Arijit Lahiri

There comes a time in every intellectual’s life when they must choose between a PhD and a puja.

Between “peer-reviewed” and “possessed.”

Between citation and exorcism.

And in Kolkata — that moist intellectual swamp where Marx and Mahishasura share the same table — both paths lead to the same destination: bankruptcy of meaning.

1. Introduction: The Era of Enlightened Bullshit

Welcome to the post-truth century, where the professor and the tantrik are basically running the same startup — Spirituality-as-a-Service™.

One uses Sanskrit, the other uses PowerPoint.

Both promise “illumination,” but only one gets travel grants from the Ministry of Culture.

Academia pretends to dissect “structures of belief,” while the tantrik monetizes your belief in structures.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck writing conference papers about “the erotic semiotics of the cremation ground” while secretly googling “cheap ayurvedic crystals near me.”

2. Literature Review (aka Stuff I Scrolled Through at 3 a.m.)

Modern academics claim “decolonization of knowledge.”

Tantriks claim “activation of chakras.”

Both sound suspiciously like my startup pitch that got ghosted by an angel investor in Bangalore.

Let’s be honest — academia is just tantra with better fonts.

Professors wear FabIndia, tantriks wear ashes.

One summons grant money, the other summons spirits.

Both require you to not ask too many questions.

Their methodologies are identical:

Step 1: Speak in tongues (Sanskrit or theory-jargon, whichever sounds spicier).

Step 2: Perform ritual (PowerPoint or havan).

Step 3: Wait for audience claps or divine intervention.

Either way, nothing changes except your cortisol levels.

3. Field Observations: Notes from the Cosmic Seminar Room

Attended an academic symposium on “Tantric Epistemologies of the Marginalized Divine.”

Everyone looked like they just emerged from a week-long ayahuasca retreat in Santiniketan.

One speaker said, “We must unlearn rationality.”

Another said, “The vagina is the ultimate archive.”

Audience nodded in unison — probably because the AC wasn’t working.

Meanwhile, across the street, a tantrik in Ultadanga claimed he could install ChatGPT in my third eye.

Honestly? Same energy.

Both promise “insight,” both deliver lag.

4. Theoretical Framework: The Sacred Algorithm

If tantriks are the ancient data scientists of consciousness, academics are the UX designers of despair.

They organize your existential dread into footnotes, index it, and call it “critical thought.”

Tantriks, on the other hand, just vibe — raw data streaming from chaos, no peer review required.

Their only citation is a skull.

And yet — they both worship the same god: Attention.

Academics crave citations; tantriks crave followers.

Both are dying for engagement.

Both are influencers with better vocabulary.

The difference is that the tantrik admits it.

5. Methodology: How to Summon a Tenure or a Demon

1. Light incense (or a candle from Café Coffee Day).

2. Chant something unintelligible (“ontology of being” or “om namah shivaya” — doesn’t matter).

3. Wait for funding, enlightenment, or a retweet.

4. When nothing happens, claim it was all “symbolic.”

This is how both institutions survive: symbolic productivity.No outcome, just aesthetic noise.

Academics submit papers no one reads; tantriks perform rituals no one understands.

The only real magic trick is how they both manage rent.

6. Discussion: On Nothingness and Networking

Both groups claim to reject capitalism — yet both run on it.

Academics need conferences, tantriks need clients.

Both have merch.

Both will gaslight you into thinking your confusion is spiritual growth.

Their rituals are identical:

Academia: Sacrifice your youth to footnotes.

Tantra: Sacrifice a goat.

End result? Same — blood, burnout, and a mildly satisfying PowerPoint slide.

And if you ever criticize either, they’ll both say the same thing:

“You’re not initiated.”

Translation: “You’re right, but we can’t admit it.”

7. Conclusion: A Revelation in PDF Form

So here we are — a generation raised on caffeine, capitalism, and cognitive dissonance — worshipping two dead gods: the Professor and the Tantrik.

One hides behind a MacBook, the other behind a skull.

Both promise “transcendence.”

Both deliver PDFs.

In the end, there’s no difference between a thesis defense and a black magic ritual.

Both require you to pretend you understand what’s happening, nod sagely, and hope something finally manifests — a demon, a degree, or just peace.

Maybe the only honest spirituality left is meme culture.

Maybe enlightenment is just admitting:

“I don’t know, bro, I just vibe.”

Because beneath the ashes and abstracts, the PowerPoints and pujas, the only real mantra left is this:

POV: You're Being Gaslit by a Startup Sadhu on Google Meet

yo,

religion, get off the throne —

it’s reserved for thinking brains only.

no VIP passes for ancient fairytales,

no backstage entry for blind faith.

your gods, their gods,

all gods pulling a number at the roast night,

getting mic-dropped by logic and memes.

truth’s got no holy books,

just receipts and open tabs,

and if you can't vibe with questions,

then evolution’s gonna leave you on read.

no more kneeling,

no more chanting,

only standing —

only thinking —

only upgrading.

if your belief can't survive a joke,

An Insta-Poetic Breakdown of Rupam Islam’s Emotional Anthems

Once upon a time in the early 2000s, when Orkut testimonials were love letters and Nokia 1100 torchlight was your emotional support system, a wild sound exploded from our radio sets, college fests, and half-broken Philips speakers. Enter: Rupam Islam, the accidental therapist to an entire generation of overthinking Bengalis who thought love was poetry but got ghosted instead.

