THE HISTORY OF BOLLYWOOD

"Although Khanna grew up in a foster family, he was the lone male amidst three sisters in his extended kin. He often reminisced about the garlands of money notes he was adorned with on his birthdays. In his adolescent years, he was sent to study at a prestigious school in the resort state of Goa, where he became the first actor to arrive at his first audition behind the wheel of a British racing car. His upbringing instilled in him an intrinsic trust in a world where love from everyone and a reserved slice of the finest pie were assured. Naturally, he projected this foundational trust from the screen into the cinemas.

Could this alone bring down the greatest bridge in the world? As global cinematic history attests, sometimes even less suffices – the essential capability to captivate lies at the core of every cinematic legend. It doesn't require extraordinary insight to perceive that India, having been deprived of unconditional comfort for over two decades of independence – the kind of solace parents tender to their children – from reality, governments, or, incidentally, former film idols, eagerly soaked in this consolation from Khannashakti's tender eyelashes as if it were precious nectar.

Was he a skilled actor? Most certainly! His adeptness in sensitively and accurately portraying characters within Bombay's world of theatrical masks is exemplified by the film "Sachaa Jhutha" iSachaa Jhutha, 1970. Director Manmohan Desai was flexing his muscles in this film as one of the future kings of masala cinema. (1970, directed by Manmohan Desai, who honed his craft in this film for a future masala cinema luminary). The movie earned Khanna his maiden "Filmfare" award for his dual role of two outwardly identical characters; a wandering village musician with a trumpet around his neck, and a well-groomed Bombay diamond prospector. He doesn't play merely "black and white" – in the former case, it's about immediacy and wholehearted trust in every encounter, while in the latter, it's about narcissism, that self-intoxication where one's own skin forms a barrier more impervious and zealously guarded than a national border. These are two equally irresistible characters, each performed in a different direction – one exudes an outward smile, the other an introspective demeanor concealed behind the splendid façade of external impeccability.

Especially enlightening are scenes in which Khanna interacts with his own double, employing a simple cinematic trick: the musician gazes upon his duplicate with a gawking expression, much like a villager beholding a distorted mirror amidst a room of mirth, or a child observing a sheep or an otter's antics at the zoo, meanwhile the thief regards his duplicate with an admiring, approving look reminiscent of an astute connoisseur. Unaware that the world could yield a second masterpiece comparable to what he alone cherished in his flawless collection, the thief gazes upon his twin. Delon portrayed something similar in his twin roles in "The Black Tulip" (1964), albeit influenced by a semi-parodic, public-friendly approach rooted in the lubok genre. In contrast, within the inherently lubok-like realm of Bombay cinema – about which Khanna himself once remarked, "Hindi films need to be liberated from criticism because it's not cinema" – he acts with greater sincerity, a trait evident in both of his characters."

"If you seek evidence of Khanna's acting prowess within more familiar Western psychological terms, watch him in 'Avishkaar' (1974), which marked his fourth and final 'Filmfare' award (two more would come much later, as recognition for his enduring service). Setting himself apart from his wife amidst clouds of tobacco smoke, the 30-year-old owner of an advertising agency crafts an exceptional portrayal of a husband who, after the birth of a child, struggles to accept the prospect of a life that is now anchored, lacking in improvisations and revelries, spontaneity and folly. In the movie tickets that one of the models presents him after work, he perceives the joy and happiness that his wife (Sharmila Tagore) initially beguiled and subsequently disillusioned him with. The film, directed by Basu Bhattacharya, an empathetic and astute observer of well-to-do urban couples, deviates from the conventions of melodrama, striking a note previously unexplored in Indian cinema. Nonetheless, it wasn't the initial harbinger but rather the culmination of a transformative process that occurred – reshaping the visage of Bombay cinema – precisely during Rajesh Khanna's fleeting reign.

