As I sit here to pen this, I ask myself: how do you sincerely begin to write about someone you never knew? Someone you never met? Someone who touched your soul in an inexplicable way, beyond the scope of fully encapsulating the same in words?

How do you begin to encapsulate how someone, who was a warring nation’s son, spread his warmth with the utmost ease across borders, through the very earth that had begotten him, and would testify to his brilliance?

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Irrfan Khan was not an ordinary man. His work is not ordinary work. And his story is not an ordinary story.

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I cannot, in good faith, sit here and pretend to know what the entirety of his narrative was. Before today, I had perhaps seen a handful of his work. However, whatever it is that I saw, I felt it resonate deep within the very fabric of my soul. 

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While the comparison might seem unfair, watching Irrfan Khan was not like watching anyone else on screen.

When you watch Shahrukh Khan romance a younger woman or watch Salman Khan battle evil men, you see two superstars indulging their fans with their created and established personas, perhaps venturing out of their comfort zones from time to time.

You see Shahrukh Khan as the magnanimous Rahul or Raj. You see Salman Khan as the bubbly or macho Prem or Chulbul Pandey.

When you watch Irrfan Khan, you don’t see Irrfan Khan play a character. No, you see the character itself, bearing a resemblance to Irrfan Khan, sure, but a complete entity on its own. 

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You see Billu, the downtrodden barber trying to make ends meet. You see Fernandes, the aging desk-worker, enthralled by his lunchbox and the purest form of love it contains. You see the police inspector in Slumdog Millionaire, hell-bent on receiving answers. 

Most importantly, you witness, awestruck, a fantastical command over an undeniably important form of art, embodied by a man who is one with the masterpiece he is creating. 

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Irrfan Khan was not just any other celebrity.

Underrated, understated, yet thoroughly accomplished, he was an institute in himself. While his dedication to each role is evident, his humbleness, modesty, and the tribulations that shaped his journey shine in each interview. 

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He was one of us. Paving a path to escape the mundanity of routine and unexciting conformist jobs, he set himself apart. He struggled. He felt the dirt blind him as those who undermined his skill tried to break his spirit. Yet, he persevered. 

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There is an undeniable, enviable, almost enlightened clarity in his interviews.

He does not forget where he came from. He does not wish to be someone he’s not. Yet, he is kind, and believes in creating nothing less than magic. When he falters, he is apologetic. When he is uncertain, he is hopeful. When he is faced with the immensity of his own mortality, he is wise. 

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Irrfan Khan didn’t just act. He created a space within our hearts with each role he dutifully played. He left an imprint with each bout of wisdom he shared. He entranced us with a letter that contained nothing but the absolute truth at his absolute lowest. 

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Coming to terms with your own mortality, after having struggled to achieve certain milestones, is a task that is perhaps beyond many of us. 

The anger, the dismay, the shattering of one’s belief system – it is overwhelming. Yet, Irrfan Khan’s last set of words seemed to condole those who would remember him, serving as a reassurance to himself that, perhaps, the time for him to disembark is nigh, and he can either dismount gracefully, or suffer every minute as he awaits an inevitable end. 

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His death is no ordinary loss.

It’s personal. It’s spiritual. It’s political.

Each tribute – be it from an organization as esteemed as The Academy, or an individual who had to sneak CDs of his movies to watch secretly – is a testament to the man the world has lost on this dark day. 

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The world is poorer without Irrfan Khan in it.

It is dimmer, gloomier, and less filled with hope. There is an Irrfan Khan-shaped void on the very canvas of film itself. There are shoes left behind that can never be filled.

There is a gaping hole where his presence once used to be, and it is a stark reminder of the individualistic nature of everything a man can be. 

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The world was not ready for Irrfan and his genius. Yet, the world tried.

Irrfan won every heart, stole every show, and conquered every ground he set foot in. It didn’t come easy, but he took each uphill battle in his stride and marched on with unmatched resilience.

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Now, having created an unimaginably unparalleled legacy, he has set off for greener pastures. 

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Perhaps, when he does reach the gates of Paradise, its heavenly inhabitants will be waiting eagerly at the gate, the call for his arrival having ricocheted off of each wall within. 

Perhaps, angels are holding his mother high on a pedestal, only for the gates to swing open, and for Irrfan to finally enter, home at last. 

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Perhaps, Irrfan will smile, and further light up the atmosphere, for only he could possess such might. As he makes his way in, he will embrace his mother, whom he could not bear to be away from, and say, “Amma, you came for me. And here I am.”

 

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Cover image via @irrfan/Instagram