Rupam Islam’s songs hit different for us — the emotional damage crew of the late '90s and early Gen Z era — back when “In love and in rejection, I still seek you” felt like a voice note straight to our broken teenage souls. That was the early 2000s — when we thought love was forever and Friendster was a thing (don’t Google it, just cry).

Flash-forward to 2025 — AI writes poems, Tinder writes breakups, and everything's been replaced by everything else. But in the chaotic meme-fest that is Bengali pop culture, Rupam Islam? Still standing. Still screaming. Still making heartbreak sound poetic AF. He’s basically the emotional support rockstar we never unsubscribed from.

Before we get into it, if you’ve never listened to Rupam Islam in the middle of a power cut, staring at the ceiling fan like it holds the answers to your depression — this piece isn’t for you. This is for the ones who were weaned on cassette tapes, pirated MP3s, and soul-crushing heartbreaks in the pre-Tinder era.

So like, today we’re diving into some old underrated bops by Rupam Islam — the kinda tracks that hit different for the OG Rupam simps, but didn’t really blow up like “Ekla Ghar” or “Hasnuhana.” You know, the deep cuts that deserve main character energy but somehow stayed lowkey.

1. Nishkraman – “Ditch the Clout, Not Your Vibe”

Rupam’s “Nishkraman” is like a declaration of digital independence. If you’re so over that basic aesthetic that you drop the phrase “ditch these clothes” like you’re uninstalling outdated apps. It’s not about fashion, it’s about flipping off your old self and ghosting all that toxic BS – from that clingy ex to your overhyped “friendzone” notifications. The track screams, “I’m hitting delete on society’s BS – and yes, even my Tinder app is still on!” It’s like a breakup status update that makes all your exes slide into your DMs one last time, only to find out you’re busy flexing your newfound freedom, like an existential TED Talk jam session with some sick guitar solo.

Right from the jump, it screams “Ei poshak chhere”—which isn’t just a fashion update, but a whole spiritual undressing. That’s not your shirt, bro, that’s your societal baggage.

“Ei swadesh chhere”? Not about ditching the country for a Schengen visa—this is more like deactivating Facebook, grabbing a jhola bag, and vibing your way to Santiniketan for some organic khichdi therapy.

From the city to your phone, from your girlfriend to your Insta reels—everything’s dismissed as "a circus of nonsense." And when he says, “Kono romonir neere hobo udhaao,” it’s like... yeah, maybe he’s renouncing worldly pleasures, but let’s be real—Tinder's still very much on his home screen.

That final line—“Shudhu kotha dao, khunjbe na aamay”—is straight-up post-breakup status vibes. Makes you picture someone lurking outside their ex’s lane like, “Yeah, I’m over you. Totally. I just happened to be here.”

This song? It’s a full-on existential TED Talk with guitar solos and subtle signs of a mental breakdown—kind of like a midnight Netflix-and-cry sesh.

It’s the anthem of a generation that low-key craves spiritual liberation, but high-key can’t resist a new tea stall and a cheeky smoke.

2. Swapna Bhangar Prithibite – “From Reels to Real Popcorn”

This song feels like a handwritten musical letter from Rupam, like one of those indie zines you find at a vintage coffee shop—filled with love, melancholy, and a sprinkle of nostalgia sugar on top.

"Swapna bhangar prithibite, swapno hoye ele tumi"—translation: even if life feels like leftover pizza straight from the fridge, someone shows up and hits the microwave of your heart. But the lover? She's like an iPhone software update—looks sleek, feels exciting, but post-update, your emotional RAM is fried and everything lags.

"Mayabale, kon aachole, dhake dile swadhin akash"—this line hits like a rainy afternoon playlist. Her saree’s pallu isn’t just a fashion statement—it’s basically a signal jammer for your internal WiFi of freedom. Love here isn’t liberating, it’s buffering.

"Raatri tomar, raatri aamar" whispers the vibe of remote-work romance—where late-night convos and shared Netflix passwords have become the new rituals of modern devotion.

And finally, when the lover-boy dramatically yells, "Swadhinata, mithye kotha, amar rokte hase kritadas!"—you know you’ve entered a psychedelic diary of a modern Bengali in love, hiding under bus stop shades, daydreaming like a caffeinated Shakespeare.

This isn’t just a love song—it’s a chaotic, cinematic mixtape of millennials processing heartbreak like they’re decoding a Black Mirror episode.

3.Ghreena – “When Love Goes From Insta Story to High-Res Hater Mode”

This track? It's basically a Bengali lover’s emotional rage-quit button. Dude’s been tripping over romance so many times, he’s like, “Nah fam, I’m done. No more love—just pure, unfiltered, gluten-free hate.”

But make no mistake—this is Bengali-style hate. It's not explosive; it’s simmering like chai in a cracked cup, sitting on a monsoon evening window sill. It's that 2.5-inch anger that burns your stomach but never quite makes it to your throat—because your mom's in the background going, “Did I add too much sugar to the curry?”

"Bhalobasha morichikar nishiddho hoyrani"—that line’s straight from the diary of someone who just saw his ex holding hands with her new dude outside College Street Library. And instead of losing it, he smiles like a nuclear mushroom cloud in slow motion. Love’s now just smoke, and hate? That’s the phoenix rising from three unread love letters and two blue ticks with zero replies.

"Hridoye gujob, ei mogoj ek poro bari"—translation: this brain? A haunted mansion of past crushes, where 2008’s “I love you too” still echoes next to leftover guilt from eating five samosas alone.

