TRIBUTE: A Voice Under the Moonlight: Remembering Rajinder Tickoo

And may his voice continue to echo somewhere beyond the skies, just as it once did on that unforgettable night.

Zahoor Zahid

It came as a rude shock when I heard that Rajinder Tickoo – an actor, singer, and a deeply committed theatre personality, had passed away in a tragic accident. For a few moments, I simply refused to believe it. It felt unreal, like a rumor that would dissolve with the next phone call. But as messages began pouring in on social media, one after another, disbelief slowly gave way to a heavy, unbearable truth. He was gone.
And suddenly, as if summoned by grief itself, his image flashed before my eyes — so alive, so vivid and I was carried back in time.
I remember those days in Batote, when Bashir Dada was shooting his serial. Rajinder had been chosen for an important role. I had never met him before. Dada had mentioned casually yet confidently, “I have chosen Rajinder for this role, he is perfect.” There was something in his tone that reflected certainty, admiration, perhaps even pride.
The shoot was to begin the very next day. Preparations were in full swing. That night, I slept late, exhausted yet excited. Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard a voice, soft at first, then fuller, richer, singing a Kashmiri melody. It was so beautiful that my half-asleep mind thought I must be dreaming. But the voice was too captivating, too alive to belong to a dream.
I opened my eyes.
The song continued.
I stepped outside my room. There was an annexe across from the hotel where some of the actors were staying. The night was drenched in moonlight, a full moon that had lit the entire compound in silver. In the distance, I saw a solitary figure. I could not see his face clearly, but his voice—— his voice echoed through the stillness, filling the night with magic.
It was haunting. Soulful. Mesmerizing.
Time stood still. I don’t know how long I sat there, listening to one melodious song after another. The world felt suspended between earth and sky, held together by that voice.
The next morning, I learned that the singer was none other than Rajinder Tickoo. That was my introduction to him, not through a formal handshake or conversation, but through music under a moonlit sky. Somehow, that felt perfect. It captured the essence of who he was.
In the days that followed, our acquaintance blossomed into friendship. During the shoot, it became abundantly clear that he was not just good, he was brilliant. He possessed a rare depth in understanding a character. Perhaps it came from his theatre background, where one does not merely act but lives the role. He was fearless in experimentation, always searching for emotional truth.
Because he was also a trained singer, he had worked on his voice, something many actors neglect. His dialogue delivery was flawless; each word pronounced with clarity and conviction. His command over language was admirable. He respected the spoken word.
And those eyes… large, expressive, luminous. They spoke even when he was silent. They carried vulnerability, strength, and untold stories. It pains me to think that cinema and television never fully discovered what those eyes were capable of conveying. The camera loves truth and he had it in abundance.
His association with radio further refined him. As an actor and compere, he developed a beautiful command over Urdu. His pronunciation, his accent, his modulation, all bore the polish of someone who had trained, practiced, and cared deeply about his craft. He was not casual about art. He was devoted to it.
And yet, somewhere along the way, life did not give him the vast canvas he deserved. I have often felt that his talent remained underutilized. Had he been given a larger platform, a bigger screen, he would have shone brightly, perhaps far beyond what many could imagine.
Today, as I think of him, I do not just remember an actor. I remember a voice floating through moonlight. I remember conversations filled with passion for theatre. I remember laughter between shots. I remember the intensity in his eyes when he spoke of art.
Rajinder Tickoo may no longer walk among us, but the impression he left, on stage, on radio waves, in friendships, in quiet moonlit nights, will remain etched in memory for a long, long time.
Some people enter your life gently, almost like a song carried by the wind. And when they leave, the silence feels heavier than words can describe.
Goodbye, my friend.
May your soul find the peace and solace you longed for.
And may your voice continue to echo somewhere beyond the skies, just as it once did on that unforgettable night.
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