In an exclusive chat with Cutting Shots, Rahul Dev reflects on his journey from outsider to industry veteran. He also opens up on working with Rajamouli, surviving Bollywood’s chaos, and embracing conviction in a changing creative landscape.
No launchpad. No godfather. Just decades of hustle. On screen, he has played warriors, villains, and dads with swag. But Rahul Dev’s real superpower? Conviction. He has been in the industry since before streaming was a thing, and he’s still serving.
In an exclusive interview with Cutting Shots, Rahul Dev throws truth bombs on the grind, the grace, and why you can’t fake your way to fame.
Excerpts
Q. You were supposed to be launched by late Mukul Anand in Dus. Unfortunately, he passed away before he could complete that film. Of course, later it was made with an entirely different star cast. Tell me how did your debut movie, Sunny Deol starrer Champion (2000) come your way?
A. Actually that film never got made. They used the same name and made the film on an entirely different subject. So. the other Dus (2005) that you know is not that script. Champion happened during the same course in time during the preparation for Dus. I was attending acting classes at Kishore Namit Kapoor’s Acting Institute, and late producer Sujit Kumar’s son Jatin was also attending those classes. Obviously, everyone knew about Dus being the launch vehicle because of its prolific star cast. He shared that information with his father who was producing Champion. The latter was looking out for somebody who would be a match for his film. That’s how it happened and I signed that film.
Q. As an outsider who didn’t have any godfather in the industry, what were your early days like where you had to navigate and understand the dynamics and the working here?
A. Learning comes, but you can’t really complain about being an outsider and all of that, frankly. You can ask this to your parents. If your father or your mother is in a privileged situation where he or she succeeds in a certain profession and the child, in which case you, wishes to join that profession, what should the parent biologically do? It’s the natural instinct for them to wish the best for you, right?
You know why does this person suddenly change when they’re a parent? What happens to them? I mean, I can’t explain it, but something just happens. There’s something inside which guides you that, yeah, I have to do my best for my child.
In terms of guidance that time, of course, there was nobody to guide me. I think I lost a fair amount of time waiting for that (Dus) to be completed because of the emotions running. Probably if I was a little wiser, I would have gotten on a little faster. It could have saved me time.
We went for the first outdoor for Dus in 1997. Champion hit the screens on the 22nd of December, 2000. But it was in 22nd December, which means it was almost on the brink of 2001. I went filming for Dus in August of 1997. We shot a large outdoor schedule of 45 days in Utah, Salt Lake City, America, and the results were outstanding. But the second schedule never happened because he (Mukul Anand) passed away. So that wait from a couple of months in 97 to 98, 99 and almost all of 2000, that could have been, say, shortened by a year and a half.
I would have gained a year and a half there if I was guided wisely by someone that, listen, this film won’t be made. Do something else now. You know, don’t wait for this to be completed because emotions and all are okay, but, you know, please go ahead and sign other films.
I’m from north (Delhi) and, I was like if this person has given you your first break, you owe something to them. Basically, loyalty is an instinct within you. Like you would be too to whoever hired you for your first job and showed you the path to be the person that you are today, right? If it was not for him (Mukul Anand), I wouldn’t have been educated enough to handle the craft of acting. This is what you have to take home. That’s all you do when you go to the set. Kala hi hoti hain na aapke baat. To learn how to interpret a different role or a role in whichever way and how to approach it in different languages.
I remember attending a class called Gibberish, which was again thanks to late Mukul Anand only. He was one of the best mime artists the country has. He’s been a comedian in Hindi movies. But those roles didn’t do justice to his talent because I’ve attended a class where there was a class of 20 people and you could see him, you know, up front.
There, he did an act where a child is running after a butterfly, and the emotions run from one tree to the other tree, flitting about the butterfly. The colors of the butterfly started attracting the child. From there, he wanted to acquire it. Eventually, he acquires it. He has it in his palms. When he opens the palms, the butterfly is lifeless. The child breaks down. He (Mukul) broke down in front of the class. And all this, I am telling you with commentary. Just imagine watching it for yourself without any line, without anything spoken, that this is a butterfly. He did that with his hands, with his fingers.
You know, like if you close your thumb with your first index finger. It becomes like a V. And the other three fingers are free. You try flitting as you speak with me. So, right from there, you know, running and the child’s expressions, all of that, getting enticed with the color, running behind it, you know, like a child. He ran like a child means like a child of five and caught it. He tried. And then suddenly, he saw the butterfly again coming to life. His wings are moving. And when he sees his wings moving, he lets it fly this time.
So, I think it’s thanks to that particular class when the first call for Takkari Donga came from. Mr. Jayan Paranjee was the director. It was Mahesh Babu’s launch film. That gave me the courage. That class led to my own performance in gibberish. In mime, you can’t say anything. In gibberish, you can have make-believe language. There’s no logical word. So, I felt that the class I did so well in, in that particular class with gibberish, encouraged me to take up different language films without any hitch.
I didn’t know Telugu or Tamil or Kannada or Malayalam or any of these languages. But the idea was that if you can communicate without a language with expressions in gibberish. Hmm. You know, at least there will be an assistant with you at times. If not then you can learn and you can emote because you know the situation and what is expected of you. There’s a director guiding you. The biggest advantage is this, what I just shared, and then you can learn the language.
Q. Way back in the 90s and early 2000s, acting was considered to be a natural transition for models. They featured in music videos and some even ventured into films. That culture has slowly diminished over the years. What do you believe could be the reason behind it?
A. In fact, you know, I beg to differ here. I feel back then, the makers were wanting to encash the popularity of the models. At the same time, the industry had completely written them off. I gave up modelling entirely, though it was a very lucrative career for me, for the fear of koi mujhe lega nahi movies mein. Because my seniors, if you see Deepak Malhotra and of course, other colleagues who are there currently. I don’t want to name them. They were senior to me, who came before me in movies. But they weren’t accepted because of lack of, people were saying, yaar, wooden hai, sundar dikhta hai, kaam aata nahi hai karna. You know, all of that.