And the final war cry, "Ghreena, ghreena debo ghreena"—isn't just a lyric. It’s a whole new trend on the timeline. He’s basically saying, “From today, I’m emotionally nuking everything.”

This song is your average Bengali's tragic timepass rom-com gone dark. Where love was a free trial, but the breakup? Yeah bro, that came with a non-refundable data wipe.

4. Hothat Brishti – “An Emotional Downpour and a ‘Hi’ in the Inbox”

The opening line “Hothat Brishti” isn’t just about weather—it’s that sudden emo-rain nobody asked for. Like bumping into your old crush on the way to tuition, or worse, your ex's reel popping up on Insta right after a wholesome meme binge.

“Shobuj aro obujh”—basically, when love hits, logic signs out and your brain turns into soggy masala chaat under a sodium light. Crunch gone, just full-on chaos.

Then suddenly—“mora gachher shukno daale bhalobashar tortaja phool phote”—yep, that dead part of your life you thought would never bloom again? Boom. Out of nowhere, a wild “hi” appears in your inbox like a late-night plot twist.

“Rongin ichchhe gulo …” —translation: those little wishes? They turn into kisses, my dude. And just like that, love morphs into a monsoon-made mixtape of rain, sweetness, and softcore drama. All three in one juicy combo pack.

“Shomoy aamar srot hoye jaay”—because once you’re in love, time flows like a wet silk saree in an indie music video. Slow, stylish, and annoyingly emotional.

And by the end, when the high-speed love-rickshaw breaks all traffic rules and still manages to drift through heartbreak alley—you just know this love story was dipped in fire and fried in full-on feels.

Basically, this song is the Bengali romcom we never asked for but keep replaying at 2 a.m. on a rainy night.

5. Karon Aamra Aakashe – “A No-Parachute Stunt Show Called Love”

This song? It’s not love—it’s an emotional stunt show on steroids. Like: “Got love, and from then on, hammered nails on a wooden board—with my own chest!” Yeah, that level of drama.

Here, love ain’t your cute “dinner date + Spotify playlist” thing. It’s straight-up Rambo climax vibes. No helmets allowed—because, duh, helmets are for the “grounded and boring.”

This couple? They fight, fall apart, patch up—but all while floating above the clouds. It’s a love that thinks grammar and dictionaries are beneath them. Like, “Logic is mid. We fly.”

When problems hit, they’re like, “Cool cool, let’s keep all our emotional baggage in a locker with a pin so obscure, even robbers won’t crack it.” Trauma, but make it chic.

And then the climax hits—love tells you, “Bro, if you truly fall in love, who even needs ancestral property?” Mortgages, EMIs, real estate? All in silent mode. Because this romance is a crash course in crashing—literally and emotionally.

By the end, you get it. Love isn’t about staying grounded. Love is the damn sky. There’s no logic here—just a sugar-dusted, cosmetic-flavored trip through chaos, adrenaline, and aesthetic heartbreak.

Basically: don’t try this kind of love at home. Unless you’ve got a safety net made of vibes.

So... Why Is Rupam Islam Still Relevant?

Let me break it down for the algorithm babies:

He screams what we feel but can’t say in corporate emails.

He writes lyrics like he’s been spying on our therapy sessions.

He’s aged like old wine in a biker jacket.

And most importantly — he never betrayed the angst.

He’s not trying to be cool on reels, not collaborating with cringe remix DJs, and not selling out to YouTube ads for crypto or hair oil. He's just... there. Still touring. Still howling. Still making you feel like it’s okay to not have it all together.

In a world of algorithmic pop and influencer-core, Rupam Islam remains gloriously raw. No autotune, no filters, no 15-second hooks for attention-deficit swipers. Just raw, bleeding, poetic pain — the kind we grew up with.

Let’s not reduce him to nostalgia. Let’s make him a movement. A cry. A resistance against mediocrity and happy-go-lucky Instagram music.

—

A gust of wind rushes through

The heart of the city,

Carrying on its back, a few dreams,

Wrapped not in glitter, but in paperwork—

Marked: Result, Roll Number, and Admit Card.

They run—

Not toward books,

Not toward the depth of knowledge,

But toward the holy grails of red seals

And stamped letters,

That whisper— “You’ve been appointed.”

The city’s old trees murmur,

“This isn’t learning,

This is a ritual—a lifelong offering

At the altar of a secure government job.”

The fields erupt in waves—

Nope, not rivers.

These are processions of overdressed

Boys and Girls

With one united dream:

“To be a teacher, but never really teach.”

A lonely bird flutters to the window,

She doesn’t know what a curriculum vitae is,

But she fails too—

Because her beak carries

No recommendation letter.

A banyan tree dreams—

That one day, beneath its shade,

Will sit a group of teachers,

Telling stories—of Mahabharata, of Newton,

Of Vidyasagar with eyes full of fire.

But reality slaps it awake—

Where “teacher” means an unbranded product,

Priced and packaged by politics and middlemen.

Still, people chant—

“Education brings light!”

Nah, bruh, they’re chasing that one button,

That unleashes the Pandora’s box

Called the Pay Slip.

Knowledge?

That lives in the editorial section of The Hindu,

Read only by that one guy

Whose panel interview got cancelled… again.

This society?

It’s a dance without anklets—

No rhythm, no training,

Just an infinite prayer

To the god of employment:

The Chakra Business Is Booming

Once upon a time, when people faced problems, they sought doctors, psychologists, financial advisors, or—if things got truly desperate—the comforting embrace of alcohol. But in today’s world, if you lose your job, struggle with relationships, or even fail to get a decent night’s sleep, the answer is simple:

Your chakras are blocked.

