Musing Reminisce

    "Main tumhare bachhe ki maa banne wali hun" As this emotional line was said the red amber tongues of flames danced and licked the hearth around the fireplace. The crackling of the sizzling log accompanied the otherwise silent room. The wisps of smoke emanated from the corner of burning log in the areas untouched by the roaring flame. Specks of ash got spat out as the light grey and white flakes floated around settling in the surrounding hearth. Head bent in shame Radha was weeping. Trilokhnath was zapped for a minute. In his scheming mind, thousands of sparks zig-zagged trying to work out a way to slip out of this quagmire.  The situation in hand demanded that he firstly reassure her and pacify her. Acting as if he was on top of the world, with a big smile on his face, he held both her arms and drew her close towards him. As he enveloped her he felt the warmth of her body and was immediately transported to another night in another country besides another fireplace. Fr...

Anand sat at his desk thinking, ” What should I pen as lyrics?” How do you write romance for a character that does not speak the language? There was no logic!! It was a challenge. The situation brief for the movie was tricky. He shook his head. ”How do you throw in lyrics? How do you make a song? How do you make the hero sing the song?” He was at crossroads. The best thing to do was give up the project. If he expressed his inability to write at this early stage of production he was sure he would not be letting down the director.  There would be someone from Bollywood or the southern region who would fill in his shoes. He would break this news to the renown director personally. He called his driver, ”Ramsingh, gaadi nikahaliye. Balachanderji ka ghar jana hai.”                        ———///——— Anand was born into a middle-class family in 1930 in Rawalpindi which is now in Pakistan. His ancestors were brahmins who had their o...

2021 --  London, England ”Cold-Hearted Ba*****ds.” The lament came with a wail from 65-year-old Ramakant as he heard the bad news. A few hours back on this cold dreary dark London morning Ramakant had hobbled across his door to his parked Toyota Auris and keyed in his ignition. The engine kicked into life with a roar resembling a Formula One vehicle simultaneously emitting out foul-smelling fumes. Something was wrong, he had never experienced this before. Cutting off the power he got out of his car, locked it remotely on the key hob and hobbled back into the house. His journey to do his weekly shopping would have to wait.   He called up the vehicle breakdown assistance company. The operator promised that a mechanic would be there within the hour. True to their time scale the breakdown assistance drew up into his driveway and parked parallel to his Toyota. As the burly mechanic greeted him, Ramakant in a few words explained the situation and highlighted the odd noise emana...

    ”Aree O Kaliya.   Gaon se mere liye kya laya re” Roaring as he strode on the huge Ramgarh boulders, the metallic bullet laden leather belt clanking against the hard black rocks, his dialogues spewed hatred and created a scene of terror as the three dacoits stood head bent in line and reverence as naughty students would stand in front of an angry school principal. This was a villain at his evilest. This was non-other than Daku Gabbar Singh in a biscuit ad. Replying ’Biscuit laya Sardar’, Kaliya handed palmful of the rectangle brown biscuits to him. Taking one mouthful he spits it out claiming them to be rubbish. He flings biscuits up in the air and shoots three which splinter and blown to smithereens, disintegrate in mid-air. The fourth and fifth revolver shots  click and this sound reverberates.   They are empty as in Russian roulette there were no bullets in these chambers. The biscuit flips back to the ground. ”Bach gaya Sala” He now fires between the...