That Cupid bow smile is in a twist, that crown of fluffy hair is a sheet of silver grey. And he's stationary in a chair with an ubiquitous shawl, still darting that bemused gaze of his. Laughed he, some months ago, in the busy canteen square of Prithvi theatre, “Oh it's you. Sab theek? Come, come, sit, sit, shall I get you an Irish coffee?“ “No, no. I'm good. So, how are you?“ I had responded robotically, to receive a half-edited smile, which said, “Not in the best of form, I've aged. Who doesn't?“ Naturally, my favourite for all seasons and reasons, doesn't remember me as his fanboy. Surreptitiously, I had written fan letters in the library of St. Xavier's College, mailing them before any of my friends pounced upon those cologned pages ­ a dash of Old Spice with a hint of Brut. I had felt guilty as a serial killer. Shouldn't I be boning up on Marx and Engels for the mid-term exams instead?

Those letters didn't take long to compose and post. They were valentines to my perfect-oh twosome, Shashi Kapoor and Sharmila Tagore. Xavierites thronged the Metro for Dr Zhivago, I'd haunt the Minerva for the Tagore-Kapoor liaison, Aamne Saamne.

“Hindi movies are chhee chhee, you're so desi ghee, man,“ the snoots would scowl. For some irrational reason, I had this addiction to a Shashi-Nanda smile-jerker which no one recalls in scholastic tomes today: Neend Hamari Khwab Tumhare (Our Sleep, Your Dreams). Some title that, had to ask Shashi what he dreamt about, had to ask Sharmila about her hideous Liz Taylorish wig in Sawan Ki Ghata. And why pair with Manoj Kumar instead of the God sculpted Shashi Kapoor? Is she nuts?

Eons later, Shashi Kapoor's secretary replied with an autographed photo saying, “Season's Greetings“ at the peak of Mumbai's monsoon. The signature was printed, not personalised. Woe woe, no exclusiveness, no human contact. La Tagore didn't reply at all, her secretary may have flared nostrils on sniffing the Spice-Brut pages.

Those colognes aren't uber cool anymore. That autographed photo is still around, though. My life wish is to get Shashi Kapoor's signature (in ink) on it some day, but I haven't been able to bring myself to regressing to those sleepy, dreamy days. Not done.

This Sunday an empathetic journo friend suggested, “He's being presented the Dadasaheb Phalke Award by Arun Jaitley at the Prithvi theatre. Bring that photo, I'm sure he'd love to sign it. No one will notice.“ I was tempted but desisted. I'd have been elbowed out of that melee. I was right.

By noon, there were photos on the Internet, the 77-year-old Shashi encircled by his heroines-Waheeda Rehman, Zeenat Aman, Rekha, Shabana Azmi. Bachchan hops-skips-jumps over from his abode. Ranbir and Rishi pay their tributes. Son Kunal and daughter Sanjana are at guard. I'd have loved to hear nephew Rishi reminisce about the Ajooba days with Uncle, who directed, carrying a headmaster's stick. But big B-town events are a crush. If I couldn't get my photo signed, I'd seethe. Who needs that? Memories are more valuable than autograph ink. In fact, nostalgia ­ don't like that word but still ­ is life affirming, an echo of the way we were.

My professional relationship with Shashi Kapoor commenced with a comedy of terrors at New Delhi's Vigyan Bhavan. There was this jabberwocky champ in the row behind me, and I being a serious being a serious cinephile (or at least aspiring to) o asked him to shush up.

He didn't whereupon, I screamed, “SHUT UP...or else.“ This could have led to an exchange of blows till I saw his face. Oops, it's Shashi Kapoor. No! Mercifully, when the lights came on, he turned softer than a grape, “Oh, it's you. That...that critic. Sorry, sorry,“ and issued an invite to a party in his hotel suite that evening, “Jeanne Shashi Moreau is coming. Your type.“

Moreau was and is. Between deciphering her Englifrench, I trotted up to my host and told him sternly, “I'd written you a fan letter, you know.“ He retorted, “Yeah, yeah, and you ask me to shut up,“ revealing a set of dazzling uneven teeth. Floored, I returned to Ms Moreau to chat about Truffaut, Bunuel, Malle, without caring for whatever the hell she said or did.The fan boy was flying.

So so much more to tell you about the quintessential actor and a gentleman. For now, I'd like to conclude with an aside on a location report I wrote on Utsav. I'd been lodged in a swanky chamber of the Windsor Manor in Bangalore. I began my piece with, “So what's a boy with a hole in his socks doing in a place like this?“ It was a Sunday edition piece. Even before I had stirred myself, a week later, out of my creaking bed, the doorbell rang. Shashi Kapoor's valet delivered a shopping bag full of brand-new socks: all engine-fire red and woollen, meant for Arctic winters. I could never wear them. Like I couldn't get that autograph, in ink, this Sunday morning.