Yes, my friend, it’s not your lack of skills, bad decision-making, or that gallon of cola you consume daily—it’s your blocked energy centers that are wreaking havoc in your life. And guess what? For a modest fee (starting at just the price of your kidney), a self-proclaimed "healer" will realign your chakras, ensuring you finally get that promotion you didn’t deserve in the first place.

This isn't just some passing trend. The chakra healing industry is flourishing, fueled by Instagram influencers, wellness gurus, and former door-to-door salesmen who discovered that selling "divine energy realignment" is far more profitable than selling vacuum cleaners.

But before you rush to book your chakra balancing session, let’s unravel this mystical scam with some good old-fashioned common sense.

A Brief History of Chakras: Where Did This Madness Begin?

The concept of chakras originates from ancient Indian spiritual traditions, particularly within Hindu and Buddhist philosophies. The word chakra means “wheel” or “disk” in Sanskrit, referring to spinning energy centers within the body. Historically, chakras were metaphorical, symbolizing different aspects of human consciousness and spiritual enlightenment.

But somewhere along the way, these profound philosophical ideas were hijacked by enterprising "healers" who decided that chakras weren’t just spiritual concepts but literal, tangible energy hubs that determine everything from your bank balance to your libido.

The result? A multi-million-dollar wellness industry preying on gullible souls who believe that chanting mantras while bathing in Himalayan pink salt will make their depression disappear.

The Seven Chakras: A Breakdown of the Nonsense

Now, let’s take a closer look at the seven chakras, what they’re supposed to do, and how modern fraudsters are milking them for all they’re worth.

1. Root Chakra (Muladhara) – The "I Am Broke" Chakra

Location: Base of the spine

Alleged Purpose: Grounding, stability, and financial security

 Fraudster Claim: If you’re struggling with money, it’s because your root chakra is blocked.

Reality Check: If your root chakra had anything to do with financial stability, billionaires wouldn’t need hedge funds—just a good "chakra alignment" session. The real cause of financial instability? Poor budgeting, overspending on Starbucks, and thinking investing in Bitcoin at its peak was a genius move.

2. Sacral Chakra (Swadhisthana) – The "Your Sex Life Sucks" Chakra

 Location: Just below the navel

 Alleged Purpose: Creativity, passion, and sexual energy

 Fraudster Claim: If you have relationship issues or your Tinder profile is gathering dust, your sacral chakra is blocked.

Reality Check: Maybe it’s not your chakra. Maybe it’s your bad hygiene, your terrible pickup lines, or the fact that your idea of romance is sending "U up?" texts at 2 AM.

3. Solar Plexus Chakra (Manipura) – The "You’re a Loser" Chakra

 Location: Upper abdomen

 Alleged Purpose: Confidence and personal power

 Fraudster Claim: If you lack self-esteem or feel directionless, your solar plexus chakra is misaligned.

Reality Check: Confidence doesn’t come from imaginary energy wheels in your stomach. It comes from competence, experience, and the ability to hold a conversation without sounding like an AI-generated chatbot.

4. Heart Chakra (Anahata) – The "Why Am I Always Single?" Chakra

 Location: Center of the chest

 Alleged Purpose: Love, compassion, and emotional balance

Fraudster Claim: If you’re heartbroken, it’s because your heart chakra is closed.

Reality Check: Maybe your heart isn’t closed—maybe your ex just realized you’re a narcissistic nightmare who never texted back on time. Or perhaps, just perhaps, love is complicated, and no amount of "chakra healing" will change that.

5. Throat Chakra (Vishuddha) – The "My Boss Hates Me" Chakra

 Location: Throat

Alleged Purpose: Communication and self-expression

 Fraudster Claim: If you can’t express yourself or your boss never listens to you, your throat chakra is blocked.

Reality Check: Your boss isn’t ignoring you because of chakra misalignment; he’s ignoring you because your ideas are either terrible or you present them like a nervous wreck. Maybe try a public speaking course instead?

6. Third Eye Chakra (Ajna) – The "I Have No Idea What’s Going On" Chakra

 Location: Between the eyebrows

Alleged Purpose: Intuition and spiritual awareness

 Fraudster Claim: If you can’t make good decisions, your third eye chakra is blocked.

Reality Check: If your decision-making is bad, it’s probably because you never learned critical thinking, not because your forehead energy is out of whack.

7. Crown Chakra (Sahasrara) – The "I’m Woke" Chakra

 Location: Top of the head

 Alleged Purpose: Enlightenment and connection to the universe

 Fraudster Claim: If you feel disconnected from life, your crown chakra needs opening.

Reality Check: Maybe you feel disconnected because you spend 10 hours a day on your phone, scrolling through conspiracy theories about how the moon landing was faked. Try touching grass.

The Business of Chakras: Selling Snake Oil in the Digital Age

The "chakra healing" industry has evolved into a massive scam operation, expertly designed to exploit insecurity, laziness, and ignorance. Here’s how it works:

1. Create Fake Problems – Convince people that all their life struggles stem from blocked chakras.

2. Offer Expensive Solutions – Sell overpriced "energy realignment" sessions, healing crystals, and online workshops.

3. Keep Them Hooked – Tell customers their chakras need constant tuning, ensuring a never-ending revenue stream.

This isn’t spirituality—it’s capitalism disguised as cosmic wisdom.

