I can only imagine how beautiful it will be 40 odd years from now. I’d be around 60 by then. And the world would probably have concerts on the moon and flying theaters. Over a casual cup of chai on a chilly winter evening, when someone asks me who my favourite actor is, I’ll show them a hidden picture tucked to safety in my closet. Emboldened into the glossy paper, peeking at us, would be a handsome young man, smiling goofily at the camera; Sushant. And at exactly that instant, away from the hustle of technology and the cruelty of time, the meloncholic echo of Ik Vari Aa will resonate once again. He’d to me be what Shami Kapoor ji was to my grandmother. In today’s world of reels and ig-stories, tomorrow’s world of movies in space, Sushant will be safe within the frame of a black and white picture. And defeating the ticking clock’s sorcery, to me he shall be rejoiced like the touch of crisp newspaper; like the sound of the first rain, like the smell of a brand new book; and the nostalgia of an old Polaroid. Our Polaroid.
Sushant (2060)
Poetresque 