When he was 12, Babil Khan performed William Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors on his school’s annual day.
In the middle of an important scene, Babil totally blanked out. As panic set in, he broke into Hindi and began improvising. The crowd’s reaction went from muted awkwardness to cheerful laughter. As the packed auditorium gave his act a standing ovation, the thrilled 12-year-old scanned the room for a sight of his father. Maybe he had made it this time—after missing several important school events. Maybe he decided to surprise him. Nope.
In his first interview, Irrfan Khan’s son Babil reflects on his legacy, lessons from his father, and why he’ll never stop grieving.
As he quietly reconciled with this disappointment, several hundred kilometres away from Mumbai, Irrfan Khan was busy shooting a movie, unaware of the influence his craft had already caused at home. While Babil was elated that his mother, Sutapa Sikdar, was by his
side—as she always was—he would nurse the wound of his father’s absence for a long time. When I meet the now 23-year-old at his Oshiwara home, he talks about this episode vividly. It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon and his sprawling house, where I used to meet Irrfan, has a calming aura. Unlike his father, who spoke with restraint, Babil is animated and extroverted, meticulously arranging his thoughts into words so no thread is left unaddressed. He ponders questions, shifts his sitting positions, and answers perceptively.
Perhaps that comes from his spiritual side: throughout our conversation, there’s a lot of emphasis on “being present in the moment” and “being truthful” to it. How much of this freedom of thought and expression will be thwarted by Bollywood’s PR and marketing ninjas as his career unfolds, will be revealed over time. Yet today, Babil Khan doesn’t hold back. “Baba (Irrfan) wasn’t particularly outspoken but he spoke his mind.”
We (his brother Ayaan and he) were always raised like that. What’s the worst that can happen?” Given the present state of the nation, a lot. Babil chuckles. Steaming cups of tea arrive.
EIGHT YEARS AFTER PERFORMING The Comedy of Errors in school, Babil, 20, was returning from his film school in London, where he was studying screenwriting and direction, to see his father, who was being treated in hospital for neuroendocrine cancer. Babil had been mulling over his decision to tell his father about his acting ambitions, but hadn’t found the courage. “You’re screwed,” said Irrfan, on hearing the news. “I’m really good at what I do,” Irrfan laughed, adding, “You’ll have to be very, very good at this.”
In that moment, Irrfan crystallised a reality that’s likely going to shadow his son for a long time. No matter how well he does, he will always be measured against his father—a once-in-a-generation actor who represented India to the world. That’s when the training began. In between his cancer treatment, Irrfan would throw situations at Babil to spontaneously enact: “You’re upset and haven’t spoken to me for days, but need to enter my room for this lighter”; “You’re going through a crisis but are struggling to contain it.” And so on. Babil would act. Irrfan would beam.
To both, this time, between 2018 and 2020, felt like catching up on lost years. “We developed a very sacred bond. He never taught me acting. He taught me about life, about living freely and fearlessly, about experiencing everything even if that meant going through pain. He wanted me to be affected by everything and to surrender to the truth of the moment. He’d say, ‘Feel everything.’ And then tell me, ‘Whatever you’ve experienced, bring that to your performances.’ This approach started to inform the decisions that I later took.”
Babil will make his acting debut with Bulbbul director Anvita Dutt’s next film, titled Qala. While the film’s central focus is on Tripti Dimri’s character, he has a critical part. “Despite not being the ‘traditional leading man’ Baba made a space for himself. For him, it was never about being the ‘hero’, but always about serving the story. I’ve inherited that. Does my acting
debut have to be a typical Bollywood launch? I don’t think so. Why can’t I be a part of a movie where I support the film’s leading lady? It’s a great part.”
Before Qala, Babil had come close to being cast in Ang Lee’s Life of Pi, but admits he botched the audition. “Ang Lee is such a kind man, he took me out for dinner. I felt flattered being rejected by Ang Lee,” he says, breaking into a laugh.
