Time’s up

They call me a goddess
Holy, pure, ideal
Offering spilt white milk or cracked coconut split in two

They call me Draupadi
Holy, pure, ideal
An idea really
Holed in spurious worship

They call me Sita
Holy, pure, ideal
An inversion of letters
And I am Sati really – a pyre, a sacrifice, an obsolete memory

They call me Savitri
Holy, pure, ideal
Death defying
But for my husband actually
For if not for him, who am I really?

They call me names
Proclaimed holy
Declared pure
Screamed from rootless lungs as ideal ideal ideal

The ideal daughter
The ideal daughter
The ideal daughter
The ideal wife
The ideal wife
The ideal wife
The ideal mother
The ideal mother
The ideal mother
The ideal woman woman woman
Thrice repeated thrice affirmed
For every woman is but a role thrice replayed
Nothing more, nothing less.

They don’t see the loony moon’s other side

The bloody thundering maddening rage of Draupadi
Stripped to the flesh
Pronounced a wicked vow to have her mane dressed and drenched in blood
Of the defiler of her honor
Before a dumb gathering
Where five men – her men – her claimants – disempowered shadows of masculinity – empty husks – while she rose from the shadows – defied blood, claimed blood – cloaking herself with the skin of her horror – god is within, so there was no Krishna to save, only she she she to rip the knave

The earth shattering Sita
Stripped of her feminine loyalty
By the questioning male gaze of the many many
Before a mute gathering
Her man – her children – their people – once bound under a tree by a man – once found under a tree by a man – raised no fiery storm, but was the calm before the apocalypse – raising the finger before her disbelievers, split the earth, swallowing her whole, an exit of her choosing, a theatre of her making – she was never dust to begin with, but an earthquake in the sea, subtle, insidious, unseen, a goddamn tsunami

The death seeker Savitri
Stripped of her identity
By and before centuries of patriarchy
Her man – a flicker – snuffed to soon – Death the wanton on the ride – He sought him, she sought Him, in the seeking, searching, pursued Death, like a hound on hunting trail – the trickster, the devious, she beat Him, with phallic language – fighting, spinning, weaving reason before unreasoned Death – the typical woman bound by tradition, shackled by its fundamental rendition- yet she’s the winner, the final say in the duel with Death – ideal who? the dealbreaker, that’s she

Oh! They don’t see
They don’t dare to see
For a woman lost
Is a ghost proclaimed
The madwoman in the attic
A horror enslaved

They also call me Kali
The demoness
The insatiable
The deviant
Worshiped by the odd and oddities
Worshiped by the holy and holier than thee
A ghost and a goddess at once
At once free, ever bound,
An idol, a statue
Never an ideal, except for the women interrupted

Don’t you know who I am really?
I am the wild anger of Draupadi
The sinister rage of Sita
The wily mind of Savitri
I am Sati, Durga, Kali
I am luxurious Lakshmi
I am serene Saraswati
I am fire, water
I am wind, earth
I am sex
I am masturbation
I am the haunted
I am hunted
I am the temple, I am the worshipped
I am a tag, a piece of property
I am the kumkum between her head, the mangalsutra around her neck, the toe rings in her toe, the bangles in her hands
I am the blood she bleeds, the blood they hate
I am the stain on their conscience, a blot on their complacency
I am the womb, I am the world
I am none of the above
I am all of the above
I am fear
I am fierce
I am fiery
I am here
Heaven and hell
Goddess, ghost, girl
I am a woman
I am the woman
Call me in any human tongue
Shame me in any human tongue
But my tongue won’t still, be stilled, be stifled by your hold
I’ll call you, name you, shame you
Because your time’s up
Watch me send death on your heels
See me dig your grave
Hear me pronounce murder on your filthy head
Because your time is up
That’s my silence choking off your incense sticks, your yagnas, your pyres and from the wafts I rise rise rise

I am a woman
A ghostly goddess
A goddess ghosted
A woman, the woman
Here I am
Your time is up.

Indian Woman
Art by Vijender Sharma.



A letter to the one that got away and a note for you who stayed

Image: ‘La caiguda de l’Áliga’, Salva López

Dear you,
When Sylvia Plath spoke of kindness, she meant death; the kindness of no longer being; the kindness of being pulled out of the jet stream of life and poured into a space of peace and nothing.

