How Ranveer Singh made it (2)

How Ranveer Singh made it https://caravanmagazine.in/reportage/fast-forward-ranv...
Fast Forward
How Ranveer Singh made it
In late 2015, Singh spent a gruelling five weeks on promotional work for Bajirao Mastani. Following him
on the road is an education in the massive promotional apparatus that drives fame in modern Bollywood.
IN A CORRIDOR HUMMING WITH VOICES at the Courtyard by

Marriott hotel in Bhopal, I stood outside Ranveer Singh’s door with
about a dozen others. It was nearly ten on a morning in late November,
and the actor had landed just a few hours ago on the earliest �ight
from Mumbai, which had taken o� before dawn. I had seen him on
board, dressed in a tracksuit and with a �ight pillow around his neck.
The previous night, Singh’s manager had told me that “he isn’t a
morning person at all.”
The star’s presence created a frisson of excitement in the aircraft. Two

young women went into a fever of delight, and tried to get his
autograph through his bodyguard. Watching them, a middle-aged man
seated next to me asked if there was an actor on board. I mentioned
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Singh’s name, and pointed to a photograph in the newspaper, of him in

a military-style blue cap and jacket, with colourful medals and
epaulettes, plus giant aviator sunglasses. The man glared at the image,
and handed the paper back to me.
When we landed in Bhopal, Singh went rapidly through the motions of

a welcome ceremony at the airport, his sunglasses on in the early
morning light. He was dogged by fans, and trailed by a camera crew
that had �own in with us to shoot a behind-the-scenes look at the day.
Singh walked out of the terminal, got behind the wheel of a waiting
car, and drove o�—which in itself caused a minor sensation. In his
wake, people scrolled through their phones, checking the photographs
they had managed to grab. Singh’s personal sta� waited to collect his
baggage. They were dressed for the mild Mumbai winter, and shivered
in the cold.
I drove to the hotel with Singh’s valet and his make-up man, and, about
two hours later, joined the crowd milling outside his room: event
managers, marketing people, sundry reporters, and his own entourage,
all component parts of the Bollywood promotional machine. At the
heart of the bustle, and calling the shots, was a small group of
organisers—young men and women with plastic badges around their
necks, working with absorbed detachment on their smartphones and
laptops.
I was handed a copy of a rundown sheet. Singh was in Bhopal to

promote Bajirao Mastani, an opulent swords-and-dhotis historical saga
due for release in a few weeks. The �lm tells the story of a much-fabled
romance between Singh’s character, Bajirao—an eighteenth-century
peshwa, or prime minister, of the Maratha Empire—and Mastani, a
half-Muslim princess from Bundelkhand, played by Deepika Padukone.
The actor’s schedule was packed. First, Singh was to give one-on-one
interviews to various media groups and “partners.” Later, he would
hold a press conference, and appear at a meet-and-greet with winners
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of a local contest. The highlight of the day was the launch of a song
titled ‘Malhari,’ described in publicity materials as a victory anthem,
which was to be preceded by a “victory parade” at an adjoining mall.
Singh was not expected to venture anywhere beyond the mall and
hotel, and at 4 pm he was due on a �ight back to Mumbai.
A select few walked in and out of the star’s room, and at the door his
bodyguard chatted with the valet and the make-up man. Every so
often, the corridor became crowded, and the organisers swept people
out into a restaurant area behind a key-carded glass door a few metres
away. Each time that door opened, voices cascaded in. “The edition will
close… Boss, everything is important to me… Let him be completely
ready…” As time passed, these became more strident, their demands
more urgent. Amid the crescendo, I heard an exasperated “Arre naha
raha hai na.” (He’s bathing.)
Finally, Singh’s manager held his door open and signalled for a few of
us to enter. I walked in to a swelling wave of music, with frenetic beats
pounding out from a portable speaker hooked up to a laptop. Singh
stood framed against large windows, resplendent in an embroidered
dark-blue and brown frock coat worn over a printed white kurta and
blue churidars. His sunglasses were on, his hair was cropped short
except for a sprig arranged into a ponytail just behind the crown of his
head, and his moustache was waxed at a jaunty angle. He danced as we
entered, pumping his hands to the music and punching the air.
“Woooh,” he said, edging in close to the camera crew as it recorded
every moment. “Yeaaah!”
The music died down, allowing the assembled reporters to exclaim

over Singh’s “incredible energy” and how good he looked. A team from
a radio channel approached him and switched on their recorders.
“Shall we start the interview?” a young man asked tentatively. “You
must!” came Singh’s ringing reply.
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After questions on Bajirao Mastani and how Singh liked Bhopal, the
reporter asked, “What would be the �rst line of your biography?” “He
was a good man,” Singh replied, after a moment’s thought. “Wow,” the
reporter said, in an awed tone, then briskly added, “Ok, we’ll need
some endorsements.”
I watched as Singh zipped through a series of such interviews, spewing

out endorsements for each new radio channel: “Hi, main hoon Ranveer
Singh, and you’re listening to me on...” He answered questions on his
clothes, and in particular on shaving his head for his role in Bajirao.
“Tell us how you felt at the exact moment the razor touched your hair,”
one journalist said. Through much of this, Singh spoke while looking
out the windows—“It’s so green here!”—and not making eye contact
with his interviewers. Several reporters gave him gifts, ranging from
jars of Nutella to batuas—small cloth purses that Bhopal is noted for.
“Wow, awesome,” Singh said, examining the purses. And then, “What
are these?” All the while, he sipped black co�ee, and, on request,
mimicked the distinctive, musical Bhopali accent as he invited people
to his “victory parade” later in the day—“Aadaab Bhopal, salaam Bhopal,
aake milio.”
The interviews ended, and Singh turned again to the camera crew.
“Aren’t you rolling?” he asked the young woman behind the camera.
“Triple speed, baby, trip-ple speed,“ he said, snapping his �ngers. “You
have to work at triple speed with me.”
As he left the room, about 20 minutes later, Singh found himself next
to yet another journalist waiting for an interview. He couldn’t talk to
her then, so he put an arm around her shoulder and marched down the
packed corridor, scattering people left and right and leaving his team to
try and keep pace. “Tez tez,” he said. “That’s how we do it.”
AS 2015 WOUND DOWN, Ranveer Singh was at a pivotal moment.

