Last week, two artists were painting an Urdu poem, in the Nastaliq script on a Delhi wall, when a crowd gathered
Before I say anything, let me make full disclosure. I love purple. We found each other in my early teens, and have been often together since
Last month, 17 year-old Kriti Tripathi killed herself in Kota, the hub for competitive exam coaching classes
Kangana Ranaut has featured in this column a few times. Almost always, it was because of things people said about her on that hit TV show Happy Bitchy Insiders, yaniki Koffee With Karan
Recently, the highly ranked Hindu College, in Delhi University, started a women's hostel. Everyone cheered and few asked why it took the 117-year-old college so long. After all, why single it out? This is the story in so many colleges even in the big cities of India
Imagine you’re 14 and already suffering supercilious man-o-logues from IIT-bound boys, about the technical greatness of Pink Floyd
Ever since I can remember, introducing myself has been torture. First, it was only the Bengalis. As soon as I said, "I'm Paromita," a tidal wave of Bengali would rush at me. Gritting my teeth, I'd say I am not Bengali
To see R Balki's Ka and Ki is to see a gigantic missed opportunity, both politically and artistically, but also, to see that these two ambitions — the political and the creative — are intertwined. Both require the power to reimagine forms, social or artistic, with genuine insight
Last year, sick on a weekend, feeling sorry for myself, I called two of my friends and demanded they come see me with flowers and chocolate. We ate our sweets, gossiped and had a convivial time. Then, one of them became pensive. "What is it?" I asked
As with notions of the nation, so with feelings about family, popular cinema is often the place where new, still-forming ideas are reflected, emotionally managed and normalised.
When I was a kid, if one acted too fancy or wrinkled one’s nose at desi things, like, for instance, saying, "I don’t want parathas for tiffin! I want sandwiches!" (or called tiffin, the lunchbox), one of your formidable maasis or buas would snort, "angrez chale gaye, aulad chhod gaye."
If you see Vijay Mallya, please tell him I’m looking for him, yaar. I need his help.
I’ve been grinning often while checking out my social media newsfeed. What’s making me grin? Posters I see for a march on March 8, International Working Women’s Day, in Delhi, from a growing group of university women, organising under the name Pinjra Tod.
We are a country addicted to soap operas and the daily soap is, arguably, the most influential narrative form of this century for India
The Rajasthan government has removed all Western poems and Urdu words from its school text books.
Things people say to you, when you mention harassment, even liberal types, who care for the poor, for women’s issues and prefer to say Bombay, not Mumbai, are often variations of — why so serious?
There is something about numbers that is presented as superior. For instance, when you say you like something, there will always be some realist, yaniki cynic, who will snort “that’s all ok, but show me the numbers”
Ten years ago, a student at a workshop I conducted at the University of Hyderabad worked on a film about his life experiences.
One of the great pleasures of living and working in Bombay is that you can hail a cab or auto anywhere, anytime. I’ve drunk deep of this pleasure, never feeling the need to get a car when I can get a cab. Lately though, I’ve fallen out of the habit of hailing a cab and into the habit of pressing on an app button.
Remember the days when letters used to begin with Dear? No? Actually neither do I.