Or maybe I interpreted that wrong.


However what I really interpreted wrong was you.
I interpreted your smile wrong.

I interpreted your cheer wrong.

I interpreted your words wrong.


I interpreted.

I was wrong.


I got it all wrong; all the variables in the equation, for now the only constant is your absence.

I wish I could go back in time and prevent your flight, your transition from now here to nowhere. Life tried to clutch at you, nearly grasping your sleeve, and yet you got away.

Plath’s Kindness – I interpreted it wrong. She was crying for help. A suicide note that the literature kids dissected, words that were like a train wreck for media fetish, a poem for a soul ruined yet lain for post mortem stare.


You were crying for help too. I didn’t hear. No one heard. Guess the volume of our earphones, always on full, turned your face to that painting by Edvard Munch – an endless soundless cry that none heard but everyone felt only when the shock of bombs hit.


That bomb in real time was your body hanging from the ceiling.


I wish it had collapsed and the ropes were not that strong. I wish the ropes binding you to this world were stronger. I wish you had not reached that collapse and gave in to the hole inside. I wish you had could have seen the wholesomeness of this life. I wish you had chosen life. I wish life had chosen you. I wish you did not have to make a choice. I wish…

But all I can say, despite the wishful thinking, is sorry. I am sorry for not hearing you, for not being there, for not being there to pull you back up, for not holding your hand before you let go, for not helping you save you from you, and for not doing anything. I am sorry. I am so sorry.


Sylvia left a death note.

You didn’t.

So I will do for you –  a note to the living existent.


To the ones who are here, hi. I know that you have chaos inside. That your world is a mess of troubles to navigate through. Yet, as lost you are, so am I, and so is the person right next to you. So how about being kind?

How about bearing a lantern born out of your own darkness and lighting up someone’s world, just a little bit, enough for them to know that they are not invisible and hidden in the dark but that light still shines on them and they are seen and noticed? How about attention? How about breaking free from our bubble and seeing everyone as reflections of yourself – sad, lonely, scared, vulnerable people. Not the Other – Hell is NOT Other people – but just another person, like you. Me. Us.


To the living, I hope we can try, try to make someone smile, at least once in a day. For you never know how far that bend in the face can take someone away from the end.

To the living, I hope that we can try to share our love and hearts with someone and help them pass it on someone else and on and on it goes till there’s only love.

To the living, love is on the way. Hold on. It’s not over. Not yet.

Hold on. Please.

You are love.

Better hear it from me than at your funeral.

You are love, you have life, you are alive, and you’re here to stay and you are not alone.


To the living –  keep living.



A friend.


Once you stop trying to entertain this imaginary audience and start living for yourself things should get a bit better.

Once you stop trying to entertain this imaginary audience and start living for yourself things should get a bit better.

– scarletrougelipstick


I am afraid.

Of nothing conventional like lizards, snakes, ghosts, or eerie silence of a dark night.

Nothing unconventional, with fantastic long names like that for number 13 and it’s associates.

Or nothing to do with death, or vertigo, or a cold slab of a body dead of excess water in lungs.

No. I mean, yes, I do fear some of these things. But that’s not the great reason of why I feel what I do.

I am afraid, because I feel I am a performer before an audience that I can’t see, conceive, feel. I perform on a stage so bright, as though all the lights of the world are on my face and I am too blinded to see straight. Where all the cameras and spotlight and attention – so much attention! – is on me.

Paper Towns
Image: Paper Towns

I am afraid for what will my unseen, unheard, un – audience think of me provided in the hypothetical event of failure, disaster, break in character, forgotten step, slipped feet, collapse and subsequent train wreck of a performance – a performance borne out of no practiced routine, a performance with no structure and preconception.

A performance – of?

I am afraid because I wonder, what will I find when I look inside myself, while the un-audience watches and stares and gapes and judges?

I am afraid for I don’t have the courage to either turn away my audience nor pull the curtains shut on my performance.

I am afraid for while I ask why do I even perform, I don’t know how not to.


I spiral down the staircase, tumbling and bumping my head on the hard white marble – but if that be the case…

…why not slide down the banister?
If can’t turn off the lights.

If I can’t get off the stage.

