Arshad M
It was the winter of 1993 at Abhinav Theatre, Jammu. During the tea break on the first day of a theatre workshop, a lean man with large, searching eyes walked up to me and sat across, unannounced but somehow already familiar. His voice was deep, steady—one of those voices that seem to arrive before the person does. He introduced himself simply as Rajinder. He said he was happy to see a young boy from Kashmir selected for the workshop. I asked him about himself. He spoke, instead, about theatre—about acting not as a profession but as a necessity, a way of breathing.
A few days later, when roles were announced for the final production, Rajinder was cast as Rai Das—the singing poet. On the evening of Kabira khada bazaar mein, something rare happened. His voice, his singing, the clarity of his diction, and the stillness of his presence held the audience in a quiet spell. Praise followed, but what lingered was the feeling that Rai Das had not been performed; he had briefly appeared.
I never called him Raju Bhai, though he insisted. Rajinder Ji felt more truthful. There was a gravity about him that demanded respect, but never distance. He treated me like a younger brother from the very beginning, long before time or work gave us reasons to earn that closeness.
Our association deepened after I returned to work in Kashmir post-2000. Rajinder Ji became an essential part of my creative life—not only as an actor of rare calibre, but as counsel on set. He guided younger actors quietly, never intruding, and stood his ground with seniors without ego or aggression. He had the unusual ability to strengthen a room simply by being in it.
When I was casting ‘Rishtan hind aiem pann’ in 2007—a ten-episode series about a young father fighting a custody battle—I did not consider anyone else. The role demanded a man torn between dignity and desperation, love and restraint. Rajinder Ji carried that emotional tightrope with precision. His performance never pleaded for sympathy; it earned it.
In WatePead (2011), he transformed again—this time into a cruel, feminine king of ancient Kashmir, a ruler whose softness concealed brutality. His posture alone sent a chill through the audience. At the international theatre festival the following year, and later in Kolkata, he repeated the role with an ease that only comes from deep internal work. The fire never dimmed.
Rajinder Ji was selective with his roles, famously meticulous, asking directors and producers questions that went beyond schedules and scripts. With me, though, he never asked. He would simply come. Perhaps it was affection, perhaps loyalty—or perhaps it was his way of honouring that young boy he had once met during a winter workshop. The relationship grew beyond work too, of respect and love.
We worked together on more than eleven productions across mediums. In all of them, his preparation was quiet, almost invisible, yet layered and exact. He never treated a role lightly. He listened more than he spoke. He believed that lines were not to be delivered but inhabited.
After the floods of 2014, he returned to Jammu and went on to portray the iconic Ladishah, carrying forward a tradition with dignity and restraint—never caricature, always conscience.
It is difficult to accept that Rajinder Ji is gone. I still find myself waiting to hear that deep voice call my name, with its unmistakable stress, its perfect tone. On stage and before the camera, he was always whole—never performing, always being.
I will miss an actor who embodied his characters, and a counsel who spoke less and meant more. We will miss him—not only for what he did, but for the quiet integrity with which he did it.
