Actor

Showing posts with label Actor. Show all posts

There are few spectacles more tragic—or more divine—than the slow, incandescent erosion of a gifted soul. Mr. Burton, the 2025 cinematic meditation on the life of Richard Burton, is not merely a film, nor even a biographical retelling—it is a grand threnody to the soul of man burdened with greatness. And in the hands of Harry Lawtey, that burden becomes a thing of unspeakable majesty.

The modern biopic, more often than not, leans toward an unwholesome gluttony. It gorges itself on costume, scandal, and period furniture, believing that verisimilitude lies in mimicry and plot. But Mr. Burton does something entirely different—something braver and more sacred. It looks not at what Richard Burton did, but who he became beneath the armour of theatrical success and tabloid fame. It trades narrative for revelation, choosing to illuminate not the chronology of a life, but the contours of a soul at war with itself.

At the heart of this ecclesiastical venture stands Harry Lawtey, whose performance is not a portrayal, but a transfiguration. There is no artifice, no strain, no desperate thespian showboating. Rather, Lawtey descends—yes, descends—into the infernal crevices of Burton’s torment, bringing back with him the fire of a man who could command Lear with the voice of a god, yet crumbled like dust before his own reflection. Lawtey’s eyes alone, in moments of silence, achieve more than most entire scripts manage with armies of words. He has not studied Burton to impersonate him; he has become Burton to understand him. This, I daresay, is not acting. This is theology.

But let us speak honestly about what Mr. Burton dares to depict: the unbearable paradox of genius. Burton, as presented here, is no hero. He is no villain either. He is a man—flesh and folly, thunder and ruin. He drinks not only from bottles but from the poisoned chalice of his own fame. He hungers, not for applause, but for absolution. The film does not sanctify him, nor does it crucify him; it reveals him. It allows him to remain unsolved, unredeemed, and therefore unforgettably human.

The film’s direction, far from overreaching, shows the wisdom of restraint. The camera lingers not to flatter but to confess. Scenes unfold not with orchestral grandeur, but with the hush of liturgy. We are given time—not to consume Burton, but to contemplate him. The cinematography understands darkness—not merely as an absence of light, but as the necessary cradle in which certain truths must be born. The script, elegant and sparse, often withholds more than it delivers, inviting the viewer into that rarest of cinematic experiences: listening.

It would be an injustice, however, to speak only of Burton the man, or Lawtey the vessel. One must also consider Mr. Burton as an argument against our age’s obsession with clarity. In a world that demands every story be neat, every personality either saint or scoundrel, this film dares to suggest that the most vital lives are those that remain unresolved. It reminds us that the human being is not a thesis to be proven, but a psalm to be wrestled with.

What Lawtey achieves here will be studied—must be studied—for decades to come. Not for its technique (though it is rich with it), nor for its resemblance (though it is uncanny), but for its courage. He has looked into the abyss of a man both beloved and broken, and rather than flinch or romanticise, he has remained. And in doing so, he has given us not simply Richard Burton, but a mirror into ourselves.

In the final analysis, Mr. Burton is not about fame or theatre or self-destruction. It is about the divine terror of being known—by others, by history, by Providence, and most of all, by oneself. It is a film one does not watch, but survives. And when the last scene fades, what remains is not applause, nor even sorrow, but silence—the kind of silence one finds in old churches and ruined cathedrals. The silence of something holy having passed through.

A bloody fucking miraculous feat, indeed, if I may be forgiven the phrase.

It was a dusky sort of afternoon, the kind that dangles between tea and twilight, with the sun loafing about like a lazy aristocrat—too proud to set, too idle to shine. The drawing room, with its high-backed chairs and bookshelves bowing under the weight of Tolstoy and gin bottles, basked in the quietude of a house that had, mercifully, survived our adolescence.

There we were—two brothers, born of the same mother and yet wildly divergent creatures—he, the sensible sort with a mind like a filing cabinet; I, a chaotic poet at war with socks and sobriety.