Open Your Eyes, Not Your Wallet

Chakras, in their original form, were symbolic representations of human consciousness. But today, they’ve become nothing more than a trendy excuse for people to ignore reality and throw money at con artists.

So, the next time someone tells you your problems stem from a blocked chakra, remember:

If you’re broke, you need a better financial plan, not a chakra reading.

If your relationships suck, work on communication, not your sacral chakra.

If you lack confidence, build skills and experience, not imaginary energy fields.

Alright, listen up, you dry-skinned, ashy-elbowed degenerates. You ever wonder why Bengali boomers stayed hydrated, happy, and ready to go without your fancy serums and overpriced lubes? Boroline. Yeah, that little green tube that somehow exists in every home without ever being purchased.

Now, let’s talk real talk—good sex is like good skincare. It’s all about the prep, the glide, and the aftercare. And guess what? Boroline’s been doing it since your grandpa was out there wooing your grandma with Rabindra Sangeet.

Step 1: Foreplay starts with Boroline.

Dry lips? Biggest L. You can’t be out here trying to kiss someone when your lips feel like sandpaper from a dystopian wasteland. A tiny Boroline dab? Boom—soft, kissable lips, ready for action.

Step 2: The Main Event.

Listen, friction is fun until it’s not. Your hands need to be smooth, not reptilian. Your elbows? Moisturized, not weaponized. That post-shower glow? Boroline’s got your back. Literally.

Step 3: The Aftermath.

You just had a night worthy of a Bollywood slow-mo montage, but hold up—what’s that? Chafing? Dry patches? A hickey that looks like a crime scene? Boroline heals faster than your situationship, sealing the deal like a pro.

But remember, Boroline is never truly yours. Borrow your partner’s tube, and they will hunt you down. Some things in life—like orgasms and Boroline—are meant to be shared, but never stolen.

So next time you’re gearing up for a spicy night, forget the fancy lotions and trust the OG Bengali magic. Because Boroline has seen more action than any of us ever will.

FM Waves, Train Windows & Songs That Stick

The streaming generation has no clue about the magic of FM radio. But let’s be real—I’m not exactly fresh out of college either. Nostalgia is great in poetry and music, but living in a constant throwback? Not my vibe. Still, lately, I’ve been tuning into FM, scavenging for little audio treasures, grabbing them at just the right moment.

The other night, Rupam Da was on air, casually strumming his guitar, putting his own spin on a late ‘60s banger—music and lyrics by the legendary Sudhin Dasgupta, originally sung by Manna Dey. Back in the day, the song was just background noise for a bunch of aimless, jobless dudes celebrating life with zero direction. But in Rupam Da’s raw, stripped-down version? It hit differently. It created a whole new story in my head.

A guy staring out of a train window, lost in the rhythm of the tracks, leaving behind the daily grind for some much-needed escape—destination known or unknown, doesn’t matter.

Then, boom! His eyes land on a girl his age. She’s deep in a phone call, probably ranting about office drama or rejecting some lame proposal. But he’s not really listening to her calls like an intruder. He’s just watching—not in a creepy, eavesdropping way, not trying to hit on her or pull some cringey move. Just soaking in the moment, like she’s a fleeting scene in his journey, too perfect to ignore.

When I shared this thought with Rupam Da, he simply said—he had never really listened to this song as just an audio track. As a kid, he heard it while watching the movie, but that’s not the same as consciously listening to a song.

And he’s absolutely right. This song, and so many others like it, aren’t songs we intentionally play. In his words, they just drift in with the wind and register somewhere deep in our minds.

Your Heroine

Love that doesn’t waste time

Plans ahead for tomorrow’s grind.

Bodies rub, sparks ignite,

Like matches and dry wood alight.

A kiss’s taste they’ll never know—

The fake guru, nosy aunt, or club VP's glow.

They never kissed, just coped in bed,

Calling it love, when all was dead.

Your heroine, though, sinks her lips,

To stay forever, no ties or scripts.

Not for rules or worldly sway,

RESTLESS

The river’s call, I can’t ignore,

Heart locked up, can’t take much more.

Made my mind up, but I’m still stuck,

Not writing now, just outta luck.

Restless, caught between two tides,

Hunting salt, but craving vibes,

Subconscious sailing, lost at sea,

Without a clue, it sets me free.

I’m almost out, but I’m still awake,

In this space where thoughts won’t break.

Who owns this sleep, this dream I chase?

You? Then come, kiss me in this place.

The kiss, so restless, fills the air,

The world around is unaware.

Crossed that line? Well, what’s the cost?

Alright, people, let's get this straight: the Maha Kumbh Mela of 2025 is here, and the media can’t stop salivating over their new poster boy — IIT Baba. The man went from aerospace engineering at IIT Bombay to spiritual enlightenment at a ghat near you, and suddenly everyone thinks they’ve found the messiah of meaning in life. But before you grab your smartphone to search for his Instagram (don’t bother, he’s probably too enlightened for that), let’s take a moment to unpack this overcooked, overhyped, and overrated khichdi of faith, media sensationalism, and questionable priorities.

First, let’s talk about the real MVP of this drama — the media. They’ve latched onto "IIT Baba" like a leech on fresh flesh, screaming headlines like, “IITian Renounces Worldly Pleasures” and “From Rockets to Renunciation.” Bro, chill. It’s not like he invented a cure for cancer or solved global poverty before deciding to go full sadhu mode.

