Farewell Bond… James Bond

ANOTHER relative of my family has died.

Like the other personalities that enter our hearts when we are still very young – Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Raj Kapoor, Mohamed Rafi, Naushad, Charlton Heston, Rock Hudson, John Wayne – Roger Moore was family.

These stars are just that. There are no religious or language or cultural barriers. We accept them as we would our very own children, spouses, siblings – with all their faults.

Roger Moore was introduced to us in the mid-’70s with the advent of television in the country through the black-and-white BBC series The Saint.

Even at that early stage, members of my family were taking bets that this young, white and handsome boyish-faced actor would soon be plunging into widescreen, colourful roles.

Little did we realise that The Saint series we were so intently watching was already 15 years old, and that the producers of the James Bond franchise were already negotiating with Moore to replace Sean Connery.

The reasons were not hard to guess: perfect dialogue delivery, excellent pronunciation of the Queen’s English, an innocent-looking, cynicism-filled, tongue-in-cheek, fun-filled character.

In addition, having the ability to raise just one eyebrow at a time probably clinched the contract.

Besides, Moore displayed a disposition that made it so easy for villains to die at his hands.

Some actually looked forward to the trip.

Never mind that he couldn’t act. His job was to spy and kill. He accomplished all of that and much, much Moore.

We are told that when somebody close dies, they change into stars. True.

And when artistes bring music, acting and other soulful activity into our lives, they are referred to as stars on earth. And when they pass away, they do not change into stars in the sky.

They implode and vanish from our mortal sights like black-holes,