June, 2022.

Dear L,

People remember when they meet other people that ignite them. I've read books and watched movies where they exactly know when and what happened where they meet the person that they know was going to change their life. And here I am. Not having any first clue as to when I met you the first time. But I do remember the times you ignited me. You absolutely lit me on fire that keeps burning even after months I've known you and it just won't let me sleep. You complimented me about my dress. You said I looked beautiful. Thrice. Three fucking times. Such words could bring anyone down on their knees. Who am I to rebuke those words when you said them with the brown in your eyes blinding my black ones. It started then. Hasn't stopped still. Sometimes it does go away but it always finds a way to come back. I wish I could bury it deep inside and never see your eyes when I close mine. But I can't because it has become that thing that holds me tight and keeps my feet on the ground strong. You've easily become one of my people who keep me sane. I don't allow a lot of people to do that to myself.

So my friend says i should make a move. And i know I'd be terrible at it. I just wanna say hey I'm gay for you. Are you gay for me? Maybe not those words because I don't want to startle you. I'd start by telling you who i am. I'd ask you who you are but I'm afraid we won't get to that because I just want all the words off my chest. I've held it for too long. I've been a coward for a longer time than I'd like me to be. So I'd tell you things i always wanted to. I'd tell you things that I think about while i take a walk in the moonlit street and I'd tell you it's you. I'd tell you the things that absolutely won't let me sleep at 2am and I'd tell you it's you. I'd tell you I'm reminded of you when I listen to all the songs nowadays instead of a faceless person and I'd tell you i remember you while listening to avalum nanum and I'd tell you it's you and me i think about everyday and I'd tell you about Elio and Oliver because they are us. We are them. I'd tell you how Elio wondered if it's better to speak or to die.

I'd tell you i spoke. But i wish to die.

Yearning for you H.

Moosur daal – a fusion of Bengal and Bihar

Disclaimer Welcome to intuitive cooking. These recipes are to unleash the chaos in you. No measurements, just vibes

I learnt to make daal at 24. I was instructed by a friend over a video call because I didn't want to Google it. They taught me how to make it in the style their mom made it – the Bihari style. Then my mother told me how we don't do all that in the Bengali style. So I learnt two very different processes of having daal. I'll list both down below.

What I find interesting is that both cultures developed side by side and yet we have so many differences. Industrialisation of the country has only made the gap bigger instead of bridging it. It saddens me so much. Especially when from all over the world we're getting reports of governments assassinating their own citizens, I think it's really important as a nation that we embrace the strength in our diversity. Our cultures, histories, languages, differences and similarities are what make us unique and interesting. This is why colonisers have chosen us over and over and over. Yet, Indians have always managed to assimilate our oppressors into our society, gently redirecting them from pillaging to seeing us as equal traders. We need to remember the sheer power Indians hold in the world. Our greatest exports – intellect, spices, rice, human labour – are what the world functions on. I truly believe the day we reconcile our inter-cultural differences, we will be unstoppable.

Anyway, getting back to daal. My go to is the Bengali version as you'll see it's easier and quicker. The Bihari version is for days when you need comfort in food but also therapy in the preparation. I'm usually lazy and believe in one pot fast cooks but some recipes are so close to my heart, I can't help but share. I know a lot of you also hate chopping and extra prep time but if you have the opportunity and energy, do try the Bihari version of the recipe. You won't regret putting the 15 mins of extra effort.

Ingredients – Bengali version

• Paanch foron
• Mustard oil
• Turmeric
• Salt
• Moosur daal
• Water
• Pressure cooker

Instructions

• Wash the daal
• In some heated oil in the pressure cooker, put the paanch foron in and let it sputter for a few seconds
• Drop in the daal
• Add salt and turmeric powder and let the water dry off. Stir occasionally
• Add water, at least double the amount of daal (this one is a little more flowy. On setting aside for a while, the chonky parts of the daal settles at the bottom, creating my favourite warm drink in the world – daaler jol which literally translates to pulses' water)
• Close the lid of the pressure cooker
• Wait for 3-4 whistles
• Let the pressure release on its own
• Serve over hot rice and with some onion, tomato, cucumber salad dressed with lemon juice and salt

Ingredients – Bihari version

• Tej patta
• Dried red chilli (my preference is Kashmiri, it adds a layer of smokiness to the daal that's just irreplaceable)
• Onion
• Garlic
• Tomato
• Green chilli
• Mustard oil
• Turmeric
• Chilli powder
• Salt
• Moosur daal
• Water
• Coriander
• Pressure cooker

Instructions

• Wash the daal
• Add salt and water to the daal and let it pressure cook
• Wait for 2-3 whistles
• Chop onions, garlic and green chilli
• In a pan, heat mustard oil
• Add tej patta and dried red chilli
• When they start to sputter, add garlic
• As the raw garlic smell disappears, add onions and a little more salt
• When the onion turns translucent, add chillies and tomatoes
• Cook till all the vegetables look wilted
• Add turmeric powder, and red chilli powder
• Fry till you can't smell the raw masala anymore
• Open the lid to your pressure cooker once the pressure is released
• Vigorously break down the daal pieces with a daal masher
• Add the scorching, sputtering chokh/tadka/temper to the daal and stir it in
• Garnish with some freshly chopped coriander
• Serve over hot rice and with some rice+sabudana papad

Fuck Palestine: seems to be the general Indian consensus. Well, okay fuck Palestine. But what about Bengal? What about Assam? What about Arunachal? What about Manipur? What about Nagaland? What about Telangana? What about Andaman? What about Kashmir? Kerala? Karnataka?