I swirled a glass of something I pretended to remember pouring, the amber liquid catching the light like mischief caught mid-prank. Leaning back with a dramatic sigh, I asked, “What do you get when you meld whiskey, wine and vodka, my kiddo?”

He looked up from his infernal Sudoku, eyebrows raised like an Oxford don presented with a haiku. “You get drunk. That’s what you get.”

“Naah!” I waved a dismissive hand, nearly decapitating a houseplant. “What you get when you meld whiskey, wine and vodka is a heroically outstanding spot of kindred spirits in a single, walking and talking embodiment, and that embodiment is you, my kiddo!”

He blinked once. Then, with the exasperated patience of a man forced to share a flat with a Shakespearean parrot, he replied, “Headache.”

“Huh?”

“That concoction will result in a headache,” he said, dragging out each syllable as though translating for the emotionally impaired, “if you happen to remember what happened to begin with… just like you,” he paused, eyes twinkling with impish delight, “are my biggest headache!”

A silence fell. Not the funereal kind, but the combustible kind—the sort that precedes either a duel or a bellyache of laughter.

And then we detonated. Boisterous laughter ricocheted off the walls, toppling decorum like dominoes. He lunged forward, gave me one of those rare, brisk, manly hugs—just long enough to convey brotherhood, but short enough to maintain dignity—and dashed off like some Victorian street urchin with an overdue library book.

I remained there, marinating in mirth, staring after him as though he were both ghost and gift.

You may have your scholars, your sages, your philosophers. But I, dear reader, possess a younger brother—a paradox wrapped in sarcasm, dipped in reason, and lightly toasted in charm. He is a walking contradiction, an accidental cocktail of virtue and vice, with just a splash of ridiculousness.

And let me tell you something most true.

My little brother is the coolest spirit in the room.

Sushant by Mario Testino for Vogue

(21st January 1986 – 14th June 2020)

There lies a peculiar panic in the mood of the present-day man — a panic more profound and paralysing than any spectre of death or poverty: the dread of one’s own self. Not merely the horror of solitude, nor even of failure in the world’s eyes, but the subtle, gnawing terror of confronting the depths of one’s own feelings — the very heart of reality as it pertains to the inner life. We are trained from infancy to take flight from discomfort, to sidestep sorrow, to consider pain a form of fallacy rather than a solemn instructor. And so, when love — that wild and untamed herald of joy and hardship alike — visits us, we stand ill-equipped, too frightened to fully receive it.

The world speaks of love in rhapsodies and songs, books and sermons, as though it were a gentle salve, a warming light, an unbroken arc of sweetness. Yet this, as the poet Jim Morrison so unflinchingly declared, is nothing but a convenient illusion. Love does not merely uplift; it wounds. It disturbs the soul to its foundations. And the fear of this disturbance, the mortal dread of woe, causes many to seal their hearts behind iron shutters. They flee from the only thing that makes life worth the trouble: the full and harrowing experience of being alive.

Psychological gloom, contrary to the thin advice of contemporary living, is not an enemy to be eradicated but rather a messenger sent from the innermost courts of existence. It is, as Morrison wrote, meant to awaken us. To numb it is to deny life its meaning. To shun it is to exile oneself from one’s own essence. For despondency is no mere bodily sensation; it is the crucible in which the soul is refined. To carry cerebral misery, not as a burden to be banished but as a companion, even a teacher — this is the heart of what it means to be human.

And if one dares to hide it, to disown one’s own anguish, as if the very act of feeling were shameful, one surrenders their own soul to the frosty machinery of societal expectation. The world demands from us the pretence of composure, the mask of indifference, the convenient fiction that “time heals all wounds.” But there are wounds so cavernous, so searing, that time is powerless to dull their edge. These wounds become part of the very constitution of the self. They shape us, mould us, and at times, leave us burrowed, scraped and changed beyond recognition.