If I can’t not stop the performance.

If not, then why not turn the lights, cameras, the gaze and the stare, at the audience?

Who are they?

I push the blaring brilliance onto the seats and what do I see: none, no one, nobody, no body, nothing, no thing.

That day, I gave my best performance. It was titled, “I am free”. And that day, I didn’t perform.
Not any more.

Finally, the solution to many of life’s deepest troubles is simple, human courage. The courage to look inward, to take those first bold steps, to find the thing you fear most and march valiantly toward it.

–  Beau Taplin  S i m p l e  H u m a n  C o u r a g e


Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days…Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me…to throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling…

— Aldous Huxley,  Island 

I find myself in a temple today. Not those gawdy ones; those with lots and lots of fancy color, or lots and lots of artificial light, or well, lots of lots of lots.

This one was a relic. Ancient. Solitary. And that which has seen much. Borne much more. But still standing in spite everything, which in the race of time, is nothing.

How do I know this?
The refined elegance; the lightness of its being, even if it has emerged and is still emerging, from the depths of time.

It’s dusk.
Funny, how I catch myself in the zone at dusk.

I have come to a village. Don’t have a romanticized picture which that word conjures up. Village life is a simple life, but for someone from the city, it’s also a surreal life.

Monsoon has hit the place with abundant grace, you see, so the air is fresh and the sky is dainty and the excess green is gay and glorious. The soil is a happy mix of earth and dung and, cows and pigs and humans roam serenely, at ease with the aftermath wetness.

Of course, there, in the city, rainwater lingers on concrete roads or tar. In a village, this one at least, it merges with the earth, taking along with it the dirt of the walking world. This happens slowly, and hence, slush. Mud, sand, dirt, shit, soil and water. Slush slush slush. The splosh of wheels and sandals and shoes on this blessed mixture, and the pretty smell of rain-hit earth and this natural concoction, is an olfactory cacophony.

You see why I found it surreal? I am not used to this. Not used to such dirt and smells and sights. Not used to the sudden descent of quiet. Not used to the sudden dark. Not used to the narrow streets and the even narrower gaze that follows me: clad in leggings and over sized tees, and shoes, I must be quite a sight, just like the string of tractors and the crowds of cows and pigs and the rural ambiance is for me.


Eyes careful on the road, while simultaneously striving to take in the wooden houses, with their never painted, darkened wood – as if the passage of time were reflected on their countenance; the old men, the old women, sitting outside, on their haunches, watching a passing world with their time passed eyes; the sights and sounds of daily households, as I peer in, eyes-dropping, on their life – the five year old boy kissing his toddler brother; the family circling around an ancient TV, the adolescents riding their bike seated in threes, laughing and blissful in their youth; the worker returning after a day’s labor on his Honda; the girls in their salwars, all smiles, the rain being a happy intercourse; the mothers and their nagging children; a confluence of life no different from where I come from.

Still, the solitary simplicity made me feel less like me, and more like someone else. As if I was an anomaly that didn’t fit. Not that I felt lonely, or particularly homesick. Just out of this body. Like a stranger had occupied it, and this entity called I was somehow okay with it.


We – father, grandfather, and I – continued walking. Each turn of the street led to the streets getting quieter, and more diffident. As though the streets had long let out their once bated breath, and knew that life was not going to change. Better or worse, only time would tell.

We walk, the men reminiscing, the girl slipping downwards and downwards in her mental spiral – dirt, germs, where am I?, what’s this?, what am I feeling?

We walk, and then stop.  A temple, mostly overshadowed by a peepal tree, is before us.


Only when we enter, do I realize how old it is. A passageway, and a walk around the temple, and my eyes are in awe. The intricate carvings on granite, the grayish brown walls – like an elephant – constructed out of time and the human defiance of it.

We enter, and the cool smoothness of the black temple floor leaves me calmer – less agitated, more subdued. We had taken the entrance nearest to the deity, imprisoned behind a wooden gate, an array of prayer instruments before it, still lit, and still.

However, God was not on our minds. Not on mine.
The absence of humanity and its noise, amplified by the quiet in the temple, had me unnerved. The silence is…thick. A paste, but well mixed. No lumps. Smooth.

