Exclusive | Mahesh Bhatt pens a poem remembering Raj Khosla: ‘The Light That Lingers’

The screen waits.
It doesn’t shine like it used to.
Streaming has taken over.
Theatres are kings without kingdoms.
And still—here we are.

I’m the guest of honour.
Asha Parekh will be here soon.
Once, the face on every poster.
Now, a medal on her chest. Reverence in every greeting.
I sit and wait.

We’re here to honour the brilliance
of one of the most underrated filmmakers India ever had.
Thanks to the Film Heritage Foundation—
founded by Shivendra Singh Dungarpur,
a man on a mission to rescue our fading cinematic memory.
And as I wait, something inside me shifts.

1969. I was twenty.
Rubber slippers. Tight pants. No money.
A head full of storm.
I wanted to make films. I didn’t know how.

At Mehboob Studio, the watchman stopped me.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
I said a name — Raj Khosla.
I hadn’t met him, but I knew him.
Something in the way I said it opened the gate.

Inside, the air smelled of sweat and paint.
Cables on the floor. Men shouting.
Dreams being built— not dreamt. Built.

His office was cold with air-conditioning.
He’d just woken up.
Looked at me like a face from a dream he couldn’t place.
“Know anything about filmmaking?” he asked.
“No.”

He smiled—small, sideways.
“Zero’s a good place to start.”
That was it. That’s how I began.

I stayed a short while.
But I saw enough.
How a film is made—
Not wished into being. Wrestled in.
Through heat and silence and rage.

We made a film.
Later, they called it the first Eastern Western.
We called it madness.
Sand. Heat. Guns that jammed. Stars who bled.
Then I left.
We all do.

I failed first.
Then, somehow, I didn’t.
Four hits in a row.
The applause came. I smiled.
But the sound never reached me.
He, meanwhile, had begun to vanish.
Even the brightest lights fade.

One night—Sea Rock Hotel.
Terrace. Stars above. Music below.
He stood alone.
Hands in his pockets.
Looking out at the sea
like it had stolen something from him.
I walked up.

“Get me a drink,” he said.
I did.
Because some men stay taller than time.
He looked at me.
“So—how does it feel? Being on top?”
I said, “I didn’t ask for this.”

He laughed. Not kindly.
“You? Four hits and still restless?
Try being the man who once had it all
and now begs for one last sip of relevance.”
Then he looked beyond the lights—
toward something only he could see.

“Fame is starlight,” he said.
“The glow of something already dead.
You see the shine—
but the star is gone.”
I never forgot.
I couldn’t.

Now the young come.
They speak with fire in their throats.
I listen.
And when I speak—
they don’t just hear me.
They hear him.
The man who let me in.
The man who said zero.

They don’t know his name.
But they carry it—like I did.
He is gone.
But the light is still here.

The hall stirs.
She walks in.
Applause cracks through the dust.
We take the stage.

A question comes:
“What did your master leave you that lasted?”
I close my eyes.
See his face.
Hear his voice.

“Zero,” I say.
“That’s where I began.”
They nod.
They think I’m wise.
They think I know.
But I don’t.
And that’s the truth.

To stay in this work—
to stay in this life—
you have to live with not knowing.
The old sages knew it:
Not this.
Not that.
Not even this.

What remains isn’t certainty.
It’s the light.
The kind that flickers.
The kind that stays.
I don’t direct anymore.
Don’t chase stories.

I’m quiet now.
Like a volcano that once burned.
Now still.
Still warm.

I mentor the thirsty, the talented.
The young come. They burn.
I listen. I guide.
I hand them the match.
Let them strike it.
That’s enough.

So I say it again—
for the ones still outside the gate:
Fame is starlight.
Beautiful. Distant. Already gone.
Let it guide you.
Let it burn you.
Then let it go.

And when your time comes—
Start from zero.
Stand in the not-knowing.
Speak only what’s true.
And pass it on.