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The Wire
19-07-2025
- Entertainment
- The Wire
The Quiet Exodus: On Vinod Kapri's 'Pyre'
An old man walks along a craggy mountain path, his back slightly hunched, a small drum in hand. With each tap of the drum he chants, invoking the goddesses. Behind him, an elderly woman follows, wrapped in layers of faded cloth, her steps steady but slow. Mist curls over the stone rooftops of their deserted village as they walk away from it onto a cliff-like rock jutting over the turbulent waters of Kali Taal. This is the opening image of Pyre, Vinod Kapri's stunning film – a world built on silence, ritual and the tender endurance of two people who have refused to leave what the rest of the world is abandoning: the hills of Uttarakhand. From the very first scene, Kapri signals that Pyre will not hurry to tell its story. The pacing of the film is masterful, allowing the viewer to walk among the hills, to experience the mountains in a way that only a director intimate with their rhythms could achieve. I love those hills and have a sense of them more than any other mountain range – not the Aravallis I belong to, nor the Alps I experienced as a child – the Garhwal and Kumaon hills feel familiar like no other, especially as they've been part of my reporting life as well. A still from 'Pyre'. Depictions, by others, of what matters to you – literary or cinematic – often makes you critical. Your natural possessiveness (and sometimes knowledge) push you to notice every real or perceived lapse, every stereotype – something to critique, a way to reclaim what you love from a writer or director. Which is why I'm frankly stunned by how completely this film – and the hills, their people, their life – seem to belong to Kapri. Or perhaps it's the other way around: Kapri belongs to them. He renders their world with such care and fidelity that there's nothing to reclaim, only to recognise. It's not surprising, then, that the film was shot in and around Kapri's father's village, where he grew up. The actors – the lead protagonists who had never faced a camera before – Padam Singh, or Bubu, a retired soldier played by Kapri's uncle and Amma or Tulsi played by Hira Devi, a farmer. Anoop Trivedi, an actor and NSD graduate, worked with these two and in fact, the rest of the cast to produce an authenticity rarely seen. They speak and bicker not as performers, but as people who have lived these lives. This lack of affectation cuts straight to the core of the film's emotional truths. Pyre follows Bubu and Amma, an elderly couple living in quiet isolation, waiting for their son Hariya, who left years ago for the city. Their days pass in everyday routines – tending to the goats, bickering, lighting bidis, fetching wood, trekking down to hospitals, repairing their hut. "He said he would come this year," Amma mutters, more to the wind than to Bubu. Their love plays out in quiet gestures – gentle banter, teasing glances. Each time Amma falls ill, Bubu calls out to a villager, offering a goat in exchange for helping carry her down the mountain paths to a road, the only way to access medical assistance. As the village empties, and their isolation deepens, a question begins to loom – who will be left to help when no one remains? Hariya's return becomes more about holding on to a memory rather than reality. The truths lie in the real-life story of the hills and of people much like Bubu and Amma. Kapri has spoken of how the idea of the film came from a couple he met in Munsyari. The man had a herd of goats – he would give one to anyone willing to help carry his wife down from their home, a steep trek to the main road and on to the hospital. "As long as I have goats my wife will survive," he told Kapri, and that dialogue is verbatim in the film. A still from 'Pyre'. Kapri said it reminded him of Gabriel García Márquez's No One Writes to the Colonel – a very different story, about a colonel waiting in poverty for a pension that never arrives. Despite the distance in geography, language and context, the film and the novel echo each other in spirit: the dignity of agwing, the persistence of hope against all odds, the quiet heroism of enduring. That connection lends the film a universality that reaches beyond its setting. A brief meeting with Hira Devi and Padam Singh reveals how deeply this story is theirs. Hira Devi says she weeps each time she watches the film – it mirrors too closely the grief of those around her. She confessed to fighting with the director, begging for a gentler ending: "At least in cinema, if not in life, I wanted relief." Padam Singh, who has lost his wife and is undergoing cancer