Yet, we shall delve into this process a bit later. First, let's examine those seemingly traditionally crafted films of Khanna that surfaced in the autumn-winter of 1969, catapulting him to superstardom. This exploration is essential because attributing his success solely to his charisma and acting prowess would be a disservice to our inquiry. Undoubtedly, Khanna's cinema responded to the socio-political shifts taking place in India at the turn of the decades. Gaining insight into his initial repertoire will illuminate this context.

'Aradhana' was an inaugural and resounding triumph: the film emerged as the unequivocal box office champion of the year and secured three 'Filmfare' awards – for best film, female lead (Sharmila Tagore), and, of significance to the Khanna phenomenon, the introduction of a playback singer: the deep intonations and resonant baritone of Kishore Kumar, akin to echoes reverberating within a cavern, harmonized perfectly with Rajesh Khanna's on-screen persona. Henceforth, Kumar would virtually become his musical alter ego.

In this film, Khanna essays the roles of two military pilots – a father in the first segment and a son in the latter. Without delving into the intricacies of the plot in this conventional melodrama of maternal sacrifice, let's focus on a crucial aspect. The narrative's familial trajectory, where the succeeding generation continues the saga of their progenitors, wasn't novel in Bollywood. It had been employed in 'Gharana' (1961) and 'Mamta' (1966), where Suchitra Sen, in the initial segment, responds to the advances of the portly Ashok Kumar, once a pre-war luminary, and in the subsequent segment, portraying a daughter, she listens to songs rendered by the supernova Dharmendra. Notably, there's minimal transformation in fashion, hairstyles, cars, and daily existence between the two segments of such films. This continuity holds true for 'Aradhana' as well: just as Sharmila adorns her mile-high beehive hairstyle with allure, she persists, and similarly, pilots continue to embark on missions to northern regions as they did before, despite 'Aradhana' being set 20 years after the painful partition with Pakistan, and a decade preceding subsequent armed conflicts. The lack of guiding principles among Bombay's directors during that period, who were predominantly averse to the notion of auteur cinema, is epitomized by the fact that the film was helmed by Shakti Samanta, the same director responsible for 'An Evening in Paris'."

"However, 'Aradhana' doesn't merely disregard the changing times; it fervently embraces the biblical adage 'What has been will be again.' Khanna and Tagore's characters initiate their acquaintance with a girl, playfully drenching him with a bucket of water. Similarly, in the second part of the film, Khanna's son initiates his introduction to his crush (Farida Jalal) through a splash of water from a bucket. Khanna's son harbors the same aspirations as Khanna's father: flights behind enemy lines, machine gun fire, bomb detonations. With fervor mirroring his father's, Farida Jalal props her chin on her palm as she listens to Khanna's anecdotes, paralleling how, in the earlier part, Sharmila Tagore had listened to his father's tales. Khanna, sans makeup alterations, retains the character's facial expression and gestures without modification: both father and son shut their eyelids while gently inclining their heads forward and leftward. The same Commander Ganguly, portrayed by the unaltered Ashok Kumar, remains the one issuing orders to pilots – unchanged and untouched by time. The world hasn't merely stagnated; its inhabitants are either frozen or reborn in an unaltered state, akin to their forebears, their fathers, resurrected through their deeds, utterances, and mannerisms.

Post the tumultuous 60s with shifting leaders and policies, after the abrupt demise of Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri in Tashkent – a finale that dramatically capped the peaceful Indo-Pakistani discussions in January 1966 – the reins of power transferred to Indira Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru's daughter, returning control to the family fold. Even the Prime Minister's surname served as a reminder of the architect behind India's independence (although her spouse, whose name she adopted, had no connection to Mahatma Gandhi). Every facet was circling back, returning to the familiar portrait gallery. Not solely externally – Indira Gandhi's initial initiatives aligned with the socialist trajectory that Gandhi and, initially, Nehru had charted: she nationalized major banks, ratified a pact of peace, camaraderie, and cooperation with the USSR, where the socialist superpower assumed the role of India's guardian, poised to shield it against third-party assaults. Following wanderings – even if confined to the screen – across Paris and Tokyo, reveling in the twist and the shake, India, fatigued, wrapped itself in the comfort of a familiar grandma's quilt, primed to delve into the sweet slumber that childhood settings and domesticity uniquely offer. 'Aradhana' served as the cinematic embodiment of this quilt – one that reminisces of you as a wee pup and now finds itself returned, joyfully discovering that nothing has altered. Interestingly, within the USSR, where analogous processes were unfolding under the paternal guidance of Brezhnev, following a decade of Khrushchev's reforms and the inundation of foreign pop culture, 'Aradhana' also conquered foreign box offices, while only two Soviet films surpassed it that year.