As I scrawled these rudimentary words, I realised that they now live within me, as they must in anyone who has stood face to face with grief. Words, as I have learned, are astonishing things — they can build worlds, mend hearts, and just as easily destroy them. But feelings, ah, feelings care little for the establishment of language. They arrive unbidden, raw and elemental, rendering all speech clumsy and insufficient. They leave you standing like a wanderer in some vast, uninhabited desert, isolated, bereft, and cold. Like some silent predator, dolour strikes in the unguarded hour. It disorients, abolishes the boundaries of time and space, and hurls one into an abyss from which, at first, there seems to be no returning. And in this abyss, the only honest response is not the stiff upper lip, nor the counsel of false expectation, but the most human act of all: to cry. Whether in violent torrents or soft, unbidden tears that come without warning — to cry is to give vent to ruth, to acknowledge its rightful place in the human heart.

I cry for Sushant. My brother, my fellow pilgrim of thought and wonder, my soulmate — not in the shallow, romanticised sense of the word, but in the truest and most unadorned fashion: the companion of my mind and my heart, one with whom the silent things could be spoken aloud.

He was a man driven not merely by ambition, but by an unquenchable thirst for the infinite — a seeker, in the grandest sense. His strain, I believe, arose from that most peculiar affliction of the human soul: the longing for what cannot be. The longing for impossible things. For a world just beyond the reach of fingers or fate. Nostalgia for a past that never was, yearning for a future that might have been, regret for roads not taken, and the bitter dissatisfaction with the world’s faint imitation of the true and the beautiful.

In the twilight of such longings, he and I would talk — about art and literature, science and sex, philosophy and music, the aching beauty of Rodin’s sculptures, the fathomless verses of Rilke, the delicate brushstrokes of Monet, the infinite skies above and the restless earth below. His mind was a constellation of these things. Our friendship was woven of words, of handwritten letters, of books exchanged, of midnight phone calls that turned into dawn. I remember, as if it were yesterday, those nights when the world was silent and he would call me: “Bhai, neend nahin aa rahi, yaar, chal baat karte hain, yaar.” (Brother, I am not able to sleep. Would you care to indulge in a spot of conversation, mate?) And the thought that I will never hear those words again shakes me to the core.

The world will speak of closed doors and the opening of others. Sushant himself once counselled me not to take the world too seriously, not to despair when it seemed the universe had bolted its doors against us. How then, I ask myself, could such clarity of thought not have shielded him? The answer, I know, is simple and yet unspeakably sad. He was human. No more, no less. And no fortress of intellect, no army of admirers, no gallery of laurels can fully armour the human heart against its own silent wars.

His demand for perfection — both in himself and others — became both his shield and his scourge. In a world awash with mediocrity, as Anand Ranganathan so aptly put it, he was a man searching for a library in a fish market. It was an impossible quest, and perhaps it broke him more than the world could see. The digital age, with its venomous chorus of anonymous detractors, drew his temper and wounded his spirit. I would often call him, urge him to disengage, to turn away from such trivialities — and like the gentle, trusting brother he was, he would say simply: “Done.”

And so, the haunting question lingers: Did we fail him? The human mind is fond of postmortem heroics, of believing we might have altered the course of providence if only we had acted sooner or spoken louder. But the unpleasant truth, one that I have come to accept with both humility and dread, is that we did not fail him. None of us could have saved him. His own strength, his own intellect, his own vulnerabilities formed a storm cloud so vast that no earthly hand could reach him in that final, fateful moment.

Fate — that old and unyielding master — called him home. Some will think this icy or unfeeling, but it is, I believe, the clearest truth. We do not choose the day of our departure any more than we choose the day of our arrival. When the hourglass empties, it empties. Whether in triumph or in despair, the journey concludes.

The film world, as I have heard from those who knew it intimately, is a strange and cruel playhouse where rejection is a constant companion. To dwell too long in that world can convince even the bravest soul that they are unloved, unwanted, and unseen. When such beliefs settle upon the heart, they shape sensibility itself, turning perception into prison. But Sushant — the Sushant I knew — was not a man who took surface voices to heart. He was too much a student of life to let the unlettered judgments of small minds steer his course. The world did not take him; destiny did.