His Bollywood career was �ve years old, he had recently turned 30, and
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his record over his seven starring roles so far had been erratic, both in
commercial and critical terms. In an industry where young talent often
fails to make the leap to established clout, he was striving to cement
his place.
Singh rose from anonymity with his 2010 debut, Band Baaja Baaraat,
where he starred opposite the already famous Anushka Sharma. It
wasn’t an expensive �lm—costing Rs 10 crore, or roughly $2 million at
the time—but it was produced by the behemoth studio Yash Raj Films.
It did well at the box o�ce, but its success went beyond just numbers.
The heart-warming romantic comedy, featuring Singh as a small-town
boy striving to make it in the big city, struck a chord with critics and
audiences, and is remembered as a de�ning portrait of its era. With the
momentum from that dream start, in 2011 Singh starred in the
moderately successful Ladies vs Ricky Bahl, another romantic comedy.
His next project, Lootera, came out in July 2013, and allowed him to
display his dramatic range as he appeared in a more intense and
understated avatar. The tragic romance, set in 1950s Bengal, received
critical praise, but disappointed �nancially. Singh was building a
reputation as a good actor in relatively modest productions, but had
yet to be tested in anything on a grander scale.
That changed later the same year, with the November release of
Goliyon Ki Rasleela Ram-Leela. An elaborate and expensive production,
it cast Singh opposite Deepika Padukone, a female lead from the top
echelons of star power. Despite protests and court proceedings over
allegations that it o�ended communal sentiments, the �lm was a hit—
the �rst major one of Singh’s career. It made over Rs 100 crore, won
numerous awards, and earned Singh and Padukone plaudits for their
on-screen chemistry. Now, there was talk of Singh becoming that rare
thing: not just a strong actor, but a consistently bankable, blockbusting
star.
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He danced as we entered,
pumping his hands to the music
and punching the air. “Woooh,”
he said, edging in close to the
camera crew as it recorded every
moment. “Yeaaah!”
Over the next two years, though, that buzz cooled. Singh’s two releases
in 2014—Gunday and Kill Dil—were largely forgettable. In mid 2015, he
appeared in Dil Dhadakne Do, a comedic drama about a dysfunctional
rich family, which put in a respectable commercial showing. Singh got
kudos for his portrait of the family’s young son, and held his own in a
star-studded ensemble cast, but credit for the �lm’s success was spread
between its many strong actors. Bajirao Mastani was to be his only
other release for the year, and Singh needed the �lm to be a hit.
Bajirao Mastani was, without doubt, his biggest test yet, and his largest
gamble. With a budget of Rs 120 crore, or almost $18 million, upon its
premiere the �lm was to become the seventh most expensive Indian
�lm released to date. Singh was cast in a role originally imagined, over
a decade ago, for the superstar Salman Khan, and he was the least
proven of a trio of leads that included Padukone and Priyanka Chopra,
another of Bollywood’s top actors. He spent almost a year working
exclusively on the �lm, and weathered injuries during the shoot.
According to media reports, he also agreed to cut his fee, by an
undisclosed amount, in return for a share of the �lm’s pro�ts. The
�nancial risk aside, if the �lm �opped, Bollywood’s faith in Singh’s big-
star draw would be seriously dented.
When I met Singh, he was working 12-hour days to promote Bajirao

Mastani, and ending most conversations with a request: “Please, watch
this �lm, we have all worked very hard on it.” Bhopal was just the latest
stop on a �ve-week itinerary that took him across the country from his
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base in Mumbai. In the corridor outside Singh’s room, I asked several

organisers why they had chosen Bhopal for the day’s song launch.
“Because it was a really important city for the Peshwa I believe,” a
young man told me, without looking up from his phone. For him, we
could have been anywhere.
Seeing Singh on the road was an education in the massive promotional

apparatus that drives fame in modern Bollywood. Shortly before the
release of Bajirao Mastani, the �lm journalist and critic Anupama
Chopra wrote on Facebook, “One of the more astounding things I’ve
heard this week is that the entourage cost on the promotions of Bajirao
Mastani is one crore”—almost $150,000. “Which means,” she
continued,
that the producers … are paying this much money for hair, make-
up, security, stylists and sta� of the principal cast as they
promote the �lm. … Stardom in India has become a spectator
sport. Stars are brands, which need to be on 24/7. There are
cameras everywhere, pictures are circulated instantly on the net
and a bad-hair day can be preserved for all posterity. Which
means that artists must appear groomed permanently. “One day
you aren’t perfect,” a talent manager tells me, “and the media just
kills you.”
 (https://caravanmagazine.in/reportage/fast-forward-ranveer-
singh/attachment-9282)
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Singh’s dream debut in Band Baaja Baaraat and the critical success of Lootera helped
establish him as a good actor before he was tested in more comercially ambituous
projects.
In my time with him, Singh executed �awlessly the role of an always-

on, a�able star. Even his shortest conversations were marked with
warmth, and he lavished compliments on those around him. He
punctuated his sentences with whoops, high �ves and �st bumps. He
eschewed handshakes and air kisses for e�usive hugs and real smacks
on the cheek. Relentlessly and convincingly, he pitched the idea of
himself as everyone’s friend, and as a great guy.
But there is also an edge to Singh’s appeal. A large part of this is due to
his dress sense—he has �aunted, with equal aplomb, everything from
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the dandiest of suits to a Super Mario costume—which has spawned a

virtual cottage industry of listicles titled along the lines of “Ranveer
Singh is Bollwood’s fashion icon” or “Ranveer’s most embarrassing
fashion moments.” In a star-scape of PR-monitored perfection and
expensively but blandly clad contemporaries, this has given Singh an
aura of riskiness and unpredictability.
So have some of his media appearances o� the movie screen. In 2014,

he became the �rst noted Bollywood actor to appear in a condom
advertisement—a colourful, innuendo-laden music video. And in
December that year, he volunteered to be playfully ridiculed by
comedians before a live audience as part of a “roast.” After a video of
the show went viral online, it landed its organisers and participants,
Singh included, in legal trouble. In a sense, his career is a measured
experiment in creating a new, more outré kind of Bollywood star, one
who is ready to bend, if not rewrite, the rules. Clearly, he is doing
something right. Towards the end of last year, he broke into the
bottom ranks of the industry’s ten highest-paid men.
For people who have known Singh since his earliest forays into
Bollywood, what truly sets him apart is his relentless excitement for his
work. An industry insider, who asked not to be named, told me about
how the young man, when starting out in Bollywood as an assistant
director, “would turn up to parties with his music, and dance and keep
everyone entertained. He would perform like he was auditioning for a
role right there.” Today, the industry insider said, even with several
successes under his belt, Singh still retains that drive. “I see him and I
think, yeh abhi bhi audition de raha hai”—it’s like he’s still auditioning
—“still hungry for a chance to perform, still ready to put genuine e�ort
into being loved.”
I FIRST MET SINGH IN MID NOVEMBER, just days after he �nished

