Like a true-blue star, Salman Khan’s stardom is inseparable from his star body. For years, it is his chiseled, muscular frame that fans revere. To them, it is what cinema means. No wonder—as Yvonne Tasker, the film scholar, notes in her seminal work, Spectacular Bodies—the action hero’s body is never simply flesh and bone. It is layered, symbolic, carrying contradictions. Khan’s mythology follows suit. From his earliest days on screen, he has championed brawn over the brain, turning gyms across the country into sanctuaries. In his world, muscle overshadows monologue. Acting chops yield to brute strength. His physique, more than his expressions, became his signature. And his blue bracelet came to define his style. Like a true-blue star, he serves the body as much as it serves him.
What Once Was
No wonder then, Being Bhaijaan, the 2014 documentary exploring the lives of three die-hard fans of Khan, opens with a montage of the star across decades. His body, sculpted and gleaming, commanding the screen. But soon, the tone evolves. The camera finds Shan, a young fan from the small town of Chhindwara, drenched in sweat at the gym. Through the unflinching gaze of the lens, his form is studied like an X-ray. He speaks of his devotion, his dream of making a body like his idol’s. It’s a terrific introduction, layered in its intent. On the surface, it fortifies the myth of Khan. But subtextually, it elevates Shan. For once, the devotee stands on the same pedestal as the deity. Throughout its runtime, the film keeps returning to Khan’s body—but through the fixation of his fans. In doing so, it blurs the distance between star and spectator. In doing so, it collapses the gaze, binding the icon and the admirer as equals.
Why Salman Was Different
In that sense, the film also probes what binds someone like Shan to a figure like Khan. While the other two Khans, Shah Rukh Khan and Aamir Khan, became icons for a mobile generation in post-liberalisation India, Khan’s stardom emerged from the fissures of that very landscape. Shah Rukh is the beloved of the aspirational middle class, and Aamir, the thinking man’s hero. But Khan has rarely found favour in the polished corridors of urban India. The reasons are many: from the choices of his films to the turbulence of his personal life and the weight of legal controversies. His kingdom was never built in metropolitan multiplexes; his true reign lies in provincial towns, suburban sprawls, urban slums, and mohallas. For the working-class Muslim, often left stranded on the margins of the post-liberalisation dream, Khan has been less of a star and more of a messiah. They are the ones who couldn’t board the train of upward mobility, who watched from the sidelines as the promise of prosperity passed them by. In his cinema, they find not just entertainment, but affirmation. In his cinema, they see a rugged kind of hope.
As Shohini Ghosh, a film studies professor at Jamia Millia Islamia, observes, Khan’s rise to stardom in the 1990s was deeply linked to the era’s political and social turbulence. It was a time marked by the heightened communalisation of public life, as the Hindu Right consolidated its power, breeding anxieties among Indian Muslims. Cast as perpetual outsiders, they lived under the looming threat of surveillance, harassment, and even imprisonment. In this climate of fear and alienation, Khan emerged as an unlikely symbol of solidarity.
The ‘Bad Boy’ Of Bollywood
His own brushes with the law and the media’s portrayal of him as Bollywood’s “bad boy” created a sense of familiarity. The spectacle of a star of his stature—publicly shamed, imprisoned, and devoid of the protective sheen of celebrity—mirrored the vulnerability many Muslims felt. If even Khan, with his towering fame, was not immune to the unforgiving gaze of a polarised nation, what hope remained for the marginalised? They saw their own defiance in his existence. It was this fraught kinship, born from the ruptures of a divided society, that cemented his most devoted constituency.
Perhaps that’s why Khan’s bond with his fans feels so visceral. A “Salman-Eid release” isn’t just about a film; it’s a moment of belonging. For his Muslim audience, it’s a reminder that they matter. It’s a reminder that their stories, their traditions, their celebrations, are worthy of spectacle. And when the climax arrives, when Khan bares his body and battles his nemesis, the image transcends fiction. His body becomes a reflection of both their fears and their defiance. In his triumph, they glimpse strength. In his stature, they find significance.
The Masculinity That Sold
Another compelling intersection between Khan, his star body, and his fans lies in how it engages with notions of masculinity — a theme at the heart of Being Bhaijaan. Khan has long promoted a macho ideal—both on-screen and off. In reel and real life, he has projected the image of what today’s generation might call an “alpha” or a “tough” guy. His films exude a certain brand of conservatism that conforms to traditional notions of masculinity. It is this very ethos that Being Bhaijaan, directed by Shabani Hassanwalia and Samreen Farouqui, sets out to explore, examining how Khan’s macho persona shapes modern masculinity in the small towns of India.
Throughout the documentary, we see Shan, alongside Balram and Bhasker, speaking candidly about their deep connection to Khan. In their words, a striking revelation emerges—the way Khan treats women on screen often informs their own perspectives on gender. Shan, for instance, dreams of marrying a girl he describes as “pure and shy”, an ideal homemaker. Balram, on the other hand, admires Khan’s refusal to kiss on screen, reading it as a marker of restraint and moral fortitude. For them, being a man means protecting, providing, and embodying the same stoic stance as their hero. So, in this unknown pact, Khan’s masculinity is not just admired—it is internalised, adhered to and promoted.
‘Bhai’ Used To Be Enough
While these readings suggest how Khan’s male fandom often upholds the heteronormative ideals of the day, there’s also a more layered, even subversive interpretation. The reverence his fans hold for him—for his body, his presence—carries an intensity that many may see as bordering on the homoerotic. It’s no coincidence that, at one point in Being Bhaijaan, a fan earnestly declares that Khan shouldn’t marry, fearing the ripple effect it might have on his male followers who remain unmarried in solidarity. This devotion isn’t just admiration; it’s a kind of Bhai-code, a brotherhood that binds them not only to their star but to each other. No wonder, they greet and part ways with a resounding “Jai Salman”.
It’s as though their affection for him has eclipsed all else. The actress in the item number hardly matters; it is Khan’s body that commands their gaze. His laughter, his dance, his fury—every flicker of him is enough.
It’s also worth noting that while Khan’s fandom often appears unabashed, it isn’t entirely uncritical. Their devotion can fracture, especially when his actions disrupt the image they hold dear. A potent example emerged in early 2014, when Khan’s collaboration with then-prime ministerial candidate Narendra Modi for his electoral campaign unsettled many of his Muslim fans. Jai Ho, his subsequent release, suffered the impact of that temporary discontent.
This estrangement calls to mind the work of film scholar Richard Dyer, who explored the inherently unstable nature of stardom. A star’s image is never singular. It is fragmented, constantly defined and redefined by their on-screen presence, the stories spun by gossip columns, and the glimpses of their private lives that slip into public view. Khan’s stardom is no exception.
A Waning Star?
Now, as his new Eid release, Sikandar, hit the theatres last Sunday to an overwhelmingly negative response, conversations among fans have started once again. This time, the focus is on his ailing health and a body that seems to betray the vigour it once commanded. Recent misfires at the box office had hinted at this, but watching Sikandar has only deepened the perception that something has dimmed. The agility, the kinetic force, the muscularity—all markers of his stardom—appear to be waning. The swagger, the nonchalant attitude that once attracted all his fans are now nowhere to be found. And perhaps that’s what makes him a true-blue star: one whose mythos is inseparable from his inevitable descent.
(Anas Arif is a film writer and a media graduate from AJKMCRC, Jamia Millia Islamia)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
