When Kangana Ranaut shared a flight and a conversation with Hollywood actress Mila Kunis: 'I rarely do that but glad I captured the moment...'
once delighted fans by sharing a rare throwback moment with Hollywood star
. The surprise encounter took place aboard a flight a few years ago, and though brief, it left a lasting impression on the Katti Batti actor.
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Known for keeping a low profile during travel, Kangana confessed she rarely takes photos with fellow passengers—but was glad she made an exception this time.
The picture appears to be a casual selfie, with Kangana dressed in an overcoat and glasses, her curly hair tied up in a high bun. She is seen posing next to a smiling Mila Kunis, capturing a candid and warm moment between the two actors mid-flight.
Check out the photo here:
Talking about her meeting with the Friends With Benefits star, Kangana wrote, "Some memory my phone threw at me. We were in a flight together and had a conversation…I rarely do that but glad I captured the moment. Now wonder when will we travel again."
Meanwhile on the work front, Kangana will soon be seen reuniting with her '
' co-star R Madhavan for an untitled film. She was last seen in Emergency, which was her second directorial venture after Manikarnika: The Queen of Jhansi.
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Time of India
5 hours ago
- Time of India
When Kangana Ranaut shared a flight and a conversation with Hollywood actress Mila Kunis: 'I rarely do that but glad I captured the moment...'
once delighted fans by sharing a rare throwback moment with Hollywood star . The surprise encounter took place aboard a flight a few years ago, and though brief, it left a lasting impression on the Katti Batti actor. Tired of too many ads? go ad free now Known for keeping a low profile during travel, Kangana confessed she rarely takes photos with fellow passengers—but was glad she made an exception this time. The picture appears to be a casual selfie, with Kangana dressed in an overcoat and glasses, her curly hair tied up in a high bun. She is seen posing next to a smiling Mila Kunis, capturing a candid and warm moment between the two actors mid-flight. Check out the photo here: Talking about her meeting with the Friends With Benefits star, Kangana wrote, "Some memory my phone threw at me. We were in a flight together and had a conversation…I rarely do that but glad I captured the moment. Now wonder when will we travel again." Meanwhile on the work front, Kangana will soon be seen reuniting with her ' ' co-star R Madhavan for an untitled film. She was last seen in Emergency, which was her second directorial venture after Manikarnika: The Queen of Jhansi.
Time of India
a day ago
- Time of India
The silence of the reels: Why Hindi cinema never faced the Emergency
Power games: The few filmmakers who did deal with the subject, either directly or indirectly, faced bans and attacks For an industry that prides itself on chronicling the nation's struggles, Hindi cinema's silence about the Emergency is more revealing than any film could ever be. The 21 months between June 1975 and March 1977, when Indira Gandhi suspended civil liberties, censored the press, and jailed thousands without trial, were arguably the most consequential in India's modern political history. Yet, in the decades since, Hindi cinema—the self-appointed mirror of Indian society—has barely mustered a smudge to reflect it. This conspicuous absence did not arise from creative oversight or timidity alone. In the early decades of Independence, popular cinema was never truly free. Nehruvian socialism shaped public policy and the ideological contours of the industry. The so-called golden triumvirate—Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand—crafted personas that echoed Pandit Nehru's vision of the self-sacrificing, morally upright everyman. Dilip Kumar's dialogue seemed like leftovers from Nehru's speeches, Dev Anand's rebellious charm served the establishment's romantic socialism, and Raj Kapoor's everyman heroes peddled idealism to the masses. Such intimacy with power set the template. The state could inspire cinema, but never the other way around. When that same state turned authoritarian, the industry found itself unprepared and unwilling to challenge it. In the Emergency years, the machinery of coercion extended directly into the corridors of Bombay. V C Shukla, Indira's information & broadcasting minister, became infamous for exerting his influence over the film industry. Wielding the Maintenance of Internal Security Act like a scythe through the industry, the political establishment wasn't breaking new ground—it was merely weaponising an existing dependency. Kishore Kumar, the mercurial genius whose voice had soundtracked a generation's dreams, was banned from All India Radio and Doordarshan for refusing to perform at a Youth Congress rally. Dev Anand, tricked into attending a Sanjay Gandhi event and asked to praise his 'dynamism', found his films blacklisted when he refused to comply. When he sought an explanation from the I&B Minister, he was told with chilling matter-of-factness that it was 'a good thing to speak for the govt in power.' Shatrughan Sinha , then one of cinema's busiest stars, saw his films banned for the cardinal sin of supporting Jayaprakash Narayan. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like The Most Unwelcoming Countries in the World, Ranked BigGlobalTravel Undo Gulzar's 'Aandhi', merely suspected of drawing inspiration from Indira Gandhi's life, while most argued it'd taken a few chapters from the life of Tarkeshwari Sinha, was banned for the duration of the Emergency, releasing only after the Janata victory restored a semblance of democratic normalcy. 