�lming for Bajirao Mastani, at the sprawling studios of Yash Raj Films
in Andheri—a Mumbai suburb, and the closest thing there is to a
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capital of Bollywood. When I arrived for our appointment he was deep

in meetings with various teams. As I waited in the foyer next to a glass-
walled cabin, he peered out from over the strategically frosted middle
section of the �oor-to-ceiling panes. He made �sh faces at me through
the glass, raised two �ngers, and mouthed “two minutes.” As the
meeting continued, I saw his sneakers jiggling restlessly, twisting
around his chair, never still for too long. Nearby, another group of
people waiting to see Singh were talking about his moustache. “The
day after Bajirao releases, he will shave it,” a young man declared.
“Whatever happens, the next day, he’s gonna shave it o�.”
It took longer than two minutes, but eventually Singh emerged and
walked towards me. At close range, he struck me as slighter and shorter
than his on-screen image had led me to expect. I o�ered a handshake.
Instead, I was folded into a e�usive hug.
Within minutes, we were ushered into a di�erent glass cabin. As I

began my questions, he picked up my voice recorder and started
talking into it, while walking back and forth across the room in a semi-
circle. I turned my head from side to side to follow him, like I was
watching a very long, very slow tennis rally.
Ranveer Singh Bhavnani grew up, with an elder sister, in an a�uent

family in Khar, a neighbourhood in west Mumbai that borders
upmarket Bandra. His father, Jagjit Singh Bhavnani, is a businessman
who dealt mostly in automotive retail. “But it was never one thing,”
Singh told me. “He had an interest in leather, hospitality, medical
business. He’s always hustling, which is something he teaches me. You
can’t have just one thing, you gotta have a few things going on.”
There is also an edge to Singh’s

appeal. A large part of this is due
to his dress sense—he has
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�aunted, with equal aplomb,

everything from the dandiest of
suits to a Super Mario costume.
 (https://caravanmagazine.in/reportage/fast-forward-ranveer-
singh/attachment-9283)
11 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
As a child, Singh said, he was “the plump kid in front of the TV, a �lmi
keeda. I was basically an entertainment junkie, a huge consumer of
anything mainstream.” He spent his days watching hit �lms of the era,
from Shahenshah, Hum and Ram Lakhan to Rambo. But “I watched
even the unsuccessful ones,” he recalled. “My maternal grandmother’s
neighbours had just one VHS tape of the �lm Andar Baahar that we
watched so many times I lost count.”
When he wasn’t watching movies, Singh was reading about Bollywood

actors in magazines such as Filmfare and Cine Blitz, or play-acting
scenes from movies he admired. “I would be Tiger from Hum, or tie a
blanket around my arm and be Shahenshah. I fell in love with the actors
who played these characters.” Somewhere in this period, cable
television arrived in India, and, he said, “changed my life.” It exposed
Singh to a world beyond his home and city, and particularly to
American shows, with their accents and mannerisms. He imbibed
them just as willingly as he did Hindi �lms.
Singh realised early on that he wanted to be a part of Bollywood. One

memory in particular stood out. When he was “four or �ve or six years
old,” Singh said, he was at a birthday party with his dadi, or paternal
grandmother, and she “was getting really bored.” The song ‘Jumma
chumma de de,’ from Hum, had recently stormed across the country,and
at some point it started to play. Singh, encouraged by his dadi, began to
dance. “It was just us two, she was clapping, and someone saw this fat
kid dancing to ‘Jumma chumma’ and called someone else, who called
someone else. They turned the music up, and suddenly everyone’s
there, clapping and whistling.” It was Singh’s �rst experience of
applause. “I was like, ‘Shit! This is a real trip!’ That’s when I knew I
wanted to be a performer. Though I couldn’t articulate it, and I didn’t
understand it. But I felt it.”
 (https://caravanmagazine.in/reportage/fast-forward-ranveer-singh/attachment-9284
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For all his affability, Singh is strictly guarded about certain parts of his life—including his
relationship with Deepika Padukone, who first worked with him in Goliyon Ki Rasleela
Ram- Leela.
Singh honed his performance skills through his years at school,

emerging as the centre of attention at annual-day functions. “That
would be my day to shine,” he said. “I would be the lead in most plays,
and dance in most of the sequences.” As he recalled it, he was good at
sports and in his studies—“except maths, that I failed every year”—but
“I was outstandingly good at performing.”
But while he dreamed of a career as a �lm star, Singh was aware of the
hurdles before him. “When I was in school, it was a staunchly
nepotistic scene,” he said. “I looked around, and the only people
becoming heroes were sons of producers or directors or actors. People
like Hrithik Roshan, Abhishek Bachchan, Zayed Khan—everyone who
had some kind of lineage. And it was a given that the best
opportunities would be reserved for them.”
Singh does have a peripheral family connection to Bollywood, through

the actor Anil Kapoor, whose wife is related to Singh’s mother. While
Singh was growing up, Kapoor was at the peak of his stardom. “We
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would see him at parties and be like, ‘Daaamn, Anil Kapoor,’” Singh told
me. “I was totally star-struck.” With that, and being brought up in
Mumbai, he said, “you naturally knew people. But no one who could
guarantee a foot in the door. And I understood this, at age 15. So I let
the dream go.”
Exploring his options after �nishing school, Singh hit upon

copywriting. In 2003, at the age of 18, he left home to pursue an
undergraduate degree at Indiana University in the United States, on
track for a career in advertising. He described his years there as a time
of discovery, part of which was encountering di�erent styles of cinema.
“That was the �rst time I saw Taxi Driver, and it changed my life,” he
said. “I was like, aisi bhi picture banti hai?” (Movies can be like this too?)
To feed his hunger for �lms, Singh managed to get a job at a lending
library on campus. “Business was slow,” he said. “So I spent all day
watching �lms like Apocalypse Now, Scarface, Kubrick’s work, and
getting paid for it.”
Singh’s initial post-graduation plan was to work for advertising �rms in

Chicago or New York for a few years before returning to Mumbai. But
in his second year, late to enrol for classes at the start of a semester,
Singh found that one of the few options still available was an intro-
level acting course. So he joined it.
He found himself with a “really diverse crowd—African American

students, Koreans, students from rural parts of America, people
studying for business majors or to become doctors.” For the �rst class,
instead of the usual introductions, the instructor asked everyone to
perform something. “Someone did a dance, someone told a joke,”
Singh said. “Sabki phati hui thhi” (Everyone was terri�ed). He asked
himself what he knew, “and it was the monologue from Deewaar.”
“And that walk back to my chair,
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and people slapping my back,

reminded me of that taste of
applause. I was like, ‘This is it!
Fuck advertising! Fuck
copywriting! I want to be an
actor.’”
Singh rattled o� the Hindi lines made famous by Amitabh Bachchan—

Hum dono ek saathh isi footpath se uthe thhe, lekin aaj tum kahan reh
gaye aur main kahan reh gaya—to a room full of people who did not
understand the language. When he �nished, “all these kids were slow-
clapping. And that walk back to my chair, and people slapping my back,
reminded me of that taste of applause. I was like, ‘This is it! Fuck
advertising! Fuck copywriting! I want to be an actor.’”
That evening, he called his father and announced his intention. His
family, while supportive, insisted that he �nish his degree �rst. Over
the next two years, Singh told me, he took all the acting courses he
could, and “aced them.” He returned to Mumbai in 2007 to take his
chances. “So what if my chances were one in a million?” he recalled
thinking. “I’ll do it while I have time on my side.”
I FOLLOWED SINGH down several hotel corridors and into a large

conference room, where a number of radio and camera crews sat
waiting. A knot of photographers and cameramen converged around
him, and through the blur of bodies, I watched him settle down at a
table to answer questions. Some of the hotel’s sta� also pushed
forward to take pictures on their phones, only to be stopped by his
bodyguard.
One reporter remarked that the star “always talked to the media
happily.” “I like people,” Singh responded. “Are you the way you appear
on screen?” another asked. “I think my predisposition is to be sombre,”
he replied. Someone asked him to list his favourite books. “Ji main
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padhta nahin hoon,” he said winningly—I don’t read—before describing

