Some memories don’t fade. They stay wrapped around the heart, vivid as ever. I still remember the first time I met him. Not as the beloved Bahadoor the world would later know, but as a quiet, hopeful young man named Kunjali.

It was 1954, on the sets of Puthradharmam, where I was playing the lead. During a break, a thin boy walked into the Mainland Studio with a shy smile and a dream in his eyes. Actor Thikkurissi chettan and producer Subramanyam sir were seated nearby when he introduced himself and said he wanted to act in films. They asked him to perform a few lines. He did, with all the honesty and fire of someone who truly belonged in front of the camera.

After watching him, Thikkurissi chettan said, “Kunjali isn’t a name for the screen.” The boy replied with quiet determination, “If I get a chance to act, I don’t mind changing my name.” That moment changed everything. Thikkurissi chettan, who often named newcomers including Prem Nazir, looked at him and said, “Then you shall be Bahadoor.” A new name. A new beginning. And with it, the start of a remarkable journey.

He had a small role in Puthradharmam, and from there, his life in cinema blossomed. That name became his companion, his luck, and his light.

We didn’t cross paths again for some years. Then, around 1963 or 1964, I met him once more in Madras. By then, he was already making a name for himself. People had started talking about the Bhasi and Bahadoor combination. That was when our bond truly began, not just as colleagues, but as family.

He was like a brother to me. A man full of kindness, with eyes that held empathy and a heart that overflowed with love. He never looked away from anyone in pain. He felt it with them, sometimes even more deeply than they did.

Our families grew close too. My home in Madras was near theirs, and we lived like one family. His wife, Jameela, became one of my dearest friends, more like a sister. We shared our lives, our meals, our joys, and our sorrows. Even after Bahadoor left us, Jameela and I held on to that closeness. And when she too passed away, it felt like a part of me went with her. That space they filled in my heart has never been filled again.

Their children, Mamad and Siddhique, were tiny when we became friends. Ruki, their daughter, was born later. Even now, wherever they are in the world, they reach out with love and warmth. That thread that ties us has never broken.

Bahadoor and I acted in many films together. We laughed on sets, supported each other through difficult times, and celebrated each other’s victories. He even played my son in a few films. During his last days, even when I was busy shooting, he would call to ask how things were going, just like old times. I was working on *Chandanamazha* in Thiruvananthapuram then. During a short break, I went to Madras and visited him. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see him.

He passed away while I was still shooting in Thiruvananthapuram. I couldn’t be there for his final moments. That grief is still heavy in my heart. I carry the ache of not being able to say goodbye. Not being able to hold his hand one last time.

He and Jameela were always by our side during family functions. When my sister got married, they stood with us like pillars — steady, strong, and full of love.

There’s one memory that captures who he truly was. One day, on a film set, a man came to him in tears, speaking of his hardships. Bahadoor didn’t have money on him. All he had was a small suitcase with his costumes. He gave it away without hesitation. He went back to Madras wearing the same clothes he had left in. When Jameela asked about the suitcase, thinking he had forgotten it, he quietly told her the truth. His compassion often made life harder for Jameela and the children, but that was who he was. He simply could not turn away from someone in pain.

He was, without doubt, one of the finest human beings I have ever known.

I miss him deeply. I miss Prem Nazir too. I miss that generation. I miss their artistry, their warmth, their grace, and their humanity. Today, when I walk onto a set, I often find myself searching for their presence in the silence, in the air. Nothing feels quite the same.

But I carry them with me, in every smile, every pause, every memory. They were my people. And they always will be.