In the world of film, the line between fantasy and reality is often blurred, but nowhere is this distortion more evident than in the titles our movie stars bestow upon themselves. Amitabh Bachchan is the “Shehensha” of “Bollywood,” Shah Rukh Khan is “King Khan,” or Rajinikanth is the “Superstar” of South Indian cinema; these larger-than-life monikers elevate actors to almost mythical status. The irony, of course, is that these men—who have all faced rejection, criticism, and personal struggles—are anything but the invincible beings their titles might suggest.
Take Bachchan, for example. He began his career in the 1970s with little more than a distinctive voice and a “lanky” six-foot-two frame. He was rejected by All India Radio for his “unsuitable” voice, a fact that seems almost laughable in hindsight, given how synonymous his deep baritone has become with Indian cinema. But in those early years, the actor struggled with self-doubt, particularly about his height, which he believed made him an unlikely leading man.
It was only after relentless hard work and years of perseverance that he climbed the ranks, becoming the face of Hindi cinema. In 1988, when he starred in Shahensha, his character’s name—“Shahensha”—became a symbol of his larger-than-life persona. Fans, seeing a reflection of their own dreams of grandeur in Bachchan’s portrayal of royalty, began calling him “Shehensha,” or emperor. Over time, this title stuck, and today, even at eighty-three years of age, Bachchan continues to be revered as a living legend. The question, though, is: does this title strip away the very humanity of the actor it seeks to immortalise?
The same phenomenon is observable with Shah Rukh Khan, another Bollywood star. Known for his charm and romantic appeal, Khan is often called the “King of Romance.” This title, like Bachchan’s, is a construct, a marketing tool that capitalises on the actor’s public image as the quintessential lover. Yet, Khan has faced his own set of challenges, from poorly received films like Zero to accusations of nepotism and political controversy.
These struggles are not unique to him; they are part of the broader experience of being an actor in an intensely competitive industry. And yet, despite these setbacks, fans continue to hold him up as “King Khan.” The question arises: why do we, as viewers, insist on this larger-than-life perception of stardom, particularly when these stars, like the rest of us, must contend with personal and professional failures?
This marketing tactic, wherein actors are elevated to god-like status by their fanbases, is not limited to Bollywood. The South Indian film industry is rife with similar examples. Rajinikanth, for instance, is universally known as “Superstar” or “Thalaiva” (leader). Chiranjeevi, a former politician and another star in Telugu cinema, is dubbed “Megastar.”
The titles vary, but the impact remains the same: these actors transcend the ordinary and become icons. The problem, however, is that these titles, as in “Bollywood,” tend to obscure the actors’ human experiences. Chiranjeevi’s family, for example, is synonymous with the so-called “Tollywood”—whatever that is— just as the Bachchans are with “Bollywood.” The pressure that comes with such associations is immense. Nepotism, a familiar term in the industry, becomes even more potent when actors are glorified to the point that their personal struggles and vulnerabilities are forgotten.
The issue of self-conferred, fan-accepted titles is not merely a matter of inflated egos or exaggerated public personas; it’s a deeper commentary on the way we, as consumers of entertainment, interact with the human beings behind the films. These titles, while seemingly benign, serve as branding. They create a narrative in which the actor is not just a person but a symbol—an ideal to be worshipped, an untouchable entity that can do no wrong.
But this comes at a cost. It erases the complex, often painful journey that an actor undergoes in their career. Amitabh Bachchan, for example, is more than just the Shehensha; he is a man who has faced rejection, loneliness, and self-doubt. He is a man who has battled with his own fears of inadequacy. Yet, by the time the public bestows a title like “Shehensha” upon him, these human struggles become secondary.
This shift toward dehumanisation is, of course, not intentional. It’s a byproduct of the entertainment industry’s insatiable desire for larger-than-life figures. When the Indian Constitution, under Article 18, prohibits the conferral of official titles, it leaves a strange gap in the cultural landscape. The titles of “Shehensha,” “King Khan,” and “Megastar” are not legally recognised, yet they carry immense social weight. They are not bestowed by the state, but rather by stars themselves, and reiterated by tabloids and marketing teams. This informal yet powerful system of naming creates a false narrative that is so potent that it becomes almost impossible to separate the actor from the image.
What does this mean for the next generation of stars? The system perpetuates a cycle of expectation in which the child of a superstar is expected to live up to their parents’ mythic status. These younger actors are often thrust into the limelight with the burden of their family’s legacy weighing heavily on their shoulders. It’s a challenging position to be in, and many have openly struggled with the weight of expectation, feeling like impostors, unsure if they deserve their success or if it’s simply a result of their family name. On the other hand, for those without such connections, the path to fame is even more arduous, with many actors working tirelessly for years without ever getting the breakthrough role they so desperately need.
What’s fascinating about this phenomenon is how titles shape not just the public’s perception of an actor but also the actor’s own self-image. The idea of the “perfect” or “immortal” celebrity—unaffected by the normal struggles of life—can be dangerous. Even stars who have cultivated a reputation for perfection, such as Aamir Khan, known as “The Perfectionist,” are not immune to failure.
Amir Khan’s recent films, despite his meticulous attention to detail, have failed disastrously, revealing the inherent flaws in the idea of a “perfect” public figure. Similarly, Hema Malini, the Dream Girl, whose beauty once set the standard for an entire generation, is now confronting the realities of ageing and health problems. These are universal experiences, yet the titles seem to distance the stars from these everyday human concerns.
Ultimately, titles are a form of escapism, a vulgar titillation, a way for stars to elevate themselves to a place beyond the ordinary. They provide a flawed sense that film stars are greater than their human selves. But it’s important to remember that the men and women behind these titles are not invincible. They are not “demi-gods”; they are simply human beings—flawed, struggling, and striving just like the rest of us. And perhaps, in our quest for heroes, we should not forget that the true magic of cinema lies in its ability to remind us of our shared humanity.
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