A cold, gentle wind swept across the terrace. Sharma Ji sat with a cup of tea in hand, scrolling through his iPad. Yet, despite the weather and his usual evening ritual, he felt none of his typical spark. Something was off. After nearly five minutes of silence, he finally spoke.

“An icon is no more… The He-Man.”
It was only the beginning of what weighed on him.

For a Gen-X man like Sharma Ji, Dharmendra had first been the quintessential masala action star of his childhood. Whether you were eight, twenty, or even forty, people rushed to the video parlours whenever a Dharmendra film—new or old—arrived. In those days, only two names guaranteed a house-full board: Mithun and Dharmendra.

Teenagers clapped every time Dharam Paaji threw a punch; the older crowd whistled at every dialogue. And in that cramped, sweaty room, packed with people glued to a 24-inch Philips CRT TV, young Sharma Ji found pure thrill in the spectacle.

As he grew older, he realized Dharmendra was far more than fists and punchlines. Discovering films like Bandini, Anpadh, and comedies such as Chupke Chupke, Seeta Aur Geeta, and Joru Ka Ghulam felt like uncovering gems. Dharmendra was a chameleon—effortlessly slipping into any character. Who can forget his only Filmfare Award—a lifetime achievement—when he arrived drunk, joked through the speech, and even made legends like Dilip Kumar Saab stand up at his insistence?

Dharmendra had it all: handsome, suave—adored by the classes—but he often chose to play the poor, oppressed, hot-headed, muscular hero the masses loved. Even today, ask any veteran actress, and nine out of ten would call him the most handsome man to ever grace the industry.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Sharma Ji finished his tea, placed the cup aside, looked at the fading light, and murmured:

“Dharm Paaji was a complete Bollywood hero—he could romance the best, act the buffoon, fight like no one else, and deliver dialogues with unmatched charm.
Bhagwaan uski aatma ko shanti de…”