I got a Filmfare nomination for the very first job. And, you know, in short, not that I got a nomination. I got an extra effort to not be loud. Getting it? Not like one good looking, you know, guy with one body kind of thing, walking the runway. Not like that. Are you getting it? Like, there were dark eyes in the film and all of that. If it is a disturbed guy you playing, you better look like somebody disturbed. Though it is, like a commercial format film, it’s not that deep. Upar, upar se hota hai. But even then you can make your own character graph. Of course, the circumstance allows you. So, mujhe lagta nahi tha ki mujhe doosri film milne wali hain. Of course, with God’s grace and my masters’, I think I’m about 152 films old now.
Back then, when I was in Bombay, I gained a lot of confidence. But soon after, the news coming my way was disheartening. Deepak Malhotra, the legendary model, had a fall, and others in the industry were collapsing too. I ended up being jobless for almost two years, just preparing, because I couldn’t continue modeling. If I had, he would’ve resurfaced. You see, in this industry, not the general market, but the professional circle, once they keep seeing you as a model, they stop taking you seriously. They assume you’re just doing modeling and nothing more.
Today, though, I feel the chances have improved. Of course, people aren’t casting models much either, but try to understand, there aren’t that many famous models left anymore.
People watch fashion shows, but they don’t star in them. Of course, people watch more fashion shows today, there are far more than ever before. Back in the day, for a male model like me, there used to be around 300–350 shows a year. Today, if you’re a male model, you could end up doing 600–700 shows annually.
Look at the landscape now: there’s Bombay Times Fashion Week, Delhi Fashion Week; there’s a whole body of fashion today. You have the Fashion Design Council of India now, which wasn’t around in the early ’90s. It was just beginning then. Today, it’s a huge and very powerful institution. I mean just look at the kind of coverage Rohit Bal received when he passed away and deservedly so.
The late Rohit Khosla, the man who discovered me, never received the kind of coverage we see today. Rohit Bal used to assist him. Rohit Khosla was a revered designer, but not many people know about him. He was the first Indian to earn a formal fashion qualification from overseas. He was instrumental in shaping the industry and even appeared in ads. For instance, Vimal’s ad, used to feature a small inset photo of him. You could say he’s the father of modern Indian fashion. But he never gained widespread popularity, because back then, fashion was still finding its footing.
Today, the opportunity is humongous. But ironically, there are no star models anymore. Supermodel hai hi nahi koi. After that era, there’s been a big gap. No one has really carved a place in people’s hearts.
It’s not that there’s no opportunity. In fact, advertising today is far more vigorous. There are a lot more ads, and even smaller companies are venturing into digital advertising, if not television ads, then at least online content. The exposure today is humongous. Social media has given rise to influencers, and work opportunities are everywhere. For newcomers, the landscape is wide open. You can create your own content on YouTube. If you want to act and no one’s giving you a break, there’s really no excuse anymore. You can make your own content, put it out there, and if people like it, it’ll go viral organically. You don’t have to chase casting directors or make endless calls to offices anymore.
Digital auditions have changed the game. You no longer have to go somewhere and face humiliation; standing in long lines, waiting endlessly, only to be judged by someone who doesn’t even know the script and treats you poorly. That era is fading, though not entirely gone. It still happens, and it will continue to happen as long as hierarchy exists, not just in our profession, but in every profession.
It happens to doctors when they’re interning. It happens to lawyers. It happens to anyone starting out. Just like ragging in college; it’s officially banned, but does it really stop? No. It still happens. It’s the same structure. The moment someone gets a little power, they lose perspective. Until they find grace, until they gain understanding or maturity, this cycle will continue. So really, ma’am, no one can escape it completely.
Of course, it’s a lot better today. I genuinely feel that. There’s opportunity in movies, on television, and on OTT platforms. In our time, if you did TV, nobody would take you seriously. I know—I went a little crazy. I mean, earning Rs. 1 lakh per day back then? That was huge. Rs. 2 lakhs in a day could get you a flat worth Rs. 50 lakhs. Today, if you’re buying a Rs. 6–8 crore flat, that same Rs. 50–55 lakh flat is the equivalent. So imagine, the power of Rs. 1 lakh back then was like earning Rs. 6–8 lakhs a day today.
But you couldn’t take that chance. You were afraid they wouldn’t cast you in films. And they didn’t. They wouldn’t take you if you were doing television. The rare exceptions I can think of are Mr. Shah Rukh Khan, and my brother. He did movies. He came from TV.
But today, things have changed. They’re encouraged to cast actors from television. Vikrant Massey is a product of television. Any day, they’ll cast TV actors now. Why? Because they’re doing close-ups, absurd situations, and still delivering with conviction. They work long hours, memorize lines, face the camera every single day. Just look at the practice they’re getting, it’s like a lawyer going to court daily and representing someone. That’s real training.
So yes, today it’s much better. There’s no bias anymore, whether you’re from a modeling agency, a television background, or an acting school, you have a place in films. Back then, it was very clear: three separate industries—movies, television, and modeling. And they were unforgiving toward each other.
Q. You were a pan-India actor even before that term became popular with the audience. Today, doing a pan-India film is seen as a matter of pride. But back in those days, people would have a very different opinion about it. Did you had to battle those perceptions?
A. I can’t name the actors, but they used to mock me saying things like, “What do you say? Ongad Pongad?” And I was on the sets of Rajamouli. I should tell people here: we did a super-duper hit called Simhadri. In fact, Mr. Rajamouli was kind enough to mention my name in the new Netflix documentary. He spoke of me with a lot of love, and I’m truly grateful to him.
Back then, I used to tell people, “He’s a terrific director—his name is Rajamouli.” But it was only after Bahubali that everyone started chasing him. Suddenly, it’s like he has the golden wand in his hand. But he’s the same person—same vision, same brilliance.
