Thread & Thoughts

I couldn’t help but wonder — when did freedom start feeling like another thing we had to manage? In urban India, hookup culture arrived wearing the language of progress. It sounded modern. Liberating. Finally, a way to want without answering to parents, society, marriage timelines, or that ever-present question: “Where is this going?” For a generation raised between conservative households and liberal Instagram feeds, it felt like a loophole. Sex without commitment. Desire without declarations. Intimacy without consequences — or so we thought. At first, it felt intoxicating. Dating apps gave us access we’d never had before. Cities offered anonymity. Weekends became possibilities instead of obligations. You could meet someone on Friday night and be a completely different person by Sunday morning — untouched, unaccountable, free. Freedom tasted especially sweet in a culture where everything else came with conditions. No shaadi pressure. No family involvement. No “log kya kahenge”. Just c...

Why ambiguity feels safer than honesty — and hotter than clarity ! ! Nobody in urban India sets out saying, “I’d like a confusing emotional arrangement with unclear boundaries and an expiry date I’ll pretend not to notice.” It just happens. Somewhere between late-night cab rides, half-shared cigarettes, and conversations that get deep only after the third drink. You meet someone. Maybe through an app, maybe through mutuals, maybe at a house party where everyone pretends they’re not judging each other’s politics and dating history. The chemistry is real. The attraction undeniable. The vibe? Effortlessly modern. So modern, in fact, that nobody wants to name what’s happening — because naming things feels… old-school. Almost regressive. Instead, we let it breathe. We let it exist. We text daily, but not predictably. Predictability implies intention. We meet often, but not ritually. Rituals imply priority. We share playlists, trauma anecdotes, and beds — but asking “where is this going?” fe...

There was a time—long, long ago—when film criticism was about cinema. About narrative arcs, performances, screenplay, editing, music, coherence, craft. Critics disagreed, audiences debated, and everyone went home reasonably sane. Then Dhurandhar released. And suddenly, we weren’t watching a movie anymore—we were watching a meltdown . The Movie That Broke the Critics Dhurandhar did something unforgivable in today’s cinematic ecosystem: It didn’t ask permission. It didn’t perform ideological loyalty checks. It didn’t signal its virtue loudly enough. And worst of all—it resonated with audiences without being certified “safe” by the usual liberal gatekeepers . The result? A collective nervous breakdown masquerading as film criticism. Within hours of release, certain critics—who usually write like detached aesthetes—began sounding like opinion columnists with hurt feelings. Reviews were less about what worked or didn’t and more about what the film dared to imply . The discomfort...