And so, I find myself repeating the plain, terrible truth: I have lost a confidante. I have lost a part of myself. Words like “condolence” and “acceptance” mean little in the face of such a loss. Until now, I had thought I understood the bereavement of others, but the experience itself renders all prior sympathies hollow. There is no preparation for such a vacuum. There is no cure for such an injury. And though the living will carry him in thought and memory, none of us will ever be the same.

Loss, I have learned, is a dual ache. First comes the knowledge that the much-loved is no longer suffering, and yet, this brings no true peace, for we do not know the fate of souls beyond the veil. The second, and sharper, is the anesthetising absence in the world we still inhabit, the recalling of their voice, the void where once their laughter dwelled. We weave hopeful fictions to ease the agony — that they are “in a better place,” that “time will heal.” But beneath these phrases lies the unaltered twinge, which only faith and time can alleviate, never erase.

As Dickens wrote: “The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.” And so I cling to that hope, dim and distant as it may seem.

I now reminiscence the haunting confession of Poe, another man who knew too well the cruelty of memory and the desperate escapes it inspires: “It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” These words, I believe, fit Sushant’s heart like an epitaph, for he, too, lived by his own laws, indulged in his own beautiful strangeness, and ultimately could not outrun the shadows within.

So go, my dearest brother of the soul, and regale the world that now holds you with the richness and boundless love you so freely gave to us here. You are, and will forever be, that very love, wherever you roam.

. . . And here’s presenting my little brother Danyal Zafar’s debut single Ek Aur Ek 3.

The music production, the design, and the lyrics are by my Danny as well.

TRIP ON IT the way I am TRIPPING ON IT.

True siblings are bound together by far more essential things than blood.

Happy birthday mere true sibling!

“Only the gentle are ever really strong.”

~ James Dean ~

I had posted the trailer of Forever My Girl on my Twitter, Instagram and Facebook long before anyone else had posted anything about it because I had read the book by Heidi McLaughlin and I was awaiting the big screen version with utmost impatience simply because I was craving to see if the book was better or the movie.

I watched it last night, and I must add, with much emphasis, that the movie moved me deeply. In a time where everybody seems to take love for granted and seldom works on it like a sculptor works most lovingly on his marble by giving it the shape and form he so desires, Forever My Girl had several things going for it: innate heartache, binds and bonds of family and friends, feelings and emotions most handsomely handled and expressed, a fine representation of how some relationships stand the test of time and some don’t – it even had god and the church, and despite the critics seeming to have made little of it, I was enormously pleased that it was rather treasured by the public with much enthusiasm, and why not? It contained no violence, no lovemaking, or even profanity for that matter, something we see most meaninglessly woven into the tapestry of a film merely to tempt and titillate the audiences. The movie made you feel that you don’t need to be bohemian to be acceptably fashionable. That there is great meaning in simplicity, and sophisticated simplicity is something that is part of our cultural DNA, and at the end of the day manners, respect and love score over everything else. Adored how nobody is scheming and insulting anybody, and how, with such refined balance, each one is actually responsible for each other’s keeping.