And look at the shift today. Ajay (Devgn) is working down South. Akshay (Kumar) played the main anti-villain opposite Rajnikanth ji. Sanju (Sanjay Dutt) is now more active in the South than here. Bobby (Deol) too. Everyone’s working there now—and these are leading men I’m talking about.
As for me, I’m not working there full-time anymore, but I’m currently doing one film with Bommarillu Bhaskar, and I’m enjoying it. You see, I come from commercial mainstream cinema. And when OTT came in, the grass started looking greener on the other side. What I always wanted was to work with the likes of Anurag Kashyap and Sriram Raghavan. One of those dreams has come true, I’m working with one of them right now. As for the other… well, the universe designs and conspires. I’m hopeful it will happen.
I’m an educated guy. I went to Columbus to study, I’m an engineer. So sometimes it felt strange to tear my clothes, show my body, and then fight on screen. And yet, it had to be convincing.
I mean, logically, if there’s a fight between two people anywhere in real life, the fight ends quickly. The traffic starts backing up, people yell, “Come on, stop this nonsense! We’re getting late!” And if it escalates, one person slaps the other, the other says, “I’ll see you,” and that’s it. In real life, fights are messy. People tear each other’s clothes, they don’t know kung fu or karate. It’s freestyle, whatever the situation demands.
But it never happens that someone says, “Wait, I’ll show you what I’m made of,” strips off his shirt to reveal six-pack abs, and then the other guy does the same. Suddenly, the electricity sparks, it starts raining, the atmosphere turns dramatic, a crowd gathers, and both start fighting like trained martial artists—with flying kicks and cinematic flair. That’s not real life. Maybe it happened in the Mahabharata, but not in everyday reality. It’s very non-watchable. People end up using the wrong swear words, and I’m sure when they go home, they think, “What nonsense did we do today?”
But cinema isn’t like that. Cinema is larger than life. I found it strange at first, but I put my conviction into it. I used to ask senior actors, “How do you do this?” And they’d say, “It’s work—you just do it.”
I remember one dialogue, “Magarmach ke daanto se gosht ka tukda nilkalna mumkin hain lekin, Baburao ke haath se aaj tak koi Pooja bach paayi hai ya bach paayegi.” That was Indra Kumar in Aashiq.
And Indu ji (Indra Kumar), after Dil, Raja, Beta, three Golden Jubilees, he came back after his third film, Champion, of course, won awards. But you know, I was one film old, and this guy was returning after three Golden Jubilees. He was from loud school; Gujarati theatre. He’s deeply passionate about acting. When you watch his films, subtlety isn’t just forgotten, it’s left at home. So loud karna padta hai. And I used to wonder—who talks like this, yaar? But you know, that’s part of the skill set. You learn.
I feel very blessed that I got to learn from 29 National Award winners across my 152-film repertoire. In fact, it’s now 153, because Naam just got released. It was an old film, lying in the cans. The producer, Dinesh Patel, had passed away, so I immediately gave my consent. I didn’t even take any money. I’m just happy they released it.
It’s very difficult for an independent producer to make a film. My heart goes out to each one of them. They borrow from the market, and sometimes they’re shooting in Switzerland or other places—often illogically. In this business, who can say what will work and what won’t? There’s no formula. Where to use a high-speed shot, where to go normal. How many fighters will fly, how many won’t. Every fighter falling is an expense. Every element on set is an expense.
I’ve seen it all up close. And I’ve also seen a time when I had no work—because I left the industry for four and a half years. I lost my wife. My son was small. I went to Delhi, came back—and there was no work for me. This, after doing 80 films and collecting 15–16 trophies.
So I’ve seen the sunshine again, with my Master’s base. And really, there’s nothing to complain about. You can’t complain. You just have to thank God every single morning that you’re in this profession. It’s lucrative, it’s kind, and people are wonderful.
I’m truly enjoying this phase because I’m getting to play parts that feel more natural. The writing has improved tremendously—especially since the advent of OTT. It’s become more real, more relatable. If you watch good content on OTT, it resonates deeply. Of course, it’s not that I don’t want to do masala films…I’m doing those too. But they have a different kind of fun, a different fragrance altogether.
Q. You worked with SS Rajamouli in Jr NTR’s Telugu film Simhadri (2003). It was his second film as a director. Post movies like Baahubali and RRR, today, he features in almost every actor’s wish list. That time, did you anticipate that he would take Indian cinema to a whole new level. Also, what do you think is his USP that makes him a brilliant storyteller?
A. I’d be lying if I said I anticipated it. I mean, who really anticipates that kind of success—for anyone? Forget Mr. Rajamouli, for anyone. He has achieved a level of success that feels like a divine blessing, the kind that comes once in 300 or 500 years. That kind of destiny is rare. Sometimes, it just happens.
But the commitment to the script was always there. I remember when they told me I had to do a rape scene (for Simhadri), I developed cold feet. I said, “Sir, please excuse me. I’ve never done anything like that in real life. I may have played negative roles, but this, I can’t do it. I’m really sorry. Please cast someone else.”
He resolved it immediately. He said, “Listen, I promise you—you won’t even touch the girl. Do you have faith in me?” I said, “Yes, sir.” And he kept his word. The villain doesn’t touch the girl. It’s more suggestive than explicit. And it worked even better—it was gory, yes, but cinematically, he didn’t compromise. As an actor, he gave me grace. He gave me comfort.
He thinks deeply about everything. His father is a writer. His wife does the costumes. His brother is an art director. He’s the director. Toh khaane par kya baatein hoti hongi, you can imagine. The whole family is deeply committed. And it’s not like his father writes only for him—he wrote Bajrangi Bhaijaan, one of my favorite Salman Khan films. That was Mr. Rajamouli’s father.
And it’s not just him. Another wonderful director I worked with was Vikram Srinivas. If I hadn’t had my South innings, I wouldn’t have had the chance to work in two films with Mr. Mohanlal ji. There was so much to learn from him. I love him as an actor. I think he’s one of the most natural talents this country has.