What about millions of our own country people? People whose lives look like ours? Children who take auto rickshaws to school? Adults who haggle over the price of tomatoes and curse their fate when they step in a pothole? What about those who share your name but will be forgotten because we care more about morals and justifications of genocide instead of people who save their last bite for their children??

Fuck Palestine? Fuck you.

অবশেষে।

অবশেষে, টুনি বাতি নিভে যায়, - মিসাইলের আঘাতে মৃতদেহ পড়ে থাকে নিস্পৃহ দেবতার পায়। মা হারা শিশু কাঁদে আকাশের পানে চেয়ে শত শত তারারা বোমা হয়ে পড়ে থাকে মায়াভরা গোছা গোছা গোলাপের পাশে। ম্লান হয়ে আসে গান যুদ্ধের দামামায়, শুধু একরোখা মহাকাশ চেয়ে থাকে; অনাহুত পরবাসী নিজেদের ঘরে। রক্তের উৎসব হানা দেয় মন্দিরে, দালানে। শত কোটি জোড়া চোখ চেয়ে চেয়ে মরে যায় স্বপ্নের আশায় এক গোছা ধ্বংসস্তূপের আড়ালে। মানুষের হাহাকার বারে বারে ফিরে আসে পাহাড়ের গায়ে প্রতিধ্বনিত হয়ে। দিন যায়, রাত যায়, রাজাদের টেবিলে প্রজাদের মেদ আসে সুস্বাদু রসে। যুদ্ধবিমান উপনিবেশ করে মেঘেদের সীমানায়। তবু পৃথিবী ঘুরতে থাকে, আর হিমবাহ বেয়ে চুয়ে পড়ে চোখের জল। মানুষের হাহাকার পৌঁছায়নি ব্রহ্মাণ্ডের গভীরে, শুধু একগোছা লাশ পড়ে থাকে সুদূর গ্রহের কোনায়। কে বা চেনে, যে বা জানে, কে বাঁচে, কে বা মরে, অবিচলিত এক আকাশের নিচে।

Russian nesting dolls of pain

Mother, if you look in the mirror under the dim yellow lights at 2 am, Do you ever feel like you're a slightly distorted, less violent version of your own mother? That you're made of the same broken shards of her tears, only in a different light? Or that the blood you pump is tainted in that same weary fluid in her womb when you resided in her, in search of a home that she didn't have too? Your words, your gaze, your voice reverberates her angry stance, Polished and garnished into an ugly blade of decades of oppressed pain, Mother, your hands do not wash the blood she painted you with. Mother, my hands tremble for I see that blood trickling into my veins too, Slowly, and steadily, slithering like a python in its firm calm embrace. The pain shivers me head to toe, flowing like an eternal river since the beginning of time, From mother to daughter, from daughter to mother, In a gyrating loop of a repeated motiff, And we're both stuck here, mother. Mother, when I stand in front of the mirror, I see my reflection tainted in yours, Your reflections tainted in your mother, Outlined and filled in a repeated motiff of hurt and pain and regrets, And an unbridled rage lodged in a brittle shell of love. Mother, are we russian nesting dolls of pain, with our mothers inside our form? I crash on the floor and you come out of my broken shell only to open your dusty lid and show me your mother inside. Hey mother, did your mother's love burn you like stepping into lava too? For, I see you mouthing my words unconsciously, unknowingly, unintentionally, As I do yours, when you cry at night spilling out all the lost happiness you could've not lost if your mother knew better, That I could've not lost if my mother knew better than what she knew to be better. And I cry out asking why did you not know better but this hollow sky answers only with rain, Mother, how could you have known better?

Mother, I hold your hand and my body shrieks coldness and hotness simultaneously, My brain overwhelms itself in understanding the contrasting extremes, As I look at your fiery eyes and find a hurt child only. Mother, we compare lives as if we're commodities in competition in a market, When we're just like each other yet so different and far apart yet so close, My head spins to make sense. Mother, I was born before my birth, in your scars, the moment you did. Mother, I do not know what can satiate this pain, But mother, I need you to see me, see me, see me. For I cannot.

Sitting on a tightrope meant for walking she talks, “he and his new gf are coming contain yourself.” As if my blood would spill from my pours when it boils at the sight of him. As if he would run in the other direction when my words come out of my mouth and push him in a corner. As if the music would stop, the drinks would be over and the grass would turn brown.

I contained myself when I was 9 in a burqa, so I could hide the stench of blood clots my dad decorated on my back. I learnt to shrink in a space only in heaven they heard me sing

I have lost too much of myself to keep people in my life. Can you see, I'm nothing but a backbone now? How dare you tell me to bend?

Thank me for not setting the whole world on fire for what it did to me.

When I asked for help, all I got was hurt as if I was snow white on a poisoned apple I had to became the witch.

My Nani told me, every woman is a lamb after dark and every man out there is hungry Do you see? I am still here after he took chunks off me when he put his long nails on my neck.

There's still so much of me left.

Do you see the statue they made of me in the clouds? Do you hear the collective consciousness whisper ideas to me? Do you feel the mark mercy left on my forehead? Do you smell the stench of a thousand suns on my skin? Do you taste the burn when you savour me and tell me to go back to the ice as if I was a corpse And he was alive?