how motivational audio books helped him cope with a shoulder injury
he sustained while making Bajirao Mastani.
Each crew left Singh a bag of assorted gifts, all of them bearing
conspicuous logos. The actor kept his sunglasses on throughout, and at
one point he walked to a window and turned his back to the crowd
while his make-up man tended to his appearance. By the end of about
half an hour, Singh had �nished his interviews, endorsed several radio
programmes and channels, and signed 18 branded mugs with
variations of “With love, Ranveer.” As things wound down, he recorded
messages wishing Bhopal a happy new year. And, then, a merry
Christmas.
Singh was now ready for the parade. As we prepared to leave, someone
from the organising team handed me a laminated pass with “Bajirao
Mastani Crew” emblazoned on it. We walked into an elevator, with a
chain of well-built men around us. Singh’s valet slipped in too, carrying
the laptop and speakers from the star’s room. As the doors closed,
Singh told one of the men with us, “I never go anywhere without my
theme music.” He reached out to the keyboard. “In fact, now is a good
time.”
Paced by a throbbing rhythm, Singh exited the elevator, strode through

a short, dark corridor, and out of a service entrance into the cool air of
a parking lot, which was rich with the smell of fresh dung. A golden
chariot drawn by four horses was waiting by the door. Next to the
chariot stood a dozen or so men with luxuriant moustaches and armed
with cardboard spears, and about 30 others, dressed in bright yellow
dhotis, beating drums. Before us stretched the brand-pocked facade of
the mall, and below it a promenade running its entire length. A large
crowd had gathered behind barricades set up around its perimeter, but
many had slipped past the barriers and now crowded as close to Singh
as they could. At the other end of the promenade was an uncovered
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stage.
The star mounted the chariot, and, with the weaponed men as a guard
of honour and the drummers going strong, set o�. He raised his arms
to the crowd, and it answered with a roar. Watching him, it was clear
that he revelled in the energy of the hundreds cheering for him.
Gesturing expansively, and �inging kisses in every direction,he egged
on those screaming out his name from behind the barricades, and
those watching from further away, from roofs across the road, from
billboards and trees. Hundreds of smartphones, held aloft in hundreds
of hands, tracked him. From the stage, a young female anchor in an
orange-and-gold lehenga and choli kept up a string of welcomes and
exhortations. “Bajirao, jaldi ao, mat tadpao,” she trilled, her ampli�ed
voice rising over the noise of the crowd.
After completing its slow journey, Singh’s chariot stopped by the stage,
and a chain of bodyguards ushered him onto the platform. He
extravagantly complimented the anchor on her beauty, and handed her
a rose. Then, he added roguishly, “Ai hai, sharma gayeen?” (Did I
embarrass you?) He played the crowd unerringly, feigning confusion
over the anchor’s arch questions and then addressing the gathering in
the local style. “Bhopal, kya ho riyaa hai?” he yelled, before asking
everyone to come and see the �lm.
The anchor retreated, and several dhoti-clad dancers rushed the front
of the stage. With them backing him, Singh launched into a dance, to a
single verse from ‘Malhari.’ There were no lights or special e�ects, not
even the old stage-show standby of gushing smoke. Nothing besides
Singh, the dancers, and the overwhelming burst of the music. Singh
jumped, shook his head, and enthusiastically slashed the air with his
arms in time to the rhythm.
The music stopped, and the backup dancers moved o� stage. Singh
settled into a few minutes of banter with the anchor and the audience.
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The show, it seemed, was now to wind down. But suddenly, Singh
decided otherwise. He felt like dancing again. From the sidelines, I
watched as the organisers, caught unawares, scrambled to get the
music back, and hustled the dancers on stage again. Singh repeated the
earlier routine, and the crowd yelled its appreciation of the
unexpected, spontaneous encore.
And then, the event was over. The entire thing had lasted just about
half an hour. Singh thanked the audience for coming, and courteously
escorted the anchor to the edge of the stage, where she proceeded to
have a meltdown over an audio malfunction that had cut o� her mic.
Singh, meanwhile, headed swiftly into the mall, where the next event
was to take place, with his bodyguards fending o� the crowd as it
rushed after him. As Singh made his way through the mall’s back
corridors, I followed some of the organisers into an elevator inside.
Looking down as the glass capsule rose, I sensed Singh’s movements by
sound, following his location by the roar of the pursuing mob.
Earlier in the day, I had wandered into the parking lot as preparations
for the parade were under way. The moustached “guards” and dhoti-
clad drummers were already there, waiting for things to begin. The
moustached men, I was told, usually worked as gatemen at weddings
and receptions. I asked a young man in a yellow dhoti why he was
here. Hero aa raha hai,” he told me—a hero is coming. Which hero, I
asked. His answer seemed both an indication of how far Singh had
come, and how far he still had to go. “Salman Khan,” he said
con�dently, unfazed by the mocking laughter of his friends.
ONCE BACK HOME IN MUMBAI, at the age of 21, Singh plunged

into what might be best described as the deluxe version of the actor’s
struggle. When we spoke, he was upfront about the fact that he could
go through the lengthy process of �nding his feet thanks to his family’s
backing. “At no time did they say, ‘Boy, its time you contributed to the
family income,’” he said. Even through the leanest periods, Singh’s
18 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
father provided for his aspiring-actor essentials: gym fees, trainers, diet
supplements. “My parents felt the sting, I know they did, but they
never let me feel it.”
Over a five hour marathon of public and media appearances in Bhopal, Singh executed
flawlessly the role of an always on star.
To get on-set experience, Singh began assisting a friend, the director

Shaad Ali, mostly on shooting advertisements. “We were doing three-
four ads a month, and I was working hard,” he said. After about two
years on the job, he had built up a good network of contacts, but, he
told me, he was losing his looks. “I had dark circles and had put on
weight. I told myself, ‘Boy, you’re not going to become an actor looking
like this.’”
So Singh quit, and started a course with the acting coach Kishore
Namit Kapoor—something of an institution for Bollywood hopefuls.
His experience of this rite of passage was mixed. “Many of the classes
were very Hindi-�lm speci�c,” he said, and focused on the highly
19 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
melodramatic style that had dominated Bollywood over the preceding