I remember asking him on set, “Sir, since when have you been acting?” in English. His English is good, but not perfect. He smiled and said, “I got the Best Actor award in Class Five.” He is one of those blessed people who always knew he wanted to act. And what bigger blessing is there than that? To know so early in life what you’re meant to do.
It’s not like modeling first, then figuring it out later. You’re clear about your goals. You know what you want. You’re lucky. You’re fortunate to love a craft so deeply that you want to live it. That’s it.
Q. I have often heard actors speak about how playing villainous characters is therapeutic because it serves as an outlet to unleash all your dark, ugly emotions. Do you feel the same?
A. Not at all. I don’t think so. I mean, who really says that? No one thinks that far ahead. When a role comes to you, you interpret it, you interpret the part as an actor. And in that process, you don’t always find deep meaning. But I do believe that the craft itself—of creating another person in flesh and blood, someone who isn’t me—can be therapeutic. To build a character from scratch, to give that person vision and life, that’s therapeutic. And I enjoy doing it.
Anything you enjoy can be therapeutic. It could be exercise, it could be anything. Because honestly, most people spend their lives cribbing more than being thankful. It’s that half-full or half-empty kind of glass. But I genuinely enjoy what I do, and I’m deeply thankful for this profession. I discovered it by accident, not because I always wanted to act since childhood, like Mr. Mohanlal, who started acting in Class 5. It wasn’t like that for me.
It just happened. The profession fell into my lap, partly because of the way I looked, and partly due to luck from another field. My first role came very easily. There was no audition for Mukul Anand’s film. And frankly, I’ve never really had to audition. If you ask me, really, in such a vast career? Not even once? Yes, not a single one.
I’ve done different kinds of work, and people just had the confidence that I could pull it off. I don’t know why, but I feel blessed. That’s humongous, you know, having a career that spans different languages, different genres. I’ve done one audition, but I can’t name the film because I’m currently working on it. It’s with someone I’ve always wanted to work with, and the audition was for a very specific reason. The character is based on a real-life personality, so we had to do it.
Other than that, I’ve never auditioned, not during modeling, not during films. I feel like God told me, “Go, do both these things, and rise when the time comes.”
And yes, I would say credit also goes to the craft. I mean, you have to be talented. That’s why people talk. I’m not a trained actor. I’m one of those blessed ones who learned everything on the job, while working on set. And getting paid for it, crazily.
Imagine that, being paid lucratively to learn, to grow, to get famous. It’s the most enviable situation. Someone pays you and says, “Here, take this money, become famous, and learn the craft.” Honestly, I feel like I must be God’s own child. Of course, I’ve worked very, very hard. I’ve truly worked hard.
Any actor works very hard. Even someone who’s done just 20 films would have worked hard, because this profession doesn’t allow otherwise. I mean, imagine a population of 140 crores. If I asked you to write down 200 names of actors and actresses from all spheres, across all languages, you’d struggle after 50 or 60 names. You’d really have to think, “Now whose name should I add?”
It’s a very graced existence, I feel. Truly, it’s built on grace. You’re working on set every day, busy as hell, and the profession allows you to express whatever you can in varied forms. And that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to be stuck doing just villain roles. Because a lot of times, they end up becoming caricatures.
Q. Since we are talking about essaying villains, one of the emotions that you get to tap into a lot when you play such characters is anger/rage. Of course, you have a script to back you, but as an actor, are there any questions that you ask yourself to build layers to that rage in order to make sure that it does not appear generic/similar in all your performances.
A. It’s not just about anger. Any negative emotion, when you’re playing a bad guy, means you’re operating within a certain emotional space. But even then, where the character comes from matters immensely. Sometimes, he might be a suave gentleman. Other times, he could be crass or rough around the edges. You know what I mean?
Even if the emotions are similar, the lingo will never be the same. The body language will never be the same, because the backgrounds are completely different. How would a roadside thug express himself compared to an educated doctor involved in illegal organ trafficking? Both are negative characters, but their expressions, their speech, their demeanor, everything differs.
There’s a roadside doctor who’s a cashier, a don in the underworld, he’s negative too. So your background often dictates how you express that negativity. Then comes the screenplay itself. If you’re playing a corrupt lawyer, you first have to embody a lawyer. Right? Right. If you’re playing a corrupt cop, you first have to look and behave like a cop. You’ll be clean-shaven, because uniformed forces don’t allow beards. So within those parameters, you keep adapting.
And then there’s the lingo the writer gives you. Sometimes it’s very filmy and contrived, sometimes it’s grounded. But you work within that framework, layering your performance with nuance drawn from the character’s world. In the end, it’s entertainment business. So, what is entertainment? I was recently talking about this with Prakash Raj on the sets of a film. Fine actor, right? Incredible talent.
So here’s the thing, ma’am. Many actors say, “We won’t make it loud.” But it’s not about what you want. What does the director want? That’s what you do. If you can’t do the kind of acting the director envisions, then don’t do the film. I mean, are you the director?
It’s very clear, your job in the movies is to bring the director’s vision to life. The director is the captain of the ship. And when the captain ceases to be the captain, when a star takes over and says, “I’m the god of this film,” what happens to the film at the box office depends entirely on who’s taking command.
Take someone like Ajay Devgn, for example. He’s a director himself, and a brilliant one. His understanding of cinema is exceptional. So when someone like him takes charge, it’s understandable. But not everyone has that clarity. Some people say, “I’ll say this, I’ll say that,” and it just doesn’t work anymore.
Things have changed. The kind of preparation actors have today, it’s another world altogether. They’re just too prepared. Too prepared. They’re fantastic. You won’t be surprised by how good the new bunch of actors is. It’s wonderful to watch them. They’re better trained, more aware. Back in our time, the world wasn’t as aware. Even finding an acting class was a task.