Cinema, the arts, literature or anything to do with humanities does have a rather calming effect on mankind. Watching a violent film, leaves behind a distasteful residue in us. I was reading an article by Jacques Attali called Can Art Do Anything Against Violence? In that he states, and I quote – art softens proprieties. In principle, art represents civilization, beauty, serenity and benevolence. Moreover, in principle, nothing is more soothing than frequenting masterpieces of art. He explains further that societies that reject art are particularly violent. I have always supported this view that if we surround ourselves with negativity or viciousness, it percolates into our system, reaching soon a point of no return, and it is at such times that we need to use mediums like literature, art and film to tell folks whelmed in such throes that life is not something to be spent nurturing the unsavoury. That if you see and surround yourself with the good, there is every chance that the good would manifest itself in your heart and soul and make you a person who will be an epitome of buoyancy. Perhaps I make it sound as easy as picking up a glass of water and gulping it down one’s throat, and for many, I daresay, it is indeed easy to go with the flow, however, those who thrive on independence of thought and above all possess a strong character, would not find themselves beguiled by the trends of the times. They would reject that which they feel is detrimental to their inner and outward growth. As the events unfolded on the screen, it was like watching a charming wedge from the golden age of cinema. I found myself so very absorbed in every scene merely because it brought to itself a novelty one was not accustomed to watching these days. It had such a lovely touch of affection between Liam and Joise, and the very representation of that type of pure love has been absent for a long time, not only on the screen, but also in the lives of people as well. And that is when I wondered why other filmmakers were not making more movies like these when they knew what effect the cinema has on people? That is when I discerned that this was not the problem of the filmmakers per se, but an enigma of the most mammoth kind with the current generation itself – a generation that thrived on instant gratification, and who’s attention span was colossally distrait, for when they saw something that lacked unreal twists and turns in storytelling, a screenplay that grew organically with the story, they were seldom able to differentiate a pebble from a diamond.

I LEARNT / LIKED

That people seldom change until something life changing comes along to change them. Liam has everything, and yet what he yearns for is some ‘real’ love from the ‘real’ people he craves it from.

That children can be smarter than we think they are. In fact they are far too smart for their age when we were their age. It is like they come fitted with an innate antenna in them that works beyond our capacity to understand their mechanics.

That people tend to hide a lot, not to escape their pain, but because they don’t know how to articulate what they are hiding. This is where every Liam needs a Josie. And when I say that, I do not mean only in form of the opposite sex, the aim is that every Liam in us needs someone like Josie to believe in them; to understand that we need to be there for those whom we love most unconditionally when we know that our souls have connected. This is where we have to go back to our life’s drawing boards and rub the parts away where we are each raised with the belief that nobody is indispensable. Such teachings are nothing but a bunch of garbage as there is absolutely no substitute for those who matter to us. Also, how the scar of his childhood would have left Liam so gravely damaged that in being unable to process the pain, he finds himself abandoning what requires mending. This is where we have to understand that people deal with grief in ways that we may not understand. We have to be patient and let the hurt heal. We have to be the anchor and help one another get through the distress regardless of the hardships we face.

How not everything can be made right by money, just as gifts mean nothing in the lives of those who mean the world to us.

How the old duct-taped phone that Liam holds closest to his heart indicates that in life we may become larger than life for the world and have everything we would ever want, but it is these little things that matter: things that we attach importance to by virtue of them being woven into the valves of our heart and soul.

Liam rushing barefoot to the phone store illustrates most marvellously how, when we are in our plainest elements, we care less for anything that the world cares for in us. I loved how when he offers ten thousand dollars to anybody who can fix his phone, the manager of the store offers to fix it for him on the house. This is where I think that the values that we see fading at an alarming rate today are awfully imperative to keeping and preserving the nature of helping our fellow human beings without any strings attached. I loved how Josie tells Liam that there would be nothing between them, and exactly an instant after he hears her say that, Liam asks Josie if he can pick her up from work.

How Liam, who hasn’t been able to produce any riveting music, or written any heart-touching songs because his life appears clouded by the distractions of city life, the drugs, and the flesh, is able to write with much profoundness in an environment that he finds actual comfort in. Many people who crave for celebrity do not realise that celebrity is intoxicating, and it can also consume you in ways that you can rarely fathom, and by the time you realise you want to retract your steps, your feet would have been far dunked in dirt, unless of course providence is benevolent enough and gives you a second chance.

DID NOT LIKE

1/ The parallel drawn on Nicholas Spark’s work to market this movie was lame. Agreed he is a novelist who has made great success by tapping on the pulse of the passions of love and relationships, but his work is dreadfully predictable. If not anything it is weighed down with overdoses of saccharine. The Forever My Girl production house did not have to piggyback on someone else when their product was strong enough on its own.

