columns
It was no surprise, then, that I, like the rest of my generation, embraced the coffee culture with a vengeance. It was my way of telling tea to go to hell.
Ravi Chopra’s The Burning Train (1980), with its unpredictable twists and turns, entertains and educates.
Just one viewing of this old classic by B. R. Chopra shows us all that is wrong with Hindi television today.
It is not very incredulous to foresee a future where sentient mechanical beings will take over the mantle of evolution from human beings.
Heartbreaking in a way only sheer beauty can be, Craig Thompson’s Habibi is a celebration: of love, lust, and the human need for company.
There is no magical wind that breathes life into mere bones and flesh, even if that is what the Book of Genesis or other religious scriptures would have us believe.
We are probably the last generation of urban kids that remembers watching Doordarshan shows like Malgudi Days, Byomkesh Bakshi, and Flop Show.
A world of magic, marvels, and miracles; a world borrowed, stolen, yet far moved from the innocence of the happily-ever-afters.
Where does one start when one starts to ponder such fundamental questions as the origins of life and the nature of time itself?
In Rajasthan, pride does not take on the ugly avatar of arrogance. It helps the people ground themselves in a coherent identity in the face of a fast globalising landscape.
The slow blossoming of a ‘monster’ into a human being has been wonderful to watch.
