It was just another regular afternoon at the local marketplace. The sun was hot, the crowd was noisy and I was busy looking for fresh tomatoes that didn’t look like they had fought a battle. As I squeezed one, a deep, familiar voice echoed behind me, “Arre o Samba…” I froze. That voice—it couldn’t be! I turned around slowly and to my shock, there he was—Gabbar Singh himself. Same rugged look, same leather belt, same evil stare. But strangely, no one around seemed to notice him. The vegetable vendor kept shouting “pachaas rupaye kilo,” aunties were bargaining for free coriander and a kid was loudly playing a reel on his phone. Not a single soul was scared of Gabbar Singh.
I walked up to him, half amazed, half confused. “Gabbar ji? What are you doing here?” He sighed and looked around with disappointment. “Yes, it’s me. But no one fears me anymore. In Ramgard, people would run just hearing my name. Now, I can’t even scare a crow off.” He looked so lost, I almost felt bad for him. I nodded and said, “Gabbar ji, times have changed. People now fear things like electricity bills, network failures and fake news. You’re old school.”
He sat on a bench near the chaat stall, looking tired. “You’re right,” he said, biting into a samosa. “Today, fear has changed its clothes. It no longer looks like me. Now it comes dressed in shiny suits, behind smiling faces, and speaks sweet words. There are modern Gabbars everywhere—scamsters cheating old people, people in power who forget their duty, friends who backstab and those who make big promises and vanish.”
I listened carefully. The once-dangerous dacoit was now sounding like a philosopher. He said, “I used to spread fear to control people. But now I see how much harm it caused. Real strength is not in fear. It’s in earning respect and love. Today’s world needs less fear and more honesty.” I was surprised. “You’ve become wiser, Gabbar ji.” He laughed, “Time changes everyone. Maybe I should become a motivational speaker—‘Kitne aadmi the?’ will become ‘Kitne positive log the?’”
We both laughed, and I could see that Gabbar wasn’t scary anymore. He was human, reflective and surprisingly kind. As he got up to leave, he said something I won’t forget: “Fear is okay, but only for the wrongdoers. If you walk with truth, never be afraid.” Then, like a silent breeze, he disappeared into the busy crowd—no horses, no guns, no background music.
Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. But I had met the real Gabbar—the one who once ruled hearts with fear and now quietly teaches lessons through wisdom. The world may have forgotten him, but he left behind something more powerful than fear—a message.