He is acutely aware that being on the sets of an Ang Lee film or getting a role in Qala is also the result of his lineage. He wasn’t particularly exceptional in the auditions, which Anmol Ahuja of Casting Bay conducted, but they “worked on it”. He admits that Bollywood isn’t a level playing field, that nepotism is real, and that had he been a rank outsider, he’d have had to cross many obstacles before landing a part.
“Pressure in itself is a privilege. The expectations from me are markers of my privilege. Either you can beat yourself up and feel guilty about it or accept it with humility and harness it into your work. I’ve chosen the latter. I’m grateful for the opportunities that I know others won’t get as easily as I have. If I can’t use my privilege and justify it through my craft,
it’d be such a waste.”
ONE OF MY CONCERNS before talking to Babil was that this story would turn into a window into Irrfan. I ask him: outside the towering shadow of his father, how does he see himself? Does he feel he’ll always be seen in the wider context of his father and his legacy? A smile
emerges. “I’m still learning. It’s so recent. Baba’s strength was his stillness. He was shy. I’m chaotic. I’m unfiltered. I’m naive. I’m willing to be a fool. And right now, I’m very happy to be Baba’s Babil. A window into his soul. Abhi aise rehne dete hai na? When the time comes, and it will, I’ll become my own man.”
He admits, almost in amusement, that he finds it difficult to move away from his father’s shadow. “If I think I’ve given a great shot on set, I feel good throughout the day. And then I’ll come back and watch Maqbool or Haider or The Namesake and go like, ‘I’m shit. I’m terrible. There’s so much work to be done. I know nothing.’ I can be overly self-critical but if I’m not, how will I grow? How will I advance my legacy in a dignified way? I’m aware that it’s an unfair pressure, but I can’t wish it away. So then I go back to another of his life lessons. ‘Don’t react to your emotions; attend to them. Embrace them. Fear, panic, stress, anxiety. Don’t fight them. Feel them.’
As the evening sun casts a soft, golden glow over the house, Babil is conscious to bring up his mother, Sutapa, and her role in making it all work. “She sacrificed her career to raise us and make sure Baba’s work continued uninterrupted. And let me tell you, she’s a very ambitious woman. It takes a lot to put your ambitions aside for your partner, for your children. It must’ve killed her to do it and yet she did. Baba was Baba because Mumma was Mumma. He’d be nothing without her. And I don’t think she gets enough credit. Not even from Baba. It was only after his sickness that he acknowledged the scale of her contribution towards his success.”
BABIL, HIS BROTHER AYAAN, and their mother Sutapa are still grieving. And Babil says that perhaps he will never stop grieving. “Grieving has a negative connotation, but it’s actually a beautiful exercise in celebrating someone’s life. I coexisted with him. He was my
best friend. There was no parda. There are so many questions I have that I wish I had asked him earlier. Like, sure, I can borrow from reality while performing x part but how do I experience my imagination to its full extent for roles that I’ve no reference for? How did he create that one moment in Life of Pi where he suddenly breaks down without his face revealing what’s to come? I wish he was here.”
By April 2020, Irrfan had beaten the cancer to the extent that he even finished a movie (Angrezi Medium) after the initial diagnosis. But the chemotherapy had taken its toll. He was frail, he was weak, and in early April, his body caught an infection. At the time Babil was on his PlayStation, but his mind was elsewhere. A past wound, dormant for years, had bubbled to the surface. Even though it was late at night, he impulsively got up, walked over purposefully to his Baba’s room and stood there.
Irrfan looked at him. They both knew that time was fast running out. This was perhaps the last time they’d have a cogent conversation.
“Why didn’t you come for my play when I was little?” There was a realisation that his father would likely never see him act. Irrfan was a touch dismissive, which aggravated the pain. “You’re still stuck up on that?” Fighting tears, Babil left. He sat by himself in his room. About five minutes later, his father’s head peeked from behind the door. Babil sprung up, as Irrfan had been instructed not to walk around, and the distance between their rooms was significant. His body a pale shadow, his lips trembling, before the words came out.
“I’m sorry.”
This article was shared with Prittle Prattle News as a Press Release.
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