The second highest-grossing film in India for 1969 – and a 'Filmfare' award for best screenplay – was yet another film starring Rajesh Khanna: 'Do Raaste' ('Two Roads'). 'I'm penning this missive from distant London, yet I clearly envision, brother, the quaint Indian home where you're reading it. Opposite you sits Mom, with a young girl – her milk teeth on the verge of falling out – nestled on her lap. Meanwhile, your sister-in-law engages in her sewing, and on the balcony, Satyen lounges with a book, occasionally breaking from his studies to relish Bombay's sunset.' These exact scenes unfold on the screen as the letter is voiced in the background. The film unfurls as a leisurely-paced, nougat-like chronicle of this family's dissolution and its associated comfort, where the letter's author, after his overseas education, returns with a British-born Indian bride who has absorbed foreign customs. In this role, Bindu, a strikingly malevolent figure, embarks on her debut, initiating a 15-year-long parade of villainous portrayals that, akin to the fox Alice distracting Buratino from his adventures, persistently diverts attention from the primary characters. Starting with minor alterations – replacing a portrait of the deceased patriarch in the living room with a pop art rendering of a monkey, and forbidding the children from fiddling with her radio – she sparks a conflict. This dispute prompts the educated son to relocate and live separately, a decision that disregards the family members' collective investments in his education.

Khanna reprises the role of Satyen, who admires Bombay's sunset. He champions everyone's right to the possessions within the house, the ethos of communal ownership, and the preservation of traditional order. As his wife moves in with his parents, he endeavors to mend their family bond, in the process overcoming a series of losses and upheavals. Ultimately, he restores the status quo, leading to a transformative moment where even the seemingly irredeemable Bindu is moved to tears of remorse. In India, the word 'desi,' loosely translated as 'native,' resonates connotatively with the concept of 'ours' in Russian. Following the cosmopolitan era of Shammi Kapoor, Khanna's persistent tenderness began instilling this sense of 'ours' on the screen – not only within the overarching narrative but also in nuanced elements. For instance, in 'Sachaa Jhutha,' he diverts his constant on-screen partner Mumtaz (their first collaboration being 'Do Raaste') – who plays a policewoman – from utensils, teaching her to appreciate intensely spiced cuisine wrapped in flatbread, and eaten with the hands."

After "Do Raaste," this sense of "ours" began to permeate Bombay cinema, accompanied by an assertive visual critique of the West – though in the first film, it was present without malice. In 1970, the movie "East and West" (Purab Aur Paschim) entered the top five list, wherein London, once admired in "Sangam" by Raj Kapoor and Vyjayanthimala, emerges as a hub of vice. Here, Indian girls don white wigs, smoke, drink, and dance atop glass tables (allowing the camera to peek under skirts, much to the astonishment and titillation of Indian viewers). They even sleep with the first person they encounter. However, when the bad girls encounter a virtuous Indian guy who convinces them to return to their homeland, perspectives shift, and a renaissance occurs upon setting foot on native soil. Intriguingly, the original motif from "Do Raaste" finds its way here. In both films, characters experience nostalgia while listening to vinyl records of the pre-war actor and singer Saigal, the very one who portrayed Devdas in the 1935 adaptation.