The noiselessness is not suffocating. You could say, it is. Just, is. As though it belonged there, in those walls, a welcome patron, agreeable and temperate.

Silence tread lightly, even if my mind never strove to. It could have smothered the temple under it, and none would know of the edifice. Yet, here we are: serenading to silence, and aware of every breathe, every carve, every labor of the human hand.

Dusk changes its palette; night and further stillness. Bats fly to someplace,  a pretty picture.

The external descent of the dark has moved, raised even, something inside. It’s odd, what silence and relics does to a mind.

The men speak of the architecture, the engineering, the skill of the people of then. I simply hear.


We leave, and I see the goliath of a peepal tree at close quarters.

I think of ghosts. That ghosts may not be nothing but the wisps of the things that were – and not necessarily something to be scared of. They haunt, for like all things, they dare to fight oblivion.

But then again, the wind, and the burning wood, and the resting humanity, and the rural seasons, seem to say : tread lightly, tread gently, tread like a ghost at peace, tread like a temple, like a tree: still and at ease, breathing time, exhaling reflections.


I see my reflected silhouette in the dirt puddles. Still at loss with myself but better.
I am okay now.
I am okay.
I am in the now.
I am now.
I feel light.
And I walk on light air, breathing light air, being light, in air, floating, soaring, far far far away from me and the crowd in me.

Lightly, in spite reeling under the depth of feeling. Image: @kikkujo (Instagram)

A Kickass Letter to Me from Me on Why I Need to Calm the F*** Down Before the Entrance Exam

Hey Me,

In the matter of a few hours, you will find yourself in an exam hall to write your way to a seat in a prestigious institute. It’s strange that we – you and I – are feeling so scared about it. Anxious too. We went on Facebook, surfed through people’s lives, tried to suck motivation out of Goalcast, or those artsy pages with philosophical quotes. But today, of all days, we found nothing. Just shit. As usual.

We spent time on YouTube watching cookery videos of food we’ll never cook. Okay, not never, but atleast not in the immediate vicinity to time.

We scrolled through Tumblr. But found only fan art.

We waited for friends to call up and say something. A couple of them remembered. But not those from whom you wanted to hear. And right now, you feel like shit. Along with the hyperventilating anxiety of what if we fail – what if we don’t get in, what if this choice of college was a bad one, what if we are not meant to be here, what if, what if, what if – oh it’s a spiral and with each “what if” it tightens its coil around our throats and our hearts and our minds, till we are crippled and soon dead – we are a total mess.


Take a deep breath, and hear me out. Consider this as words you expected to hear from someone else or from somewhere else. Consider this as a letter from the non-panicking me to the panicking you. Consider this as the sign you needed to receive to relax, for we shape our destiny and this is us in action.

Here goes:
Hey me,
We are stressed. And we are anxious. We are so used to thinking worst case scenarios that the possibility of a positive outcome doesn’t seem reasonable. But guess what? Good. Good you haven’t thought of anything good. But also, stop thinking about the outcome. Fuck the outcome. Fuck it. Say it with me right now, out loud: Fuck. The. Outcome.

We don’t need to use our mind for that. Look at us: we are so smart! So intelligent! Think of the books we’ve read, think of the things we’ve done in our life, think of the number of times we beat the odds, and our self doubt and emerged like a goddamned hero out of the jaws of defeat! Think of all the times we made us proud. Think of the times when in spite the loss, we won. Think of the times we bounced back! Think of this, think of us, for just think: we are heroes and we have done better than what we thought we could. Yes?

I can see your shoulders relax, but I know what you are thinking now – of course I do! I am you, remember? – you are thinking: what if I don’t get in? Then? What will they think of me? What will I think of me? I didn’t even prep properly. What if my back plans suck? – You are thinking all this. As usual.

Let’s take this step by step. Question by question.
What if we don’t get in?
So? What if we don’t? Then? Is it that big a deal? What happens if we don’t? You’ll fall from grace? Our parents will disown you? The world will end? Really? *eye roll*

What will people think?
That “oh look at her! She was the topper once, but a loser now! Hence, people should not take gap years and lose a year of study!” Is that what they’ll think? Let them! Not your concern. What people think was, is and and will never be your concern. You not getting in a college is not a reflection of your intelligence. We had topped cause we had worked hard and we had loved what we did.

