<p class="bodytext">Munna would’ve been thrilled to know how I first watched Rangeela. An evening show on day two, a hard-won ticket miraculously bought without resorting to “black,” though I was absolutely ready to. After surviving the serpentine queue, I landed in the notoriously rowdy 'Gandhi class' of Bengaluru’s Urvashi Theatre, surrounded by whistles, cheers and a few spontaneous backup dancers. All men, naturally. My mother, whom I’d dragged along, was muttering silent curses at everyone, starting, I’m sure, with Aamir. And then he appeared onscreen as Munna: scruffy, shirt-ends tied, smirk in place, chanting 'dus ka tees', and proceeded to dunk my heart, her grudging one, and the entire hall in a particularly filmi shade of taxicab yellow.</p>.<p class="bodytext">If 'Andaz Apna Apna' (1994) was a masterful parody of Bollywood, 'Rangeela' (1995) was a wholehearted celebration of the industry’s magic, mayhem, masala and that unmistakable <span class="italic"><em>madhoshi </em></span>(rapture, though the word hardly covers it). Aamir’s Munna was impulsive, passionate, obstinate and often infuriating. He adored the glamour of the movies and distrusted it at the same time, a chaotic bundle of contradictions who could sing, dance, swear and care without missing a beat. And yes, this mast kalandar’s heart was resolutely gold. Munna, yaaro, embodied cinema itself — a conceit Ram Gopal Varma played with throughout, sometimes loudly, sometimes with a sly, almost invisible touch.</p>.<p class="bodytext">If you can momentarily detach yourself from the borderline vile, often insufferable social-media persona of today’s RGV, you might remember the filmmaker who once operated at the peak of his craft. 'Rangeela', on the surface, was just another love triangle, but what unfurled on screen was far more potent: a film that turned into a moodboard for a generation. It reshaped fashion, for one. Mili’s famous yellow dress was apparently stitched overnight. Her crop tops and swingy skirts sent every teen girl to her local tailor demanding replicas. And so, the then relatively unknown Manish Malhotra never looked back.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It also rewired how Hindi film music was marketed. The soundtrack dominated television long before the film opened, which simply wasn’t the norm then. Those songs created a genuine pre-release frenzy. 'Rangeela' was A R Rahman’s official Bollywood entry, and from here he vaulted into a different league altogether. 'Tanha tanha', 'Yaaro sunlo', 'Kya kare', 'Mangta hai kya' — each track grabbed a distinct mood and refused to let go. Cassettes wore thin from overuse.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Visually, too, 'Rangeela' was a gamble RGV insisted on. He wanted gliding, free-moving frames and pushed to use Steadicams at a time when they were rare in mainstream Hindi cinema. The film’s aesthetic was uncluttered, the choreography famously "different” (read: unapologetically sexy), and the colour palette vibrant. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Aamir added his own touches of lived-in authenticity: wearing mostly his own clothes, speaking tapori slang he picked up from boys lounging outside Famous Studios, and attacking his shoes with stones and mud so they looked broken-in. He played Munna with a nonchalant yearning that Hindi cinema has rarely matched. Rumour has it he was so disappointed about not winning the Filmfare Best Actor award that year that he stopped believing in awards entirely. Jackie Shroff, meanwhile, gave Raj Kamal a brooding, slow-burn charisma, while Urmila Matondkar infused Mili with such elan that she remains a pop-culture landmark even 25 years later. Together, they created a film with a cool quotient that Bollywood didn’t know it possessed.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Even today, when the visceral 'Rangeela re' hits, you can almost smell the sea, feel your pulse quicken and sense your feet finding their own beat. There’s a bit of Mili in all of us, a pinch of Munna, maybe even a dash of Raj Kamal — and certainly a lingering smear of that taxicab yellow.</p>
<p class="bodytext">Munna would’ve been thrilled to know how I first watched Rangeela. An evening show on day two, a hard-won ticket miraculously bought without resorting to “black,” though I was absolutely ready to. After surviving the serpentine queue, I landed in the notoriously rowdy 'Gandhi class' of Bengaluru’s Urvashi Theatre, surrounded by whistles, cheers and a few spontaneous backup dancers. All men, naturally. My mother, whom I’d dragged along, was muttering silent curses at everyone, starting, I’m sure, with Aamir. And then he appeared onscreen as Munna: scruffy, shirt-ends tied, smirk in place, chanting 'dus ka tees', and proceeded to dunk my heart, her grudging one, and the entire hall in a particularly filmi shade of taxicab yellow.</p>.<p class="bodytext">If 'Andaz Apna Apna' (1994) was a masterful parody of Bollywood, 'Rangeela' (1995) was a wholehearted celebration of the industry’s magic, mayhem, masala and that unmistakable <span class="italic"><em>madhoshi </em></span>(rapture, though the word hardly covers it). Aamir’s Munna was impulsive, passionate, obstinate and often infuriating. He adored the glamour of the movies and distrusted it at the same time, a chaotic bundle of contradictions who could sing, dance, swear and care without missing a beat. And yes, this mast kalandar’s heart was resolutely gold. Munna, yaaro, embodied cinema itself — a conceit Ram Gopal Varma played with throughout, sometimes loudly, sometimes with a sly, almost invisible touch.</p>.<p class="bodytext">If you can momentarily detach yourself from the borderline vile, often insufferable social-media persona of today’s RGV, you might remember the filmmaker who once operated at the peak of his craft. 'Rangeela', on the surface, was just another love triangle, but what unfurled on screen was far more potent: a film that turned into a moodboard for a generation. It reshaped fashion, for one. Mili’s famous yellow dress was apparently stitched overnight. Her crop tops and swingy skirts sent every teen girl to her local tailor demanding replicas. And so, the then relatively unknown Manish Malhotra never looked back.</p>.<p class="bodytext">It also rewired how Hindi film music was marketed. The soundtrack dominated television long before the film opened, which simply wasn’t the norm then. Those songs created a genuine pre-release frenzy. 'Rangeela' was A R Rahman’s official Bollywood entry, and from here he vaulted into a different league altogether. 'Tanha tanha', 'Yaaro sunlo', 'Kya kare', 'Mangta hai kya' — each track grabbed a distinct mood and refused to let go. Cassettes wore thin from overuse.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Visually, too, 'Rangeela' was a gamble RGV insisted on. He wanted gliding, free-moving frames and pushed to use Steadicams at a time when they were rare in mainstream Hindi cinema. The film’s aesthetic was uncluttered, the choreography famously "different” (read: unapologetically sexy), and the colour palette vibrant. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Aamir added his own touches of lived-in authenticity: wearing mostly his own clothes, speaking tapori slang he picked up from boys lounging outside Famous Studios, and attacking his shoes with stones and mud so they looked broken-in. He played Munna with a nonchalant yearning that Hindi cinema has rarely matched. Rumour has it he was so disappointed about not winning the Filmfare Best Actor award that year that he stopped believing in awards entirely. Jackie Shroff, meanwhile, gave Raj Kamal a brooding, slow-burn charisma, while Urmila Matondkar infused Mili with such elan that she remains a pop-culture landmark even 25 years later. Together, they created a film with a cool quotient that Bollywood didn’t know it possessed.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Even today, when the visceral 'Rangeela re' hits, you can almost smell the sea, feel your pulse quicken and sense your feet finding their own beat. There’s a bit of Mili in all of us, a pinch of Munna, maybe even a dash of Raj Kamal — and certainly a lingering smear of that taxicab yellow.</p>