Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Sanjay Dutt: The Crazy Untold Story of Bollywood’s Bad Boy by Yasser Usman

The first time I saw Sanjay Dutt on screen, I remember thinking: this man is either acting or simply being himself. The swagger felt too authentic, the rough edges too raw. Years later, holding Yasser Usman’s Sanjay Dutt: The Crazy Untold Story of Bollywood’s Bad Boy in my hands, I realized that maybe the reel and real had always bled into each other in Sanju Baba’s life. And isn’t that the very reason we can’t stop watching him—on screen, in newspapers, or in this riveting book?

Yasser Usman, already known for peeling back the veils on Rajesh Khanna and Rekha, has an almost voyeuristic gift: he doesn’t just collect gossip, he reconstructs an atmosphere. You don’t just read about Dutt’s trysts with drugs, you smell the stale smoke in the air, you hear the bass thudding from his parties, you feel the loneliness seeping in after everyone leaves. What makes this book different from Usman’s earlier works is the proximity—this time he actually managed to interact with Dutt himself, though perhaps without Dutt fully realizing where those conversations might end up. That lends the book a pulse, a sense that you are not only piecing together a public figure but catching glimpses of the private man.

The premise is deliciously dramatic. Drugs, romance, heartbreak, guns, gangsters, tragedy, and redemption—it’s all here. And yet, it doesn’t feel sensationalized. Usman assembles this wild narrative from scraps: court records, police files, film magazines, interviews with actors, friends, even lawyers. The effect is seamless, almost cinematic. You follow Sanjay from his early days of reckless abandon, through the heartbreak of losing his mother and wife to cancer, through the notorious brushes with the law and underworld, and finally to the softer, more reformed figure we now associate with Munna Bhai.

The writing is pacy, never letting you drift. It’s the kind of prose that feels like a movie montage: quick cuts of action, sudden pauses of reflection, then the camera swoops back in. At times, you wish Usman lingered longer, probed deeper into the emotional psyche rather than skating over to the next scandal. But maybe that’s exactly how Dutt’s life has been—never pausing long enough for a clean introspection, always moving on to the next turn in the rollercoaster.

What struck me most was how contradictory Sanjay Dutt appears, page after page. One moment you’re charmed by his childlike innocence, the next you’re furious at his stupidity, then you pity him for being so easily swayed by the wrong company, then you admire him for standing up again. He is not a hero, not a villain, not even an anti-hero—he is a man who keeps stumbling, bruising, bleeding, but somehow keeps walking. That fragility beneath the machismo is what makes him unforgettable.

The book is at its strongest when it leans into this emotional duality. You can sense the heartbreak in the silences after his mother Nargis’s death, the desperation in his repeated attempts to kick drugs, the misplaced bravado in his phone calls with gangsters, and the weary calm after his prison stints. It isn’t polished mythology like the film Sanju; it’s messier, and therefore truer.

If I had one quibble, it’s that the book occasionally feels like it’s summarizing tabloid memory rather than breaking entirely new ground. But then again, Usman’s talent lies in weaving all those fragments into a coherent, compelling narrative. He doesn’t give us an expose; he gives us a mirror that reflects the chaos of a man’s life and the madness of an industry that feeds on such chaos.

By the end, I found myself liking Sanjay Dutt more—not because he’s admirable, but because he’s painfully, deeply human. His life is a reminder that fame doesn’t shield you from self-destruction, that redemption is never neat, and that sometimes survival itself is the story.

This isn’t just a Bollywood biography; it’s a ringside ticket to the life of India’s first true “bad boy.” And like any masala entertainer worth its salt, it leaves you both shaken and strangely satisfied. Pick it up—not to worship or condemn Sanju Baba, but to understand him. Because once you step into his world, you’ll realize that behind the muscles and mayhem, he’s just a man trying, failing, and trying again.

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