decades. “Like, the �rst monologue you had to perform was, ‘Ma ki
chita pe rona, aur badle ka vaada karna’” (Crying over your mother’s
funeral pyre, and vowing revenge), he told me. “That style of acting is
redundant, in my opinion.” But still, Singh was �nally performing
again, and, as before, revelling in being before an audience.
Bajirao Mastani was Singh’s second film with Sanjay Leela Bhansali. “He told me to go
make my character,” Singh said of the director. “The first time he met his Bajirao was on
the sets.”
Singh left the course shortly before it ended, and turned towards
theatre. “I felt it was important to pay my dues, something like matha
tekna zaroori hai,” he said. But he found that the production he set his
heart on joining, helmed by the noted writer and director Makarand
Deshpande, simply did not want him. After weeks of persistence, Singh
snuck into a rehearsal, and set about “making myself useful to the
actors, whether they wanted it or not.” For the rest of the production,
he cleaned up, fetched chai and paan, and helped withcostumes. Soon,
he went from “being unwanted to integral to indispensable. Because I
20 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
was all over everything at a brass-tacks level, from the costume peti to
loading the tempos to putting up the set.” In the end, he earned
himself a two-line, walk-on part as a television cameraman. “Even in
that role,” he said, he felt the thrill of performing for the public, “which
was validation again.”
Meanwhile, Singh was being called to audition for movie parts, mostly
by friends from his days as an assistant director. “And I would
invariably land the role,” he said. But he turned them down, including
parts in a few �lms made on “good budgets, that went on to do well.”
He risked annoying producers who couldn’t fathom why he would
spurn such opportunities. “I was holding out for something bigger,”
Singh said, “though I didn’t know what it was or have anything
planned. It was either very brave, or very stupid.”
This phase ended abruptly, Singh told me, after he had “a moment.”
“One day, I was sitting with these guys who were in the same cesspool
of struggling actors as me,” he told me. “And they said, ‘Picture ki
shooting hai, chal ke dekhen?’” (There’s a shoot going on nearby, shall we
go watch?) When they named the cast, Singh realised they were talking
about a �lm he had turned down. “And I was like, ‘Have I totally fucked
this up? I don’t want to be here! Eating vada pao! And having chai! I
want to be there, acting!’” That night, he resolved to move things
forward by producing a portfolio.
“It couldn’t be a run-of-the-mill portfolio, because having been an

assistant director I knew where most of them ended up,” he said. “It
had to have a �rst impact. If someone saw it, they should open the next
page. And then they’d want to see the next page, and the next, until
they’d be like, ‘Fuck, I can’t put this down.’”
Working as his own art director, Singh “designed every shot and every
setup,” and hired a famous photographer. He couldn’t have a�orded
this, he told me, “but my father pulled it through.” Singh wanted the
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portfolio printed and bound like a co�ee-table book, but, again, he

found that would cost more than he could pay. Through a friend of his
father who owned a print shop, he secured a discounted rate, with the
condition that the printing would have to happen between midnight
and 6 am. To save on manpower, Singh cut the pages himself. “Once it
was made,” he told me, “it was a spanking-ass portfolio.” I asked if he
still had copies, and he replied with clear pride, “Of course, I have
several copies. I think my mother has one in her safe.”
Armed with this “calling card,” Singh began what he called his
“struggling actor’s hustle”—getting his portfolio into the hands of
people who mattered. “I would go up to people at restaurants, give it to
fellow actors and assistant directors, even to people at tra�c signals,”
he said. Along the way, he experienced what he called the “dark side of
the entertainment industry.” One leading producer, he recalled,
summoned him to his o�ce and deliberately set a large dog on him,
just to amuse his watching friends. Once, he said, a casting agent
invited him to a house in Andheri, and he arrived to �nd that the man
“just wanted to get in my pants.”
One of Singh’s main allies was Shanoo Sharma, a close friend who was
then making a name for herself as a casting director. They had hit it o�
at a party of Shanoo’s that Singh gatecrashed on a visit home from
college, where they ended up dancing together to the soundtrack of
the 1989 hit Ram Lakhan. Now, she was helping him rehearse scenes
for auditions, and drawing on their shared love of Bollywood �lms to
give him inspiration and support.
One evening in 2010, Singh told me, he was out on a date with “a very
beautiful girl,” when his phone rang. It was Shanoo. “But I was totally
into my date,” Singh said, so he ignored the call. When Shanoo kept
ringing, he put his phone face-down on a table to avoid distraction.
When he �ipped it back around, he said, there were seven missed calls,
and one text. “It was a two-word message: Adi, full stop, Chopra, full
22 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
stop.”
The casting director Shanoo Sharma, here with Singh and his fellow young actor Arjun
Kapoor, was a crucial ally on Singh’s path to stardom. “Now I know that my instinct when
I met him was correct, that I could tell gold,” Shanoo said.
Shanoo, over an informal meeting with Aditya Chopra, the elusive

head of Yash Raj Films, had gotten him an audition with the famed
studio.
BY NOW IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. Singh was running late, and

his itinerary had been thrown out of gear. From the mall elevator, I
headed into a small hall, where Singh was to meet the winners of a
contest. The actor entered the room soon after I did, and walked
straight to a small stage. He spoke brie�y with the contest winners,
who were dressed in elaborate traditional out�ts. Within minutes, he
was saying his goodbyes, but before leaving he recited, over a mu�ed
sound system, a line from Bajirao Mastani: “Bajirao ne Mastani se
mohabbat ki hai, ayyashi nahin” (Mastani is Bajirao’s love, not a passing
23 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
fancy). The sentiment so overwhelmed a group of young girls in the

audience that they stood up and started screaming with joy. They were
still screaming when Singh walked out.
Through another series of dim corridors, I followed the actor into a

small movie theatre. This was where ‘Malhari’ was to be played to the
media in its entirety. The place was about half full, and Singh settled
into a seat in the �rst row. The lights dimmed, and the song’s o�cial
video came on. Singh took his sunglasses o�. On the screen, as Bajirao,
he danced frenetically with an army of chain-mailed and helmeted
men. From where I stood in the aisle, I saw Singh mouthing the lyrics,
jiggling his head, arching his eyebrows and narrowing his eyes,
mirroring his movements on the screen. When the lights came back
on, he grinned at the people around him. “Good shit,” he said. “Mast
hai, boss.”
After the song was played for a second time, Singh climbed onto a stage
in front of the screen. Here again, a female anchor took charge of
ceremonies. Once again, Singh praised her lavishly—“You look so
beautiful today”—and handed her a rose. Then he settled into a large
chair, his sunglasses back on, and prepared for another volley of
questions.
One reporter asked Singh about a controversy surrounding the �lm:

