Is it the hat? The horse? The number of bullets dodged? The flinty stare? The speed with which the hand can pull out a Colt from a holster or with which it can cheat at poker? The great Ennio Morricone theme he walks around with?

Nope. It's the swagger. The supreme self-confidence with which he carries himself, secure in the extreme self-awareness of his own coolth.

And God knows Feroz had enough swagger to make Texas look square.

In the latter years, there were times when Khan was inadvertently funny. When he was playing son to women far younger than him, or when he refused to hang up his pistol and turn to lower-profile characters. And yet he endured, because he never pretended to be cool, he always believed he was truly cool -- which, in itself, earned him that self-righteous swagger that could never be imitated.

Cowboy? Hell yeah. Marlboro would have been lucky to have him.

Hats off, Khan Sahab. Rest In Peace.

In the picture: Feroz Khan with daughter Laila | Photograph: Jack Dabaghian/Reuters

Listen to: Love Mera Hit Hai, Billu
Also Read: Feroz Khan: 1939-2009

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