But, of course, the media is smart. They know you love an underdog story — the nerd who walked away from the Silicon Valley pipeline to wear saffron robes and stare at the horizon like a shampoo ad. It’s clickbait gold. For them, IIT Baba is the human embodiment of everything-you-will-never-do-but-wish-you-could.

Let’s not ignore the fact that this frenzy isn’t about spirituality; it’s about content creation. Kumbh Mela already draws millions, but this IIT Baba character? He’s the cherry on top of their virality sundae. Suddenly, you’ve got camera crews crawling around him like ants on spilled sugar, asking questions like, “What’s the meaning of life?” as if he holds the patent on wisdom. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t.

Speaking of the Kumbh Mela, can we address the elephant in the tent? Why is this once-religious event now a full-blown corporate extravaganza? The government is throwing ₹10,000 crore at it, slapping on shiny infrastructure, and calling it “cultural preservation.” But the irony slaps harder than a Delhi summer: millions are homeless, schools barely function, and your hospitals are understaffed, but hey, let’s build another golden ghat for Insta reels, right?

The real kicker? This isn’t even about faith anymore. The Kumbh Mela is a capitalist carnival masked as tradition. Booths for multinational companies, spiritual influencers selling overpriced mala beads, and food stalls charging ₹500 for pani puri. It’s a cash grab, plain and simple, and the government is laughing all the way to the bank.

Meanwhile, the middle class is either too broke to participate or too busy drowning in EMIs to care. And the poor? Oh, they’re still walking barefoot to the Ganga, praying for salvation while the media drones buzz around “IIT Baba,” capturing his every holy fart.

Now, let’s get back to our main man, IIT Baba. Sure, his journey sounds inspiring at first. Boy genius cracks IIT, studies aerospace, explores philosophy, and then, bam — gives it all up for enlightenment. But peel back the layers, and the narrative reeks of privilege.

Here’s the tea: you can’t romanticize this story without acknowledging that Abhay Singh (his real name, in case you care) had the privilege to choose this life. Most of us are grinding 9-to-5s, not because we’re spiritually lost, but because rent isn’t going to pay itself. Dude probably has zero student debt, no dependents, and a lifetime of “What’s next?” existentialism that most Indians can’t afford.

And let’s not even get started on the IIT angle. The dude took a taxpayer-funded education — a seat that thousands of students would sell their kidneys for — only to drop it all and sit on the banks of the Ganga, contemplating maya. Like, okay, bro, that’s your vibe, but don’t expect us to clap. You essentially ghosted your societal responsibilities for a personal quest.

The real question is: why are we, as a society, so obsessed with people who “give it all up”? Why do we idolize renunciation as if it’s the ultimate life hack? Let’s be honest: it’s not. It’s a luxury. Only those who’ve had too much of everything — education, privilege, or exposure — can afford to renounce anything.

And let’s not kid ourselves: this isn’t new. From Siddhartha Gautama to Steve Jobs reading “Autobiography of a Yogi,” there’s always been a cultural fascination with people who walk away from the system. But here’s the catch — for the rest of us, walking away isn’t an option. Most Indians aren’t meditating on existential crises; they’re worrying about LPG prices and onion rates.

The media’s narrative of IIT Baba as a spiritual hero perpetuates a toxic idea: that the ultimate goal of life is to escape it. But life isn’t something you escape; it’s something you grapple with. Renunciation doesn’t make you a hero; resilience does.

Let’s not forget the cherry on top: spiritual elitism. IIT Baba isn’t just any sadhu; he’s a sadhu with an IIT degree. That gives him a bizarre kind of credibility in our classist society. If the same man had been a carpenter’s son, would anyone care about his spiritual awakening? Probably not.

This isn’t spirituality; it’s gatekeeping. By idolizing IIT Baba, we’re saying that enlightenment is only impressive if it comes wrapped in a shiny IIT-shaped package. It’s like saying your wisdom doesn’t count unless you’ve got a LinkedIn-worthy backstory. Spirituality, my friends, is officially a gated community, and the entrance fee is an Ivy League résumé.

Here’s the bottom line, fam: this entire narrative feels like a giant scam. It’s like trying to sell kombucha as “ancient medicine” when we all know it’s just overpriced vinegar. IIT Baba isn’t the problem; the system that glorifies him is.

The media needs to stop turning human beings into hashtags. The government needs to prioritize its spending on things that actually matter, like education and healthcare, instead of sinking billions into glorified festivals. And we, as a society, need to stop fetishizing renunciation and start valuing people who stay in the game, who fight the good fight every day.

Saw a pair of ducks the other day,

Gliding like they owned the sky—

No likes, no hashtags, no filters,

Just a rhythm I couldn’t pass by.

Their bond was subtle, like rain at dusk,

Unspoken, yet somehow loud,

Two travelers, side by side,

Lost in their own little cloud.

Made me wonder—do all great things

Start with a quiet, shared stream?

A glance, a laugh, a fleeting spark,

A feather in some distant dream.

Not saying we’re ducks or anything,

But there’s a vibe I can’t ignore—

A softness, a pull, like water to shore,

Something worth exploring more.

Let’s talk about the guy who’s been turned into a cultural quote machine: Swami Vivekananda. You know him—every boomer uncle’s WhatsApp status, the guy who apparently fixed all of India’s problems with one-liners like:

1. “Jibe prem kore jei jon, sei jon sebiche Ishwar” (Love God by loving His creations).

2. “Khali pete dharma hoy na” (Religion doesn’t work on an empty stomach).

3. “He Bharat, methor, muchi, chandal—tomar bhai!” (Hey India, even scavengers and cobblers are your brothers).