Mastani’s descendants had complained that they were not consulted.
He asked her to speak to the �lm’s producers, but she persisted.
“Madam, I am doing my job as an actor and promoting this �lm,” he
said with icy courtesy. “You please do your job and ask this question to
the right people.” Near the end of the event, a reporter interrupted
Singh in mid-�ow to say, “Ranveer, �lm Hindi mein hai, aap Hindi mein
boliye” (The �lm is in Hindi, you should speak in Hindi). “Theek hai,
sir,” Singh said, not even looking at the man. “Itna gussa hone ki kya
baat hai, pyar se bol dete” (Sure, but why get angry, you could just ask
nicely).
24 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
After the press conference, Singh left the theatre and headed back to
the hotel, again through a network of back corridors and exits. A
thinner but still raucous crowd followed. The entire line-up of events
had taken about �ve hours, and Singh had gone the whole time
without a break. Now he would return to his room, where, according
to the run-down sheet, he was to have lunch. As we walked, I drew up
alongside him, and he gave me an easy smile. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said with an air of candour. “It’s kind of hard for me
to tell.”
Maneesh Sharma gave Singh a

task every day, “like, today you
have to ride a DTC bus and check
out the crowd.” The actor did
what was asked of him, and then
some more. “He actually
attended a class in a college, got
thrown out, and ran,” the
director recalled.
IN EARLY 2010, SINGH WAS CALLED to the Yash Raj Films o�ces in
Andheri, to audition before Maneesh Sharma, the debutant director of
what would become Band Baaja Baaraat. He had delivered a sparkling
�rst audition, and over the next two weeks, the director invited him
back several times. “Sometimes he would ask me to perform a dance,”
Singh recalled, “sometimes comedy, or a scene from DDLJ”—Dilwale
Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, a beloved classic and one of Yash Raj’s most
successful �lms. But, Singh told me, with each session he was getting
“progressively worse.” On top of that, he always got held up at a
particular tra�c light on his way, and ended up late. As a result, he
said, “they thought I wasn’t serious.”
After this round of auditions, Singh was called in for yet another
25 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
meeting. As he sat waiting, Singh told me in his most dramatic style,

“the door �ies open, and with a gust of wind … Aditya Chopra walks in.
And for a moment, my heart stopped moving.” The producer got right
to the point. “He’s like, ‘So why are you fucking it up?’” Singh recalled.
Eventually, the studio decided to give him “one last shot.” To this day,
he told me, “I haven’t asked them what made them give me another
chance.”
That shot was a �nal screen test. After it was done, Singh was called in
to meet Chopra again. Sitting in his o�ce, the mogul told Singh that
he had the part. “I heard him out with a straight face,” Singh said. “And
then I walked out of the cabin, and it was too overwhelming. My knees
buckled, and I fell to the �oor and started crying.” Chopra found him
in that position a minute or two later. As Singh remembered it, “he put
an arm around my shoulder, and patted my back and said, ‘Tu kar lega’”
—you’ll do �ne
Soon after he was signed on, Singh joined Maneesh Sharma on a

reconnaissance trip to Delhi, where Band Baaja Baaraat was to be shot.
“Nobody knew him then, so we could a�ord to do that,” Maneesh told
me when we spoke in December. The director gave Singh a task every
day, “like, today you have to ride a DTC bus and check out the crowd.”
The actor did what was asked of him, and then some more. “He
actually attended a class in a college, got thrown out, and ran,”
Maneesh recalled. “He worked hard to imbibe the environment and
culture.”
When Band Baaja Baaraat came out, Singh was lauded for his portrayal
of Bittoo, a Delhi University student from small-town Uttar Pradesh
desperate not to go back to his family’s sugarcane farm. Maneesh told
me Singh pulled the character’s mannerisms and accent o� so well that
people often asked him if he had cast a Delhi boy for the role. To this
day, the �ashy but vulnerable Bittoo remains Singh’s most widely
remembered character. In Bhopal, fans repeatedly asked him to recite
26 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
his lines from Band Baaja Baaraat, and several journalists asked him to
repeat Bittoo’s signature promise: “Bread-pakode ki kasam.”
As Maneesh discovered—and as others who went on to work with

Singh discovered too—the actor approaches his work with a
meticulousness and dedication that contrasts sharply with his
anything-goes public image. “He was making notes all the time, when
he was reading the script, or during workshops,” the director told me.
“He maps out every scene, and has a graph of every character he plays.”
With Singh, he said, there is something “child-like in his commitment
to his craft.” The actor Parineeti Chopra, who has worked with Singh
on two �lms, echoed this when I talked to her on the phone in January.
“On our �rst �lm together”—Ladies vs Ricky Bahl—“he would do
stretches just before a scene, or go into pranayama exercises just before
a shot,” she said. Singh puts “everything he has into the moment, with
utmost sincerity,” she continued, which can involve “doing cartwheels
to get into character or working out at 4 am.”
Singh’s second landmark role, by most critics’ reckoning, came in the

beautifully mounted Lootera. In it, Singh played Varun, a quiet and
con�icted young con artist who cheats the family of a woman he falls
in love with. The �lm’s director, Vikramaditya Motwane, wrote to me
over email that he had purposely cast Singh, who had only appeared in
romantic comedies so far, against type. With Varun, he told me, “I
thought he should be a character you must trust.” Singh, he continued,
“has a very open, trustworthy face, and when that person betrays you,
it can be quite heartbreaking.” Much like Maneesh Sharma, Motwane
was impressed with his star’s work, and with his rise. “He’s
unpredictable which makes him very exciting as an actor. You want to
go see his �lms because you don’t know what to expect. And that’s a
wonderful thing.”
At the heart of Singh’s approach, Maneesh told me, is his ability to

inhabit a character. “It’s not just about getting the six-pack to go with
27 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
the role,” he said. “If he is preparing to play Bajirao, even how many
co�ees he drinks will have something of Bajirao in it.”
By his own admission, Singh’s preparations for Bajirao Mastani were

his most thorough yet, as it required what he called “a di�erent level of
acting.” “I isolated myself for several weeks … cuttingo� from friends
and family,” he told reporters in Bhopal. “I had to leave myself behind. I
only studied, learnt diction, watched �lms and documentaries.” Singh
said the intensity required to play Bajirao, combined with the months-
long shoulder injury he had battled to overcome, “changed me, as an
actor and as a person.”
Bajirao Mastani was directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, who previously

worked with Singh on Goliyon ki Rasleela Ram-Leela, the action-
romance where the actor �rst staked his claim to bona �de stardom. In
that �lm, Singh’s rustic Gujarati accent and sculpted body had won
him recognition. For this second outing, Singh said in Bhopal, the
director trusted him enough to take a very hands-o� approach to his
preparations. “He told me to go make my character,” Singh told
journalists. “The �rst time he met his Bajirao was on the sets.”
For Shanoo, Singh’s appeal

recalled that of Shammi Kapoor,
who became known for his
madcap style, his infectious joie
de vivre and his freewheeling
dancing. “Nobody can imitate
him even today,” Shanoo pointed
out. “And he drove women
crazy.”
In various interviews, Singh has acknowledged that it took him some

time to �nd his feet during the early years of his unexpected stardom.
28 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
When he spoke about this phase to me, he said, “Back then, I used to
be”—and then repeated the phrase—“used to be, very arrogant about
my acting abilities.” His o�-screen persona and loud clothes also led
some to dismiss him as a jester—a role he has acknowledged he enjoys
playing.
When I met Shanoo Sharma, in December, I asked her about this

