One of my earliest adventures into culture-based tourism was following the trail of Feluda in Kolkata, tracing the steps of Satyajit Ray’s famous detective. Since organised culture-based tourism wasn’t really a thing in this part of the world, I had to piece together the trail on my own.
It’s a curious thing, the emotional weight we feel when an actor we admire passes away. The grief feels strange and quiet, almost disproportionate. We’ve never met them, and there was never any real possibility of a personal connection. Yet their absence feels profoundly real, as though someone who had unknowingly become a part of our lives is suddenly gone. It’s far from the raw, visceral pain of losing someone close, but very close to a slow, simmering sadness, more like the loss of a distant but cherished companion. I’ve asked myself this question each time I’ve felt this quiet sense of loss from the passing away of a favourite artiste—why does it feel like losing a personal connection? Why does it resonate so deeply? And I find myself asking it again today, with the passing of the...
In the landscape of South Asian cinema, where women have long been confined to roles of self-sacrificing mothers or objectified love interests, the films of Rituparno Ghosh emerge as a powerful counternarrative. Ghosh, one of Bengal's most acclaimed contemporary directors, crafted a body of work that challenges stereotypes and redefines the portrayal of women on screen. I try to explore his unique approach here, examining how his films subvert traditional narratives and offer a nuanced, feminist perspective on South Asian womanhood.
A dive into history reveals similar narratives. In 1968, Sharmila Tagore's decision to wear a bikini for a photoshoot wasn't seen as an artiste's choice but became a canvas for societal moral commentary. Fast forward to the present, and Bollywood luminary Deepika Padukone often finds her neckline inciting more fervour than her critically acclaimed roles.
Picture yourself curled up with a steaming cup of tea on a lazy weekend afternoon, whilst golden rays of sunshine furtively find their way to illuminate the tattered pages of your beloved, time-worn novel. Now, replace that serene imagery with a bustling living room, where that very novel is now flickering to life on a vibrant screen, promising to display the intricacies that were previously etched in ink. A beautiful transition, if done right. Then again, when it goes wrong, it feels like watching a dear friend fumble on stage and you are mostly left with a profound longing for what could have been.
National Award-winning lyricist, scriptwriter, stand-up comedian, political satirist, poet and now director, Varun Grover has been gliding through all these creative roles for the whole of the last decade. He shines in each role with the magical combination of wit, poetry, and honesty.
One of my earliest adventures into culture-based tourism was following the trail of Feluda in Kolkata, tracing the steps of Satyajit Ray’s famous detective. Since organised culture-based tourism wasn’t really a thing in this part of the world, I had to piece together the trail on my own.
It’s a curious thing, the emotional weight we feel when an actor we admire passes away. The grief feels strange and quiet, almost disproportionate. We’ve never met them, and there was never any real possibility of a personal connection. Yet their absence feels profoundly real, as though someone who had unknowingly become a part of our lives is suddenly gone. It’s far from the raw, visceral pain of losing someone close, but very close to a slow, simmering sadness, more like the loss of a distant but cherished companion. I’ve asked myself this question each time I’ve felt this quiet sense of loss from the passing away of a favourite artiste—why does it feel like losing a personal connection? Why does it resonate so deeply? And I find myself asking it again today, with the passing of the...
In the landscape of South Asian cinema, where women have long been confined to roles of self-sacrificing mothers or objectified love interests, the films of Rituparno Ghosh emerge as a powerful counternarrative. Ghosh, one of Bengal's most acclaimed contemporary directors, crafted a body of work that challenges stereotypes and redefines the portrayal of women on screen. I try to explore his unique approach here, examining how his films subvert traditional narratives and offer a nuanced, feminist perspective on South Asian womanhood.
A dive into history reveals similar narratives. In 1968, Sharmila Tagore's decision to wear a bikini for a photoshoot wasn't seen as an artiste's choice but became a canvas for societal moral commentary. Fast forward to the present, and Bollywood luminary Deepika Padukone often finds her neckline inciting more fervour than her critically acclaimed roles.
Picture yourself curled up with a steaming cup of tea on a lazy weekend afternoon, whilst golden rays of sunshine furtively find their way to illuminate the tattered pages of your beloved, time-worn novel. Now, replace that serene imagery with a bustling living room, where that very novel is now flickering to life on a vibrant screen, promising to display the intricacies that were previously etched in ink. A beautiful transition, if done right. Then again, when it goes wrong, it feels like watching a dear friend fumble on stage and you are mostly left with a profound longing for what could have been.
National Award-winning lyricist, scriptwriter, stand-up comedian, political satirist, poet and now director, Varun Grover has been gliding through all these creative roles for the whole of the last decade. He shines in each role with the magical combination of wit, poetry, and honesty.
