Asrani, the tyrant who tickled us
Asrani, known for his roles in ‘Sholay’, ‘Abhimaan’ and ‘Chupke Chupke’, had enough comic timing to make even his most outrageous moments appear effortless
The most enduring Hindi film of all, Sholay, is a symphony of vendettas and villains, yet amid the dust and dynamite, there stands Asrani like a misplaced vaudeville act, a character from another time, another genre. He is a khaki-clad relic whose barked orders feel like punchlines from a colonial playbook. The genius lay not merely in his Hitlerian moustache—trimmed to perfection and quivering with self-importance—but in the inspired audacity to mimic the Führer’s oratorial inflections, that staccato rhythm of command laced with a theatrical ha-HA flourish, as if tyranny were but a poorly rehearsed soliloquy.
Director Ramesh Sippy had handed Asrani a book with pictures of Hitler, urging him to channel the poses. Asrani didn’t just ape the look, he infused the speech with a peculiar twist, his voice swooping from authoritarian growl to indignant yelp, reminding us relentlessly that this was an “angrezon ke zamane ka jailor": a fossil from when the British lorded over India, our very own ingrate dictator who had outlasted the empire to bully prisoners with outdated zeal.
It’s a clever concept, showing how tyrants share the same evil DNA. Yet Asrani elevates it, channeling both Chaplin and Hitler, mixing the bumbling of the tramp with the bombast of the dictator. He turned witty comic relief into unforgettable absurdity, worthy of Mel Brooks. He drills inmates with exercises (“left right, left right") while monologuing before a mirror, practicing his dominion like a ham prepping for the stage, every gesture a nod to how power corrupts not just the powerful, but the profoundly ridiculous. Sippy later marvelled how naturally Asrani played it: “It was like he was born to play the role."
Govardhan Asrani was born on New Year’s day, 1941—during British rule, fittingly—in a modest Sindhi family in Jaipur. He grew up around the Partition, his father later shifting the family to Bombay for better prospects. Young Govardhan, sharp-eyed and stage-struck, worked in theatre and radio before enrolling at the Film and Television Institute of India in Pune in 1964, graduating with big dreams. Diplomas, however, meant precious little in Bollywood. In an interview he remembered, “Producers would shoo me away and say, ‘You think acting requires certificates? Big stars don’t have training here, and you think you’re special? Get lost.’"
Destiny intervened in the form of Hrishikesh Mukherjee, who arrived at FTII scouting for the talented Jaya Bhaduri, but found himself unable to shake off her tenacious classmate: a jaunty Asrani who cornered him repeatedly, pleading for a break. Mukherjee eventually relented, casting him in a bit role in 1969’s Satyakam, igniting an eight-film partnership that sculpted Asrani’s natural and candid screen presence. “He listened, learned, and lived the scene," Mukherjee once said. “What a talent, what an actor! I get restless when I don’t have him in my film."
In Basu Chatterjee’s 1975 gem Chhoti Si Baat, Asrani played a cocksure rogue with overbearing charm: a regular who bosses waiters with faux aristocracy, ordering customised feasts (featuring the memorable “chicken a la poos") and far too much food for the table, only to ghost before the reckoning, saddling some wide-eyed sap with the tab. Abhimaan (1973) revealed Asrani’s subtler shades as Amitabh Bachchan’s devoted secretary, loyal yet unafraid to call out his boss for his ego. The phone isn’t his to answer anymore, as he walks out on the job. In Bawarchi (1972), he was Vishwanath “Babloo" Sharma, the household’s aspiring composer whose “originals" were pilfered Western tunes, until finally Rajesh Khanna coaxes a true melody out of his fumbling fingers. In the 1977 film that he directed Chala Murari Hero Banne, one sole attempt at being the leading man, Asrani embodied the village simpleton, a wide-eyed dreamer chasing Bollywood glory, poking affectionate fun at the industry’s illusions.
Believability was the key. Asrani had enough comic timing to make even his most outrageous moments appear effortless. He utilised his everyman relatability to turn bewilderment into something oddly plausible. He frequently played confounded characters, but lent their confusion a curious reasonableness, as if getting lost in life’s absurdities was indeed the sanest response. His eyes would dart, that high-pitched trill would escalate, and he would bring out the laugh—that phenomenal laugh—cutting us in on the madness. It remains difficult not to laugh back.
Later, Asrani dove into Priyadarshan’s frenzied farces—Hera Pheri (2000), Hungama (2003), Garam Masala (2005)—where he played baffled uncles and bungling cops, elevating loud slapstick circuses to something slyer and smarter. His filmography feels like a commentary on middle-class mayhem. Asrani embraced the silliness with a gusto that always made us pay attention to more than the main attraction.
Think of Chupke Chupke. In the 1975 classic, Sharmila Tagore breaks into Ab ke sajan saawan mein… singing ostensibly for her brother-in-law Om Prakash while actually singing to her husband Dharmendra. It’s a romantic conspiracy, and all Asrani’s character P.K. Srivastava, a friend of the family, has to do is sit and eat the cake served in front of him. The song belongs to the leads, the moment is theirs, yet somehow Asrani steals it all with his joyful gobbling. It is a counterpoint to their longing, his face full and the plate emptied. He isn’t part of that intimate exchange, yet his presence makes it perfect. The scene may not be his, but he stuffs his face unforgettably. Asrani gets the cake.
Streaming tip of the week:
Some of Asrani’s most memorable performances—Sholay, Bawarchi, Abhimaan, Chhoti Si Baat, Hera Pheri—are all currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.
topics