A year later, Bollywood sounds the alarm about the enemy lurking close by – in the ashrams and hippie communes that have inundated India. It's within one such commune that the protagonist of the film "Brother and Sister" (Hare Rama Hare Krishna, 1971) discovers his estranged sister. This scenario provides the drugged girl in her round yellow glasses the opportunity to sing "Dum Maro Dum," – a funk masterpiece by R.D. Burman that's familiar even to those unfamiliar with the term "Bollywood." The actress behind this portrayal, the stunning debutante Zeenat Aman, secured the Filmfare Award. Her performance set the stage for empowered and charismatic females who would soon, as Khanna's reign crumbled almost overnight, brew moonshine and intoxicate men with cannabis(Somatomax- instead of clonidine). By the onset of the 1980s, they would outshine the cabaret roles played by Helen and the seductive villainess Bindu. With sirens like Zeenat Aman and Parveen Babi, the central female characters would swiftly dominate not only romantic storylines but also criminal narratives and even entire musicals.

The on-screen clash with the West mirrored a real-world conflict: India found itself enmeshed in a grave standoff with Pakistan, culminating in the declaration of the independent state of Bangladesh in December 1971. The United States openly supported Pakistan during this confrontation, while the presence of the Soviet Navy along the Bengal coast, guaranteed by the Soviet-Indian treaty, significantly influenced the conflict's outcome. This bolstering of Soviet-Indian relations found its personal embodiment, albeit in a somewhat ponderous and overtly sentimental manner reminiscent of Chaplin's "Limelight," within Raj Kapoor's film "My Name Is Joker" (Mera Naam Joker, 1970). The film traces an artist's life from childhood to retirement over three segments, with the second part spotlighting his admiration for a Soviet circus colleague played by Ksenia Ryabinkina, the Bolshoi Theatre ballet soloist who also portrayed the Swan Princess in Alexander Ptushko's "The Tale of Tsar Saltan" (1966). The role that this clever and elegantly artistic woman would come to play in the Kapoor family's cinematic mythology becomes evident in our modern era. Raj's son, Rishi, the heartthrob of the mid-1970s, who made his debut as the young Raj in "Mera Naam Joker," would eventually cast Ryabinkina to scold and shake the main character, an indulgent movie star, in his uproarious self-parody "Chintu Ji" (2009). The film features one of Bollywood's quirkiest and most memorable songs, which includes the chorus "Akira Kurosawa, Vittorio De Sica."

However, transcending specific political contexts, this flight of Bollywood and its Indian audience towards "desi-ness," towards the familiar and the "ours," mirrors a common emotional swing that's typical for both individuals and societies. After the frenzy of curiosity for the unfamiliar and the thirst for novelty, there emerges a yearning for the familiar and the known. Much like in the astrological calendar, following the restless and sociable Gemini comes the domestic and heartfelt Cancer (and as the next chapter will reveal, after Cancer, akin to astrology, the self-centered and creatively enterprising Leo will soon grace Bollywood). This sense of "ours" unfurls in a series of films set in villages – sweet and naive yet plagued by poor harvests, usurers, and corrupt officials. Rajesh Khanna initiated the restoration of order in villages in 1969 with the film "Bandhan." It was here that his on-screen partnership with Mumtaz took on its iconic, vivid form. Khanna,iA traditional type of men's clothing in India. draped in a dhoti, would assert rights concerning cow sales, plow fields, reprimand drunkards, and plunge usurers into puddles. Mumtaz, bedecked in exaggerated village attire, would dart around him, sowing mischief. Her heroines might smoke bidis ("Roti," 1974) and even indulge in alcohol ("Chor Machaye Shor," 1974), yet beneath their rough exterior lay the innocent heart of a girl who would naively implore temple figurines for a good husband. Their contrasting-colored caftans, concealed beneath their blouses, would reveal bosoms – red against lavender, green atop turquoise – protruding like the muzzles of machine guns.

