Unlike many kids who grew up in the 2000s, my first brush with Satish Shah wasn’t through Indravadan Sarabhai of Sarabhai vs Sarabhai. For me, it was Professor Madhav Rasai in Main Hoon Na. I can still see it so clearly: me and my cousin sister lying on the bed with a packet of Lays French Cheese, completely glued to the TV. Then came that classroom scene where every student hid behind books to avoid Rasai’s endless spray of spit. Poor Ram, the new guy, had no idea and walked straight into it. We laughed so hard we almost choked on our chips.
And just when we thought it couldn’t get any funnier, Rasai stood up to defend Ms. Chandni, shouting with all his might, “You ph-HuuunnnKKK!” while Ram ducked to save himself from the shower. It was classic Satish Shah: his timing, his expressions, the way he made even the silliest gag feel unforgettable.
Even now, whenever I rewatch that film, I can almost taste the cheese chips, hear our laughter, and recall Amma's voice in the background saying, “khatay hue aisi cheezein dekhte hi kyun ho tum log?” [Why do you kids watch such nonsense while eating?] and feel that pure childhood joy all over again.
Growing up in Pakistan, watching Satish Shah never felt like watching an “Indian actor.” His comedy slipped so easily into our homes that it felt like he belonged to us too. Films like Main Hoon Na or shows like Sarabhai vs Sarabhai weren’t just entertainment, they were part of the everyday laughter we shared as families across the border.
We would quote dialogues from those movies, act out the scenes during school functions, and even look around for a professor we could nickname “Spit-Man.” When someone brought Monisha-esque “exotic” charcoal croissants, we’d joke about inviting him. And if a friend broke into song, we’d nudge them to sing “Guzar gaye Popat kaka” in mock seriousness, as if it were a mourning hymn.
His wit reminded me of that one uncle every family has, the one who always has a smart comeback, teases you just enough to make you laugh, and still makes you feel completely at home. The kind of uncle who pretends to be annoyed when you call him at 2 a.m. to get you coke or fries from the corner shop, but eventually brings them anyway. That’s exactly what Satish Shah’s comedy felt like. He turned the screen into a bridge, showing us that laughter travels easily across homes, hearts, and even borders.
Satish Shah shaped the way I understood comedy. As Indravadan Sarabhai, he was the mischievous man who lived to pull people’s legs. His constant banter with Maya, her trying to keep up her airs of sophistication while he gleefully poked holes in it still makes me laugh out loud. And who can forget that iconic line, “Main mard hoon,” which he would always declare before promptly doing whatever Maya asked him to do!
His dramatic teasing of Rosesh, mocking those “kaccha kela” style poems, was classic Indu, yet beneath the jokes, there was real warmth and love. And of course, the way he always stood by Monisha, their middle-class daughter-in-law, driving Maya mad, showed me that comedy could also hold quiet truths about family dynamics.
Before that, there was Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi, where he slipped in and out of 55 roles as if he were just changing shirts, each one quirky, alive, and unforgettable. In films like Main Hoon Na, Kal Ho Naa Ho, or even Hum Saath Saath Hain, he carried the same ease, making supporting roles stand out not just as comic relief, but as characters you genuinely remembered long after the film ended.
What struck me most about Satish Shah was his sheer range. In Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro, he was part of satire so sharp it felt like watching a mirror held up to society, with every expression of his adding to the absurdity. Then came Sarabhai vs Sarabhai, where his family humor was less about loud antics and more about sly one-liners, the kind that landed with a grin and stayed in your head long after the episode ended. In Bollywood blockbusters like Main Hoon Na or Kal Ho Naa Ho, he slipped into lighter roles that made us exhale between the drama, like a pause of laughter in the middle of a storm.
That was his magic: he never felt like a side act. He made every role, no matter how small, feel complete and full of life.
For me, Satish Shah wasn’t just a comic actor but a friend, an uncle I could pour my heart out to. On days when life felt heavy, his scenes were a kind of escape hatch, reminding me that laughter was still possible. Watching him as Indravadan tease Rosesh or defend Monisha, or as Rasai showering poor Ram in Main Hoon Na, felt like sitting with someone who understood that humor is often the best way to survive the absurdities of life.
What I loved most was that his comedy never felt mean or hollow. It was mischievous, yes, but never cruel. There was always a heart behind it, a gentleness in the way he played even the most outrageous characters. For me, he wasn’t just teaching me how to laugh but that comedy can be both a mirror and a comfort: intelligent, satirical, deeply human and extremely ph-HuuunnnKKKy.
As I write this, I feel a deep gratitude for the joy Satish Shah gave me, and so many others, across years and borders. His characters still live on in reruns, in memes we share, in inside jokes exchanged at family dinners.
For me, he will always be the professor who made me choke on chips, the father who turned sarcasm into an art, the actor who made comedy feel human.
Thank you, Satish ji, for reminding us that laughter is timeless. Your legacy will keep echoing in our homes, always.