Today, because of Instagram and social media, everything has become so much easier. I mean, there were no mobile phones when you started. The cameras weren’t great either. The selfie and the back camera came into existence much later.
So from the beginning, the ability to observe your own expressions, to say a line and see how it feels, that wasn’t available. You had to rely entirely on your mind. You couldn’t remember exactly what you did last time; there was no track record. You could experiment with a whole meter, try anything and everything. The tools available today are phenomenal. They offer a great sense of support in accomplishing whatever you’re trying to achieve. It’s just become much better now.
Recently, I was reflecting on how any negative emotion is still negative. Anger is just one component. And sometimes, anger is suppressed. You’re not showing it, you’re playing a double game in character. You’re portraying a poker face while being furious inside. And at the same time, your voice remains low, because that’s what the script demands.
So, circumstantially, we can’t generalize anything. Circumstances change every moment of our lives. I’m talking to you now, what will my health be like after lunch? I don’t know. What will yours be? We don’t know. What situation might arise in our lives a little later? We have no idea. Life is genuinely uncertain.
And because of that, behavior is spontaneous. That’s why, when it comes to craft, sometimes I don’t over-read what I’m doing. Because when you’ve read a script too much, something shifts. I can’t explain why—it’s just human nature. You become overly prepared. And while preparation is extremely important—I’m not saying be lazy—sometimes, spontaneity gets lost in over-preparation.
But then again, sometimes over-preparation enhances spontaneity. You’d be surprised how it works. You’ve played with the lines so much, you can deliver 100 lines in 3 different ways. You can shift the meter, the tone. And you never know what the director will ask for on the day. Maybe he wants it delivered with humor. Maybe he wants you to provoke someone. You try to make it as interesting as possible—because ultimately, you’re giving it to the audience.
And honestly, I was getting bored of the same patterns. That’s why, ma’am, I told you—I took this role. In this second phase of my career, after a long time, I’m doing a dimensional, straight negative role for Bommarillu Bhaskar. And I really liked the backstory of the character.
The other thing is here I’m playing is that of an incapacitated man, opposite Rahul, who’s not a six-pack guy. So there’s scope. A healthy, six-pack guy and an incapacitated owner—it’s a striking contrast. And if I share the image, you’ll be shocked. Truly shocked. I couldn’t even recognize myself. It’s a great opportunity.
In another film I’m doing right now, I’m in my 50s, but I’m playing a 38-year-old real-life war hero. And I’m working with a very sensible director. So it’s not like I’m doing anything unrealistic. Not at all. The part looks very convincing.
I’m glad. In one place, I’m playing someone old and incapacitated. In another, I’m leading a team from the front, in real life, in war. These are the kinds of opportunities this profession allows. These are the kinds of roles that, earlier, due to typecasting, weren’t possible. But now, it’s become easier, especially with English-speaking directors and more open-minded casting.
Q. Sometime back, you shared your memories with Shah Rukh Khan and how he is the definition of cool. You worked with him in Santosh Sivan’s Asoka (2001). What was your observation and takeaway from him as an actor?
A. His sense of commitment is just incredible. There was a sword-fighting scene in the film. He learned that in a single day. You know, there are some people whose hard work is unmatched. I don’t think anyone works harder than him. People assume everything comes easily, but I’ve seen him since school.
Being an Honours recipient at St. Columba’s, I can’t even explain what that means. Only another Columban from that era would truly understand. That school has produced people from all walks of life: Deep Kalra, the self-made founder of MakeMyTrip, was a junior. Harkirat, from Woodland Shoes, used to sit on my bench. The Attorney General of India, the ex-Google head, so many remarkable individuals. It’s thanks to the faculty of that time. But of course, you had to be an aware student. And he was.
He’s a graced man. You can’t reach the kind of dizzying heights he has without grace. But having said that, I don’t think there’s anyone who works harder than him.
He was an Honours recipient in football, hockey, cricket. He was part of all the top teams. A top sprinter. One of the first batch of computer learners in the country, only 20 kids were selected through an aptitude test, and he was one of them. A 90-plus student. He’s not a man of thumbprints, he’s a man of substance.
And you can see that when he speaks. Put him in front of anyone, he’s a brilliant orator. But not just an orator, his oration is rooted in knowledge. It’s not about raising your voice and giving a speech, it’s about awareness, depth, and clarity.
His birthday just went by, and you could see how the world and the nation responded. What are the chances someone like him would reply to me on a tweet? But he did. And it was a beautiful reply, so thoughtful, so kind. How many people would take the time to respond like that?
And the thing he wrote, about pace, about school cricket, you could tell it wasn’t ghostwritten. It came from lived experience. You can’t fake that. At most, you can dictate something to someone, but the thought, the essence, it has to come from within. And it did.
To make time for that, amidst everything else, is extraordinary. I don’t know what kind of time frames someone like him operates within. But that’s what we need to learn from people like him. That’s the real lesson in life.
And not just him- Mr. Bachchan is another person I deeply admire. His conduct, his punctuality, his discipline, everything around him is impeccable. How does a man at 80 or 81 stay so active, so sharp? It’s insane. Truly insane.
It’s like Bhagwan is by their side. The Lord above has no choice but to support them. What else can you say? It’s just like that.
In terms of Ashoka being technically sound, Santosh Sivan, I probably, arguably, feel he’s the most simple and yet the most incredible cameraman. Known cameraman, let’s say. I’ll agree with that. I’ll totally agree with that. They (Malayalam filmmakers) shoot so fast, so simply.
Malayalam cinema is incredibly simple. I’ve done six films there, and I had so much fun. It reminds me of Iranian films, which are also absolutely simple. There’s a film called Chappal, and Majid Majidi is one of my favorite directors. Films like that are made there, natural, simple, and deeply human.
Kerala is the most educated region in the country—over 99% literacy. So they appreciate that kind of storytelling. It’s not like, “Cinema khali hai yaar, koi dekhne nahi gaya, art house ho gaya yaar, yeh toh bakwaas hai, aur kisi actor ko paise nahi mile.” That mindset defeats the purpose.
