I am just 12 and I didn’t grew up watching Dharmendra’s films the way my mother or grandparents did. For me, he was more like a legend I heard about in bits and pieces, someone whose songs I tried to play on my guitar, whose famous dialogues I stumbled upon on YouTube, and whose name always carried a kind of magic.
Even though I didn’t see him on the big screen in his prime, I felt like I knew him through these fragments. That is why when I heard he had passed away, it hurt in a way I didn’t expect. It felt like losing someone who had been part of the background of my childhood, even if only through echoes of his voice and music.
What made it harder was the way the news unfolded. Just a few days before, the media had already declared him dead when he was still alive. I remember scrolling through tickers on TV and seeing anchors and personalities writing obituaries on social media, doing programs on his last breath, only to be corrected by his wife and actor Hema Malini that he was alive.
That moment was confusing for me as a child. How could people rush to announce something so serious without even knowing the truth? It felt like they were more interested in being the first to say something rather than respecting the man and his family. When memes flooded social media mocking those same personalities, I laughed at the jokes but deep down I felt sad. It was like Dharmendra’s life and dignity had become a game for people to play online.
And then, when he really did pass away, the drama did not stop. On TV channels, I read tickers asking why his funeral was kept quiet, why the family had not made a statement, why everything seemed so hushed. I couldn’t understand why the media wanted to turn grief into a spectacle. If a family is mourning, shouldn’t they be allowed to do it in peace? Why should they have to perform their sadness for cameras and microphones? As a 12‑year‑old, I may not know much about how the world works, but I know that when someone dies, the first thing you should give them is respect. Instead, the media seemed to want more headlines, more debates and more noise.
I kept thinking about how unfair it was. Dharnendra gave people decades of joy through his films, his songs, his dialogues. He was someone who entertained millions, who became a hero for generations. And yet, in his final days and even after his death, the focus was not on celebrating his life but on questioning his family, speculating about his funeral, and rushing to publish obituaries before the truth was even clear. It felt like a mockery, not just of him but of the idea of mourning itself. I imagined how his children and loved ones must have felt, seeing strangers argue about their private grief on television. That thought made me angry, even though I am just a boy who only knew him through music and stories.
For me, Dharmendra was more than just an actor I never fully watched. He was a symbol of an older time, a reminder of the kind of hero’s people used to admire. When I strummed his songs on my guitar, I felt connected to something bigger, something that belonged to my grandfather’s generation but still reached me. Losing him feels like losing a piece of that connection. And watching the way the media handled it makes me wonder if we have forgotten how to respect people when they leave us. I may not have seen many of his films, but I know enough to say that he deserved better. He deserved dignity, silence, and love, not drama and speculation. As I sit here thinking about him, I realize that sometimes the simplest thing we can give someone is respect. That is what I wish the world had given Dharmendra in his final moments.
- The writer is studying in 7th class at APS, Srinagar.
