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By:

Bhalchandra Chorghade

11 August 2025 at 1:54:18 pm

Jaspal Rana taught India to aim higher

Indian sport lost one of its finest champions on June 12, 2026, with the untimely passing of shooting legend and coach Jaspal Rana at the age of 49. His death has left a void that will be difficult to fill, not only in Indian shooting but in the hearts of countless athletes, admirers and young dreamers who looked up to him as a symbol of excellence, discipline and perseverance. Born in the hills of Uttarakhand, Rana emerged as a prodigious talent at an age when most children are still...

Jaspal Rana taught India to aim higher

Indian sport lost one of its finest champions on June 12, 2026, with the untimely passing of shooting legend and coach Jaspal Rana at the age of 49. His death has left a void that will be difficult to fill, not only in Indian shooting but in the hearts of countless athletes, admirers and young dreamers who looked up to him as a symbol of excellence, discipline and perseverance. Born in the hills of Uttarakhand, Rana emerged as a prodigious talent at an age when most children are still discovering their interests. By his teens, he had already announced himself on the national stage and over the years he would go on to become one of India’s most decorated shooters. His remarkable achievements at the Asian Games, Commonwealth Championships and international competitions transformed him into a household name and brought unprecedented attention to shooting in India. Yet medals alone do not define Jaspal Rana’s legacy. What truly set him apart was his unwavering commitment to the sport long after his competitive career ended. As a coach, mentor and guide, he devoted himself to nurturing the next generation of Indian shooters. His influence can be seen in the success of numerous athletes, most notably Olympic medallist Manu Bhaker, whose achievements carried the unmistakable imprint of Rana’s guidance and belief. He possessed the rare ability to identify talent, instill confidence and demand excellence without losing sight of the human being behind the athlete. To his students, he was more than a coach. He was a teacher, protector and source of strength during moments of doubt. To colleagues, he was a respected professional whose passion for Indian sport was evident in every conversation and every training session. To fans, he represented an era when dedication and hard work could elevate a niche sport into the national spotlight. His sudden departure is a painful reminder of life’s fragility. But while Jaspal Rana is no longer with us, the values he championed — discipline, courage, humility and relentless pursuit of excellence — will continue to inspire generations. India mourns a champion. The shooting fraternity mourns a mentor. His family mourns a beloved husband and father. And the nation bids farewell to a man who spent his life helping others find their aim. Jaspal Rana’s final shot may have been fired, but his legacy will echo through Indian sport for decades to come.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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