#A Room of One's Own

I can't live where I want to in my budget but a family can? The bias that house owners have is just pathetic. I live in a house currently which is quite an inconvenience to me. I tolerate it because of my freedoms. But I realize now, my freedoms have been illusionary. They're dependent on such basic things.

I tolerate it when the voltage issue makes my house look like a dimly lit Pecos or for some a haunted house. I tolerate bad plumbing. I am constantly reparing things around the house. Rich people keep disrupting my routine. Nobody helps clean but everybody helps destroy this house's floors, switches, my mugs, and walls. Some rich vegan girl who hates adult lady terms broke the toilet seat and has not paid for it. She drank a lot of almond milk in my house for free.

I asked a bunch of painters to come paint my house and they'd rather paint for Instagram than the friend who gave them gigs that made them famous.

I'll do it myself.

I want carpets but it's ground floor and there's too much dust plus my friends seem to never respect the fact that wet shoes are not welcome inside. I want creepers but there's no direct sunlight. Artificial light is at the mercy of poor connection in this house. A few basic things in this house are so dysfunctional. I don't even have a locker to keep anything locked.

I want to cook but there's no air in the damn kitchen. They've closed the chimney. No exhaust fan. Everything sticks because of it. Dust on top of that.

Dry sinks, welcome cockroaches. Keeping the drains clean is also an issue?

There are no shelves with doors. There's no logical arrangement to keep anything in the kitchen.

The hall has out of place really fucked up shelf that keeps hitting me. The mattress on the floor restricts me from brooming because it is too damn heavy.

I hate changing the lights in this house again and again. White light looks bad. Yellow light looks bad. What lights should I put in this damn house?

The shower has an issue with pressure despite me having a seperate tank. I mean for fucks sake I can't even dance in the shower without hitting my elbows against something.

You live on the mercy of when water comes. Tank gets filled.

And it is bloody unpredictable.

My boyfriend says it's alternative days but it's been proven wrong too.

Plus storing is an issue. There's no place for a drum.

I can't keep the washing machine in the toilet. It's a second hand machine that is automatic and cost me only 5k. Have to keep this beloved piece of legend outside the house. People on the street can see in my house easily if I just keep the door open.

There's always water leaking somewhere in this house no matter much you tighten the valves.

I don't have a quiet corner for writing except at nights – 2:30am.

I feel like I'm suffocating in my house.

I have no curfew. I have no restrictions yet it feels like a prison of micro aggressions.

I adjust but I'm so tired. I want basic shit at least. Sunlight but no fucking noise and dust.

All the basic shit is with landlords who charge too much or only rent to families.

PGs have restrictions.

I need a room of my own. The kind that Virginia Woolf described.

‘you do realise you were raped, right?’ i didn’t want to answer. the question coming from someone almost a decade younger has better understanding of boundaries than i do. i knew they were right. but i didn’t want to answer. i knew the answer, i was just not ready to accept it. ‘i consented’, i said meekly.

he always had higher sex drive than me. but he always assured me that he would stop if i ever were uncomfortable. the first time someone did stop when i said no, i cried in their arms. it was years before i met him. i have times when i do not have sex at all. to me sex feels like a time pass that you do when there is not much else to do, and i always have things to do. and he was respectful at the beginning. he stopped when i said no, or i wasn’t in the mood. i took it as a sign that he is nice. i also felt bad. i knew he has higher drive than me, and me not being able to meet his needs has made me feel guilty about myself. what was my worth if i can’t give him everything he wanted from me? i loved him. i would have given my life for him.

first time it happened was in a party. he drank. i did not. i was trying to be off alcohol. he kept touching me in front of others, and i was uncomfortable. previously i have broken up with another partner who did this sober, in daytime, in cafes. this time i justified it by telling myself that he is drunk, he is at home, with me. i did say no, and he stopped for sometime, and then he said, he is sleepy, and whether i can accompany him to the bedroom and lie by him till he falls asleep. i agreed. he started undressing me as soon as i got in, and the door wasn’t even locked. i tried to stop but he said he can’t stop because i am so attractive. i did feel desired. so despite the fear that someone might just walk in on us and see me naked, i gave in. he went to sleep once he was done, and i laid awake with guilt.

he said sorry the next day. he also said he is hornier on alcohol and he also is hornier by the fact that he might get caught and it carried him away last night. but he loves me and can’t think of doing this with anyone but me. i thought to myself, that it is just one time then.

as he cut me off from my friends and kept telling others that they should contact him instead of me, i got more and more isolated. it was only him who was giving me validation and i felt grateful towards him. i would have done anything to keep him happy, to keep myself desirable to him.

he kept asking other people to the house, and as they were sleeping, more often than not, his hands would go inside my top. he would play with my boobs and eventually his hands would go down. he wanted me to wear skirts during bedtime. he said it provided easy access. i took it as a sign that he desires me badly. he got me skirts too, and i am always partial to skirts because they go spinny.

i said no multiple times. at the beginning he would stop, but with more time he just got more bold. i never wanted to have sex with someone present in the bed. so, i wanna be able to move freely, and i wanna be able to moan and make noise. i could do none of that. i also did not wanna have sex clothed, under sheets, and taking on his body weight, that was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. but if i didn’t gave in, he wouldn’t stop. he kept doing it till 4 or 5 in the morning. i am the designated homemaker. i had to take care of the house, i had to drop off garbage, clean up. and i cant do that if i get to sleep at 5 am and wake up at 12 or 1 pm. so i gave in. it was over much quicker that way. i got to sleep early.

