Playing a petty pickpocket with irresistible aplomb in C.I.D. (1955), the iconic Johnny Walker took audiences through a city of striking contrasts singing “Ae dil hai mushkil jeena yahan… Yeh hai Bombay meri jaan.” On the one hand, Bombay boasted stately Art Deco buildings, palm-tree-lined sea fronts, broad avenues, rumbling trams, horse-drawn Victorias, Plymouths, textile mills, and a unique work culture. On the other, it could be a cold, unforgiving landscape. Having experienced its harsh underbelly while struggling for a living, the comedian sang the track with such infectious chutzpah that it became the defining anthem of the metropolis.

Born as Badruddin Kazi on 11 November 1926 in Indore, the late actor would have celebrated his centenary this year. Delightfully, despite being a lifelong teetotaller who never touched a drop of alcohol, Kazi was rechristened after the famous Scotch whisky brand by filmmaker Guru Dutt, who was thoroughly mesmerised by Kazi’s uncanny impression of a stumbling drunkard.

Long before Baazi (1951) changed his fortunes, the comedian endured a crushing early life. After his father lost his job at an Indore cotton mill, his large family relocated first to Deolali and then to Bombay. Starting out selling ice candy in Deolali at the tender age of fourteen, Kazi later sold fruits and vegetables on the streets of Bombay to support his household. Eventually, he secured a job as a conductor on the BEST bus routes, earning a modest monthly wage of Rs 26.26.

The job had one silver lining: free transit across the length and breadth of Bombay, which allowed him to drop by movie studios. The cheeky conductor transformed the aisle of the bus into his personal stage. He would shout out stops in bizarre, exaggerated voices—bellowing “Mahim-wala passenger, get ready, ladies first!”—and pull off uncanny mimicry to keep weary commuters laughing.

When his family relocated to Hyderabad in 1947, the uncomplaining youngster stayed behind to chase his cinematic dreams, entering the industry as a junior artiste—a polite euphemism for an extra in the crowd. “If I was lucky, I got a few lines of dialogue, for which I would be paid Rs 10,” he recalled during an interview at his spacious bungalow in the 1990s, long after retiring from the screen.

While working as a crowd extra for Rs. 5 a day, Kazi often entertained stars on set during breaks with his impressions. While shooting Hulchul, actor-scriptwriter Balraj Sahni watched him perform and saw a genuine talent being treated like a jester. Sahni pulled him aside, told him to respect his craft, and arranged an audition with Guru Dutt, who was then drafting Baazi. The audition led to the birth of a screen legend. Kazi had staggered into Dutt’s office, pretending to be sloshed, picking a quarrel and causing such a scene that Dutt nearly had security toss him onto the street—until Sahni revealed it was all an act. Impressed by the the performance, Dutt cast him on the spot and gave him the catchy moniker after the release of Baazi.

The film marked the start of a legendary partnership. The two men were polar opposites—Dutt the erudite intellectual, and Kazi the unpretentious, cheery realist who had studied only until the sixth standard—yet they forged a deep personal bond. They played badminton after wrap-ups, ate phuchkas (pani puris) at street stalls, and went on hunting trips to Madhya Pradesh.

Dutt valued his friend so highly that he conceived specific roles for him, gave him top billing directly under the leads, and even asked lyricists to write entertaining, profound songs especially for him. Following Aar Paar (1954), Dutt gifted his favourite screen prankster a brand-new convertible Ford. Until then, Kazi had happily ridden public transport, thrilled whenever commuters recognised him.

It was on the sets of Aar Paar that the actor fell for his co-star, Noorjahan (Noor), sister of actress Shakila. Though her character on screen rebuffed him coquettishly with Na na na tauba, real-life romance blossomed between the stanzas.

In stark contrast to the rogue he played on screen, Johnny Walker was a devoted family man who loved quiet fishing trips to Powai Lake with his wife. “Being married to her has made me one of the happiest men on earth!” he effused.

Playing the man on the street came naturally to him as he had been one himself. The unforgettable tel-maalish champiwala in Pyaasa (1957) was modelled on street masseurs Dutt and Walker had observed in Calcutta, who chattered incessantly while massaging clients. “My years of struggle made me aware of human foibles and frailties. That’s why I could play these characters in an identifiable manner,” he reflected.

Walker lent his comic genius to masterpieces by directors like Chetan Anand (Taxi Driver), Raj Khosla (C.I.D.), B.R. Chopra (Naya Daur), Bimal Roy (Madhumati), and H.S. Rawail (Mere Mehboob). Yet in 1968, at the pinnacle of his stardom, he voluntarily cut back his workload. “I was doing double shifts then, but I felt money was of no use if I didn’t have time to eat or sleep when I should,” he reasoned.

In 1985, he stepped away from cinema altogether, coming out of retirement only once for Kamal Haasan’s Chachi 420 in 1997. Content with his quiet life, his car, his home, and providing his children the education he missed, he famously remarked: “Crorepatis don’t have my peace of mind.”

For his 100th birthday, here’s a toast to the non-drinker who gave this melting pot of a city its beating heart: Main Bambai ka babu, Naam mera Anjana, English dhun mein gaaun, Hindustani gaana…