A month after my partner Abhiyan died, maybe it was a few days or weeks, I don’t know. I turned on his phone, it had been handed over to me...
A month after my partner Abhiyan died, maybe it was a few days or weeks, I don’t know. I turned on his phone, it had been handed over to me at the morgue by one his students. I had slipped in that alien yet familiar silver rectangle into my bag, and only discovered it at the airport security on my way back, alone, with two phones. One mine, the other now also mine. I turned on his Apple Music play list, and listened to Nina Simone on loop. Oh that voice, he’d tell me.
And then inadvertently, I turned to Bollywood. Memories fell like the many aanchals in films.
Zingaat from Sairat, because his students danced to it non-stop.
The incredulousness on his face when he first heard Lungi Dance from Chennai’s Express.
And always, Raat Baaki from Namak Halaal, the song with which all our parties ended.
There are days when grief washes over me leaving me numb and frozen, and as I slowly start to move, it is to the background scores of Rafi, Hemant Kumar, and Pancham Da, Gulzar, Asha, Sahir Ludhinavi, Geeta Dutt, Kishore Kumar.
Yet, there’s something strange about Bollywood. As a self-confessed Bollywood fan, I must admit that this particular brand of mainstream masala films doesn’t prepare...