aspect of Singh’s stardom. Shanoo remains one of Singh’s closest
friends, and she joined Yash Raj Films as the studio’s casting director in
2010, soon after he landed his part in Band Baaja Baarat. She told me
Singh’s style of dress is anything but a media strategy. “He’s really
toned down,” she assured me. “He used to be worse. Or better! He’s
come to my house dressed as the Crow”—an American comic book and
�lm character—“with black stars and a painted white face, and we have
gone to eat paan like that in tra�c.” So when Singh wears something
like a �uorescent pink top with green trackpants, she said, she doesn’t
even blink. “This is everyday for him.”
Singh’s success has validated Shanoo’s early belief in him. “Now I know
that my instinct when I met him was correct, that I could tell gold.”
Even today, she said, when judging aspirants’ potential, she refers back
to what she saw in Singh all those years ago. “I look for the same grain,
in di�erent ways.” As an actor, she told me, Singh “is like water. You
can put him in a bowl, or throw him down a waterfall, or place him in
the crack of a rock, he will mould himself to that role.”
For Shanoo, Singh’s appeal recalled that of Shammi Kapoor, the

unconventional star of Bollywood’s giddy 1960s. Kapoor became
known for his madcap style, his infectious joie de vivre and his
freewheeling dancing. “Nobody can imitate him even today,” Shanoo
pointed out. “And he drove women crazy.” For others in the industry,
Singh’s rise is reminiscent of Shah Rukh Khan’s conquest of Bollywood
in the 1990s. Anupama Chopra, the journalist and critic, told me the
similarities range from “his manic energy to his incessant charm, to
29 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
what are politely called ‘unconventional’ looks.”
But Singh’s most important quality, Shanoo told me, is just how wide
his appeal is. “It’s not just the Instagram crowd who loves him,” she
said. “Rickshaw-walas and taxi guys and beauty-parlour girls love him
and feel they can connect with him. All my assistants love him. He
�irts with the girls and compliments the boys.” The key, she argued, is
that “he makes everyone feel as if he is theirs alone, for that moment. …
A girl standing at a bar will feel like she can go and talk to him. He is
apna”—your own.
AFTER SINGH DISAPPEARED INTO HIS ROOM, I did not see him
emerge again. For all his a�ability, I realised, he has the ability to set
�rm boundaries. Each time I saw him in public, he was charged up,
rattling with energy, but when he retreated behind a door it would
remain inexorably closed until he was prepared to be seen again. Over
the course of the day, his team told me that he doesn’t talk in the
mornings, doesn’t like people in the car with him, and doesn’t do any
interviews until he is completely ready. Compared to his public image,
Singh, I found, is a far more measured mix of very open and very
private.
One instance where this comes through is his relationship with his
Bajirao Mastani co-star, Deepika Padukone—which is something of an
open secret, but which Singh does not discuss. He has repeatedly told
interviewers that there are certain parts of his life that are too precious
to go into. “That’s why it’s called a personal life na,” he told one
journalist during one of the day’s many interviews. Singh is protective
about his family as well, preferring to keep them out of the public eye.
When I asked a friend of his if I might interview Singh’s sister for this
story, I was politely refused, and told that the actor would not like it if I
did.
By the evening, we were told that our �ight back to Mumbai was
30 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
delayed. It was 5 pm when I left the hotel for the airport. On the plane,
I was seated in �rst class, next to an empty chair reserved for Singh. He
boarded a few minutes behind me. By coincidence, across the aisle
from us was Gul Panag—an actor and political activist, and a former
beauty queen. Singh had never met her before, I learnt, but he sat
beside her and began chatting at length, exclaiming over her �ying
quali�cations, and feigning heartbreak over the fact that she was
married.
I talked to Singh over the 90-minute �ight. As the plane began its
descent, he complained of a worsening earache. Panag o�ered a
remedy, and called for a cup of hot water. As Singh held the steaming
liquid under his ear on her instructions, he kept up a string of
bombastic praises, laughing and grimacing in turn. “Doctor Gul,” he
declared. “Neurophysicist Gul! What will you do next?”
We landed well after dark. Almost as soon as the plane touched down,
Singh was on his two phones, scrolling through his Twitter feed to
check the response to the events in Bhopal. It had been a long day, but
he still had work to do. From the airport, he told me, Singh was
heading to a mall in Andheri, where he had another promotional event
to attend, with Priyanka Chopra for company. As we taxied to a stop,
he put on his sunglasses and turned to face out the window. I asked
him if he really enjoyed the madness, or if it was just a part of his
public persona. Singh was silent for a moment, perhaps to consider his
answer, perhaps simply out of fatigue. “Sometimes even I don’t know
the answer to that question,” he said.
Soon after I left the airport, I saw Panag had posted on Twitter: “Met
the uber charming @RanveerO�cial on the (much delayed) �ight. And
he totally made my evening!!”
Before we walked o� the plane, Singh told me we would continue our

conversation over the coming weeks. To seal the promise, I had asked
31 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
him for a bread-pakode ki kasam. “Hey, that’s a very serious thing,” he

replied, and gave me a �st bump. When I texted him a few days later,
though, he replied, “Sorry it doesn’t look like I can do it. Hopefully you
have enough maal to write it up.”
Bajirao Mastani was released worldwide on 18 December, a Friday. The

following day, I watched an online video of Padukone snipping o� the
tips of Singh’s moustache, ful�lling the prophecy I had heard at the
Yash Raj Films studios all those weeks ago. At the box o�ce, Bajirao
Mastani went head-to-head with Dilwale, another big-money
production that, in Shah Rukh Khan, boasted one of Bollywood’s most
popular stars. Some industry pundits had predicted that Dilwale would
overwhelm the competition. But over time, Bajirao Mastani more than
held its own. After its third weekend in theatres, the �lm’s Indian
collections stood at about Rs 167 crore, or about $25 million. It was still
showing in late January, and its domestic haul had crossed Rs 180
crore.
A good amount of the credit for this went to Singh, who received a
wave of acclaim. As the year-end awards rolled around, the �lm won
numerous accolades, and Singh bagged several prizes for Best Actor.
He seemed to be everywhere: collecting awards, being written about in
magazines, tweeting his thanks to a stream of compliments pouring in.
In the eyes of many close observers of Bollywood, Bajirao Mastani had
given Singh’s career the boost he had hoped for. Komal Nahta, a
journalist and trade analyst, was unequivocal in calling Singh’s
performance “superstar-making.” Anupama Chopra admitted to me
that she had initially doubted Singh’s ability to pull the part o�,
“because of the kind of gravitas that a role like this demands,” and
because “it required a di�erent muscle from Band Baaja Baaraat.” But,
she said, from adopting a Marathi accent to portraying Bajirao’s many
con�icts, Singh had made the character his own. “Nobody knows who
will or won’t be the next big star,” she told me. “But I think we should
32 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
be appreciating that here’s an actor who was willing a commit a year of

his life to a role that, if it hadn’t worked, would have set him back ten
years.”
In the eyes of many close

observers of Bollywood, Bajirao
Mastani had given Singh’s career
the boost he had hoped for.
Komal Nahta, a journalist and
trade analyst, was unequivocal in
calling Singh’s performance
“superstar-making.”
Meanwhile, there was already a rising buzz about Singh’s next project.
In October, he had appeared in a video, self-shot on a phone camera
and uploaded to YouTube, to announce that he had been cast as the
male lead in Be�kre, a Yash Raj Films production due to start �lming in
April. The movie is to be directed by Aditya Chopra, marking his return
to directorial work after a seven-year hiatus. This is something of an
event, as Chopra has directed only three �lms so far, each of which has
been a major hit. For Singh, this was yet another dream ful�lled.
He said as much in the video. In it, a moustached, beaming Singh

