Michael and I were close. Pretty damn close. There I was, at 22, standing next to him at Madam Tussauds in the mid-90s flashing a toothy grin in what felt like a cheesy Kodak moment. Jackson’s wax statue looked remarkably like his real-life pallid self. On my very first trip to London, I was posing next to the man whose music had defined my wonder years. It felt good.

When Jackson was at the zenith of his pop career during the mid-‘80s, I was in boarding school at Welham in Dehradun. It was a time of Olivia Newton-John style-tights worn with legwarmers, permed curls, Hum Log and Ramayana on DD, drooling over Lady Di’s gowns…and grooving to Beat It in the music room on Sundays. At dance competitions, the group that chose Jackson and emulated his cool moonwalking moves was almost sure to win. Watching Top of the Pops and Billboard 100 videos brought back home by our uber privileged NRI classmates living in New York and London, we were endlessly mesmerised by Thriller and tried hopelessly to emulate Jackson’s illusionistic moves. We giggled as we sang in his trademark singing style punctuated with squeals, titters and beatboxing. ‘Chicka-wow!’

Bad, his next album was less sensational than Thriller but we loved it anyway. The Way You Make Me Feel, Bad, Dirty Diana…they were all amazing. The ‘90s brought Dangerous and HIStory. Black or White and Heal the World from Dangerous became runaway hits and were brave, laudable efforts. Personally I preferred Jackson’s ‘80s and Jackson Five-era music from the ‘60s and ‘70s, but also enjoyed this new introspective phase marked by theatricality and spectacle. And it left its mark. From Mithun’s disco moves to the pelvic gyrations of Prabhu Deva and Govinda, I sensed Jackson’s feverish crotch-grabbing legacy everywhere on Indian 70mm.

The 2000s brought controversy and scandal for the singer. News of Jackson’s outlandish lifestyle and alleged paedophilia disturbed me but never quite diminished my love for his music. A few years ago, watching ‘Wacko Jacko’s’ documentary Living with Michael Jackson, I was struck by the similarity between Jackson’s bizarre Neverland ranch and Citizen Kane’s Xanadu. Both men lived in a bubble of their own, removed from the real world. As Jackson’s publicist once remarked, ‘It seemed to me that his internal essence was at war with the norms of the world.’

Dead at 50, Jackson leaves behind a tarnished legacy. Happily, the brilliance and purity of his music far outshine his tainted reputation. Billie Jean, his landmark ’80s number was and remains my personal favourite. But the pop legend has left us a treasure of great songs. The psychodrama of Thriller. The childlike hopefulness of We are the World. The introspection of Man in the Mirror. The race-defying message of Black or White. The apocalyptic vision of Earth Song.

In an era of YouTube celebs and hyper reality, the very term icon has become a travesty. In MJ’s death, we have lost what can arguably be called our last great icon. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

‘Michael Jackson mar gaya,’ my cabbie exclaimed the minute I stepped into the taxi on the morning he died. Curious, I asked him what he knew about the king of pop. ‘Arey, madam, woh duniya ka sabse bada singer aur dancer tha.’ I can’t think of a better tribute.
Farewell, Michael. I just can’t stop loving you.

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