What will I think of me?
We love our subject. Remember? We. Love. Our. Subject. And this entrance is on this. This is an entrance on your love. Even if you don’t crack the test, so what? Love is eternal and that college is not the only one catering to our love.

Understand one thing: you are intelligent and you never give up. No matter the trials and the struggles, you have always, always, ALWAYS, come back. Even if you don’t clear it, we WILL find a way around. Come on man! We always have. This is no exception.

Hence, wallow in defeat – if in case we don’t clear it – but I know we will make something out of it. This is no reflection on you, understand? No reflection on us. Take it as the Fate guiding us towards another destination, where our love for the subject and our curiosity for learning will flourish better.

Back up plans? Prep?
That’s for later. Later. Hence, fuck it, chuck it, and don’t think of that now.

Now listen up closely.
Take a deep breathe.
Think of nothing.
Imagine this is one our runs. There are always people at the beginning and the end, but in the in-between there’s hardly anyone. And the middle is the hardest part. That’s where we are at our most vulnerable, and our loneliest, for it gets exhausting, so exhausting. But do we stop? Sometimes yes, to catch a breathe maybe. But do we stop entirely? No! We have always finished the race.

This is a race, superwoman! This is a damn race and you better finish it, for each time we run, after a point, when the body gives up, and the feet scream, we run on the fuel called will, and when running on will, we don’t think. We don’t think at all. Just the motion of our feet – left, right, left, right, left – and the sound of our breaths – in, out, in, out, in, out. We don’t look at the people ahead or behind or beside us. We don’t care about the people cheering or not, or who amongst out loved ones is present. We think nothing, we see nothing, but all that we do is achieve something.

And every race is a sum of all the races run in the past. So, even if we haven’t run every single day of our life, we have still been able to run for 5 km without our lungs dying.

So is the case here. Even if we haven’t studied everyday for this test, we have studied sometime in the past, we have worked our ass off, and all that knowledge is there somewhere inside of us, waiting to be channelized by a calm head.

Are you understanding?
I see you are calm now. Good.
My point is: only a calm head can conquer the chaos. Our old mantra, written on our exam board. Remember?

Know that I am here with you, just like always. Cheering, writing, supporting, remembering. We are together, in this, till the last.
Okay? Okay!
Go get dressed, hero. We’ve got a battle to fight.

Rocking till the last,


Rains: Drenched. Soaked. Horny. Just not that way.

I am listening to “Why Can’t I Touch It”. By the Buzzycocks. But, I am being touched. By the rain, and the wind, and my soaked clothes, all the layers, casually sticking to my body. My curves are being contoured by the lashing rain. I love it.


6 pm and I have come out for a run against all predictions for a rain. The sky is something out of a sepia filter, or those old pictures where no one bothers to smile.

It’s windy. So much that within half a song of my arrival at the park, the wind blew up a dust storm, looking more like a petulant child throwing a fit than anything else

People hardly look up, and the music is too good to stop. Still, I change parks, to another one, a greener one, a quieter one.


I have barely run for a kilometre when the leaves start to drip. One by one, tree by tree, branch by branch, leaf by still leaf, all start waving excitedly and the summer bored path is splattered. Rain is here. Monsoon has come.

I stop and I am out of the park.


People and vehicles are ducking and flashing their lights. I can see white flashes of drops on black tar and it’s beautiful. Wind, cool oxygen, water. It’s beautiful.


I am walking slowly. And I am listening to “Why Can’t I Touch It”, while slowly, seductively, groped by the rain. The guitar riffs are awesome and I feel cool. I haven’t felt that in a while. I see a couple huddled on a bike, and another hiding under a tree. Rain is romantic. Naturally, I wish for a lover, who’d touch me, hold me, warm me. Why can’t I be touched?


Guitar and the unrecognizable words of the song. It’s a good feeling. Too good that I shake dry fantasies of my wet head and I keep walking, getting wetter and wetter, just not down there.


The feeling is too good. I don’t mind sharing it with myself. Nor would I want to waste it living in my head with someone else. It’s a good feeling and I haven’t felt good. Not like this. I keep walking, my clothes soaked, highlighting my body and I feel sexy. Haven’t felt that either. I look at my face in dripping car windows. And I look beautiful. I haven’t felt beautiful, not like this. My socks are soaked, my bra is soaked, my camisole is soaked, my shirt is soaked, my underwear is soaked, my tracks are soaked, my socks are soaked. And I love it.


