House of Memory

I didn't get the chance to look up anything about this film that I just recently watched. The old-fashioned poster, adorned with half-body shots of the actors, immediately signaled that it was perhaps an Indian movie. After finishing “Slow,” a Swedish film (I believe), I felt the urge to explore another foreign film—something beyond my usual choices. I went to Reddit and hopped on some old discussions about Asian cinema. Among the recommendations, “The Lunchbox” caught my eye in one of the comment threads. Intrigued, I decided to download it offline, along with other Asian films that piqued my attention based on their title. First, I tried to watch “Barfi,” another Indian film. Regrettably, even after giving it half an hour to grow on me, I still struggled to connect with it. Similarly, my initial experience with “The Lunchbox” left me also feeling disconnected. However, I knew I needed to give it more time, so I paused the film after about 15 minutes. Exhausted from switching betw

It's been a damn long time since I made my last entry here.  Life, that relentless juggernaut, has a way of shoving you into the margins of memory. I’ve tucked you away there,  where at times, without any grand promises of return. Whenever I am nowhere from being miserable, I bury you like one of my deepest secrets that even myself is ashamed to revisit. You might have seen and noticed the pattern, and I confess, I'm more than guilty of only seeking you out during my darkest hours.  Remember those nights when I craved the company of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath? Their words, like lifelines, pulled me from the abyss. And when I felt like rotting, I'd hit desperately that retweet button on depression-laden tweets, as if sharing collective pain could somehow lighten my own.  But today, I come to you with a different intention. Not to wallow in melancholy, but to share an embarrassing secret: I've been less sad lately. Strange, isn't it?  So here I am, baring my soul