this turned into a ritual. he would invite people over. there would always be someone in the house, sleeping in the bed despite me crying begging to him to have alone time with him. he would invite others and tell me that they wanted to come and they need to be here. i have always struggled with my inability to say no. he knew this, and took complete advantage of that. this i got to know when i told my friends and they said they never asked to come beforehand, he always invited them. and if they wanted to talk to me, he would tell them i am not mentally well enough to have a conversation, i am depressed and overwhelmed. which i was, but i wanted to talk to people that came over to my house.

every night, for months on end, he would keep doing the same to me. if i initiated sex when we were alone, he would flat out refuse to. once he went out, and i put on sexy lingerie, lit up candles, and lied down on the bed like one of those french girls you want to paint. he walked in and burst into laughter. i have never felt that bad ever in my life, i could do nothing but cry, and he said he laughed because he did not expect to see me that way. now i know, at this point he has been cheating on me for months. when he went to mumbai a few months before, he stayed with this wannabe influencer who has been called out as a groomer before, and both of them sported hickies that were not there before. he told others that i gave him to them, but he wouldn’t sleep with me when we were alone, and it happened almost two weeks after he left for pune, even if i gave him hickies, they would have been gone by then.

yet, i liked to think i consented. but when i told my therapist this, they said, it doesn’t count because it was never an enthusiastic yes. i did not have the choice to say no, because saying no made things worse for me, so yeah, what my friends have been saying is right. i was raped. day in and day out, for months. by someone i loved and cared for deeply. and he didn’t see me as a human, but an object for his perverse desires. i do not know how that makes me feel. i do not want to believe i was raped, i do not want to believe an intimate partner was sexually violent towards me, abused me as he pleased, and abandoned me when his needs were met.

i gave him everything he wanted out of me, and i gave him space to heal, and even that wasn’t enough for him to love me. maybe i’ll never be enough for someone. i have been loyal, i have been subservient, i supported him when he had no work from my savings. and that wasn’t enough. i am never enough.

but it is okay, i can’t change the past. i do realise i am not dateable, i can give a lot of labour, but no one is willing to love me for it. so i’d do this labour for me, at least i can’t abandon myself even if i wanted to.

Fruits for my fruits

Disclaimer Welcome to intuitive cooking. These recipes are to unleash the chaos in you. No measurements, just vibes

This ones for all the health conscious queers who've bullied me into caring for myself. Thank you. Without you, I'd forever be in heartburn hell surrounded by eno

Ingredients

• Crunchy fruits
• Soft juicy fruits
• Berries which aren't fruits but consumed as such
• No tomato even though it is a fruit
• Salt
• Honey
• Citrus fruit juice/vinegar
• A fruity foodie to consume said fruits

Instructions

• Chop up your fruits in bite size pieces. I used apples, guava, kiwi, bananas (peeled), and pineapples.
• Top with some freshly squeezed orange/lime juice. You can also use mosambi juice. Sprinkle some salt and a generous helping of honey.
• Mix and consume fresh.

Alternative

• You can mix some pasta amd cheese with this to make a spring/summer pasta salad.
• You can use this as toppings in pancakes.
• You can use this in custard.
• You can make boba balls with these.

Let me know if you'd like quick recipes for boba balls

In Wrestling terms, “work” refers to anything part of the wrestling storyline. In the '60s, '70s, '80s, and '90s, wrestlers treated each aspect of their life as “work.” This led to hilarious results. Once, a wrestler’s wife arrived in the arena with a handgun. To kill the wrestler who had beaten her husband. Yes, wrestlers weren’t allowed to tell their wives about the “fake” aspect of wrestling. So, overall, their lives had become entrenched in show business; their lives had become about work. This happened with factory work as well. If you view the history of how Carnegie managed his companies, you’ll come across the story of “company towns.” By providing them with houses, with entire communities built around the company, they had made the workers dependent on them. Whenever they fight against the horrible conditions in the factories, they risk losing housing and their entire lives. So, they would never protest. They would never be able to have free time, and work would loom all around their lives. Lower salary bands and multiple ways of measuring productivity reconstruct the same scenario for today’s workers. A “bond” that fresher signs to work for a company for at least three years before quitting is a sign of this scenario. History repeats itself daily, and more aspects are repeated than ever before.

The Narratives Built

In the 2019 movie, “Velaikkaran,” the hero goes to work at an FMCG company. In a rousing speech on the first day, the manager (an inimitable villain played by Fahadh Fassil) asks everyone to scream, “We’re the best!” The narrative of being good is baked into every workplace’s philosophy. But it’s a philosophy meant to raise support, not one meant to build a better world. In the movie, the villain usurps power through complicated maneuvers. The hero still wins by creating a protest that lives on in the daily work ethic of the workers. But, we want to focus on the narrative first. How often have you heard of an open, inclusive, and welcoming workplace? How many times do start-ups offer unlimited PTOs? How many times do enterprises flaunt their LGBTQ-forward credentials? The unified narrative around a “good” workplace is created to foster a sense of safety. But a safe workplace doesn’t exist in principle. This is because work is not optional and is necessary for survival. In the same way, anything that is mandatory can never be safe. It has already violated every sense of consent. Sure, there are moments of respite, but that exists everywhere. Think of the times in schools where we’re taken on trips. Or the tiny spaces within the prison where the community plays together. Exceptions, in this case, prove the law. Crafting these exceptions (team fun days, casual Fridays, etc.) is to create a sense of community and safety where there isn’t any. In “Velaikkaran,” the hero realizes his workplace creates toxic chemicals. It’s poisoning the community it serves. On the other hand, he realizes that he’s in between these circumstances, being faced with defective products and costs rising on all fronts. While not as explicitly, how many of us can say that what we do isn’t harming someone down the chain?

