My friend, Vijoo

Of his reported 440 film count, I shared screen space with the late Vijoo Khote in only two. Yet, I could call myself his friend. During the 1970s and 80s, the refrain I often heard from producers and directors whom I approached for acting assignments was, “You are an educated man. Why are you pursuing a career meant for ‘good-for-nothing-else’ types?” Obviously, I saw no merit in this facetious argument. Nevertheless, in an active career of 26 years, I have managed only 13 roles. My friend Vijoo, also educated and very well-read, managed 440 (I think that is a conservative estimate, if we include films in Marathi language), including Sholay (Kaalia) and Andaz Apna Apna (Robert).

We were to work together in a play directed by Bharat Dabholkar, in whose TV serial Dhamaal, I had done a role, many years ago. It was a comedy play, and I happen to visit the rehearsal at a college in Bandra East. Vijoo, a Bharat regular, was there. When I asked Bharat if he had a role for me, he said, “Come to the show, a little early. We will work out something extempore.” I was aghast, but Bharat said those lines without batting an eyelid. I learnt later that this was not uncommon in a Bharat play, which was, invariably, a comedy or a farce or a satire or all of the above. My misfortune that I did not take-up the offer.

Vijoo was born in 1941, about a decade before me, and lived in the Gamdevi/Sukh Sagar area. My family lived at Chowpatty, 500 metres from his place, till 1962, but I never met him. My brother and his friends would often go to Gamdevi on Wednesday nights to listen to Binaca Geetmala at a Rajasthani tea-and--snack joint. We sometimes had farsan (savouries), sometimes sweet samosas, to go with a cup of tea. On 05 October 2019, at Vijoo’s condolence meet, it was revealed that Viju helped a struggling farsan-seller in Gamdevi formulate his product and it then sold so well that he named his product Vijoo Khote Bhusu. That must surely be a first. To remind us of his debt, the owner distributed free packets to all those who attended. A hopeless foodie, Vijoo was also fond of batata vadas, a popular snack in Mumbai and Maharashtra. We were served vadas too, as we came out, to go with tea. And all the memories of my Gamdevi days came flooding back, with a large lump in my throat.

Though it was to be a condolence meet, there was hardly any of the “great loss” and “grieving family” kind of pronouncements on offer. He had died on September 30 and the meet was held five days later, on a Saturday morning, at the Ravindra Natya Mandir’s mini-theatre, which was packed with Vijoo’s friends, admirers and, of course, his son ‘Lucky’ and daughter ‘Gabbu’. His wife had passed away long ago. Instead of condoling his death, the speakers celebrated his life, his sense of humour, his love for all kinds of food, and his down-to-earth persona. Speakers included Shreyas Talpade, Sachin Pilgaonkar, Varsha Usgaonkar, Johnyy Lever, Birbal and Satish Shah. Also present were actors Man Mouji, Jugnu and Javed Khan.

In that very light vein, I recalled Vijoo revealing how he managed that square jaw distinctive look that was trade-mark Vijoo. He said, “I don’t do anything. That is how my jaw is. Call it a birth defect if you like, but my upper jaw and lower jaw are misaligned. My upper teeth do not rest on my lower teeth, but are a bit askew. That is what gives my face that look.” Another funny episode involved mail (snail mail, the postal kind, in the good old days). I sent him birthday greetings, which he never received. When I next visited him, a couple of days later, I apologised for not being able to come for his birthday, and hoped that he had received my card. He had not. Then he asked me whether I had put the correct address on it, and I said, “Yes. Haribhau Gokhale Marg, right?” Vijoo burst out laughing. “You stupid man, I told you H.G. Road, but who told you that H.G. stood for Haribhau Gokhale? It is Harishchandra Goregaonkar Marg!”

Sometimes, Vijoo was given catch-phrases to use in his roles. One such phrase was, “Yanee key…(meaning ‘which means’)”. I suggested that he combine “Yaanee key…” with a words from a popular song, “Goya key chunache” (nonsensical construction meaning ‘so as to say…as a result’). He could not stop laughing. We spent a lot of time together during the shooting of Mr. Romeo (1974), in which both of us played hangers on to Shashi Kapoor. In one scene, Vijoo’s character is inspired to impress girls, in a very Archie’s Moose kind of way, and sets forth to make his conquests. Another character mumbles, as he sees the portly figure of Vijoo Khote embark on a disastrous mission, “God save the girls of this city from this road-roller.”

Shahsi Kapoor on the bed, Rinkoo Jaiswal in his arms, Vijoo behind her and I am next to Vijoo, on his left

After working together in two films beginning 1973, I started lecturing at a college close to his house, in 1983. The evening lectures would end around 8 pm, and then, on my way to the Grant Road railway station, to catch a train to my home in Bandra, I would sometimes drop in at Vijoo’s place. He and his wife were always hospitable and we talked a lot about foreign films, which both of us enjoyed watching. Sometimes, I would go down and greet him on the 17th of December, his birthday, often reminding him that he shared his birthday with Katy Mirza, a former Playboy Bunny, who was big like him, but in a different dimension, and lived about a kilometre away. Both of us would have hearty laughs at the co-incidence.

In 1996, I went away to Singapore, to set-up the India-centric Hindi language service of ESPN, and stayed on till 2004. By the time I came back, I found myself cut-off from almost all my contacts. It took me 2-3 years to really get back into circulation. Then, in 2007, two deaths turned my world upside down: my brother and my mother, 15 days apart. Unlike the life-loving, zestful Vijoo, I did not take the losses in my stride. Clamming up, I got further alienated from the media world, which included friends like Vijoo. Recently, we resumed contact, on WhatsApp, but during torrential rains in Mumbai, water entered my phone, and all data was lost forever. The next message I received was on my new phone, from Lakshmikant ‘Lucky’ Khote, informing me about the commemorative meet. Lucky, who is really tall, has lost a lot of hair and the remaining has gone grey. He is younger than he looks. ‘Gabbu’, younger than him, looks like her father, who, of course, looked like his sister, Shubha Khote-Balsaver.

Vijoo was Vijoo and I am I. Whether he approves from up there or not, I am shedding tears for my departed friend. Why did I not see him for years? Why did I not know about his illness? Why did I discover about his death only through social media? I blame myself for all this, and seek his pardon. At the meet, somebody said he must be entertaining God with his bonhomie and, along with his wife, providing hospitality too. That would be so Vijoo-like!