2/ Here are some (inexcusable) excerpts from the book:

On page 87

“No.” I shake my head to emphasis my point.

It should have been: I shake my head to emphasise my point?

On page 89

I couldn’t really say no since he used buy our beer for us.

Where is the ‘to’ before buy?

Like all else, it seems editing too has taken a nosedive. It is appalling that publishing houses do not take their reputation seriously. Whom are they catering to with such mistakes? Shouldn’t the publishing firms engage experienced editors? How did the writer give her nod to the final draft?

CREW

One must tip one’s hat for the director Bethany Ashton Wolf. She is incredibly in control of her project. Glad she decided on the novel, and then chiselled it into the magnificent screenplay with the writer of the novel, Heidi McLaughlin. The book and the film are strikingly dissimilar. I found the film far more powerful than the book. The book in portions was unpolished and insensitive. It had many trivial characters, was overloaded with the unnecessary usage of profanity, and was jarringly predictable. The movie on the other hand was charming and reflected meaning. It was not merely cinema that was callous. It was something one can watch with school kids to grandparents – and each age group will cherish most deeply the beauty of relationships depicted in it as long as they live.

Right from the etiquettes to the minute details of human nature that Bethany Ashton Wolf has portrayed in her movie makes her one of my favourite directors. I adored how she avoids playing to the gallery who worships effect, and effect, unfortunately, is rather short-lived, because what stays on even when we are long gone is culture and polish, and she is a master raconteur of that polite genre.

Alex Roe is a fine choice for Liam Page not only for his chiselled jawline, lanky structure, expressive eyes, but more so because he enhances his American twang with the refined touch of British finesse. Jessica Rothe as Josie is my favourite. She has a winning smile, strong legs, and a voice to drool over. Convincing and vulnerable, she is as perfect as Josie could get for the big screen. John Benjamin Hickey as Pastor Brian was another role enacted with immense panache by John. He has an alluring screen presence and it is a delight to watch him play his role with utter subtlety. Abby Ryder Fortson as Billy is the niftiest kid around. She essays her role to the perfect T – bold, confident, observant and how a kid actually ought to be – genteel, genuine, and yet having a free soul of her own. Peter Cambor as Sam, Liam’s manager is more like his sounding board. He is like what a good friend is – looking out for you and giving you a smack on the arse when you most need it. Gillian Vigman as Doris, Liam’s publicist enacts her little screen time with verve and ardour. Tyler Riggs as Jake, Josie’s brother is one of the smartest men in the movie. He has an easy-going charm to him not without the unmistakable stamp of defined masculinity that is a hallmark of country life.

The compositions of Brett Boyett sink into your soul. Alex Roe’s vocals are a treat for the melody-crazy music buffs. Duane Manwiller has handled the camera with deftness.

ON A BROADER PERSPECTIVE

When you turn the pages of the newspaper, or scroll across digital screens, you discern the reasons that are common to the ruining of relationships are either downright childish or not worthy of a thought. At such times you wonder whatever can be done to amend the straying attitudes. One of them is surely to do with COMMUNICATION PROBLEMS. You will be alarmed to learn that sexual infidelity is not really the problem causer in most couples, but the lack of communication is. Not thinking he is good enough for Josie, Liam takes a decision based on his own summation without asking her how she feels about him, and when his intention is to do her good, he ends up hurting everybody in the bargain. This behaviour is directly related to an evolutionary problem – men find it difficult to express their emotions since they have been conditioned to be manly, and to be manly is not to admit to your vulnerabilities or come into contact with your innermost feelings. They learn to bottle up their emotions and sink along with the ship even if there were to be a lighthouse in the distance.

LACK OF INTIMACY: When I use the word ‘intimacy’ I am not pointing in the direction of sexual pleasure. Sex is vital in a relationship, but sex is not the core of everything in life. Men need sexual receptivity to feel romantic, and women need romance to be sexually receptive. That has been most beautifully represented in the movie. Liam has his fair share of women as a celebrity, while Josie finds herself so intertwined with Laim and his soul even in his absence that she cannot find someone to make love with for the sake of fulfilling her desires. People forget that intimacy is not merely genital-to-genital contact, but intimacy can be found in hugs, kisses, the need to be touched, fondled, and to feel close to their partners. Relationships can head towards a dead end if we stop paying attention to intimacy.