Why does work suck?

We often see work as a unique relationship. This starts with the family. We have started viewing work as a family outside the family. So, the low pay and the underappreciated work hours all make sense in the large picture of the family. We’d sacrifice for our community, for our family. But, we’re not working in the family or having fun. Reframing work as a fun part of life is a difficult thing to do. It’s mechanical, most people work in an assembly line where they contribute one small portion repeatedly. And without the spirit of collaboration or the spirit of coming together. The spirit of work today demands that you have fun, that you create a family around your co-workers, and live your life with them. Your social apps become an extension of the workplace and suddenly you’re in a company town.

Against Work

One of Graeber’s central arguments focused on “play.” He observed that animals played with one another, even in nature, without goals or scores. Think of puppies engaging in small fighting competitions only to make up and lay with each other later. Think also of how cats often engage in small, silly explorations into the places they know very well. We did this as children, too, playing randomly, without scores, and without a uniform goal. In a way, you don’t want to go beyond that. You don’t want to build hierarchies and scorebooks and tire yourself out. The life against work needn’t be perfect, Community-led playing is a great way to move beyond work. Today, many systems can work without us putting in work at all. Focusing on creating an experience where you can have fun and do something collaborative is great. This can be anything from painting to writing to discussing knowledge. The point is to have fun while creating or destroying something (“Destruction is inherently a creative urge after all.) You won’t be alone in history to find these collaborations more efficient than normal work. For example – The Spanish Civil War brought together Anti-Fascists from all corners of the world and succeeded in thwarting the advance for a time before an overwhelming force.

Your Future and Mine

Many a communist rejoiced with the emergence of AI. The perspective was simple: if AI can automate our work, we can spend our lives doing something fruitful instead. However, this is a short-sighted view of the world. AI, Bitcoin, and other tech revolutions that promise an apparently free-er future are also gated by tech. Plus, the tech itself depends on a lot of energy and electricity. Both factors can complicate our future of the planet. I don’t advocate for AI because most of my comrades can’t afford or access with, and unless we remove the gating, we can’t dream of this future. And even with equal access, we might not want the future it’ll build. Being without work requires community. It might not be available to you right now, but you’ll have to build layers of mutual aid to survive without work. And these can’t only be urban or rural either. Your connections must transcend borders and limitations and grow like a rhizome to defeat work. But, you can, because I want you to. And you will, because you have will.

heavy spoilers ahead, read only if you have read upto chapter 236 in the manga. avoid if you only watch the anime

This is not really a review, it is more of a prediction. first of all, i am glad gojo is dead. like yeah, gojo already said once a ten shadows user and a limitless user fought and they both killed each other. this time it was ten shadows user megumi plus king of curses sukuna. gojo stood no chance. also, i was bored of the prolonged fight. it went on for months. jujutsu kaisen was more fun when gojo was sealed to be honest. plus gojo stood no chance. sukuna has much more experience fighting, and megumi has mentioned that mahoraga is one shot only. the shikigami user would die because mahoraga wont ho back. and we know that mahoraga needs to be destroyed in one shot, by exposing it directly to the cursed technique once as sukuna did. gojo didn’t know that. not only he exposed his own technique to mahoraga multiple times, at the end destroying mahoraga with hollow purple meant he literally gave sukuna a second chance, just like how sukuna gave megumi a second chance to take over his body later. and also, if someone like gojo, with six eyes, who can see anything, can’t see this attack coming, it is pretty dumb to expect the reader would see it coming. just my two cents.

however i see how the fans are clamouring about the death. that is why i’m writing this. this will be my prediction. i am too elite to write it in a reddit thread. but i will definitely post link to this article if my prediction comes out right.

i think people don’t realise that, in the jujutsu world, the most powerful beings are not jujutsu sorcerers. it is the people who has no jujutsu at all. people like toji, or maki. toji almost killed gojo, and he would have succeeded, if he knew gojo can work reverse cursed technique. maki literally wiped out the whole clan of hers full with jujutsu sorcerers. they literally are monsters.

they can’t also be controlled after death. Kanjaku will never possess gojo because his brain is not equipped to handle the information six eyes receives. but no one has tried to control a limitless user before so nobody knows whether it is possible or not, but the bodies of jujutsu sorcerers can be controlled after they die. the only exception are people without jujutsu. toji couldn’t be controlled.

but why am i saying all this? because yuji, the youngest son of kenjaku, is divine intervention personified. yuji is a product of experimentation. Kaori had the power of gravity, that did not pass down to yuji. he was born without any jujutsu. yuji already had superhuman strength, speed, and durability. megumi pointed this out in the first chapter itself about how yuji is like maki. but neither maki nor toji ever displays strength anywhere close to what yuji showed before ingesting the finger. he broke world records in shot putt. toji was the fastest, but he became fast after rigorous training. yuji didn’t need that.

gojo also mentioned that eventually sukuna’s cursed technique would be etched on yuji’s body. which means beside being the strongest human without jujutsu, yuji would also be channelling the cursed technique of sukuna.

