Just an observation.  No one filled  a T-shirt quite like Joy Mukherjee. Remember him pulling  a rickshaw  (in a striped T-shirt) with the fragile Sadhna in his debut film Love in Simla? Or him serenading Sharmila Tagore with Dil Ki Awaz Bhi Sun in Humsaya (yes, again in a t-shirt, red this time) and he and Saira Banu going around the melodic loops of ‘O ho’ in Woh Hain Zara Khafa Khafa in Shagird (where ofcourse he wore another T-shirt!)? Yup, no one wore them better.

We never watched his films for histrionics but because he was the perfect template for a suitable boy. A broad-shouldered, athletic, clean cut, eligible bachelor  with slick hair, a half smile, eyes that were comical one instant and full of a puppy’s adoration, the next. He basically radiated sunshine. Someone that vampish rich girls in films wanted to snag as a trophy boy friend or husband and poor, emotionally suppressed girls dreamt of wistfully. It was easy to understand why a bespectacled, clumsy Sonia (Sadhna before a fringe and a make over) in Love In Simla would want to steal him away from her cousin, the beautiful Sheela (Azra). He made a great bone of contention between two women and looked worthy of their jealousy and machinations. He played many  variations of Love In Simla’s rich, good looking boy who  lived in a big house and  possibly never suffered a moment of self-doubt till love complicated the best laid plans.

This was possibly the best film to showcase the essence of Joy Mukherjee. A well-groomed, genial hero who could make you believe that love was just a glance away, that music was part of everything whether you were imparting a home work lesson to a young child, begging forgiveness from your girl friend who after having cooked a big meal waited for you in vain or when you looked desperately for her under layers of snow. With Joy Mukherjee, you don’t remember the dialogues, the films so much as the songs. Him playing an amnesiac in Ek Musafir Ek Haseena, singing songs that seemed to have been painted on Kashmir’s canvas. My favourite being Mujhe Dekh Kar Aapka Muskurana, where he is a clown, a suitor, a slightly unhinged lover. Or him looking for the woman of his dreams  and singing Lakhon Hai Nigaah Mein in Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon with that strange manic  gleam in his eyes that perhaps his directors mistook for ardour.

Joy Mukherjee was not an actor for all seasons but in 60’s frothy romances, he brought with him unexpected sartorial elegance and a fundamental niceness that made him look wholesome no matter what he was given to do. He was taller than most heroes of his time and better built than most but his face had an innocence that reminded  you of a trusting child. There never was a whiff of scandal about him even off screen and once he was phased out of his kind of cinema by edgier, darker heroes, he stayed away from spot light, returning only to direct the ill-fated Humsaya and the moderately successful Chaila Babu. The son of  Sashadhar Mukherjee (one of the co-founders of Filmalaya Studios) never threw his  weight around and did not chase success but enjoyed it while it lasted.
To those of us who remember him, he however remains a romantic hero we all wanted to meet when we grew up. Someone who whispered in Mohammed Rafi’s voice, “Aa ja re aa zara aa” to Asha Parekh in Love in Tokyo and made us catch our breath because his face drenched in rain exuded such passion  and also because even in that ridiculously feminine, floral shirt, he was a man. And most importantly, a gentleman.
Rest in peace Joy Mukherjee. And like a fan said on Facebook, “thanks for hours of undiluted joy.”