lmaooooo that’s a good reason! and neither have i. a lot of the indian webseries seem so contrived id rather sit down and just watch a regular serial on tv!!!!! at least they own their bad writing and don’t pretend to be more!!
Sarika vouches for Mrinal Sen and his 1977 film Mrigayaa in Griha Pravesh (1979)!
hey thank you!!! im doing well!
:( im sure there are, but nothing is clicking with me lately. nowadays i only follow, with some caution, the KZK reboot lol. oh, but if you are interested in #iconic older shows, the production company for swabhimaan uploaded most of the series on youtube finally! i binge watched to episode 66 over thanksgiving break :D
John MacLean and former LCD Soundsystem member Nancy Whang, also known as The Juan MacLean, have recently shared a brand new track. “A Simple Design” will be part of their new album, “In A Dream”, which will be released on September 16 via DFA Records.
Time after time, when what you’re hoping to find
Is not a SIMPLE DESIGN, but a headache
When everything you’ve built comes falling down
But if you open your mind to a slippery life
When that’s look for the time
When that’s ready
and everything you need falls to you
Nandini Dhar – Nirma Memory
Long before we became twins and sisters,
we were dolls: carved
in our mother’s noonday dreams.Uncle says, we were both heavy.
Like welding machines, the last
hour of silence before dawn.Mother smashes a medicine-bottle against the wall
because grandfather has called her a goddess.
The liquid red, like fresh blood
on the kitchen floor.Any other woman
in her place would have brought
the house down
with her shrieks. Would have shouted,
I am not your fucking goddess.
But Mother believes in silence,
in the language of fingers.Our older cousin on her hands and knees
sopping the liquid up on a white rag. She’d
refuse to wash the scarlet away.When the adult-badgering became
unbearable, dear cousin tied knots after knots on the scraps,
and hid it in between her old textbooks.This piece of torn cloth, with stains of fractured red,
was her gift to us: for our first birthday.A souvenir of our mother’s incomplete rage.
A lump of silt in between Mother’s fingers: a row
of finger-sized women along the wooden cabinet.
Half-squatting, their saris hitched up,
needles in between their thighs.Mother kept her hands tied to the bed
when she slept. A ceramic replica
of an aborted fetus enshrouded our welcome:first, yours.
Then – mine.
i missed your dramatic messages :’)
YES! and ma’am i did just binge watch it like the mess i am on sunday
