On a crisp winter evening in Dubai, the Tahibib Festival at the India Club brought the city alive with poetry, art, and a global celebration of creativity.

Day two of the festival brought together filmmakers, writers, scholars, psychologists, sportspeople, musicians, painters, and performers from around the world. 

But for most of us, the main attraction was Javed Akhtar’s appearance at the mushaira. 

As a devoted admirer, missing it was simply not an option.

The event began with performances by local singers, followed by a special set from Audis Band, a group of visually and physically challenged musicians from Mumbai.

The soulful qawwali by the Sabir Brothers further set the mood, leading up to the grand finale of the day, the mushaira. 

The audience buzzed with anticipation, all eyes waiting for Mr. Akhtar to take the stage.

When the anchor finally announced his name and he walked onto the stage, the moment felt electric. 

He recited exquisite, carefully chosen poems and shared intimate, captivating stories. 

For the South Asian audience, it was pure enchantment, a collective spell woven by his words.

By the time the event ended and I stepped out of the venue, it was already quite late. I was tired, hungry, and ready to head straight home when my phone buzzed. 

It was a message from a friend who was part of the festival’s core organising team. 

The text was simple, almost casual: “Would you like to join us for dinner with Javed Sahib?”

The urge to go home vanished in an instant, replaced by something far more thrilling. 

I followed the location pin to Nassimi Café, a charming place with warm, understated elegance that makes you feel both at ease and a little privileged. 

Eight or nine people were already seated. The air was thick with anticipation. We waited in that particular kind of silence that arrives just before something meaningful begins.

Finally, he walked in. Mr. Akhtar, with that signature contemplative expression. Greetings were exchanged, an immediate warmth filling the space. 

Soon the table was laden with classic Arabic starters, a lavish spread of warm pita bread, bowls of creamy hummus, and the smoky depth of Baba Ghanoush. 

And just like that, the conversation drifted to food.

He began with a simple question: “Do you like sweets?” Before any of us could answer, he added, “Remember, a person who loves sweets is a good person. If you see someone enjoying rasgullas or gulab jamun, it means they still carry the innocence of childhood.”

I must have shown a hint of skepticism, because he immediately offered a small test. “If you offer a child a salty snack or a piece of candy, what will they choose?”

“Candy,” we replied in unison.

The topic of food lasted for a while, but sitting with Javed Akhtar and not drifting toward cinema felt impossible. 

I confessed my admiration for his daughter Zoya Akhtar’s films, admitting, somewhat sheepishly, how many times I had watched Dil Dhadakne Do.

He smiled, accepting the compliment with ease, and then offered an insight that felt both simple and profound. 

“Do you know that Zoya’s films don’t have villains?” he said. “Take Kamal Mehra, played by Anil Kapoor. Even he isn’t an antagonist. He is like many of us, arrogant and flawed, but not someone trying to hurt anyone. That’s unusual in cinema, where we’re conditioned to expect clear villains.”

I paused, letting that sink in. He was right. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. All I could do was nod in full agreement.

The café lights softened as the conversation flowed past midnight, transforming us into a silent, mesmerised audience. 

We talked less, listened more. 

Here was a maestro of words, generous with his stories, wisdom, and perspective on cinema, food, and life itself. 

We all looked visibly tired, shadows under our eyes, shoulders beginning to slump. But he remained animated, full of energy and insight. 

At his age, such enthusiasm is remarkable, but perhaps that’s what happens when you’ve lived a life of conviction, maintained simplicity, and never lost that spark of childlike wonder.

“Can I have another rabri?” he asked, eyes twinkling as if he already knew the answer. 

And just like that, our evening ended on a sweet note. Quite literally.