I am writing this letter to you only because when you’ll read this I’ll be long gone and you would have dropped your Puja Thali reading this. I know you’re going to read this, seeing my face on the letter and imagining me speaking these dialogues. I’ve been captured by Thakur who’s taken me prisoner in his humongous castle, unimaginable in Mumbai considering the sky rocketing real estate prices, but he is the man doing all the bad karmas to deserve such palatial dungeons. I’ve been subject to most innovative tortures, especially the one where I’m tied by the rope suspended above sharks even though they are nowhere to be seen in Indian waters; but hey, who cares when Thakur Singh is King? By the time you’ll read this I would’ve died with Thakur giving an evil laugh in the background, along with one of his bald Shettys (villain sidekicks). I would’ve delivered a melodramatic dialogue enlisting all the curses required to be thrown at the Thakur.
But why do you focus on this? Why don’t you remember all the happy times we spent together? I was a loafer roaming around the streets. You were this pretty rich girl who I fell in love with when I gave you my “Pehli Nazar”. You didn’t know that I was an orphan, but due to my peculiar surroundings I was as eloquent in Urdu as any Javed Akhtar or Gulzar would be. You were charmed by my dancing capabilities, when suddenly out of the blue I would blend Hip-Hop, Jazz and Bhangra all in one. Obviously the music would be created out of thin air and the background dancers would be in perfect vibrational harmony with me. I was a singing sensation. My notes were perfect. I could sing any genre with multiple voices. I sang that peppy love song in Udit Narayan’s voice, or that one time when I sang a party number in Neeraj Sridhar’s tonality. I could sing rap too – man, I was the king. You were so charmed by me that in spite of our wide financial comparisons, you always saw me as a handsome robust gentleman with high morals, even though I would never take a bath. I lived in a slum area but wore Manish Malhotra’s line for ‘commoners’.
And you, you were the love of my life. Your exaggerated expressions at every innuendo were simply out of this world. You were twenty years younger to me, but still I was looked upon as being in the same age group as you are. I still remember how you fought with your ‘dad’ for me when he refused marriage because of my economic status and no job prospects whatsoever, but you stuck to me in my humble abode considered ‘poor’ as a three-bedroom flat with two bathrooms in Bandra. You became a good housewife and produced Karan and Arjun – oh sorry, not them – but Rahul. You adopted Arjun as my illegitimate child- even singing a lullaby for accepting him in 78 year old Lata’s voice.
Now, Basanti, I know you shall swear to me that these three would grow up and avenge my death. The “Trimurti” metrosexuals with six-pack abs and waxed chests would take revenge killing that Haraam #@$%#^ and his gang. With their girlfriends, obviously ten years younger to them, one of them being Thakur’s daughter (oblivious to his misdeeds all these years). They’ll be supported aptly by white-streak haired “Saasumaa” (all the elongated spellings are due to numerology). In the final climax, your sons – after performing heroic deeds killing the gang with their miraculous martial arts like jumping twenty feet, hitting every gunshot on target and taking each bullet on them without any apparent pain – will produce Thakur at your feet. You’ll kill him with your bare hands, while simultaneously imagining the imagined scene of my death, swearing at him, and finishing him with immense power; even though you never spent even a single hour at the gym.
Now, I know you’ve already thought of the past and created your future in sufficiently three hours editing all the ‘sensual’ moments between your sons and their girlfriends, while keeping eight songs of all genres of music and minimum of five fighting sequences. In fact, you’ve done a great job.
After all our life has always been a masala script.
Your dead husband,