“Why Can’t I Touch It” ends and I am drenched. I am happy.

It’s a good feeling.


Watching “Black Panther” with Mom

BP 4

The theater quiets, as an animated sequence and a non-English accented voice over explains the story of the fantastical Wakanda.
The theater erupts in a boisterous whoop, as the Marvel logo plays out.
The theater cheers when Stan Lee makes his iconic appearance –  one does not not miss Stan.
The theater laughs at the humorous one liners – “What are those???” exclaims  16 year old princess, tech savvy, brilliant inventor Shuri at King, brother T’Challa’s slippers, and a totally done M’Baku.
The theater hushes at the effort, effect and evident political message. “What can a country of farmers offer to the world?” asks a diplomat at the UN. The crowd murmurs, the wise smile.
The theater applauds at the brilliant cinematic experience as the graphic credits start to roll out, the experienced seated till the end to catch the pre, mid, and post credit scenes.

…while my mother, sits in awe, the white light of the screen lighting up her marvel struck – no pun intended – face.

A lot has been said about the latest addition to MCU. The all black cast. The detail and attention to African tribes – their culture, costume and customs. Accent and speech included. Themes of equality: male – female equation; female warriors, guards and guides, whites – blacks. Africa projected as place with real people – being more advanced than the whole messy globe – and not Hollywood stereotypes of slavery and starvation. The blurred line between antagonist and protagonist’s actions. The not-so-subtle shout out to the Black Lives Matter movement. The clarion call to world place.

A commendable achievement – the visuals, graphics, action, plot and background score, all coming together like the cinematic Wakanda – near perfect.

BP 1
This woman. *fangirl sequence* Source: Tumblr

In all the excitement, and flush of emotion – consider this:
Okoye stands in protection before the former contender to the throne, and current ally, M’Baku, as her love and head of the Border Tribe, W’Kabi, disillusioned at the seeming ineptitude of his best friend and king, T’Challa, comes rushing on his trained rhino, geared and armoured in vibranium. The rhino recognizes her, stops and licks her face, as the warriors and lovers lock their eyes in silent dialogue. Sword drawn, he asks her, “What do you choose: me or the kingdom?”. Coolly, she draws her spear at his throat and declares, “Wakanda.”

A meaningful silence. W’Kabi bows to her, ending the civil war. While my body erupted in goosebumps and unshed tears.

What power in one gesture, one word, one look.

But I digress.

BP 2
Fuck this shit. *flying wig* Source: Tumblr

In all the excitement, and flush of emotion, I turned towards my mother. What I saw was priceless.

When I turned to her to ask how she was dealing with it, I was met with a child, and not a counselor, mother of two. The excitement and awe on her face, flushed with a child like wonder of what she was witnessing before her, was far more superior than the magic unfurling onscreen.
Kiti mast aahe na?” she exclaims in Marathi (How awesome it is, yes?)
Kai imagination, kai kapde!”(What imagination, what clothes)
Maala ase English bagaila avdat nahi, par maaja aa gaya!” (Usually I don’t like watching English movies – switching over to Hindi – but I enjoyed it)

The raw joy on her face was unparalleled to anything that I had witnessed until now. For here’s  the thing: Marvel and – most/some – parents don’t really gel well. Mom was one such parent; not too interested, but for the heck of it choose to be saddled with me.

But as we were seated in the theater, watching the end credits roll and Marvel dropping it’s usual package of an additional scene for the dedicated last-to-leave fans, she turned to me and said, “Thank you for bringing me here today. It was really fun. Thank you baccha.

As we walked back home gushing over the movie, discussing the cast, plot and what-not, I couldn’t help but secretly thank Ryan Coogler for coming up with a remarkable film such as this one. For not only did it carve a milestone in Hollywood but closer home, it made a wonder-struck woman out of my marvelous mother.

BP 3

As I type this, close to hitting publish, I look over to my mother, my first reader for this post, when she chirps in her sweet voice, a one line review to the film, “Kharas! Maala kharo khari hain picture avadla.”(Truly! I really liked the picture.)