ew actors sustain a career for more than sixty years; fewer still remain genuinely beloved throughout. Dharmendra, who died last week, belonged firmly to that rare group. His long, varied trajectory across Indian cinema, from mainstream blockbusters to off-beat films that demanded emotional depth, made him not just a star but a cultural presence recognisable across generations and borders.

His origins as an actor are the stuff of film lore. As a young aspirant repeatedly facing rejection, he once walked into the home of Dilip Kumar, simply to “see what success looked like.” With no one to stop him, he wandered nervously into the bedroom, where the legendary actor was asleep. Dilip Kumar woke with a start to find a stranger by his bedside. A flustered Dharmendra stammered that he only wanted to see the great man. It was an encounter that sparked a lifelong bond, one of mentor and disciple, and a friendship that both men often spoke of with warmth.

Dilip Kumar would later recall Dharmendra’s striking physical beauty, admitting privately that he sometimes wished he could match it. This handsomeness, coupled with Dharmendra’s easy charm, made him immensely popular among female audiences and co-stars. Yet it was never only his looks that sustained him. There was something grounded and earthy about his presence, a quality that made the common man see himself reflected on screen. His was a masculinity rooted in the soil: unpretentious, robust and deeply likeable.

Dharmendra represented the second generation of Hindi film stars after Partition, following the era defined by Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor and Dev Anand. His longevity allowed him to bridge multiple cinematic eras: he debuted when Indian cinema was still shaped by post-Partition sentiment; came into his own as colour films and romantic dramas flourished; and remained relevant well into the age of action heroes and modern blockbusters.

For many viewers in Pakistan, Dharmendra’s screen presence formed part of their earliest exposure to Indian cinema. Until the early 1970s, films were banned and audiences mostly encountered the industry through film songs broadcast on the radio or narrated story programmes where songs were inserted between plot summaries. It was only with the launch of Amritsar Television, and later the VCR revolution, that households began watching Indian films on a wider scale. Migrant workers in the Middle East brought back video cassettes; a few travelled as far as Afghanistan to watch screenings. Others caught films in makeshift halls in London on weekends. In all these spaces, Dharmendra’s films travelled easily, carried across borders not by marketing machines but by affection.

By the early 1970s, Indian cinema was witnessing the rise of its so-called “third generation” - Amitabh Bachchan, Rajesh Khanna and Sanjeev Kumar. Yet Dharmendra remained vibrant, starring in films of every genre. He moved fluidly from mass-appeal blockbusters to more experimental projects, proving that he was not confined to any single mould. His range assured his longevity; audiences that has liked him in romantic roles embraced him just as enthusiastically in his action and comedy turns.

What set him apart was not only his versatility but also the cultural texture he carried within him. The subcontinent is, and always has been, a crossroads of ethnicities, religions, languages and histories. Over centuries, these influences have layered themselves into shared notions of beauty, masculinity and charm. Dharmendra, with his blend of ruggedness and grace, seemed to embody this multiplicity. There was an openness about him, a sense that he came from the people and belonged to them.

It also mattered that he came from Ludhiana, close to, but not quite within, the cohort of “Partition Punjabis” who dominated early Bollywood after 1947. That slight remove gave him a different sensibility: neither entirely shaped by Partition trauma nor disconnected from its cultural aftershocks. He stood on the edge of that history, informed by it but not defined by it.

His personal charisma translated easily across films and decades. Many still remember him for his iconic roles in action and romance, but there were quieter performances too, where emotion rippled beneath the surface. These roles cemented his place not just as a star but also as an actor with genuine craft.

Dharmendra also introduced the next generation of his family to cinema. His elder son, Sunny Deol, achieved considerable success, becoming one of the biggest action stars of the 1980s and 1990s. His younger son had a shorter career, but the lineage underscored Dharmendra’s continuing influence on the industry.

For Pakistanis, Indians and diaspora audiences worldwide, Dharmendra remained a familiar, almost familial presence, the kind of actor whose films appeared at every stage of life, from childhood matinees to late-night television viewings. His appeal was unforced; he never seemed to chase relevance, yet it remained with him.

In remembering him, it becomes clear that Dharmendra was more than the sum of his roles. He was, in many ways, the cinematic embodiment of a region both diverse and intertwined, shaped by history, migration, memory and desire. His life traced the arc of post-Partition cinema, but his persona reached further, into the ways people saw themselves and their world.

His death marks the end of an era, but his place in collective memory remains assured.

The writer is a culture critic based in Lahore.