Not with sorrow but with smiles

Born and raised in the heart of Chotta Bazar, Srinagar, my father, Late Shadi Lal Koul, was a mischievous child whose life took a tragic turn when he lost his father at an early age. That moment of loss marked the beginning of a difficult phase, but also the making of a man who would later become a household name in Kashmiri entertainment. With great courage and responsibility, he shouldered the entire family and never looked back.

My father’s journey in acting began on stage and quickly transformed into an unforgettable presence on screen. His serial Shabrang in the early 80s catapulted him into every Kashmiri home, and his name echoed through the valley. At the same time, his performances in iconic plays like Local Taxes Extra, Tasruf, Ye Zanaan Su Zanaan, and Zalur earned him massive respect among theatre lovers.

What made my father different was his consistency and the ability to reinvent his comedy across generations. In the 90s, serials like Halyan Banan Wukri Thav, Rangan Hind Rang, Anjaam, Wazir-e-Nazar Guzar, and Chattrass kept his charm alive. From 2000 to 2020, shows like Ghulam Begum Badshah, Cheri Truch, Wobali Jaan, Aanjar-Manjar, and Yeli Tohi Badliv Teli Soocho continued to win hearts.

He was deeply connected with Kashmir and its people. Every year, we would visit, and I’d see crowds surrounding him for autographs and photographs. While I sometimes got irritated by the constant attention, I remember one incident at Kokernag when I told him; “They are disturbing our privacy.” He smiled and replied, “My dear son, these people made me who I am today, even before you were born. Never come between me and my audience.” That humility defined him.

Despite being a comic genius for others, my father’s personal life was marked with silent pain. He lost my elder brother, Ajay Koul, to cancer at the young age of 19. At that time, he was shooting for Ghulam Begum Badshah in Srinagar, under the direction of his close friend Dr. Ayash Arif (Ayash Uncle). I witnessed him juggle between Delhi, for treatment, and Srinagar, for shooting,—an emotional and physical battle that he fought for his son.

Ajay’s death broke him. He decided to leave acting, and we respected that. But then, one day, Kusum Ji (Kusum Tickoo) visited us and reminded him, “There are so many people who are suffering in silence. You are their reason to smile.” The very next day, my father was back on set. That comeback was not for fame, but for healing—his own and that of others.

There were actors who complained that my father didn’t stick to the script. But the truth is, he believed comedy was all about timing. He was a master of improvisation, but he never went beyond the character or story. He rehearsed endlessly with his co-actors, always striving to improve scenes. Directors trusted him because they knew Shadi Ji would give his 100%.

In May 2017, our lives took another painful turn when he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a rare form of blood cancer. I was working in Delhi at the time and told him we needed to check some bone issues. I didn’t want to alarm him. We went to Ganga Ram Hospital, where the diagnosis came. Even then, he asked me not to tell anyone and faced it all with strength and silence.

Even during his illness, his spirit didn’t waver. I recall during the COVID-19 pandemic, he was approached by singer Ajaz Rah and actor Mir Sarwar for a prayer song. Though bedridden and barely able to stand, he sent them the video clip. When I asked him why, he simply said, “It’s a prayer for my people.” I had no words.

During his final days, my father withdrew into a quiet world. He asked for silence around him—no noise, no phones, no disturbance. But even in that silence, his love for his craft never faded. In those moments, he picked up a pen and wrote a comedy play. That act alone says everything about his dedication to art—how comedy lived in his soul till his last breath.

It’s been five years since he left us, but not a single visit to Kashmir passes without someone stopping me to speak of him, to bless me, to share a memory. His love for the people was pure—and it was returned with the same purity.

I have now been working in Kashmir for the last 7–8 years, I know in my heart that the love my father earned here continues to protect me. People don’t just remember him they revere him, and that makes me feel at home.

Today, as his son, I feel proud, emotional, and overwhelmed with gratitude. I am known not by my own name, but by being Shadi Lal Koul’s son. And that, for me, is the biggest honour life can give.

Let us celebrate this 5th death anniversary not with sorrow but with smiles the way he would have wanted. Because the Comedy King may have left the stage, but his laughter still echoes in our hearts.

Vijay Koul is the son of Late Shadi Lal Koul