Hello ladies, it’s 2019 and the director of Kabir Singh would like you to know that a slap is a romantic gesture.
Of ghosts, terrors and the beauty of clouds. Because when it comes to spectacular exhibitions, nothing beats a cloudy sky in Bengal.
Last week, Phenomenal Nature, a retrospective of sculptor Mrinalini Mukherjee, opened at The Met. Since no one is taking me there, I try to remember what I've loved of the works of hers that I have seen.
Remember the good ‘ole days when we could rely on commercial cinema for fun? As opposed to whatever word you’d like to use for PM Narendra Modi
It’s hard out there for an International Khiladi.
If your time to you is worth savin', then you better start swimmin'. Or you'll sink like a stone. For the times they are a-changin'.
Pico Iyer has a new book, and it’s a thing of melancholy and ping pong.
In which I, as usual, find myself growling angrily about something that everyone seems to love.
Captain Marvel isn’t the best film of Marvel’s franchise, but it might well be the most thoughtfully-written script of the Avengers narrative.
When a romantic comedy made in 2019 makes you remember a romantic comedy from 1958 for its boldness, it’s time for a (long) post.
"The satiny material of her burkha shone where it caught the sunlight. It stretched, dipped, billowed and moulded against her body because of the wind. The magnifying glass inched down her form, past the arc of her covered head, along the fluid lines of wind-puffed material. Hadpude didn’t blink. He just looked. His eyes travelled from head to toe, from photo to photo."