(Fizza Abbas is an independent journalist, author & poet from Karachi, Pakistan, with bylines in The Diplomat, Dawn, Feminism in India, and Outlook India etc.)
And just when we thought it couldn’t get any funnier, Rasai stood up to defend Ms. Chandni, shouting with all his might, “You ph-HuuunnnKKK!” while Ram ducked to save himself from the shower. It was classic Satish Shah: his timing, his expressions, the way he made even the silliest gag feel unforgettable.
Even now, whenever I rewatch that film, I can almost taste the cheese chips, hear our laughter, and recall Amma's voice in the background saying, “khatay hue aisi cheezein dekhte hi kyun ho tum log?” [Why do you kids watch such nonsense while eating?] and feel that pure childhood joy all over again.
Growing up in Pakistan, watching Satish Shah never felt like watching an “Indian actor.” His comedy slipped so easily into our homes that it felt like he belonged to us too. Films like Main Hoon Na or shows like Sarabhai vs Sarabhai weren’t just entertainment, they were part of the everyday laughter we shared as families across the border.
We would quote dialogues from those movies, act out the scenes during school functions, and even look around for a professor we could nickname “Spit-Man.” When someone brought Monisha-esque “exotic” charcoal croissants, we’d joke about inviting him. And if a friend broke into song, we’d nudge them to sing “Guzar gaye Popat kaka” in mock seriousness, as if it were a mourning hymn.
His wit reminded me of that one uncle every family has, the one who always has a smart comeback, teases you just enough to make you laugh, and still makes you feel completely at home. The kind of uncle who pretends to be annoyed when you call him at 2 a.m. to get you coke or fries from the corner shop, but eventually brings them anyway. That’s exactly what Satish Shah’s comedy felt like. He turned the screen into a bridge, showing us that laughter travels easily across homes, hearts, and even borders.
Satish Shah shaped the way I understood comedy. As Indravadan Sarabhai, he was the mischievous man who lived to pull people’s legs. His constant banter with Maya, her trying to keep up her airs of sophistication while he gleefully poked holes in it still makes me laugh out loud. And who can forget that iconic line, “Main mard hoon,” which he would always declare before promptly doing whatever Maya asked him to do!
His dramatic teasing of Rosesh, mocking those “kaccha kela” style poems, was classic Indu, yet beneath the jokes, there was real warmth and love. And of course, the way he always stood by Monisha, their middle-class daughter-in-law, driving Maya mad, showed me that comedy could also hold quiet truths about family dynamics.
Before that, there was Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi, where he slipped in and out of 55 roles as if he were just changing shirts, each one quirky, alive, and unforgettable. In films like Main Hoon Na, Kal Ho Naa Ho, or even Hum Saath Saath Hain, he carried the same ease, making supporting roles stand out not just as comic relief, but as characters you genuinely remembered long after the film ended.
What struck me most about Satish Shah was his sheer range. In Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro, he was part of satire so sharp it felt like watching a mirror held up to society, with every expression of his adding to the absurdity. Then came Sarabhai vs Sarabhai, where his family humor was less about loud antics and more about sly one-liners, the kind that landed with a grin and stayed in your head long after the episode ended. In Bollywood blockbusters like Main Hoon Na or Kal Ho Naa Ho, he slipped into lighter roles that made us exhale between the drama, like a pause of laughter in the middle of a storm.
That was his magic: he never felt like a side act. He made every role, no matter how small, feel complete and full of life.
For me, Satish Shah wasn’t just a comic actor but a friend, an uncle I could pour my heart out to. On days when life felt heavy, his scenes were a kind of escape hatch, reminding me that laughter was still possible. Watching him as Indravadan tease Rosesh or defend Monisha, or as Rasai showering poor Ram in Main Hoon Na, felt like sitting with someone who understood that humor is often the best way to survive the absurdities of life.
What I loved most was that his comedy never felt mean or hollow. It was mischievous, yes, but never cruel. There was always a heart behind it, a gentleness in the way he played even the most outrageous characters. For me, he wasn’t just teaching me how to laugh but that comedy can be both a mirror and a comfort: intelligent, satirical, deeply human and extremely ph-HuuunnnKKKy.
As I write this, I feel a deep gratitude for the joy Satish Shah gave me, and so many others, across years and borders. His characters still live on in reruns, in memes we share, in inside jokes exchanged at family dinners.
For me, he will always be the professor who made me choke on chips, the father who turned sarcasm into an art, the actor who made comedy feel human.
Thank you, Satish ji, for reminding us that laughter is timeless. Your legacy will keep echoing in our homes, always.
(Fizza Abbas is an independent journalist, author & poet from Karachi, Pakistan, with bylines in The Diplomat, Dawn, Feminism in India, and Outlook India etc.)
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this column are that of the writer. The facts and opinions expressed here do not reflect the views of www.economictimes.com.)
