ELLE Digital Cover Star: Raghav Juyal On Fame, Focus And The Discipline Of Staying The Same

There are certain men in Indian popular culture whose energy arrives before they do. Raghav Juyal was one of them. For years, he existed in motion — body-first, rhythm-first, a dancer who bent time, a host who could derail scripted television with instinctive timing. If you grew up watching Indian reality television, you did not “discover” him; he entered the room before you realised he had. So it feels deeply ironic to call Raghav Juyal a reinvention story.

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I have watched his career the way most of us have — first through television screens that rewarded rhythm and wit, later through cinema that demanded stillness and interiority. But on set, under directional lights and the polite choreography of stylists, assistants and photographers, there is no sense of someone trying to shed a former skin. If anything, what stands out is continuity.

There is an ease that comes not from novelty but from repetition; a man who has spent over a decade in front of audiences understands exactly how much of himself to offer at any given moment. The leather jackets, textured knits and tailored silhouettes sit against him rather than on him. The energy is contained, not muted—measured rather than diminished.

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When we begin talking about change — about the narrative that he has pivoted from dancer to actor, from entertainer to something more serious — he dismantles it almost immediately.

“Nothing feels different. I am the same person. It’s just that the perspective has changed.”

The sentence reframes the entire conversation. We like to imagine that public figures undergo dramatic evolutions; it makes for cleaner storytelling. But he is uninterested in that arc. The industry adjusted its lens. The audience recalibrated its expectations. He did not wake up one morning intent on becoming someone else.

A few minutes later, he adds something that, in isolation, could easily be misunderstood.

“I think I was born to be famous.”

It is the sort of sentence that, in lesser hands, could curdle into vanity. But in his delivery, it feels less like ego and more like orientation. Fame, for him, is not a sudden arrival or an accidental by-product. It is terrain he has inhabited for years, a choice he has consciously made. He never set out on this journey to be a private person; recognition was inevitable.

Control Is Subtraction

The most revealing word in our conversation is not ambition or fame. It is control.

When I ask him what control means at this stage of his career, the answer is unexpectedly unglamorous. “Control means sacrifice,” he says, and then offers an example that has nothing to do with scripts or box office. “For example, I love trekking. I love mountains. But I have to say no to it because I have a bigger goal. I can’t go on every trip. I have to stay back and work.”

The honesty of it lands because it is so unadorned. Discipline, in his telling, is not cinematic. It is the quiet decision to stay back when something more immediately pleasurable is calling. It is not about mystique; it is about focus.

That same clarity defines how he approaches projects. The industry often frames refusal as rebellion, but he reduces it to something simpler. “I tell them I want to work with you, but not this project.” There is a calmness to the way he says it, a sense that he no longer needs to overexplain himself. Selectivity, for him, is not about distancing himself from his past. It is about protecting where he is headed.

Applause, Delayed

If dance and hosting gave him anything, it was immediacy. Applause on stage is visceral. You feel it in your bones before you process it in your head. Film is different. It is patient. It is delayed, he concurs, “Yes. Earlier, I used to get applause instantly on stage. When I danced or hosted, people reacted immediately. In acting, you don’t get that. Even on set, nobody reacts because everyone is busy doing their job. But I still want applause when the film releases.”

There is no pretence about having outgrown validation. He has simply recalibrated his expectations around it. The feedback loop has lengthened. The gratification has stretched. Acting demands that you trust the work long before you see its impact.

What is interesting is that he does not romanticise that shift either. He does not claim to prefer one over the other. He acknowledges the difference and moves on. The hunger for audience connection remains intact; it has simply been rescheduled.

Instinct Remains

Despite the increasing discipline in his choices, he resists the idea that he has become calculated. When I ask whether he is instinctive or reflective in real life, he laughs at the implication. “I am instinctive. I react in the moment.”

That instinct has always been his defining trait. It is what allowed him to disrupt format-driven television without appearing aggressive. It is what made him unpredictable without being chaotic. The difference now is that instinct operates within boundaries he has consciously built. The edges are firmer. The centre is the same.

His ambition, too, has shifted shape without losing its core. “When I was a dancer, I wanted to be the best dancer. Then I wanted to be the best choreographer. Then the best host. Now I want to be a good actor.” The through-line is not fame; it is mastery. Each phase is not a rejection of the last, but a progression into the next discipline.

Quiet, By Choice

Off set, the energy contracts. I am an extreme introvert, so I am always curious about what people do when they’re not working, or who they are when they’re not performing. So I asked him, When you’re not working, what kind of spaces do you naturally gravitate towards — loud and social, or quiet and contained?

“Quiet and contained.”

It explains the stillness I notice between takes and conversations. The absence of performative chatter. The comfort with silence. He does not feel compelled to dominate the room, even though he easily could.

What catches me off guard about him is the disarming way in which he is able to be honest. There is no pretence here at all. He admits to liking everything that comes with his job, he happily and effortlessly shifts between English and Hindi based on comfort, and he doesn’t overintellectualise basic concepts.  When I ask what he would want someone meeting him today to understand about him, the answer is simple. “I am funny. I am friendly. I am interested.” There is no myth-building attached to it. No attempt to rewrite himself as brooding or aloof. He has not abandoned the parts of himself that made him popular; he has simply layered them with restraint.

The Narrative He Refuses

The temptation with Raghav Juyal is to frame him as a pivot — an entertainer who grew serious, a dancer who turned actor, a television figure who sought cinematic legitimacy. Sitting across from him, that storyline feels lazy. He does not describe rupture. He describes continuity.

He insists he is the same person. The perspective changed. The industry shifted its expectations. The audience broadened its gaze. What looks like reinvention from the outside reads, from where he sits, as refinement.

Perhaps that is the real story. Not a man who transformed, but a man who understood early that visibility would be part of his life — and decided to meet it on his own terms.

Team Credits:

Editorial Director: Ainee Nizami Ahmedi; Photographer: Roy; Asst Art Director: Alekha Chugani; Editorial Coordinator: Nirja Shah; Styling: Dhruv Aditya Dave; Words by: Kannagi Anaggh Desai; Hair: Arnold Dsouza; Makeup: Suhas Kondvilkar; Assisted by: Tapasya Sawant (bookings); Location Courtesy: Amaru Mumbai; Artist Reputation Management: Tree-Shul Media Solutions