Because in the end, a profession is supposed to pay for your basics—your livelihood. You can’t be taking money from home to make movies, and then nothing comes of it. That’s not sustainable. You need to have a career, and then, as an addition, you pursue cinema. Otherwise, it’s not viable.
Q. Ashoka was a technically brilliant film. I was just re-watching it a few days ago, and the way it comes across is remarkable.
A. It still feels fresh. The lighting, the framing, everything is so beautifully done. I genuinely believe Ashoka would receive far more appreciation today. Back then, we didn’t even have the kind of VFX we have now. It was shot on negative. Digital didn’t exist. And with negative, everything was restricted, each sequence had to be carefully planned based on how many reels you had. Every single frame was on negative. It was incredibly expensive to execute any kind of special event or effect.
And Ashoka was an experimental film. It was an art-house project for Shah Rukh. It wasn’t a typical Shah Rukh Khan role—not like Dilwale, and certainly not aligned with his image at the time. Back then, he was known as the lover boy. He didn’t have the larger-than-life aura he carries now, where just raising his hand sends the crowd into a frenzy. That wasn’t the case then. The film had to be driven entirely by plot and performance.
If you look at the films in between, they weren’t quite working. But now, something has shifted in the storytelling he’s bringing out. It’s clicking with the audience again. So if you revisit Ashoka with fresh eyes, you’ll see how ahead of its time it was.
That sword sequence—normally, the blade coils around the body and cuts into bits. How he managed that, I don’t know. He learned it himself. He did it himself. Shyam Kaushal, Vicky’s father, was the action master. Shah Rukh learned the move right there on set, in just 2–3 hours. His ability to pick things up is incredible. He’s just too blessed athletically.
Q. Which is your favourite scene from that film?
A. My character Bheema has a subtle graph throughout. It was a constant opportunity for me. I used to feel quite sad when I had to perform loudly. But today, I understand it a little better. I’ve come to realize that this is entertainment. Loudness means having fun with the dialogue, delivering it in a way that makes the audience clap.
Yes, if it’s a typical villain-hero role, the audience should clap for you first, then for the hero. If your role doesn’t earn that applause, the impact is lost. How will the audience connect? If there’s no Gabbar Singh, Jai and Veeru won’t have the same weight. That’s very important.
Back then, we didn’t always understand that. Now we know, not to take it so seriously. It’s an entertaining film. You can’t always approach it like an art film. The fun part of art is how, as an actor, you can dive into it with conviction. Conviction is everything. That’s it.
I’ve had conviction in all my films. Take Aashiq, Barsaat—where do you find characters like that in real life? It’s difficult to find someone like them. It was especially tough to pull off Vikrant from Awara Pagal Deewana. That was my second film.
Where else would it be possible for someone to change identities by removing a face mask? It looks absurd at times. You’re aware of everything, and yet your own sister is making a fool of you. It’s convenient, yes, but you sell that idea to the audience. And it worked. It was convincing at the time. Even today, if you watch those films, they hold up. Those were the films of that era, and they worked because of conviction.
Again, it’s conviction I’m talking about. Many people don’t know that Awara Pagal Deewana was directed by Vikram Bhatt. People associate him with horror films, but he has an incredible sense of comedy, a brilliant sense of straight-faced humor. Just like Ajay Devgn has that dry, understated humor, Vikram has it too.
And it was written by the wonderful Neeraj Vora, who is no longer with us. Neeraj ji wrote some truly remarkable films. He was a genius, ma’am, an absolute genius. The actors were amazing too. If you remember him in Daud, he played Chako. He was a huge fan of that scene, the whole song and everything. He was incredible. Truly incredible.
Q. You made your debut in the fictional space on television in 2013 with Mohit Raina starrer Devon Ke Dev…Mahadev in which you played the role of Arunasur. Was it challenging to adapt to a new medium?
A. Television is spontaneous and very, very difficult. But it’s not just the spontaneity—it’s the hours. The long working hours. It’s not as organized as film. And even in film, things can be disorganized. Especially when there are action sequences, there’s always a lot of work left for the last day. Always. No matter how well you plan, there’s always some leftover work on the final day. That day is always heavy. Even if you’re injured, you still have to work through it.
In my case, I had taken on just one story arc, I wasn’t part of the full show. If you watch the series, you’ll notice that a new story begins every few episodes. I had committed to 16 days, so my experience was limited to those 16 days.
But yes, It was challenging, mainly because of the mythological language. That part was good, it stretched me as an actor. But the long hours were tough. The working hours in that format were intense. The dialogues were very long. Unlike Mahadev, whose the dialogues were much shorter.
Q. Few years back, you talked about how there was a time when you didn’t have work even after doing 80 films and eventually had to take up Bigg Boss. For any actor, it’s quite scary to not have work. People around you may not always be kind to you in such situations. It takes a toil on you, both professionally as well as mentally. How did you sail through that phase?
A. Nobody was unkind to me. It’s just that I didn’t have any work. I wasn’t unkind to anyone either. Everyone was encouraging. Everyone was kind. Truly. But I still didn’t get any work.
I believe the grace I received in my life came through my spiritual master, Tarneiv Ji. He resides overseas and entered my life in 2013, at a time when I had completely given up the profession. His arrival gave my life meaning and direction. He told me, “Rahul, you are made for entertainment, for this business. Whatever it is, whatever you want, if God has given you something in this life, then you must fulfill that purpose. Go complete your work. This is not for you.”
At the time, I was running gyms. I had six gyms in Delhi. I remember attending parent-teacher meetings and feeling like I was only meeting women. My mother was a working woman. My late wife was a lawyer, also a working woman. My current partner, Mugdha (Ghodse), is a working woman too. So it’s not like I haven’t seen working women. In fact, I’ve always been surrounded by them.