UNMET EXPECTATIONS: Sometimes small things can create the widest rifts. Be watchful of what triggers a negative reaction in your partner. Liam’s stature renders him to take life easy as he is given everything on a platter. However, when he returns home his father treats him like he is just anybody else around home. He has to wash the dishes and ride the bicycle. I reckon men should be sent to the countryside in order to learn to do their own work, that way a lot of friction would, and could, be avoided between a couple.

I know I could go on and on, but I reckon I shall stop here with a footnote that much as cinematic experiences may drum into our hearts and minds that life is so and so, and we have to live it with such and such philosophies, fact is that life is rarely dramatic – it is a steady rolling forward of events that make us who we are, and it is the people who are around us who bring such events to light, and this is one striking experience watching Forever My Girl left me with. I cannot but think of Susan Sontag here who ruminated in her diary, “Nothing is mysterious, no human relation. Except love.” Or even Rainer Maria Rilke who said, “To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.”

PS: If the film were to be made in my side of the world, I envision Ali Zafar essaying Laim and Aditi Rao Hydari as Josie.

Adi halts midway. “Na, brooo. I’m not bullshitting. I’m telling you the truth – I am the best,” he directs his index finger towards his countenance, “just look at my face. Just look at it bro!”

I observe the unfailing glint of humility in his eyes – something that is as landmark to my Adi as breath is to air. And yet to trouble him I look at him disinterestedly and reply, “Haan mere bachche, you are the best...at bullshitting, don’t I know that? Isn’t your ‘face’ the best proof of that?”

Before I even know it, he swerves into his Taekwondo leap and knocks me down. When I am flat on my back on the grass, he comes close to me and raises his eyebrows, twice, quickly, in a typical mischievous Aditya fashion. “Lagi toh nahin na?” His biceps, no less than bazookas, are within my eyesight, all set to fire off at me if I don’t tell him what he wants to hear, so I internally measure my speech and speak up feigning innocence.

“You are the BEST, my Adi,” I say gulping, “and that is the truth, and you know that na mere bachche,” I pause, “and your face, err,” I stutter and stammer as if to show I am still mortally terrified, “is the living proof of that na mere brooo!”

He inches his head slightly away from me, narrows his eyes, scrutinises me for a few seconds, and then gives me his hand. I heave a sigh knowing full well that my acting has paid off better than his - while the hotshot monkey gets paid for his skill because he is a famous actor and all. To keep up the tempo, I stand up with his support, ooh-ing and aah-ing. He breaks into a loud laugh. I squint. He pats me on my shoulders; “You are also the best, bro! Truly. And I’m not bullshitting,” he points his index finger towards his countenance again.

“Also?” I ask, aghast.

“Drama,” he mutters coolly, as I turn and RUN away as fast as I can!!!

The picture above is of his bazookas that he unleashes on me every time I poke fun at him. The picture below, well, that’s the look on Adi’s face as I’m running away after the, “Also?”

Phew! Kids these days I tell you – they are no less than actual Mafia dons! But what to do, I still love my bachcha, because he is indeed the BEST, and it is these intimate brother-brother moments that make life so much more worth living. What say? Wouldn’t you all agree with me?

(c) of images and words belong to Aditya Seal and Farahdeen Khan

Facebook Badge

Navigation Menu

featured Slider

MR. BURTON (2025) – A REFLECTION ON THE WEIGHT OF GREATNESS

LITTLE JOYS

A THIN LINE ~ Sushant Singh Rajput

DANYAL ZAFAR - Ek Aur Ek 3

MY BROTHER FEROZE KHAN

FOREVER MY GIRL – 2018

Adi - My Bazooka Brother