here is the thing, sukuna can heal bodies like any other curses. unlike humans. and in his supreme power he had four hands. two for channelling cursed energy into techniques, and two for fighting. sukuna never yet had four hands here. sukuna also had a lot more experience fighting others than gojo.

however, no one like yuji has been there in the jujutsu community. he is a literal product of experimentation, when kanjaku took over itadori kaori’s body. yuji hasn’t yet realised that himself. here is where jjk start looking like fullmetal alchemist to some extents. however, gege tries really hard to break shounen stereotypes, so i am hopeful something or the other is going to happen. we also need to take stock of what yuji wants to live by. he wants to die surrounded by his loved ones, unlike his grandfather. but here is the thing, everyone dies alone anyway, death is lonely. you can be lonely surrounded by others and be misunderstood. what yuji wanted was to be around people who understood him. The first to go was Nanami. he is dead. the second to go was Nobara, as she is beyond getting healed. it was probably her who could actually deal damage to sukuna or kenjaku significantly in her prime. her technique is that much powerful. the strawdoll technique is overpowered in my humble opinion and others don’t even see it coming. next to go was matsumoto, and then megumi. megumi needs to die to get rid of sukuna. because yuji can’t be taken control of just like toji, but megumi is not like yuji. so megumi is gone as far as i’m concerned. and yuji just saw magumi kill gojo mercilessly. people who understood yuji are all gone. all of them. thus, yuji is alone anyway. yuji need to understand that.

but then again yuji is young. he will meet people who will understand him better than all of these people. yuji needs to give himself the chance of living a fulfilling life. once yuji understands that and realises he is like toji or maki, but better, he is going to be unstoppable. that is all.

personally i would love to see yuji’s domain expansion, and i think either yuji or megumi is gonna grow two more hands. i’d rather it is yuji. that would make more sense to me as those extra two hands would be specifically to channel sukuna’s cursed technique that has already been etched.

let’s see what happens. i am extremely excited to see what happens in chapter 237 and i personally hope the manga ends by chapter 300.

I remember Bhooter Bhabishyat coming out when I was in class 12 or 11. can’t remember. didn’t have the luxury of watching films back then. when i went to college and had access to better internet, I pirated it.

even then i remember not getting satisfied with the story, however, haven’t seen a bengali movie with such interesting dialogues before. it was a semi musical, where characters spoke in couplet. and yes, the crude sexual puns were funny to me as a teenager.

However, now that i’m edging 30, a raging tranny, and have much more idea about caste identities, and feminism, i wanted to revisit the film to see whether the film has any value or not. part of it was also there to see a funny movie, that is widely praised as good bengali new generation film.

sadly, i was deeply disappointed. things that i missed as a teen was here in such a capacity, i couldn’t ignore them anymore. satisfaction can go fuck itself, i was deeply uncomfortable almost the whole movie. the film tries to be a parody, but all it does is point out the deep rooted misogyny, casteism, and hollowness of urban bengali upper caste intellectuals.

lets start with parambrata. it is evident after hearing first couple of his dialogues that he is pretentious. he has no idea about making films, but gives large talks just like a ju filmbro bodda who asks teenagers in his empty flat to discuss godard. he is making a film of which he doesn’t have the ending to. that simply points out to him being an unoriginal writer copying from some other film, who needs to change the ending to not directly plagiarise the film. any writer worth their salt comes up with the conclusion much faster than the literary devices they have to set up to reach there. it’s only copied work that struggles with ending, because reimagining ending to something you know takes a lot of experience. this is even more evident when sabyasachi offers him a story and he just agrees to it without even bothering to ask his name. i mean he wasn’t gonna credit him anyway, so why bother asking for the name? he also mentioned he wants to have a masala film. there are filmmakers who earns money to make films, and then there are filmmakers who make films to earn money. calling the latter’s work film is a reach, it is basically a product devoid of anything artistic. we can start to see which category parambrata falls in and by proxy the director himself. Parambrata quotes Tarantino, but tarantino worked oddjobs for years to collect money to make his first film, and specifically didn’t give handjobs to corporate. parambrata or by proxy the director comparing himself to tarantino is just delusion of grandeur.

let’s talk about sabyasachi. the unreliable narrator present to package the story in a sellable manner. who was apparently killed by police during naxalite movement. i mean kolkata police did kill a lot of lower caste immigrant students in kolkata for sport, and some of those police officers are now famous writers. biplab is literally an heir of a zamidar family whose ancestors built their estate by stealing from others, and he never even tries to redistribute that, never even acknowledges that. he calls himself a communist or a naxal and tries zero reparations. charu mazumdar was never killed, he was let go by the authorities, and he is called the father of naxalism. i hope you all see the casteism of bengali kayasthas and how they appropriate and take all the credits of ideas that people from the grassroots come up with. all other people associated with charu and the naxalbari movement was brutally assassinated. charu was only kept alive and let go because of his surname, he was the elite, CPI could only claim power by using his name as the ideator for the vote bank, jangal santhal or shanti munda would not have gotten the votes. nobody even knows the names of nine tiller women who died in naxalbari. whose deaths were weaponised and politicised by charu who didn’t even live there. hence sabyasachi dying in a police encounter cannot be true. charu himself died in police custody, not shot. it is simply claimed oppression, rewriting the narrative to fit the revolutionary fetishisation of the bengali upper caste. moreover, he goes to forests to teach maoists how to make bombs, but gives the blood money to parambrata to make the movie after meeting him for the first time? without even trying to get to know him better or his politics?that is just caste nepotism. if he gave that money to maoists, it would have serve the society much better, but he won’t do that. because he is not a revolutionary. he only cares about the class and caste. communist my ass. he is a liberal, who is left leaning in talk, but actually a conservative when it comes to money.