But I used to think, everyone here is a woman. Where are their husbands? They must be at work. And I’d ask myself, “What am I doing for my son?” I was playing the role of a mother. Not that the mother’s role is any less, but financially, what was I contributing?
So I thought, I enjoy exercise so let me build gyms. But there’s a difference between being passionate about fitness and running an organization. We had 84 employees across six gyms. It was a private limited company. And my balance sheet was always in the red. The business model didn’t allow for it to be lucrative.
There were areas where we could have earned more, but I was against them. For example, charging high fees for personal trainers, I felt that if someone was coming to my gym to exercise, asking them to pay extra for a trainer didn’t sit right with my conscience. That’s a major revenue stream. Another big earner was protein shakes and supplements. But I don’t consume them myself. So I felt, if I don’t take them, how can I recommend them to others?
So both those revenue streams were zero. And when nothing adds to the balance sheet, the balance sheet stays in the red. That’s how it was.
But when Tarneiv Ji came into my life, everything changed. The first thing he said to me, within a couple of hours of meeting, was, “Rahul, this is not for you.” He always encouraged me. He said, “Someday, you’ll have to start again.”
In fact, the Bigg Boss call came while he was sitting next to me. I remember he asked, “Whose phone is that?” I brushed it off at first. I told the caller some not-so-kind words and said, “Please leave it. I don’t want to play this game.” But they called again with an offer that was so outrageous, I couldn’t understand why they were offering me that kind of money. I looked at him, and I said yes.
And frankly, one thing led to another. If I hadn’t done Bigg Boss, I wouldn’t have gotten Test Case, which was produced by Endemol. I really enjoyed that show, it was naturally written, and I got to play a positive role. Nimrat Kaur, Atul Kulkarni; wonderful actors. The whole batch of kids training to be officers; most of them were very fine actors.
The first episode was directed by Nagesh Kukunoor. That show was the beginning of my OTT journey. I’m thankful to Ekta Kapoor ma’am, who co-produced it along with Endemol.
If I hadn’t done Bigg Boss, I wouldn’t have gotten Test Case. If I hadn’t gotten Test Case, I wouldn’t have gotten the next opportunity. One thing led to another. Work attracts work. And I wouldn’t be in the privileged situation I find myself in today.
Q. If you were to make your debut today, do you feel your career trajectory could have been different?
A. Of course, it would be different, because the industry is changing. The writing today is far superior. I mean, if you look at the early 2000s, there was a phase when the industry felt a little unimaginative. But I think the most unimaginative phase was the 1980s. Thankfully, I wasn’t part of that. And even the ’90s—I wasn’t really part of that either. I did one outdoor shoot towards the end of the ’90s.
Back then, people would say, “I’m inspired by this film,” and then copy it frame by frame. Do you remember? Shameless copying. They’d claim inspiration without acquiring any rights which wouldn’t be allowed today. People are more aware now. Even from the trailer, audiences start pointing out, “This is inspired by that film.”
But that wasn’t inspiration. That was replication. One kind of inspiration is when you take an idea, adapt it to Indian circumstances, and build something new. Another kind is when you copy everything—even the trench coat. In India, in Mumbai, who wears a trench coat? You know what I mean?
It was literally like, “You don’t know anything. Just forward the VHS from there.” And here, they’d say, “No, it should go like this. It worked well there—just take that.” Are you getting it?
Even character traits were copied, regardless of our culture, our context. It was blatant copying. Unimaginative. Because in the end, writing requires imagination. You have to come up with something original. You set it in an imaginary place, say, UP or Punjab, and then weave a story around it. That’s what writers do, right?
They go through second, third, fourth drafts, refining the narrative, before finally getting a producer or director on board. And today, a lot of directors write their own scripts. So if I had entered the industry now, I’d say the writing is very strong, both in commercial and artistic spaces.
If it’s commercial, it’s expressed in a commercial way. That existed earlier too. But the main advantage now is that what used to be considered a “natural” film is no longer confined to the art house. It’s part of mainstream storytelling.
I mean, look at Tumbbad. When it first released, did it do that well? No. But when it got re-released, it earned much more. So what does that tell you? It’s a sign that audiences, especially during the lockdown, had the opportunity, thanks to a global catastrophe, to consume a lot of international content. And it’s not that international cinema is better or that we are better. I genuinely believe we have far superior stories. Our culture is far more diverse.
We have 29 states, countless languages. If you look at the history of India, it was made up of many small kingdoms. Not very long ago, just a couple of thousand years back. Hindi may weave us together, but the language of each village is different. Accents vary, intonations shift, words evolve. It’s beautiful to write stories in a culture as diverse as ours. I don’t think there’s any other place in the world so enriched in storytelling. Maybe Italy comes close, but even that doesn’t compare. Countries like Canada and the US are relatively new—just 200 to 300 years old.
Now look at our country, how ancient it is, and how many stories it holds. Ramayana is still being retold. We have an endless reservoir of narratives. There should be no shortage of subjects here. If there’s a lack of imagination, it’s a real problem.
You can tell stories from anywhere, Bihar, UP, Punjab, Haryana. These regions have been underrepresented. Rajasthan has countless brave war stories. Many soldiers hail from Rajasthan and the northern belt, including Himachal. There’s so much to explore. And the South has a completely different cultural fabric, and they embrace it wholeheartedly.
Thanks to OTT platforms, people now watch content in all languages. That barrier is gone. Language is no longer a limitation. So obviously, if anyone debuts today—in any creative field, not just acting, whether as a writer, director, or producer, like Maddock Films for example, which is doing very creative work, they’re entering a far better space creatively.
It’s all about creative expression. Our profession is creative, right? So the joy of creativity today is unmatched. Earlier, individual producers had to worry about Friday collections. You can’t blame them, everything depended on that one day.
You know, for example, certain professions, like a corporate banker who’s highly educated, can feel completely unrelatable to some audiences. They won’t connect with that character. Absolutely. You can explore such roles on OTT or in niche films. There’s acceptance for what you might call “superior” work—work that feels elevated or intellectual. But frankly, I’ve come to realize that every kind of work is difficult.
