The one and only time I ran into the late Feroz Khan was in a men's room. A swanky Mumbai multiplex was premiering a film with Feroz's son Fardeen in the lead. Just before the interval, Feroz himself popped up in the film, Mogamboistically larger than life.
It was but a few moments after this that I, standing in the loo, saw a pair of shiny cowboy boots swagger into position on my left. On my right stood the son, eagerly asking dad what he thought of the film and his work therein.
The big man, carrying off a bald head and massive sunglasses better than any sexagenarian should, stood in silence as the entire restroom collectively waited.
"It's okay so far," he growled suddenly, before breaking into a big grin. "But give it time, let's see. The hero's just entered the film."
He broke instantly into big, booming laughter and I stood there, feeling for all the world like one of Gabbar Singh's potential victims who'd just gotten a momentary reprieve.
Because no matter where Feroz Khan stood, he was the boss.
Photograph: Kamal Kishore/Reuters
Text: Raja Sen
Listen to: 
Kya Mujhe Pyar Hai
Also See: The Best of Feroz Khan
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