now let’s talk about the women of the movie. they are peak example of “r/menwritingwomen”. there are only two women in the main ghost cast. one is a kept woman of the family from a bygone era, and the other one is someone who committed suicide from modern times. they did not allow the middle aged man who committed suicide, but the old man melted seeing this young kid and remarked how she reminds him of his granddaughter. that is just fucked up. even from the dialogues she loses the individuality.

here, both the women are always accompanied by men, and the only time they are alone for a single scene, they talk about men. yeah, the movie doesn’t even make an effort to pass the bechdel test. a famous topic among the film bros of kolkata who use it to shit on bengali tv serials. there are two more women, one of them is enamoured by parambrata, something self aggrandising men think about women who work around them, and the other is a marwari housewife who does an item song. there is no reason or justification as to why this happened except a one sentence explanation by the narrator later. this is known as insulting the audience, and in fan culture it is called an asspull. as the defining moment is done off screen, it is firstly bad writing, and secondly it considers that the audience is not smart enough to realise that. also, why would a housewife do an item song just for revenge and let him go after? what kind of story is it? you are literally setting up what teenagers call a KLPD? ending doesn’t even make sense

i cant even write much about the women because there is nothing interesting happening with them or by them anyway. they are always dependent on the men around them. it’s one of the most misogynistic movies i have seen. some of the dialogues literally refer to swastika’s vagina to illicit laughter. was the script written by virgin incel teenagers or what? the women has only one purpose in this film, either act like a bimbo to illicit laughter or sexualise their own bodies for the gratification of men. there doesn’t happen anything else with them, there is no character growth for any of them. not that other characters have any, but they still get some kind of roll to play. in the climactic scene, both these main ghost characters are missing anyway.

all the other characters except parambrata and sabyasachi are shown as stereotypical examples of their community. their services satisfy the patriarch, and that is why they get to stay in the house. much of the comedy of the film stem from this stereotype, which basically is punching down. it is akin to gay men who think it is their solemn duty to shit on women because they don’t fuck one. however, the lack of self awareness of the director makes both parambrata and sabyasachi the stereotypical bengali intellectuals whose politics is only at a surface level, mired with upper caste ignorance and positivity that lacks working knowledge of politics. even satyajit ray did the same mistake in ganashatru, he completely removed the politics from the original story he adopted it from, trying to make it about religion, something that doesn’t really affect the bengali upper castes. it comes from a saviour complex mixed with chasing trauma.

all of this comes from unchecked privilege. the guitarist dude can talk about how casteism and untouchability is bad and how the rickshaw driver should be allowed upstairs, but it is just a talk, nothing really changes for him. he is at the bottom rung and your think that living for eternity would make the ghosts more socially aware, but it seems bengali upper caste men are more interested in maintaining the social hierarchy even after death. making the bengali adage that your behaviour doesn’t change even after your death a reality.

the film makes it a point to mock people with disabilities, and people from lower class. it makes pramod pradhan with speech disability to reduce his name to pond (asshole). and he would say wrong educational stuff to showcase how illiterate he is. similarly, TK Guchhait has that particular surname just before which he stutters to make a poop joke. this film is more like Prem Aggan, where there was a joke about how jay mehra should be gay mehra. one of the worst script writing in my honest opinion. whoever wrote it didn’t understand the assignment and failed in his job. to quote tom cruise, “a nutless monkey could do this job better”.

Privilege is when you willingly get beaten by police in a protest march for political clout knowing full well that come what may, police wouldn’t kill you because of your surname. grassroots activists do not have that luxury. thus upper caste upper class urban educated people can appropriate their work and pretend to be woke by talk, but they aren’t really interested in changing the system. upper caste men are the oppressors. they can’t be left leaning without giving up their family, surname and all other privileges. thus almost any communist from upper castes with good family relations are there to muddy the movement and derail it. the guillotine doesn’t judge the caste.

parambrata getting the money and kickstarting his career is more comparable to how upper class upper caste worthless men launch their filmmaking/photography career with their family’s blood money. who has to appropriate others’ stories to fit their own narrative. by proxy it is the director himself.

the only redeeming quality of this movie is its dialogues. most of which is punching down comedy anyway, but the couplet system was something new in bengali cinema itself. i guess that is the reason the film was popular amongst the urban upper class folks. this movie has been remade in hindi and has been a resounding flop. understandable, good films has good content, this has nothing. certain highly memed tv serials has better content than this garbage, as they get translated to multiple other regional languages and always does well with the audience.

i’ll not increase the review much. for a vapid film i have already word vomited a little too much anyway. i’d give this film a 1 out if 10, if i were to give a round number.

see you all soon.

There’s something unique about Jawan. In the first half, before everything is turned up a notch due to different causes, SRK (whose name in this movie doesn’t matter) spends a moment with Suji (his soon-to-be-daughter). As she explains what she expects from a father, SRK looks on with an expression he has mastered, a calming, emotional expression that says he is falling in love. And as fans, you fall in love, too, mainly because you have seen the same expression in twenty other films. But also because you end up realizing something. SRK was a romantic hero at some point, but now, most of his relationships on-screen don’t scream out for romance. Instead, his relationships with his leading ladies and everyone else are friendly. His charm extends to every side character. And you don’t question his story when he kisses the forehead of a fallen comrade in the movie.