Amazing, right? Almost makes you want to print his quotes on a t-shirt and start a brand. But here’s the kicker: peel back the hype and, uh-oh, we’ve got the classic “bro says one thing, does the exact opposite” situation.

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"Love All Creatures (Except the Ones I Sacrifice)"

Big man Swamiji loved to flex his “love for all beings” spiel, but the dude legit started animal sacrifices at Baranagar Math. Yes, the same man who crooned “Jibe prem kore jei jon” thought it was totally zen to have goats decapitated in the name of divine vibes. At Belur Math, he wanted to continue this goat-slaying streak, but Sarada Maa (Ramakrishna’s wife, the OG moral compass) was like, “Naren, no.”

Swamiji, still high on his “what’s one goat?” energy, went to Kalighat, got a goat sacrificed there, and partied with mutton curry later. Oh, and he even got his British student Sister Nivedita to campaign in favor of animal sacrifice. You can’t make this up.

His vibe? “Love all, sacrifice some, eat the rest.”

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"Baal Vivah = Bad... But Also, Kind of Great?"

Swami’s hot take on child marriage was another level. One day he’s all, “Child marriage is bad for society.” Two days later, he’s like, “But you know what? It’s actually made Hindus super pure.” Imagine your woke friend ranting about patriarchy, then DMing you, “But bro, have you seen how aesthetic arranged marriages are?” Same vibe.

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"Science is Life... or Maybe Just a Vibe?"

Here’s the juicy bit. Swami wasn’t just a philosopher; he fancied himself a scientist. Sample this brain-fryer:

“Take a steel plate, apply energy to it in a dark room, and voilà—it’ll turn into light and eventually… into a mind.”

Bruh. Steel plate = mind? What kind of MCU logic is this? Tony Stark is crying in the corner.

Someone give this man a physics award… or at least a Netflix sci-fi series.

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"Heard of Cancel Culture? Meet Sacrifice Culture"

Swami once dropped this absolute gem:

“If sacrificing humans can get us to God, I’m totally down.”

WHAT. Dude went from “Love your brother” to “Sacrifice your brother” faster than you can say “Namaste.” If this were X (Twitter), #SwamiCancelled would trend for weeks.

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The Real Problem: Boomers & Bhakts

Here’s the tea: the Swami simps—aka, your uncle who still forwards “Good Morning” texts with flower GIFs—have carefully polished his image. All the contradictions? Brushed under the rug like they’re deleting drunk tweets. They’ll keep quoting his hits like:

“Hey Bharat, methor-muchi tomar bhai... "

but conveniently ignore the “Brahmins are India’s highest ideal” energy he radiated on the side.

They’ll hype up his “Khali pete dhormo hoy na” wisdom but forget that he often crashed at rich kings’ palaces for feasts that would put Michelin-starred chefs to shame.

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TL;DR

Swami Vivekananda was basically that one guy in your friend group who preaches minimalism while flexing his new iPhone. Genius, yes. Contradictory AF? Also yes. Iconic meme material? Absolutely.

Chandrabindoo’s "টালোবাসা" is basically their 10th studio album, and yeah, the name’s a cheeky spin on the whole “bhalobasha-talobasha” vibe—a classic Bengali way to make love sound extra. This album drops a whole 12 years after their last one, "নয়", and with it, they hit the big 100 on original songs. Oh, and plot twist—they went old-school cool and dropped this one on vinyl. And guess what? The vinyl comes with 11 tracks, while the streaming gang only gets 10. Talk about FOMO marketing done right! Haven’t vibed to the vinyl yet, honestly. Like, who even has a turntable at home anymore? Those things went extinct right after dinosaurs. Cassette players? CD players? All gone, just like my childhood dreams. So yeah, spending on a gramophone record feels like buying a time machine I can’t use. Song #101? Guess it’s the forbidden fruit for us peasants.

In my teenage Chandrabindoo was basically Bengal’s answer to “what if your loudest, most sarcastic adda buddies picked up guitars and decided to roast society for a living?” They turn everyday hypocrisy, cultural quirks, and current affairs into lyrical chaos—raw, unapologetic, and hilariously on point.

I’m just here, pretending to be a music critic, overanalyzing a few songs ( lyrically ) like my life depends on it.

1. এক লজেন্সে

The first track, " এক লজেন্সে " is basically life served in a candy wrapper—sweet, bitter, and just the right amount of wtf. It takes all those tiny, random moments we usually ignore and smacks you with the realization that, hey, even the most trivial stuff can hit deep. Think of it as philosophy with a punchline.

The song begins with a noticeable randomness in its narrative. Lines like "আমি এক লজেন্সে চলে যাব হাওড়া থেকে কসবা" reflect the typical Bengali middle-class life, where we try to solve life's big problems with small, insignificant solutions. The lozenge here perhaps symbolizes life's trivialities, while the journey from Howrah to Kasba mirrors the exhausting realities of daily life.

2. কুকুর আর প্রজাপতি

This song is basically a vibe where two souls lock eyes and suddenly, it’s like a game. The "dog" and "butterfly" are totally opposite—one's all about the gritty, grounded stuff, while the other’s floating around in a dreamy, free space. It’s kinda like the two sides of a relationship. The song dives into all the hidden parts of a relationship, the personal feels, and how society’s totally clueless about it. It’s all about love, chaos, anxiety, and those little things between people that no one ever sees. It's the kind of relationship where everything’s intense, but you keep it on the down-low, away from the world.

