He captured the relentless sentimentality that a certain generation of Telugus, and Indians, perhaps, are known for, in his 1950s film Devadasu. Like all stars, ANR was of course a reflection of who he was seen to be in his movies. I wonder if it was that adulation which made me a writer about cinema today. Some of them would then drop in at our house, to wish me as well. IbnliveĮach year, on ANR’s birthday, bus-loads of fans would come to his house on Road No 1, Banjara Hills (younger Hyderabadis will recognize it as the place across the road from the City Center mall). The veteran actor was one of the last of a legendary set of actors. But somehow they cannot help holding an extra sense of affection for the man who made me famous, in his own way, for this peculiar coincidence. As the son of the famous Telugu filmstar, Jamuna, my earliest childhood memories are filled with the presence of many great luminaries of the film industry. I write this eulogy for Akkineni Nageshwara Rao for the simple reason that despite his towering stature, he never once forgot the bond I had with him from the time I was a child-we shared our birthday. I saw a world passing, and yet, the first thing that struck me about the admiration people had for him is that it was not so much for his roles or image, as for the man himself, a rare accomplishment in an industry of illusions and dreams. I saw scenes from Andhra Pradesh’s legislative assembly, convened to pay tribute to him, and the scores of people who sincerely feel his loss. I passed through scenes of ANR’s funeral on television sets in a blur across living rooms across the country.
I read the news of Akkineni Nageshwara Rao or ANR’s passing on the morning after the Jaipur Literature Festival, where I felt honored and delighted to have had a chance to share stories about south India’s massive and massively-felt film cultures with a vast audience that perhaps can only guess at the extent of what our movies and their gods have meant to us.
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