an outstanding performer. And, Irrfan Khan had that kind of power.

Remembering Irrfan Khan: The actor we all imagined to be close to

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Remembering Irrfan Khan: The actor we all imagined to be close to