3. কেরানি

This song captures the essence of the silent struggles of the middle class—where creativity and personal dreams are often sidelined for the sake of social respectability and financial survival. It's a poignant commentary on the suffocating pressure to conform while feeling unfulfilled.

Typical Bengali middle-class life is stuck in a boring routine, with no room for creativity. His small desires, when fulfilled, end up being ruined by his own actions. Though loyal to his wife, the mysterious OTT shows pull him into a deeper emotional place. His life feels dry, tired, and full of unspoken desires he can’t express.

4. বায়নাখোকা

It is basically a rollercoaster of mixed feelings and sarcastic romance. Each verse is like a metaphor for the mess that is modern relationships—confusing, incomplete, and full of endless trying. The speaker is stuck between fiery passion and straight-up indifference, wondering if his lover’s feelings are hot and intense, or just... meh. Every time he looks at her, it's like an emotional warzone inside him, but he's not claiming victory yet. It’s a flex of self-respect. He’s making plans for the future, but she’s totally clueless. The whole "Facebook image management" thing totally mocks the fake vibe of social media. The power dynamics around her, plus the class struggle, just makes him feel small. But hey, at least their relationship "ratio" feels good to him. In the end, he's like, "If you’re not giving me real love, at least throw me some 'talo-basha' (fake affection)." It’s a desperate plea for some validation. The song hilariously portrays the struggle of uncertain love, the pain of rejection, and the sarcastic reality of relationships. It's like a half-relationship story with no happy ending in sight.

5. মার

The song " মার " carries a powerful social, political, and historical satirical metaphor. The word মার here symbolizes the abuse of power, violence, and dominance. It's both deeply theoretical and humorous, mocking the cycle of violence and power as a "big deal" that’s inevitable and everywhere.

"তোমরা দেখ ওল্ডম্যান বা নিউম্যান

আর আমি?

মানুষ ভাজা মানুষ কিমা

বার্বিকিউড হিউম্যান "

This highlights symbolic violence in human history. "minced meat" and "BBQ'd human" represent the extreme states of war and violence. The song uses dark humor to comment on humanity’s destructive tendencies.

6. আমার জানলা দিয়ে

This song is basically a poetic dive into feels—loneliness, memories, longing, and just general sadness. The "window" is like this metaphor for distance or memories that are just out of reach. The moonlight and cold vibes? That's the emotional chill you get when you're stuck in the past, trying to relive lost moments.

Wanting to "draw the moon" is like trying to bring back a lost relationship or happy moment—good luck with that, right? The lines "Ure Jaye, Pure Jaye, Dure Jaye" show how relationships fade and slip away, like they’re gone with the wind. The rickshaw and candlelight set up this slow, nostalgic vibe, where time feels like it’s moving in slow-mo. The “old songbook” is just a symbol of how past relationships freeze in time, stuck in place.

The bumpy road and name changes represent losing and finding yourself, but it’s like a bittersweet feeling of moving on. Still, there’s that tug of regret, that "ugh, I don't wanna move on but I have to" vibe. The night’s silence and solitude make things feel even worse. The silhouette part is like seeing the ghost of a past love—just a blurry shadow that never really gets close.

The ending? It’s like the final nail in the coffin of a relationship, floating into another one or just disappearing. The yellow light is warm memories but also a reminder that they’re out of reach. The tears and wet cheeks scream "I'm emotionally unavailable!" while the scratched mirror says, "Welcome to the blurry reality of life!" It’s a whole metaphor for losing things and being stuck in nostalgia.

Honestly, I loved this song because it’s all about trying to understand lost relationships, full of feels and deeply personal, but also a bit of a trainwreck.

7. বিকেল

This song thrives on nonsensical humor, but beneath the chaos lies a sharp critique of urban life, wrapped in absurd yet vivid imagery. It paints a fragmented picture of a city that’s both vibrant and decaying—a surreal collage of everyday moments that feel random but resonate deeply. At its core, the song reflects the disjointed rhythm of urban life. It uses nonsensical humor to amplify the absurdities, making the listener laugh while subtly prodding them to reflect on the chaos we’ve normalized. It’s a playful yet poignant commentary on how we navigate a world that’s constantly shifting between the mundane and the surreal.

8. প্রধানমন্ত্রী

The song is a chaotic, humorous critique of modern life—its absurdities, stereotypes, societal pressures, and the speaker’s existential frustration. Through nonsensical yet sharp imagery, it captures the disjointed, cluttered rhythm of contemporary urban existence, making the listener laugh, cringe, and relate all at once.

9. গ্যাড়াকল

This is basically a mood. Like, you’re trying to reach someone but they’re always “busy”—classic ghosting vibes. Life’s a constant “গ্যাড়াকল” and no one’s got time for anything real. Everyone’s talking, no one’s listening, and you’re just like “pls, shut it”. Life’s busy, chaotic, and just a never-ending loop of nonsense.

This piece uses nonsensical humor and rhythmic repetition to critique the disconnection, endless noise, and frantic pace of modern life. It paints a vivid picture of frustration, where even basic connections—whether emotional, communicative, or practical—feel out of reach. The playful language and quirky imagery make the satire both relatable and entertaining.

10. চুমুর গান

Some might call "Chumur Gaan" unique, but honestly, it felt super gimmicky to me. Like, it’s a typical Valentine’s special Chandrabindoo special track where they skip the whole using the word "kiss" and just go straight to, well, kissing. It’s kinda clever, but also super predictable.