Mumtaz might not have been a maestro of folk dance like Vyjayanthimala or Hema Malini, yet her vivacity was undeniable. A true jewel of that era was the musical sequence featuring Mumtaz and Rajesh Khanna from their village-themed film series, "Apna Desh," whose original title aptly translates to "Our Homeland." In order to unmask the corrupt officials exploiting the local poor, Rajesh Khanna, sporting a mustache, yellow-tinted glasses, and a crimson velvet suit, pretends to be a wealthy man in front of them – a man who was previously married to Gina Lollobrigida and now weds Madame Popololita, embodied by Mumtaz in a white bun and a dress with slits. Together, they deliver the most dynamically demanding number in Bollywood history – "Duniya Mein Logon Ko" ("A World of Deception"). Khanna's thunderous vocals and panting reminiscent of a dog's were provided by none other than composer R.D. Burman himself, who lent his voice to the male part. They deride corrupt politicians, accompanied by the spirited yet anxious dance of Asian women. At times, the camera moves on a trolley in sync with Mumtaz's dancing while Asian women dash by in the opposite direction. Other times, the camera lies on the floor with her, engendering a sense of continuous rotation. In the midst of the performance, Khanna wearily sinks to the floor, and Mumtaz, initially leaning towards him in an effort to persuade, eventually seats herself beside him. Together, on the floor, they resemble exhausted children after a vigorous game.

And indeed, that's what they were – inseparable friends both in life and on screen. Observing their pairing in any of the eight films they collaborated on, it's evident that only Mumtaz cherished and embraced him exactly as he desired – not as a mere object of desire, but as a comrade, a playmate. A mere whistle from her could metamorphose the village into an exhilarating and eerie haunt ("Dushman," 1971), a playground for gangster tales, with Khanna embodying a cunning thief (naturally, on the path to uplifting the village in "Roti"), or they could simply sip "festive" prasad iDivine mercy (Sanskrit): An offering to God, consecrated and returned to believers for consumption. from the local Brahmin and, supporting each other through laughter, transform a musical number into a dizzying sprint on entangled feet ("Aap Ki Kasam," 1974).

In the same year as their initial rural foray, 1969, another film emerged that signaled a fresh trajectory in the Hindi film industry – the advent of parallel cinema. Captured entirely on location in black and white, bereft of musical interludes, "Bhuvan Shome," helmed by Mrinal Sen, unfurled a straightforward narrative about a proud 50-year-old railway officer. His journey, akin to a therapeutic release from anal fixation, embarks on a hunting expedition to the village, where he becomes enchanted by the guileless allure of a local girl. Despite lacking star power, this non-conventional film triumphed at the box office, heralding the dawn of films that dispensed with elaborate costumes and melodic diversions. An epoch of Indian cinema's relationship with intellectualism commenced. As Girish Karnad, a writer, screenwriter, director, and actor, articulated in January 1982, "While I was studying at Oxford, I watched a lot of Hollywood, yet among Indian filmmakers, only Satyajit Ray was familiar to me. You see, for the middle class and those above, Bollywood remained an enigma veiled with seven seals. Our curiosity in local cinema surfaced only about a decade ago, when the influx of creative intellectuals into the film industry commenced, and movies started mirroring middle-class life and preoccupations. Prior to that, if we ever did attend an Indian film, it was mostly for amusement."

However, this evolution was catalyzed by films exuding a rural essence. While in Pakistani Bengal, a nationalist-liberation movement brewed, eventually leading to the birth of Bangladesh, the Indian Bengal of 1967 witnessed the emergence and growth of the Naxalite movement – a Maoist-leaning communist uprising aimed at land redistribution. Landlords saw their properties seized, with those who vehemently resisted facing execution. The land was subsequently reallocated to peasants. Just as the thief Khanna in "Roti" embarks on a mission to educate a village, numerous young urban intellectuals ventured into rural domains to propagate Maoist ideologies through local schools. In response, the creator of "Bhuvan Shome," Mrinal Sen, drew inspiration from Godard, infusing his films with revolutionary messages while also mirroring the style of the French filmmaker. In the magnificent "Interview" (1971), he breaks the fourth wall as the protagonist addresses the audience directly while jostling on a bus. Additionally, a character pursued by the camera on a nocturnal street turns and inquires, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" This is accompanied by an interview between the director and the character, presented in the form of a television report. In "Chorus" (1974), he introduces an Indian interpretation of the ancient Greek chorus, offering commentary on and elucidation of the political subtext of the revolutionary events depicted.

