Vikram Gaikwad: The Man Behind the Faces We’ll Never Forget

By Ananyaa Varadkar Zagade, Fashion Station | May 2025
Some people make noise. Others make impact.
Vikram Gaikwad was the latter — a man who stood silently behind the camera, yet shaped some of the most unforgettable faces in Indian cinema. On May 11, the industry lost this quiet genius. He passed away at the age of 65, after a prolonged illness, leaving behind more than just memories — he left behind a legacy.
If you’ve ever watched Dangal, PK, Super 30, or Uri, chances are, you’ve seen his magic. And perhaps, without even realizing it.
That was the beauty of Vikram’s work — it wasn’t meant to stand out, but to blend in so perfectly that you’d forget it was there. He didn’t do “makeup” in the way we often think of it. He didn’t paint faces — he built identities.
Take Dangal, for example. Aamir Khan’s transformation into Mahavir Singh Phogat was as much about body and performance as it was about subtle, aging details — the salt in his beard, the weathered skin, the tired eyes. That was Vikram.
In PK, it was Vikram who gave Aamir that naïve, almost alien-like quality. In Super 30, Hrithik’s dusty, sun-soaked, tired teacher look — again, Vikram.
And in Uri, where the Indian soldiers didn’t look like actors in costume — they looked like real men, tired and brave — that, too, was his work.
But Vikram’s story doesn’t start with Bollywood blockbusters. It began in the early 1980s, in the corridors of Marathi cinema and theatre, where storytelling mattered more than glamour. He honed his craft at a time when prosthetics were rare and minimalism was not yet fashionable. He didn’t just follow trends — he created a language of makeup that served the story.
He won multiple National Awards, including for Balgandharva and Lokmanya: Ek Yugpurush, but you’d rarely find him talk about them. He wasn’t one for red carpets or interviews. His pride came from the transformation itself — from watching actors look into the mirror and no longer see themselves.
Actor Subodh Bhave once said, “He didn’t just change my face. He made me believe I had become someone else.” And that’s probably the most perfect tribute anyone could offer.
Off screen, Vikram was just as sincere. No flamboyance, no fuss — just a warm smile, deep eyes, and a commitment to perfection. He was often seen behind the scenes, sleeves rolled up, quietly adjusting a wig, smoothing a prosthetic, wiping off sweat from an actor’s forehead before the next take. Always there. Always invisible. Always essential.
In the fashion and editorial world too, he was quietly admired for his taste — restrained, clean, always purposeful. He believed that makeup should never hide someone — it should reveal who they are meant to be.
And now, in his absence, we realize that his work wasn’t just about cinema or style — it was about memory. Because every great character we remember, we remember partly because of him.
Today, the industry mourns not just an artist, but a kind soul. A teacher. A magician who never sought applause, yet earned everyone’s respect.
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🕊️ Rest easy, Vikram sir. The faces you shaped may fade from screen in time — but your touch never