Dreams Drama and Bollywood

source- scoopwhoop

So I unwrapped the last box of the day. Clicked pictures of the neat sitting contents, from all the possible angles. Spiced the content with some Bollywood tadka, my way. And finally tapped ‘ ‘Post’’. But it wasn’t as simple as it sounds here. A lot of brainstorming went into coming up with the digital content to make the product ( no matter how basic they were) appear like must have killer stuff for the Gram

Hello, I am an Influenza ( Gawd…I have developed an accent) ! I recently have dropped into the sea of influencers by chance or luck or whatever after a few of my fashion and travel reels posted on Instagram went viral. In one euphoric week, the followers rose ridiculously and so did my stories, IGTV Videos, reels, posts, sharing tiniest bits of my life.( some genuine and a lot made up ) from the brand of Protein shake consumed after the forced workouts to the toilet roll I wiped my ass with.

This little stint of fame was enough to lose my marbles, I was crammed again by the filmy keeda that lay dormant hitherto from years may be. And produced more juiciest content with vivid cinema-like clarity in my head to be later incorporated as dreamy reels with a tint of Yash Chopra magic.

As luck would have it, Along with a handful of influencers, I was invited to attend a high profile event. I was at the Udai Vilas Palace, Udaipur, with a scene set like that of Kabeera’s song. Everyone adorned in kilos of diamond polki, wearing yards of Sabyasachi embroidery reeking silks. So much glamour and glitter that it felt Karan Johar was filming something there. The shutterbugs totally busy as young Greek God like men and size zero girls, pouted and posed with their best expressions flaunting sunglasses and bags with phoren brands. And then would break into ‘oh dear’ kind of conversations with an accent that would put even a Britisher to shame.

After recording all the ridiculous content which needed to be posted live, soon our bunch started to explore the nooks and corners of the huge ass mansion while I made a beeline to the lake, holding a glass of sangria, my sixth for the evening.

I lounged on the sun recliner kind of couches sprawled all around the artificial water bodies for a while, clicked close to 101 possible dps for the Instagram, hopping from one spot to another- all the time, looking around, wishing for some Greek God kinda looker to drop by the poolside aka Ranbir in Yeh Jawani hai Deewani ( ugh, blame it on the incorrigible filmy bug that awakens every now and then). And then I would spout the gems from my witty mouth, to bowl him over with my brilliant and intelligent brain.

Ohh! Then I realized, all the good lookers of the world fall for dumb ass girls.

( Did I hear someone mutter, “ The case of sour grapes’) Aaargh!

Hey, don’t click off the page yet. Picture abhi baaki hai. Apparently, among the list of posh guests was Akshaya Kumar. Yes, you heard me right. Our own Old Khiladi. OLD….. err…..I mean, not really.

I was sitting on the poolside randomly, the long silken skirt pulled up to the knees, legs dipped in the blue waters, enjoying the Udaipur Sun going down- when I was graced by Mr Khiladi’s presence who asked why I was not buzzing around like others.

He began to talk in Punjabi.

IN PUNJABI !!!!! HOLY SHIT!!

( Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a racist. In all honesty, I love Punjabi songs. I love Brown Munde too. Okay, that didn’t sound right, calm down, I’m a Punjabi myself- you know my love for butter chicken, dj-sheejay- over dressing ……Oh no ! Was I that overdressed that he assumed that I was some jattni… Oh sorry again ! I am not a racist….OR he thought I belonged to that older age bracket ….Shut up Akshay…I am fucking five years younger to you….And then I heard ‘BROWN MUNDE’ being played in the event and gave up on the ramble)

For all my witty cells, I would have turned into a DODO. Only from within though. We hold our turf strongly.

The ice was broken. And we talked about things with larger and deeper meanings. (not in Punjabi, thank lord and not at all about how Modiji likes eating his mangoes ). He talked about how he sucked at social gatherings and would rather find a peaceful corner to disappear in.

One conversation led to another and we had a heart to heart chat with Akki ( oh! I have already begun to call him that) bared himself and talked about the things he’s never shared with anyone. In a short time, I became his confidante. He told me about how he hard he struggled to convince Sonu Sood to let him play the character of Sonu Sood in the biopic based on the kickass work the actor did for the migrant workers. I marveled at my Akki’s convincing power.

I listened to him like a three year old, holding onto his hand, looking into his moist eyes.

And the blazing music in the backdrop ( brown munde… remember) relegated to just that-backdrop.

He made me sit down and rested his shoulder on my head. I silently looked at the moon, which shone like the shiniest solitaire, among the hundreds of stars in the twilight sky.

And then I heard him mumble, ‘Twinkle’ I feared what came next. Was Akki about to break into a jingle ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ given to all his childhood memories he had shared with me a while back. ( No, stop exaggerating your funny cinematic thoughts, my conscience yelled out. Give the boy a break !)

Break yeah ! in a bit

Just then I felt Akki frantically straightening up, hearing a shrill exclaim from the backdrop coming alive.

In a moment, Twinkle in her posh garb, accompanied by Karan Johar and Manish Malhotra (in outrageous God only knows what) stood in front of us, in jaw dropped expressions.

The family and his friends dragged him away even as he turned around to catch a last glimpse of me.( by the way, my heart knew that he would do a ‘palat’’ on the third repetition of the word, blaring in my head). Tears trickled down my eyes. ( reference — Deepika in Kabeera song)

I kept the biggest rock on my shattering heart to see the love of my life being pulled away until that fat ass Karan Johar passed me the meanest look. That was the final nail in the coffin. The Deepika in me died and Kangana rose from the ashes, at the very sight of Karan. Donning the avatar of shining armor, I ran after Akki to save him from the Super Zalim mafias of Bollywood, stumbling in the first copy,studded Louboutin heels, holding the glass of wine in my hand, spitting choicest of abuses in Punjabi. (Truly Kangana, na).

And then I felt a thud in my head. A big Thud. I felt liquid flowing down from my head to my face. Was it blood ? Had I been shot in my head, my funny, smart head ?

Wait a minute, isn't blood supposed to be warm? Yeah, apparently yes! Unless you are a shark or a reptile.

I instantly opened my eyes with’ What the eff kind of expression’, wiping out something that felt like water; thankfully not spewing ‘ you shitass…beep. Beep.’ on my no more charming knight, in night suit holding an armor called jug-for he wouldn’t have believed the reasons, even if I explained.

So here it is, Another one of my dreams crushed by reality and fate’s cruel hands.

Never the less we still dream….with or without Bollywood tempering.

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Edupreneur/Writer/Traveler/Storyteller/Coach/Stylist/Coffee Addict/Fitness Freak/Collector of Beautiful people/ Lover/Seeker

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Shelley Anand

Shelley Anand

Edupreneur/Writer/Traveler/Storyteller/Coach/Stylist/Coffee Addict/Fitness Freak/Collector of Beautiful people/ Lover/Seeker

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