Rajinikanth

He was born Shivaji Rao Gaekwad in 1950 into a poor Marathi-speaking family in Bangalore, and lost his mother young. Before films he did hard, ordinary jobs — a coolie, a carpenter, and, most famously, a bus conductor with the Bangalore transport service, where he was known for the theatrical flair with which he handed out tickets and blew his whistle.

That flamboyance was the only hint of what was to come. There was nothing in his circumstances to suggest stardom — and plenty, according to the industry's narrow ideas about heroes, to rule it out.

He trained at the Madras Film Institute, and the director K. Balachander spotted him and gave him his break, even suggesting the screen name Rajinikanth. But the industry's gatekeepers were sceptical: dark-skinned, lean, rough-featured, he was the opposite of the fair, soft romantic hero Tamil cinema then favoured. He was told, repeatedly, that he did not look like a star.

He began in villain and supporting roles. And then he did something audacious — instead of hiding his differences, he weaponised them. The flicked cigarette, the sunglasses spun onto his face, the swagger, the punch dialogues: he built a style so distinctive that audiences came to see not a character but Rajinikanth himself.

By the 1980s and 90s he was the undisputed 'Superstar' of Tamil cinema. Films like Thalapathi (1991), Baasha (1995) and Muthu (1995) turned him into a mass icon; Muthu even made him a sensation in Japan. His mannerisms became catchphrases; his releases became public holidays in spirit if not in law.

The adoration reached a pitch few stars anywhere have known. Fans built temples to him, performed rituals before his films, and poured milk over giant cutouts on release day. His pay soared to the highest in Indian cinema, and Sivaji (2007) and the sci-fi spectacle Enthiran (2010) confirmed his standing as a pan-Indian and global draw.

What sealed the legend was that, off screen, Rajinikanth remained strikingly unassuming — often appearing in public bald, plainly dressed, without the wigs and glamour of his films, openly spiritual and self-deprecating. The gap between the on-screen god and the humble man became part of the worship.

For decades fans and parties urged him into politics; he flirted with a full-time entry and, in 2020, announced a political party before withdrawing on grounds of health. But whatever he does off screen, the core story stands: a milkless, motherless bus conductor whom everyone said was too dark and too ordinary to be a hero became the most worshipped movie star on earth. Few triumphs in cinema are so complete.