Especially making larger-than-life cinema. I agree with you on this. Because the imagination required is so vivid, so unnatural, you’re creating something far removed from reality. Realistic storytelling is one kind of imagination. But imagining a scene where one person is hit and 30 people go flying—that’s a whole different challenge. Is that easy to imagine? Not at all. It’s very difficult. And it has to look convincing on screen. That goes without saying.
Especially today, when audiences are so aware, so informed about cinema, it’s very hard to convince them. I’ve worked with Anees Bazmee. We did Mubarakan together. Naam was also directed by him. He thinks so deeply. And you know, my heart bleeds that he doesn’t get the kind of respect he deserves. Not like how Anurag is revered.
But if you look at the fee, Anees bhai commands over Rs. 20 crores as a director. That says something. He’s a genius. Just like David Dhawan—if you look at his films, they were all superhits at one point. Then there was a phase when his films didn’t work. But if you check the writing credits for those hits—Shola Aur Shabnam, etc.—they were all written by Anees Bazmee.
Anil Kapoor ji pointed this out to me. He said Anees bhai follows direction blindly and with full trust. They’ve done 20–25 films together. And about 80–90% of them are superhits, including Mubarakan. What they do is very difficult. Rohit Shetty does it too. And it’s not easy.
Q. But there is a certain perception regarding mass films..
A. You’re a film critic, so to speak, operating in that space. Suppose other films stop working—will your publication survive? Of course not. It will shut down. Think about it. Sometimes I feel critics come just to vent their anger. They should reflect on that.
I mean, you can’t compare an Anurag Kashyap film to an Anees Bazmee film or a Rohit Shetty film. You simply can’t. You have to be wise about it. Sensibility differs. The sensible thing is to understand why a film is being made. If it’s larger-than-life, it’s not claiming to deliver a deep social message. It’s saying: “Come, chill, enjoy.” It’s entertainment. And it’s working.
If a film collects Rs. 100 crore, Rs. 150 crore, Rs. 200 crore; what does that mean? As critics, we might give it zero stars. But if it’s earning that kind of money, are those people watching it stupid? Are they not from India or Pakistan? I’m asking a simple question.
I think some critics forget that they’re in the business of entertainment. And I forgot that too, frankly. I used to wonder, “Why am I doing this? What nonsense is this?” But with his grace, I’ve come to understand that this is very important.
Vikrant (Vikrant Massey) did this, he did that, so these two people know. Otherwise, many art house actors go completely unnoticed. Not that fame is everything, but this is a profession. You need to earn. Or do you want to sit around in a kurta and pajama forever? I don’t want that.
You need money to make more films. You need money to live a good life. I don’t want to live a life of struggle. If that were the case, I shouldn’t have gotten married. I shouldn’t have had a child, whether a boy or a girl. You know what I mean? Everything is expensive, man. The city is expensive. So yes, you better make money.
Q. Lastly, after being in showbiz for so long and going through different experiences, what would be your piece of advice to youngsters who come with these starry dreams in the industry?
A. I think dreams are fine, as long as you prepare. The only three things you need to keep in mind are: prepare, prepare, prepare. After that, whatever happens, it’s okay. If nobody writes about you, no problem, you have to write your own story. When your pictures come out, you have to cover that. You can’t expect coverage just because you went to a party or were seen with Akshay Kumar. And this applies to the outside world too.
Look at the top five actors. All three Khans—Shah Rukh is an outsider. Salman Khan is definitely an outsider, ma’am. He may come from a film background, but his parents weren’t actors. Aamir’s father was a producer, yes, but he didn’t launch him. He didn’t give him a break. Aamir came up step by step, through the Pune Institute, through small projects. His first film was directed by Aditya ji, also from Pune Institute, and it won a National Award. They did small films like Goonj; he was in that too.
Akshay Kumar—outsider. Suniel Shetty—outsider. Jackie Shroff—outsider. Anil Kapoor—outsider. His father may have been a producer, but he didn’t give him a launch pad. Anil did 20–25 small roles, sometimes just one or two scenes. His first lead role came after years of uncredited parts. So, these are the top heroes of my time. Tell me, who among them is an insider?
Even in today’s generation, Varun Dhawan to an extent, Tiger Shroff, maybe. Alia Bhatt, yes, but you can see her talent. Her mother and father weren’t leading actors. Soni ji was an actor, yes, but more of a character artist. Alia is a natural. She has range—ten expressions where others might have one. Ranbir Kapoor—if he were an outsider, you’d still accept him. He’s just too good. Truly exceptional. And Ranveer Singh—outsider.
So, this debate needs to stop. It’s nonsense. Like I said, if your daughter or son, whenever you decide to have children, wants to enter your profession, would you help them or not? Of course you would. Any parent would. In any profession, you support your child. So when people talk about insider-outsider, what are they really saying? Should parents throw their kids out and say, “Go figure it out yourself”? That’s not how it works.
It’s childish. And the people writing about it are educated. What are they writing? Does it even make sense? This is the oldest norm, since the beginning of time. There’s no one more protective than a mother. Parents are next to God. That’s our culture; not just today, but for thousands of years.
Yes, you’ll get a push from your parents. But at the end of the day, it’s your talent. It’s your choices. That’s what matters.
The outsider debate will continue. Take Sanjay Dutt—he would have made it anyway. Some people just have that spark. Their energy is different. No matter what people say, they bring something to the screen. That’s when the audience claps. Otherwise, they don’t.
It’s a democratic system. You can’t force anyone to succeed. The audience decides. They reject what doesn’t work. They’re smart, very smart. They’ll take your autograph, they’ll see your picture. But when it comes to the movie, to the theatre, they know what’s good. So boss, you better be good.
At the end of the day, it’s talent that speaks. You put in the hard work. And yes, a little bit of luck helps too.