Not the Common Man

Atlee and Shankar's movies have a common thread. Their heroes look common but aren’t. They’re also good fathers, husbands, boyfriends, and other things. There’s no need for complexities here because the story is simple. It’s the story of a superhero is saving people. And if you could slap a pair of tights on Vijay in “Mersal,” you’d have felt the same. This follows Rajnikanth, Vijay, through Kamal Hassan (in the recently released “Vikram,” he shakes off a knife wound like nothing). SRK is following the same thread. He could have died a thousand times over in Jawan. But the story doesn’t need to make sense. The standard connection lies in them being the “common” man. Vijay’s character in Kaththi comes to mind. Of his two roles, only one is a superhero. The other one gets beat up and doesn’t have a way to escape prison, but the superhero can solve problems in a second, create a revolution with his words, and do so much more. Looking at “Revolution in Everyday Life,” we’re not discussing things that Vijay or SRK do in these movies. The all-powerful nature of the hero drives the plotline forward. And this has been a trope in Action movies forever. Forgive the blasphemy here, but in Kurosawa movie, when one Samurai cuts down everyone else, or when the outlaws win again in a Billy Wilder movie, it follows the same thread. Creating “Legends” out of ordinary men by covering them in plot armor is a time-honored legacy in movies. It can manifest in two ways. * The authority figure – A policeman doing the right thing (think Salman Khan in Dabbang) * The non-authority figure – An ordinary man taking on the ever-present system (Vijay movies in general) Movies from the South have long created these mythical characters in opposition to hierarchy. The “CM for a single day” trope was exploited in “Nayak” so efficiently. “Nayak” also shows that the system catches up with you eventually, and then you need to do things in queer ways to defeat the system (in this case, a brilliant Amrish Puri.) In Jawan, the system catches up to SRK even after the big win. And an all-out fight gives him the final win. It’s also an excellent metaphor for how the state works. Movements can drive changes but are silvery veneer on the rotting legislature underneath.

Of Illogic and Other Scenes

Illogic is the thread that ties a lot of masala movies together. This is by design because you can’t imagine these heroes to be the same people as us. No one looks at “Singham” and fantasizes that the pot-bellied cop in the neighborhood is the same person. No, it’s an ideal they follow and someone they aspire to become at the end of the day. SRK crafts this illogic with expertise. In the movie, the narrative often impressively shifts from him. When someone complains about him, his followers tell his long-winded story without breaks. He manages when he comes to the jail, and the ground applauds. In showing backbreaking work done by prisoners, we see him participating in the work. In a way, the “illogic” that Atlee crafts in his films is that of idealism beyond reason. This idealism might seem alien to anyone who follows the logical traps in capitalism; for communists and anarchists, this idealism is the core of our philosophy. But, no, the film isn’t communist. It defers to authority and depends on the Army and Police to mette out its justice (even if illegal, the authority figures are the only ones shown as being just.) The critical point to focus on in the film is that idealism is essential to drive changes, and it can make a significant dent. In this case, the stories of the girls who surround SRK help in a significant way. So does the collective disillusionment with the “system.” At points in the film, it’s said that if the system wanted to do right, it would. That’s where the film fails because the truth that Atlee won’t admit in movies is that the system can’t do right. It must be broken down from the outside to make the change. Something that SRK does in the film. This is also illogical, but an ideal system would do this. And if nothing else, masala movies are a function of belief.

Having fun and loving it

My partner is not a fan of SRK. But, in the middle of the film, we discussed how the performance seemed platonic by default. Even during implied sex, SRK looks more like a friend. He does not have lust but admiration in his eyes. And it doesn’t take away from the chemistry either. The film is filled with small, consequential details like these. SRK spends a long time having fun with his costars. The director has fun putting in dialogues from other films and creating long references that don’t make any extra additions to the movie. It’s a fun film because it seems like a collaboration between the people involved. When the blood drop falls into the dirt in the first scene, you feel the cameraman, who has waited for a shot like that for years, laughing. You also feel joy in the dialogues. “Naam to Suna Hoga” hasn’t sounded this joyful since the 2000s. And when other people have fun, having fun yourself is so much easier, which is what matters. Beyond philosophy, beyond long speeches, “Jawan” is about fun in the movies in a way we haven’t had in a while. Part of that is because of the heavy-handed politics that demand un-fun to be a part of Bollywood films throughout.

Nationalism isn’t Fun, yeah, really

In early 2014, Akshay Kumar could do no wrong. He had a long string of hits and was firing on all cylinders. But that fell short in the decade since then. It appears that nationalism is a strong story, but no one likes seeing the authority win repeatedly. Because, at the core, we all understand that the state is wrong. We have understood and internalized that fact quite effectively over the years. Even staunch bhakhts are aware of corruption and the small ways in which they miss out on their chances. They just blame the wrong people for it because of propaganda. But, the overarching story of authority winning is less resonant than other stories. This is why films like “Pushpa” and “RRR” work. They’re stories of people rising against the system and not for it. Thus, nationalism must hide behind the pretenses of rising against the system, craft separate narratives, and try to win that way. But it's no longer working, and the people are looking back at SRK. This isn’t a win, but it's something to celebrate, and we haven’t had one of those reasons in a decade. And that’s why “Jawan” works, and I love it. I love it so much.