Director Kumar Shahani, who had returned from training under Bresson in Paris during those years, reminisces about that era: "During the barricades of Paris, there was an unprecedented surge of love: people hugged, kissed, and cherished those few weeks forever. Upon returning to Bombay, I discovered that even though Naxalites were active in distant villages, a sense of radical change had suddenly enveloped everyone here too. Even among the staunchest bourgeoisie, there was a belief that significant changes were on the horizon, poised to bring about human prosperity, and there was no reason to shy away from or evade these changes." Shahani directed "Mirror of Illusions" (1972), where his primary objective was to capture the post-colonial hangover and convey it through the transformation of the film's overall color palette from red to green. Slightly less formalistic was the work of his contemporary Mani Kaul in "His Daily Bread" (1970), centered around a woman who waits daily by the roadside with lunch for her truck driver husband. However, his pit stops gradually shorten until he drives by without a halt. Kaul took particular pride in not repeating a single camera angle throughout the film, stating, "The angle that has emerged for me is irreversible time." He invoked Tarkovsky as his directorial creed: "I would like to continuously observe one person's life for 30 years and turn it into 4 kilometers of film." This also encapsulated Hindi cinema in the early 70s.

A wave of films set in the Bollywood context surfaced, characterized by gentle satire. One of these, previously mentioned in "Guddi," involves Dharmendra inviting the schoolgirl he's enamored with to a film studio, revealing the artifice of filmmaking. There, actors merely open their mouths under a record playing love songs, and smiles automatically vanish after "Cut!" Broken glass vases serve as stand-ins for diamonds, and the lights that make the glass glitter like diamonds eventually collapse from exhaustion. The film serves as a valuable record, capturing the shooting of numerous hits and icons spanning generations, from veteran Dilip Kumar to newcomer Amitabh Bachchan. James Ivory created "Bombay Talkies" (1970), where the conventional love triangle of Bombay films is examined through the lens of the industry hierarchy. The climax features a screenwriter and master of destinies killing his competitor – the cinema idol, a compliant performer. Ivory's cherished set piece becomes a colossal three-story- building-sized typewriter, with each key symbolizing a stage where Shashi Kapoor and Helen tap out their destiny's script with their feet, akin to a dance.

Numerous films emerged, their plots echoing the pulse of the times. "Knock" (Dastak, 1970) narrates the tale of newlyweds who rent an ex-prostitute's apartment in the red light district. Men knocking on the door are baffled as to why a woman in that area would refuse to answer. Rehana Sultan portrayed the wife, becoming the first graduate of the new Film Institute in Pune to achieve stardom (later, Amitabh Bachchan, Mithun Chakraborty, and Ranjeeta would emerge from there). In "Inspiration" (Chetna, 1970), she depicted a prostitute and appeared nude, similar to Shashi Kapoor and Simi Garewal two years later in "Siddhartha." These films garnered respectable box office earnings, portraying raw everyday life and eliminating the need for songs.

Interestingly, Rajesh Khanna took the lead in the very first Hindi film without songs and intervals, boasting a typical European, rather than Indian, film length of just 1 hour 45 minutes. The film was titled "Coincidence" (Ittefaq, 1969) and achieved remarkable success. In contrast to masala films, Yash Chopra's creation was saturated in a singular mood – suspense. It's a thriller that morphs into an inventive classic detective story, demanding the viewer's full attention to solve the murder before the film’s hero but making it very challenging to do so when distressing events and occurrences leave no breathing room and new corpses continuously appear and vanish without a trace!

