Almost 15 years ago, after a decade-long stint as a homemaker, I embarked on my doctoral research and took the first hesitant steps back into academia. In many ways, I was a greenhorn. Once an ardent music lover, my listening habits had shrunk to old radio songs; I hardly knew anything about prevalent music trends, let alone popular Punjabi music.
One afternoon, I was standing outside the Panjab University library with a few fellow scholars. A couple of them walked up to a soft-spoken man of modest height and struck up a conversation. Within minutes, young girls approached him for autographs. Driven by curiosity, I casually asked someone who he was. I remember him looking at me in disbelief.
As it turned out, the gentleman was Satinder Sartaaj. Though not yet the global phenomenon he is today, he was already a celebrated artiste with several soulful melodies to his credit. That evening, I bought DVDs of his albums and played them on loop. Regrettably, I missed my chance to get an autograph.
Such hiccups and goof-ups have since become a recurring pattern in my life. Over the years, I have learned not to cringe too hard—after all, a touch of absurdity resides in us all. Besides, self-deprecating humour remains the best antidote to an inflated ego.
Another incident unfolded a few years ago at a literature festival in Chandigarh. Wanting to capture a memory of the day, my college friends and I looked for someone to take our photo at the designated booth. I approached an affable gentleman in a green turban, pastel shirt, and vibrant jacket, asking if he would mind taking a few shots in both portrait and landscape modes. He gracefully obliged.
After thanking him, we strolled into the next session, only for my heart to skip a beat. The gentleman was sitting on stage, discussing his book, The Biryani Leader. He was none other than the Namak Shamak celebrity chef Harpal Singh Sokhi.
Mortified by my ignorance, I later sent him a message on Facebook to apologise for the unintended impertinence. His gracious response remains etched in my memory. Later, a friend who had won MasterChef Punjab sent me a photograph of a crowd jostling to take selfies with chef Sokhi at a studio, teasing me: “How could you ask him to click a picture for you!”
Red-faced as I was, the incident left me with a clear takeaway: True celebrities rarely feel the need to make loud entrances; they win hearts through quiet grace.
A similar memory goes back 18 years to a trip to Mumbai, when we stopped for lunch at Hotel Fariyas in Lonavala. While enjoying the buffet, I noticed a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to my favourite ghazal singer. Dismissing it as an improbable coincidence, I said nothing. Only later did the hotel staff confirm that it was indeed him, but by then, the moment had slipped away.
Looking back, these celebrity mix-ups feel more amusing than embarrassing. They serve as a gentle reminder that before these figures became cultural icons, they were ordinary people shaped by the same soil and society.
Celebrity is merely a public identity; humility is deeply personal. And if my string of mishaps has taught me anything, it is that the most unforgettable encounters are not with larger-than-life personas, but with people who are extraordinary not only in their achievements, but also in their humility. [email protected]
The writer is an assistant professor of English at Mehr Chand Mahajan DAV College for Women, Chandigarh.