It was 1999. The month was mid-August or September, I can’t remember clearly. And I was still in college.

PVR Cinemas still hadn’t become the huge corporate blockbuster of 21st-century India. The Bijli brothers had spared a thought for college-going folks like us, living away from home on a shoestring budget. And were kind enough to price the front two rows of their cinemas (Vasant Vihar and Saket only) at Rs 5.

A friend and I had trooped to PVR Saket, our usual Friday hangout. We’d bunked class and queued up for over 2 hours to buy the tickets to watch the star-studded premiere (yes!) of Jahan Tum Le Chalo. While the other girls lined up drooled over co-star Jimmy Shergill who’d already debuted with Gulzar’s Maachis, my friend and I discussed at length the “unconventional” other guy.

And so were ready to wait. To get a glimpse of the unconventional Nirmal Pandey. Who’d struck our collective fancy with his lean and mean looks in Bandit Queen and his performance in Sudhir Mishra’s Is Raat Ki Subah Nahin.
And so we waited.

Whoever said that youth and patience didn’t go hand in hand should have seen us then. After what seemed like an hour-long wait, the eagle(s) landed.

Jimmy Shergill walked in, flanked by the theatre manager and the film’s publicity folks. Behind him, trooped in Nirmal Pandey. And I held my breath. The swagger was distinctly cowboyish, albeit desi! There was an air of arrogance-meets-boyishness-meets-flamboyance. And the long, dark, black tresses that showed in the pre-John Abrahham days that long-haired men can also look incredibly sexy without trying too hard!.

As he walked past, an eager fan from the front-stall, in a moment of excitement-doubling-up-as-smartness, quipped: “Wah, kya baal hain! Shampoo kaun sa lagata hai? (What lovely hair! Which shampoo do you use?)
Pandey had moved ahead a few paces. On hearing this, he turned. Slanted his face slightly, looked at the smart Alec, gave what I still think is one of the most endearing smiles given by any actor whom I’ve encountered from close quarters, and said with a smile “Badmaash!”.

That was all it took. The auditorium erupted. The front-stalls went ballistic. Catcalls, hooting, wolf-whistles – basically, the works – the floodgates had been opened! Shergill watched from the sidelines, as the unconventional Pandey made his mark, effortlessly. The hooting continued till Pandey himself got up to request the gathering to be silent so that show could go on. The flamboyance was so understated, there, but not there types!

Both actors exited after the interval. My friend and I went and bought a pack of popcorn to share. The movie was nothing to write home about.

But Nirmal Pandey had left an impression. On the people who’d seen him from close quarters. And on two young girls, who were so excited to have seen him so closely for those fleeting moments. We laughed silly, giggled uncontrollably and yapped endlessly on our way back home, reliving our starry moments.

And a strange bond forged that day. Although Pandey ended up playing the baddie, I somehow managed to watch all his flicks, starting from Pyar Kiya Toh Darna Kya, Auzaar, One Two Ka Four Godmother (where I thought he was good) and Shikaari. And I personally thought that it was quite brave of him to having played the bad guy when he could have continued to be good.

But then he was brave.

And only the brave die young. RIP Nirmal Pandey.