Kishore Singh: Sanjay and I are old friends

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hit the screens, introducing the gawky, pale-faced hero to audiences, I'd say, "Yes, he was always like that even in school "" very thin and painfully shy." Having managed to get the group's attention, I'd then mention casually, "We were in the same dormitory though, of course, he was a class junior to me."

When the magazines were writing about his drug addiction, it was easy to be dismissive. "He smoked like a chimney in school. Besides, what would you expect from a kid whose parents are celebrities?" For the record, his parents, when they visited on Founder's Day, conducted themselves with rare grace and dignity unlike the more gauche parents from the farming belt who were more likely to make a scene.

The years rolled by and Sanju Baba's life played itself out less in film and gossip magazines and more on page one in newspapers. His mother's cancer won him a reprieve for his bad behaviour, his first wife's tumour earned him some more brownie points in intransigence, there was speculation whether his father's strict discipline had driven him down the road to self-destruction, his break-up with his second wife won him no little sympathy "" "poor little orphan", so what if by now he was in his forties and himself a father "" and his possession of heavy artillery to protect his family during the Bombay riots was nothing short of heroic. "Yes," I'd explain to anyone who cared to listen, "the poor lad was in school with me," which is when I was not saying, "That brat, I'm trying to forget he was at school with me!"

Khalnayak came at a time when the authorities first put him behind bars, Munnabhai resurrected the legend of the lovable rogue, and I said, "You never know when you're in school, how your friends will turn out!" It's true we'd only had a year together, but school buddies are, er, buddies for life.

So when the Prime Minister released a book on the lives of Nargis and Sunil Dutt last week, thanks to the publisher I was there with my hair slicked back and my clothes all pressed to a crease. If Sanju needed any hand-holding, I wasn't about to shirk my role. But bewildered or not by the capital's paparazzi, Sanjay Dutt seemed to be managing quite well, thank you. He wore khadi, the garb of the politician, pointing perhaps to a new phase in his life. Dr Manmohan Singh called him "Sanjay Duttji", Sonia Gandhi too referred to him as "Sanjay Duttji", Shivraj Patil gave him a jaadu ki jhappi, sundry ministers and politicos lined up to shake him by his hand. His sisters stood steadfastly by him, and his new girlfriend, Manyata, refused to leave his side.

"That's just his public face," I said to my wife, explaining he was probably just a very lonely grown-up boy. "Won't you," she asked archly, "introduce me to your school buddy?" Cutting through the crowds surrounding him for autographs, I called him out. He looked up uncomprehendingly. Thirty-five years separated us from when we'd last met. "From school," I explained, "we were in the same dormitory." He peered at me, said he was sorry, he couldn't place me. "Okay then," I said limply and, because she was standing there, I said, "Meet my wife." We all shook hands, and when I was turning away, he added for good measure, "Never give in," using the school's motto to make good his escape.

"We've both changed," I said later to my wife, "it would be unfair to expect him to recognise me after all these years." My wife giggled a bit and her "Hrumph!" didn't sound either supportive, or sympathetic, enough.