He wasn’t born into royalty, but the name suited him better than most — Raaj Kumar, the prince of swagger, sarcasm and silken dialogue delivery.

When he said “Jaani…”, it wasn’t just a word, it was a curtain-raiser to something grand, laced with a smirk, dipped in sarcasm and delivered with a punch.

Born Kulbhushan Pandit, a Kashmiri Pandit in the dry terrains of Balochistan, Raaj Kumar’s journey was anything but predictable.

Before the arc lights found him, he served as a sub-inspector in Bombay. Legend has it that he was spotted by filmmaker Sohrab Modi while on duty at Metro Cinema. With a rugged face, deep voice and razor-sharp wit, he wasn’t the chocolate hero of the 1950s and 1960s. His debut in Rangeeli (1952) barely made ripples. But by 1957, with Mother India and Nausherwan-e-Adil, a new kind of star was born.

By the 1960s, Raaj Kumar wasn’t just acting in films, he was stealing scenes with every line he spoke. Who can forget the legendary moment from Pakeezah (1972):

“Aapke paon dekhe, bahut haseen hain… inhe zameen par mat utariyega, maile ho jayenge.” A line that turned into a cultural moment!

Or this gem from Waqt (1965):

“Chinoy Seth, jinke ghar sheeshe ke hote hain, woh doosron par pathar nahi phenka karte.”

He wasn’t in a hurry. Raaj Kumar made the audience wait and when he spoke, it was worth every second.

Colleagues often called him eccentric, even difficult. Danny Denzongpa described him as “full of himself”,  but that self was magnetic. Once, he looked at Zeenat Aman and told her, “You’ve got a pretty face. You should try acting.” Brutal? May be. Honest? Always.

He had quirks, sure. He wore white shoes in every film whether the scene called for them or not. He kept the same car, the same driver, the same tailor and the same hairstylist for over 40 years.

Director Subhash Ghai once said: “You had to massage his ego, but then again, how often do you get to direct legends?”

You couldn’t put him in a box. He was deeply well-read, spoke fluent Urdu and English, and recited his dialogues like a stage veteran who knew every pause was a drumroll.

When he won the Filmfare Award for Dil Ek Mandir (1963), he played a cancer patient with such intensity that the irony wasn’t lost years later when he himself succumbed to throat cancer. He once told Ghai, “Raaj Kumar ko bimari hogi toh badi hogi na. Zukaam se thodi na marega.” That wasn’t bravado. That was Raaj Kumar, even in pain, he remained regal.

His dialogues still echo. His white shoes still walk through the Bollywood lanes. His voice still lingers like a slow-burning sher in an Urdu mushaira.

Because Raaj Kumar didn’t act like a prince, he lived like one.

“Hum tumhe maarenge, aur zarur maarenge… lekin bandook bhi hamari hogi, goli bhi hamari hogi… aur waqt bhi hamara hoga.”

And indeed, the screen was always his.