appears outside Aditya Chopra’s o�ce—the same room where he had
learnt about getting the part in Band Baaja Baaraat. Now, the actor
says to the camera, “�ve years down the line, I go to the same o�ce, he
sits me across the couch, and he tells me, ‘Ranveer, I’m casting you in
my next movie.’” Just as at that earlier meeting, Singh says, he did not
show any immediate feeling. But then, he continues—moving down a
corridor to the exact place where he claims to have broken down after
the �rst meeting—“I walked out of the o�ce, and I walked through the
same corridor, and again, about here, is where I realised what just
happened, that my dream of working with Adi sir is going to be
33 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
realised.” With all the emotion of a Bollywood ending, Singh says he

broke down again at the very same spot. “And again,” he continues,
Chopra emerged to see him crying, “and he comes and he puts his arm
across my shoulder, and he says, ‘Tu kar lega.’”
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Many of Singh’s choices, such as agreeing to become the first major Bollywood actor to
appear in a condom advertisement, have been experiments in creating a more daring
kind of movie star.
TARAN N KHAN (/AUTHOR/136) is a journalist based in Mumbai. Her work can be found at
www.porterfolio.net/taran.
S Excellent quality of work, it is refreshing to something as
21 Apr, 2016 lightweight a Bollywood star being treated with the same level
KEYWORDS: Bollywood(/tag/bollywood) profile(/tag/profile)
of
Ranveer Singh(/tag/ranveer-singh) The Caravan
professionalism as a Collection #11(/tag/the-caravan-collection-11)
story covering foreign policy.
I absolutely do not regret paying for this magazine.
34 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
Not exactly a movie I disagree with the above commentators.

fan a. I don't think the reputation of The Caravan goes down
26 Mar, 2016 because they chose to run a story on a Bollywood star.
There may be reasons why they did so.
There is a sociological angle to the story - Ranveer's background
(the first words "Ranveer Singh Bhavnani" came as news to me, I
didn't know he was a Sindhi - how he grew up - his university
days - his father's investment - his friend - his life in Bombay,
etc.)
Through the story, the writer, Taran, also shows the side of
Bollywood promotion and the amount of capital really that
Bollywood invest and how!
The story is written portraying a human side - like other stories
here on The Caravan are written.
Ranveer has been an attention-grabber for his wanting to
entertain - skills/desire/passion/action - which he has declared in
the media before! The writer writes well about his
meticulousness, etc.
In the story where Ranveer talks about what gives him a trip! -
the feeling of flow - that connects with a universal thread of
flow / vocation.
All reasons other than a. got covered above, I believe :)
Arun Like @Anant said, I was looking for a bit more "gravitas" in the
15 Mar, 2016 article, which ended up resembling a puff piece. Would have
been nice to get a more substantive look into what makes the
protagonist tick - beyond an occasional snippet of honesty.
VIEW MORE COMMENTS
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35 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM
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36 of 36 4/3/23, 9:07 PM

How Ranveer Singh made it (2)

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How Ranveer Singh made it (2)

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How Ranveer Singh made it https://caravanmagazine.in/reportage/fast-forward-ranv...

IN A CORRIDOR HUMMING WITH VOICES at the Courtyard by

The star’s presence created a frisson of excitement in the aircraft. Two

Singh’s name, and pointed to a photograph in the newspaper, of him in

When we landed in Bhopal, Singh went rapidly through the motions of

I was handed a copy of a rundown sheet. Singh was in Bhopal to

The music died down, allowing the assembled reporters to exclaim

I watched as Singh zipped through a series of such interviews, spewing

AS 2015 WOUND DOWN, Ranveer Singh was at a pivotal moment.

When I met Singh, he was working 12-hour days to promote Bajirao

base in Mumbai. In the corridor outside Singh’s room, I asked several

Seeing Singh on the road was an education in the massive promotional

In my time with him, Singh executed �awlessly the role of an always-

the dandiest of suits to a Super Mario costume—which has spawned a

So have some of his media appearances o� the movie screen. In 2014,

I FIRST MET SINGH IN MID NOVEMBER, just days after he �nished

capital of Bollywood. When I arrived for our appointment he was deep

Within minutes, we were ushered into a di�erent glass cabin. As I

Ranveer Singh Bhavnani grew up, with an elder sister, in an a�uent

There is also an edge to Singh’s

�aunted, with equal aplomb,

When he wasn’t watching movies, Singh was reading about Bollywood

Singh realised early on that he wanted to be a part of Bollywood. One

Singh honed his performance skills through his years at school,

Singh does have a peripheral family connection to Bollywood, through

Exploring his options after �nishing school, Singh hit upon

Singh’s initial post-graduation plan was to work for advertising �rms in

He found himself with a “really diverse crowd—African American

“And that walk back to my chair,

and people slapping my back,

Singh rattled o� the Hindi lines made famous by Amitabh Bachchan—

I FOLLOWED SINGH down several hotel corridors and into a large

padhta nahin hoon,” he said winningly—I don’t read—before describing

Paced by a throbbing rhythm, Singh exited the elevator, strode through

ONCE BACK HOME IN MUMBAI, at the age of 21, Singh plunged

To get on-set experience, Singh began assisting a friend, the director

melodramatic style that had dominated Bollywood over the preceding

“It couldn’t be a run-of-the-mill portfolio, because having been an

portfolio printed and bound like a co�ee-table book, but, again, he

Shanoo, over an informal meeting with Aditya Chopra, the elusive

BY NOW IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. Singh was running late, and

fancy). The sentiment so overwhelmed a group of young girls in the

Through another series of dim corridors, I followed the actor into a

One reporter asked Singh about a controversy surrounding the �lm:

Maneesh Sharma gave Singh a

meeting. As he sat waiting, Singh told me in his most dramatic style,

Soon after he was signed on, Singh joined Maneesh Sharma on a

As Maneesh discovered—and as others who went on to work with

Singh’s second landmark role, by most critics’ reckoning, came in the

At the heart of Singh’s approach, Maneesh told me, is his ability to

By his own admission, Singh’s preparations for Bajirao Mastani were

Bajirao Mastani was directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, who previously

For Shanoo, Singh’s appeal

In various interviews, Singh has acknowledged that it took him some

When I met Shanoo Sharma, in December, I asked her about this

For Shanoo, Singh’s appeal recalled that of Shammi Kapoor, the

what are politely called ‘unconventional’ looks.”

Before we walked o� the plane, Singh told me we would continue our

him for a bread-pakode ki kasam. “Hey, that’s a very serious thing,” he

Bajirao Mastani was released worldwide on 18 December, a Friday. The

be appreciating that here’s an actor who was willing a commit a year of

In the eyes of many close

He said as much in the video. In it, a moustached, beaming Singh

realised.” With all the emotion of a Bollywood ending, Singh says he