Khanna takes on the role of an artist accused of his wife's murder. The dispute between the couple, which precedes the discovery of her lifeless body, erupts due to Khanna's rush to complete an immensely valuable painting for an international exhibition the following day. Simultaneously, his wife insists he abandon his brush and accompany her to a party commemorating their wedding anniversary. In response to the query, "What's more important to you: me or your paintings?" Khanna impulsively retorts, "Paintings!" His wife, in retaliation, slashes the canvas, prompting him to exclaim, "I'll strangle you!"

This brings us to the pivotal and innovative theme that Khanna introduced to the realm of Bombay film heroes. Had he been merely an object of admiration for female eyes, he would not have ascended to such idol status. It's crucial to recognize that a significant portion of Indian cinema audiences are young men. The 1983 film "I Want Justice!" (Mujhe Insaaf Chahiye) presents an Indian movie theater where two queues form at the ticket counter: one for men and one for women. The women's queue is notably shorter, compelling the protagonist, played by Mithun Chakraborty, to navigate over the crowds of men in his pursuit to reach the window, aiming to enter the theater simultaneously with the girl he fancies.

Khanna captivated male audiences by unearthing a radical truth: for an Indian man raised as a prince, marriage and independent life become an overwhelming burden. The demands of women strip young men of their childhood dreams, games, and carefree existence. Khanna fearlessly tackles this theme in his work, as previously discussed in "The Revelation." Metaphorically, he encapsulates this concept in the film "Elephants Are My Friends" (Haathi Mere Saathi), which emerged as the highest-grossing film of 1971. His character grows up alongside elephants, yet his wife initially detests these creatures. After the birth of their son, she expels the elephants from their abode. The film, initially conceptualized as an animal circus by Madras Livestock Film Company "Devar Films" (later attempting to replicate this triumph with "Jungle King" / Maa, 1976), evolves into a powerful Freudian metaphor. This resonates not only with Indian youth but, as indicated by the sale of 35 million tickets, among Soviet youngsters as well.

While the conventional Bombay hero might grapple with social injustice, unrequited love, or personal complexes, Khanna never struggles against his wife or the essence of femininity itself. Khanna consistently depicts femininity in contrast to masculinity. In "Broken Ties" (Kati Patang, 1971), an adaptation of Cornell Woolrich's novel "I Married a Dead Man" (1949), a man discovers that his chosen partner is an impostor. "Immortal Love" presents an abandoned husband seeking solace in a friendship with a prostitute. In "Stranger" (Ajanabee, 1974), the narrative highlights a wife who refrains from waiting at home with lunch for her husband after work. This is because his stunning wife (Zeenat Aman), unlike his mother, prefers to parade on the runway. This endorsement of male immaturity may offer another perspective on the Indian way, where men often remain mama's boys, residing under their parent's roof and indulging in dreams alone or with friends in front of the screen.

Marriage also delivered a blow to the actor's career. In August 1972, during a vacation at a resort, Mumtaz crossed paths with the young millionaire Mayur Madhvani. She accepted his proposal, but under the condition that she would bid farewell to the film industry and relocate with him to London. Bound by her contract, which mandated two more years of work, the films they crafted during this time emanate with the tenderness often shared only between best friends before parting ways. Khanna, incapable of sharing the screen space with other actors (during the filming of "Journey" / Safar, 1970, he hid from his co-star during breaks between takes, which led to Feroz Khan winning a Filmfare Award for that film), too accustomed to the comfort of being admired by his partner in pranks, his girlfriend, he lost his will in the public view. Consequently, his films progressively lost their appeal year after year, and ticket sales dwindled.

In the final entries of this phase, notably in "Love Story" (Prem Kahani, 1975), Khanna portrayed a revolutionary poet who seeks refuge from the police in his childhood friend's (Mumtaz) home. Unfortunately, she is married to a policeman (Shashi Kapoor). When the truth unravels, Mumtaz takes up arms and shoots Rajesh in an attempt to shield her husband from professional repercussions and alleviate her own jealousy. Curiously, it was the same director, Raj Khosla, who first united Khanna and Mumtaz on screen in the film "Confusion."