'Maha Chor' starring Rajesh Khanna casually inserted a 'Vote for Congress' graffiti into a musical sequence. Most telling was the fate of Amrit Nahata's 'Kissa Kursi Ka', a political satire that dared to mock the Emergency's absurdities. All prints of the film were destroyed allegedly by Sanjay Gandhi at a factory in Gurgaon. This was not subtext—it was brazen collusion between art and authority. Yet what happened after the Emergency lifted reveals the true depths of the industry's moral bankruptcy. When the time came to reckon with the period—its absurdities, its tragedies, its moral squalor—Hindi cinema fell silent. There was an almost immediate return to sycophantic normalcy. Feroz Khan's 'Qurbani' (1980), the biggest hit of the year when Indira Gandhi returned, opened with a short film eulogising Sanjay Gandhi, narrated by Khan himself as he dedicated his film to the memory of the 'Prince' and bowed in reverence to the 'Mother'. If films between 1977 and 1980 did not address the Emergency, to expect that to happen after Indira Gandhi returned would perhaps be hoping for a miracle. This wasn't just political calculation—it was the instinctive reaction of an industry that had learned to worship power. Some filmmakers attempted to address the Emergency but it was often through the refuge of allegory—Hrishikesh Mukherjee's 'Kotwal Saab' and 'Khubsoorat' chose not to cast a direct look; the latter managed to justify the Emergency as a necessary evil. Mukherjee's 'Naram Garam' gave Hindi cinema's smartest comment on the era in the form of a nervous joke — Om Prakash, told to hurry because of some emergency, haplessly comments, 'Phir se?' While not Hindi cinema, Satyajit Ray's 'Hirak Rajar Deshe' and Jabbar Patel's 'Jait Re Jait', used the same route. Parallel cinema, too, largely skirted the challenge and despite their social conscience, filmmakers preferred the microcosm to the macro. Over the years, some films such as 'Ghashiram Kotwal' based on a Vijay Tendulkar play and directed by K. Hariharan, Mani Kaul, Kamal Swaroop, Saeed Mirza were cited as a film about the Emergency. However, it was written in 1972 as a response to the rise of a local political party in Maharashtra. There are structural reasons for this reticence. Hindi cinema has always struggled with ambiguity, preferring neat endings where heroes redeem all. The Emergency, by contrast, offered no catharsis—only a nation capitulating to authoritarianism without resistance. The definitive Emergency film still eludes the screen even as we enter the fiftieth year of the Emergency. The exceptions remain sparse: Sudhir Mishra's 'Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi' would not arrive until 2005, nearly three decades later. Even then, it couched its indictment within the personal journeys of three idealistic young people, careful not to indict the broader complicity of society. Even today the few who try to confront the past are harassed —Madhur Bhandarkar's 'Indu Sarkar' provoked shrill attacks and legal threats simply for attempting a fictionalised retelling. The Emergency may have ended in 1977, but its most lasting victory was psychological: the creation of a cultural establishment that polices itself more effectively than any censor ever could. Perhaps it was simpler to pretend nothing happened. After all, if cinema cannot process a trauma, maybe the nation never really did. (Chintamani is a film historian and author)
Indian Express
2 days ago
- Indian Express
How a 1989 Malayalam film examined the aftermath of the state's repression of a helpless individual
Hours before the evening bus is supposed to arrive, the old man has seated himself at his usual spot, waiting for his son to come home as promised. Raghu, the younger child of Raghavan Chakyar, is a student at an engineering college in a distant town. 'Isn't today the right day?' Raghavan asks his daughter while returning alone from the bus stop for the first time. 'It is probably just a day's delay,' a neighbour tells the old man on the second day that Raghu fails to turn up. On the third day, Raghavan goes to the bus stop in the morning, only to return — once again — alone. 'Did I not tell you the bus won't come in the morning?' comes the gentle chastisement from the boatman who has been ferrying Raghavan to the bus stop. Slowly, over the course of its 110-minute runtime, a terrible absence — a person-shaped hole — takes form at the centre of Shaji N Karun's 'Piravi'. Generally believed to be inspired by the infamous case of the disappearance of P Rajan, a student at the Regional Engineering College Calicut, during the Emergency, 'Piravi' (1989) was Karun's directorial debut. Already a lauded cinematographer, especially for his work with auteur G Aravindan (who also co-composed the music for his protege's debut), Karun won wide acclaim for the Malayalam film, including the Mention D'Honneur – Camera D'Or at the 1989 Cannes Film Festival. While the filmmaker denied being inspired by any specific story when making 'Piravi', saying that it was about the wider problem of custodial deaths, the parallels with the Rajan case are undeniable. 'Piravi' is set in 1988, 11 years after the Emergency had ended, but like Raghavan in the film, T V Eachara Warrier had set out on a dogged quest in 1976 to find out what happened to his son, Rajan. His long battle that finally unearthed the awful truth about his son's disappearance — wrongful arrest, torture and death in custody — resulted in one of the most well-known habeas corpus cases in India. It rocked the Kerala government, leading to the resignation of Chief Minister K Karunakaran a month after he led the Congress-led coalition to a landslide victory in the 1977 Assembly election. ALSO READ | Priya Sachdev called Karisma Kapoor-Sunjay Kapur's kids her own, said 'friendship' is the key: 'We have four children' Karun, in 'Piravi', was less interested in the legal and political aspects of the nightmare that Warrier endured, than he was in exploring, through the visual medium, the problem of depicting a disappearance: How do you show someone who is not there? Raghu's is an unfathomable absence and the film, as it delineates the anxiety and grief of the bereaved, takes shape around the vacuum that comes to represent the missing son. The film marks a visual and sonic challenge, masterfully tackled: Like Raghu, the rain announces its arrival — monsoon winds slam doors and windows, waves crash on the beach, the afternoon darkens — only to disappoint. The landscape is suffused with sound, both human and non-human — the gentle gurgling of the river, the susurration of the wind through the reeds, the tick-tock of Raghavan's wristwatch. Yet, what throws these into sharp relief, making each one ring out loud and clear, is the utter silence of the one who never returned home. Many films have been made about that dark period from June 25, 1975, to March 21, 1977, most of them focusing on the political machinations or stories of state repression. As its creator stated, 'Piravi' may not be explicitly about the Emergency, yet few other films have so effectively examined the haunting question of what happens after an episode of state repression. What happens to the ones left behind? Decades after Warrier trudged from pillar to post, desperately seeking out the truth and trying to hold to account those responsible for his son's death, 'Piravi' reminds viewers of other fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, haunted by the disappearance of their loved ones.
