Gather 'round, ye bilge-rats, rum-sopped scallywags, and celluloid-sniffers! Put down your cutlasses and stow your doubloons, for the Jolly Roger hangs at half-mast today across the Seven Seas of Cinema. News has drifted in on a salt-crusted breeze, colder than a kraken’s embrace: the mighty Dharmendra, the 'He-Man' of the Hindon Ocean, has finally surrendered his soul to Davy Jones’ Locker. Every tavern from Mumbai Harbor to the Caribbean is eerily quiet tonight, the grog tasting like bitter bilge-water and the salt-beef turning to ash in our mouths. He wasn't just a mere actor-captain; he was a triple-decked galleon of pure iron, a man whose biceps were forged in the fiery pits of Punjab and whose gaze could sink a thousand merchant ships before the first mate could even scream 'Avast!'

I remember him best on the deck of the Sholay, that legendary fire-ship that burned through the box office for a hundred years and left every other vessel in its wake. As Veeru, he was the wildest buccaneer to ever swing from a rigging, drunk on country liquor and screaming from a water tank like a banshee in love. 'Ye gods!' shouted First Mate Masala, wiping a salt-crusted tear with a rusty hook. 'Who shall now dance upon the broken glass of our enemies? Who shall fight off a hundred dacoits with nothing but a pair of fists and a roar that rattles the very masts of the industry?' The Lords of the Admiralty in Bollywood are weeping in their silk waistcoats tonight, knowing their finest captain has abandoned the fleet, leaving only hollow-chested swashbucklers in his wake.

The consequences of this departure are as dire as a hurricane in a bathtub. The price of cinematic spice is plummeting in the markets of Malabar, and the 'Garam Dharam' stoves that kept our bellies warm during the winter of mediocre sequels have gone cold. Without the original action-hero to guide the stars, the younger midshipmen are aimless, trying to flex muscles made of mere CGI and vanity instead of real, Punjab-grown wheat and righteous fury. Lord Box-Office of the East India Film Company was heard muttering into his port at the Gentlemen’s Club: 'The treasury is heavy with silver, but the spirit of the fleet is bankrupt. We’ve lost our most fearsome brawler, the man who could charm a mermaid and out-punch a Great White in the same afternoon.'

Even the sea-monsters are paying their respects in the deep. Rumor has it the Great White Shark of Malad has stopped hunting for the week, and the sirens of the coast are singing 'Main Jat Yamla Pagla Deewana' in a mournful minor key that would break a heart of stone. It’s a dark day for anyone who appreciates a man who could transition from a tender lover to a rampaging beast faster than you can say 'Basanti!' He was the bridge between the old wooden ships of classic drama and the iron-clads of modern action. He didn't need fancy maps or enchanted compasses; he followed the stars and the beat of his own massive, Punjab-sized heart.

So, raise your mugs of grog high toward the moon, ye scurvy dogs! We shall toast to the man who made the silver screen shake and the ladies swoon from the crow’s nest to the hold. Dharmendra has sailed beyond the horizon where the sun never sets and the films never end. May the winds be forever at your back, Captain Garam, and may the heavenly reels never snag on a splintered spool. Bollywood is a quieter, duller, and far less muscular ocean without your roar. We’ll be seeing you in the great cinema in the sky, where the popcorn is always buttery and the villains always get exactly what’s coming to ‘em!