I first met Amjad on the outdoors of Sholay. He had an endearing presence, one that was immediately likeable and it was a quality that most succumbed to. I was keen on knowing who he was from day one because he was going to play the role I liked best: of Gabbar Singh.

Amjad’s credentials preceded him. Salim-Javed, the writers of the film, had recommended him after seeing his work on stage. They spoke of him in glorious terms. In hindsight, it turned out to be prophetic.

We loved everything about Amjad during the making of the film — his persona, style, performing capabilities. But we were sceptical of his voice. We felt it was very feeble for a frame so large — and for Gabbar. But Amjad disproved us. That very voice became the most attractive part of the character and, indeed, the film. In those days, it was common for a film’s music to come out on LP. But for Sholay, the dialogue of the film came out first, and most of them were Amjad’s. Till date, it is only his dialogues that remain in our memory.

Amjad made friends easily and trusted them without question. It came naturally to him. He would be hurt when they betrayed him, but was never vengeful.

The tea industry in India needed to acknowledge him for its sales. He drank gallons of it during the course of a day. Tea and his bank of lighthearted banter were two constants in his life.

He possessed great intellect. Urdu poetry and semi-classical music found a prominent space in his daily routine. Ghazal evenings were often organised on the terrace of his Bandra house; he was in his elements then.

He voluntarily helped people. Not just friends, but people. I know for sure that on several occasions he would work in a project purely because it would financially bring someone out of trouble, knowing fully well that the project would perhaps be harmful for his own standing.

In times of trouble, you could trust him to stand beside you. It was ironic and sad, therefore, that when he had his car accident, driving to Goa for the shoot of a film that he and I were starring in, there was no one beside him. He was in a bad shape. The accident had occurred some miles from the city. His wife and son, little Shadab, were with him. Stranded and alone on the highway, it was a herculean task for him to find help. By the time we got him to the Goa Hospital in Panjim, a unit devoid of sophisticated medical equipment in those days, he was slipping into a coma.

One of the most difficult decisions of my life was signing the document on behalf of him and his family, for surgical procedures to be initiated. There was no one around. His family was in Bombay and could only come in the next day, and those for whom he had come to work for, did not want to take the risk. The hours that went by during the surgery, as they repaired his broken ribs and pierced lung, were a nightmare. When he made it out of the OT, I drank myself silly that night and wept, and prayed that he would survive. He was a tough cookie; he made it.

He was shifted to Bombay soon after where he recuperated at Nanavati Hospital. I just didn’t have the courage to go and meet him — reverse withdrawal symptoms. It was difficult to see this strong specimen of masculinity, lying limp, weak and defeated — until he wrote me a note from his bed, the contents of which I cannot disclose, and I went across to see him. He was fine. The banter was back, as was that ever-present mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

During the making of one of the several films we did together — I think it was Parvarish by Manmohan Desai — a mock submarine was constructed for the climax scene. As in most of Manji’s films, other than him we all found the situations he created greatly illogical. (It’s another matter that he would always have the last laugh because all his ill logic eventually rattled the cash registers at the box office.) This one was no different. We suddenly discovered that all the artists on set were Librans — Shammiji (Shammi Kapoor), Vinod Khanna, Amjad, Kader Khan and myself. So we quickly and very wittily invented a little ditty: “We are crazy Librans (beeping) up this film!” sung to the tune of a famous World War II, motivational British battle song. This became our signature greeting every time we found ourselves in similar extenuating circumstances and we would have a good laugh over it.

In 1982, I had my accident on the sets of Coolie. Coming out of the ICU after two months, one of the first to meet me in hospital was Amjad. As he walked into the room at Breach Candy Hospital, he burst into, “We are crazy Librans.” It was, perhaps, the first time the nurses saw a smile on my face.

He left us suddenly. Unexpectedly, without warning. In his sleep. On hearing the news, I rushed to his house and up to his bedroom. It was difficult to imagine that he had gone.

This wonderful friend, this great companion and colleague just lay there as though in deep sleep. And as I looked on, I almost felt that at any moment he would open his eyes and with his mischievous grin greet me with a “Hi, Shorty!”.