Remembering Bollywood’s ‘He-Man’: Dharmendra’s Masculinity was Never Edgy—It was Tempered by Gentleness and Earthy Charm

Dharmendra, born Dharam Kewal Krishan Deol in 1935 in a modest Punjabi household, rose from quiet village beginnings, first as a boy entranced by Hindi cinema, to become one of the industry’s most beloved and enduring stars. Over more than 300 films—from “Dil Bhi Tera Hum Bhi Tere” (1960) to “Phool Aur Patthar,” “Satyakam,” “Seeta Aur Geeta,” “Yaadon Ki Baaraat,” and the immortal “Sholay” —he blended romance, drama, action, and comedy with an ease that felt almost elemental. Off-screen, he raised a film dynasty, served in Parliament, and received the Padma Bhushan in 2012.

My earliest impressions of him go back to the 1970s in Amritsar, when I was in middle school collecting tradable film-star cards tucked inside 25-paise churan packets from the corner kirana shop. Among Meena Kumari, Rajendra Kumar, and Shammi Kapoor, it was always Dharmendra’s card that traded highest. Even in those tiny printed rectangles, he radiated a magnetic sincerity—the tender smile, the strong jawline, the soft, earnest gaze. His quiet charisma had the same hypnotic pull Elvis Presley held for Western audiences.

That allure deepened through the songs pictured with him. I have replayed “Aap Ke Haseen Rukh Pe” from “Baharen Phir Bhi Aayengi” countless times. In that unforgettable piano sequence—where both sisters (the lovely Tanuja and the elegant Mala Sinha), and truthfully every woman in the audience, could swear that the young reporter in a crisp white jacket was singing directly to them—you understood the full breadth of his charm. Mohammed Rafi’s velvety voice blended seamlessly with Dharmendra’s expressions; the gentleness and euphoric devotion in his eyes carried the same effortless artistry Elvis conveyed in “Return to Sender,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” or “Love Me Tender.” And in “Phool Aur Patthar,” Dharmendra firmly cemented himself as one of Indian cinema’s great romantic heroes.

Today, as we remember him, the void feels unexpectedly large. It is not just the loss of an actor, but the quiet fading of an era.

Our family adored him in “Chupke Chupke” too, where he played Dr. Parimal Tripathi, a botany professor disguising himself as a simple-minded, Hindi-speaking driver to outwit his wife’s overly intellectual brother-in-law. Directed by Hrishikesh Mukherjee and supported by Amitabh Bachchan and Jaya Bachchan, the film remains one of his finest performances. His comedic timing, exuberant mischief, and natural ease shining throughout.

We stood in long lines to watch “Sholay” (1975) at the Regal in Colaba. It ran “housefull” for five years. Dharmendra who did not want to play Veeru initially was the highest paid actor in “Sholay.” But he delivered an unforgettable performance. Equal parts mischief, innocence, and bravado. Decades later, the song “Yeh Dosti Hum Nahin Todenge,” featuring lifelong friends Dharmendra and Amitabh on their iconic motorbike-and-sidecar ride, remains unforgettable—just as the hilarious water-tank scene and the unexpected divine-voice mischief still draw a smile.

In 2023, in a lovely twist of fate, my daughter auditioned for “Basanti” in that very scene in Naatak’s Bombay Talkies, directed by Sujit Saraf in the Bay Area. The moment where Veeru (Dharmendra) pretends to be God and Basanti (Hema Malini) is flabbergasted at the thought of  Veeru being her chosen “groom.” She urges God, that she  is in no hurry: “She could wait for seven more Mondays.” We rehearsed her lines over and over—at home, in the car, everywhere—revisiting one of the most iconic moments in Hindi cinema together.

Serendipitously, I had asked Hema Malini about that scene when she visited Alabama for a performance many years earlier. She threw her head back and laughed. The affection in her voice was unmistakable; her eyes brightened with a private warmth. Rumor has it that Dharmendra would intentionally mess up the scene just to coerce more retakes. In a nostalgic way, through that memory and my daughter’s audition, I felt connected to the couple.

Dharmendra’s acting style was as versatile as it was grounded. He could shift effortlessly from the idealistic, emotionally raw intensity of “Satyakam” to the playful brilliance of Veeru. He was Bollywood’s “He-Man,” yet his masculinity was never edgy—it was tempered by gentleness, humility, and an earthy charm that made him the quintessential “Garam Dharam.” His warm physicality allowed him to command the screen without overwhelming it. Even in later years, he embraced character-driven roles with grace, evolving while remaining unmistakably himself.

Today, as we remember him, the void feels unexpectedly large. It is not just the loss of an actor, but the quiet fading of an era: the era of churan-packet cards, black-and-white romanticism, unforgettable melodies, and heroes who were larger than life.

Dharmendra passed away at 89, after a brief illness at his residence in Mumbai on November 24, 2005,  but his glow—like those film cards, I collected—remains pressed between the pages of our lives.

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.