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As we bid farewell to Manoj Kumar, he leaves behind a cinematic legacy that transcended mere entertainment to become a cultural touchstone for millions In an industry that rewards detachment and ironical distance, Manoj Kumar chose immersion. He didn’t just play the idea of India—he became it. The iconic star embodied the nation’s patriotic spirit on celluloid for generations, departed at the age of 87, leaving behind a cinematic legacy that transcended mere entertainment to become a cultural touchstone for millions.
Born Harikrishan Giri Goswami in Abbottabad (now in Pakistan) before Partition, his journey mirrored that of his newly independent nation—hopeful, determined, and seeking to forge an identity amidst tremendous change. His given name featured more syllables than most film titles that inspired him. He decided to take a name inspired by a character played by Dilip Kumar, another legend he would act opposite and then go on to direct as well, but history would remember him by another moniker altogether: Bharat Kumar, the cinematic personification of India itself.
Manoj Kumar debuted in the late 1950s, but it was the 1960s that he reigned as one of the biggest second-generation stars post-Independence. He established himself through hits like Hariyali Aur Raasta, Woh Kaun Thi, and Gumnaam. He could have merrily continued to be the box office gold that he was, yet fate had reserved for him a far more significant role.
His portrayal of Bhagat Singh in Shaheed wasn’t merely a performance but a transformative moment that would alter the trajectory of his career and, in many ways, the representation of patriotism in Indian cinema. While most heroes were crooning in picturesque valleys, Kumar set up a writer’s desk and turned his gaze to the Indian farmer after then Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri, impressed by Shaheed, suggested Kumar create a film embodying his “Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan" philosophy. Kumar didn’t just nod and walk off.
The result – Kumar reportedly conceptualised Upkar on the train back from Delhi to Bombay. This moment marked a profound turning point where an artist internalised a political slogan into a cinematic mission. With this masterwork, Kumar created a new cinematic language for expressing love of country.
And, he stepped into the fold of something else: that rare air where an actor isn’t just remembered, he’s referenced. Not just in polite nostalgia, but in debates, on flag-hoisting mornings, and in memes you don’t see coming. What made Kumar’s patriotism distinctive was its groundedness.
While lesser filmmakers might have been content with battlefield heroics and rhetorical speeches, Kumar understood that true love of nation resided in the everyday—in the farmer’s connection to soil, in family bonds, in principled living. In Upkar, Bharat is not a decorated soldier but a simple farmer who answers his country’s call during the 1965 India-Pakistan war, articulating a vision of patriotism accessible to ordinary Indians. Kumar’s genius lay in his ability to blend entertainment with social messaging without seeming didactic.
His films tackled complex issues of national identity (Purab Aur Paschim), economic inequality (Roti Kapda Aur Makaan), and societal awakening (Shor) while remaining commercially viable. He understood that to reach the hearts of his countrymen, he needed to speak their language — both literally and figuratively. Behind the camera, Kumar revealed himself as a masterful craftsman.
His directorial style balanced the melodramatic traditions of Indian cinema with moments of surprising subtlety. The songs in his films — many now considered classics — weren’t mere interludes but narrative vehicles that advanced his patriotic themes. “Mere Desh Ki Dharti" from Upkar transcended its film origin to become an unofficial national anthem of sorts, celebrating India’s agricultural backbone with a reverence rarely seen in popular culture.
What distinguished Kumar as a filmmaker was his evolution from pure patriotic celebration to incisive political commentary. In Roti Kapda Aur Makaan (1974), he created one of the most penetrating cinematic critiques of India’s political decay. His character Bharat’s transformation — from a believer in the system to someone questioning its foundation — mirrored the nation’s growing disillusionment with its political elite.
This film stands among the earliest mainstream works where personal economic crisis was explicitly linked to political dysfunction, turning the spotlight on how the system had failed its citizens. As an actor, Kumar developed a distinctive screen presence — earnest, intense, and utterly sincere. As a filmmaker he enjoyed the ideological trust from sitting Prime Ministers.
His films can be seen as early “political biopics" in spirit — while direct portrayals of political figures were rare in Hindi cinema, Shaheed and Upkar served as character studies of patriotic archetypes that embodied political ideals. As a carrier of Nehruvian socialist values, Kumar’s career traced the arc of post-Independence idealism. However, his later films subtly moved beyond blind faith—capturing the cracks in the system even as they affirmed devotion to the nation.
This evolution makes his body of work a fascinating chronicle of India’s political maturation. The Manoj Kumar brand of sincere patriotism offered a striking contrast to most cinema, especially contemporary approaches. He was the original cinematic patriot because he made nationalism feel like pop culture.
He sold the Indian dream before it had corporate branding. He turned national service into an aesthetic. And unlike modern cinema’s slick, militarised patriotism, his version had farmers, soil, guilt, and humility.
Less drone strike, more dhoti. There remains something profoundly touching about his vision — a belief that love of country needn’t be militaristic but can be found in the dignity of honest labour, in respecting one’s heritage, and in standing up for principles larger than oneself. By the late 1980s, sincerity was no longer sexy.
The swagger had gone elsewhere. Kumar fell out of sync with the fast-changing audience — Kalyug Aur Ramayan (1987), Santosh (1989), Clerk (1989) and Deshwasi (1991), all flopped at the box office. Clerk is routinely studied to be parodied, yet one can find traces of brilliance in Kumar’s blocking.
He called it quits after Maidan-E-Jung (1991). He penned a couple of songs in Dharmesh Darshan’s Lootere (1993) but remained out of the spotlight. By the mid-1990s, Manoj Kumar became something of a relic.
But relics have their uses. They ground us. Remind us.
And sometimes, they whisper from the past in ways present-day prophets can’t. One of the finest storytellers, Manoj Kumar’s prowess as a craftsman remains unmatched. No other filmmaker from the period where writers Salim Khan and Javed Akhtar ruled the roost could take a Salim-Javed script and make it their own like Kumar did with Kranti.
While the changing cinematic landscape meant his style of filmmaking eventually fell from fashion, his influence remained indelible. Most films that unfurl the tricolor or speak of national pride exist within the templates Kumar established. As we bid farewell to Manoj Kumar, we are reminded that nations need their storytellers as much as their statesmen.
Through his films, Kumar helped a young independent India imagine itself—its values, its struggles, its aspirations. He created not just entertainment but modern mythology, giving visual form to abstract notions of nationhood and citizenship. Today, as the torch he carried illuminates his passage beyond, we honour not just a filmmaker or actor but a cultural architect who helped build the imaginative infrastructure of modern India.
The writer is a film historian. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely that of the author. They do not necessarily reflect News18’s views.
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