treatment, still lives in a village hollowed out by migration. Each thunderstorm eats away not just at homes but at memory, at belonging. One such thunderstorm – a scene of shattering beauty – was captured by cinematographer Manas Bhattacharya. Framed through their blue-painted windows, Bubu and Amma sing old folk songs to pass the night, their voices rising against the sound of wind and rain. By morning, part of the adjacent hut collapses. Without a word, Bubu attempts to repair it. There is no dramatic music, no dialogue – only the quiet act of rebuilding. It is perhaps the most profound expression of love in the film. Kapri's use of sound is as textured and thoughtful as his visual storytelling. The ambient world of the hills – the rustle of wind through pine, the rhythm of goats' hooves, the distant rush of the Kali river – is captured with quiet precision. The music by Oscar-winner Mychael Danna, of Life of Pi fame, and a song penned by Gulzar add to the experience, but it's the use of the folk songs sung by Bubu and Amma that stand out. The music does not draw attention to itself; it deepens the experience. Folk songs – Bubu sings a ballad about the "stars of heaven, moonlit night" – are used sparingly, without exoticising the culture or signalling their "folksiness". Instead, they emerge as part of the world that Bubu and Amma inhabit. A still from 'Pyre'. Kapri has managed to create a love story in the midst of exploring a key issue in Uttarakhand, one that is hard to resolve – the migration away from the hills of its own people. As a Pithoragarhi living and working in Bombay and Delhi, Kapri knows what this entails: A guilt for having left the hills but also an understanding of what endures for people who have stayed behind. The film brought to mind the words of environmentalist and activist Chandi Prasad Bhatt. I last met him in the aftermath of the June 2013 flash floods that devastated the Uttarakhand hills – what is now often referred to as the Kedarnath tragedy. Bhatt, who has spent a lifetime warning against the damage wrought by unchecked development, spoke then of a deeper irony: While development remains the official narrative, the reality is one of steady erosion – the mountains are emptying out, not just by landslides, but by a slow, relentless exodus, compelled by shrinking livelihoods. By situating this predicament, Kapri brings into focus a crisis that few narratives capture, and one that cinema, in its most restrained and empathetic form, is uniquely equipped to reveal. Pyre won the Audience Award at the Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, along with several other international accolades – for its actors, its director and its deeply affecting story. But awards aside, what this film truly deserves is greater viewing, conversation and love in the country it so intimately belongs to: India. The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.


New Straits Times
19-06-2025
- Entertainment
- New Straits Times
#SHOWBIZ: Azura Aziz relieved that eldest son is finally a Malaysian citizen
KUALA LUMPUR: Singer Azura Aziz is relieved and grateful that her eldest son, Seiful Islam Ali, 22, affectionately known as Bubu, has finally obtained Malaysian citizenship after a lengthy process. In a recent interview with Harian Metro, Azura revealed the numerous obstacles she and her Egyptian husband, Cheb Ali, faced when their three Egyptian-born sons moved with them to Malaysia in 2017. "These problems arose from our lack of knowledge regarding the law," she explained. "Initially, we frequently travelled between Malaysia and Egypt. Our first two sons, Bubu and Safiyurrahman Ali, or Totti, were both born in Egypt and automatically acquired Egyptian citizenship as their father is an Egyptian national." Azura added that they later decided to prolong their stay in Egypt so their children could continue their studies at Al-Azhar University. "It was during that time that our third son, Nusratuddin Ali, or Mimo, was born." However, political instability following the Arab Spring forced the family to return to Malaysia in 2017. "That's when our difficulties truly began," Azura recounted. "Every year, we had to apply for student passes for the boys. They weren't eligible for textbook loans and were discouraged from participating in school activities." Azura and Cheb applied for Malaysian citizenship for their sons in September 2018. "After Bubu completed his Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM) examination, things became particularly challenging," she said. "The Immigration Department informed us he could only remain in Malaysia if he attended a private university, which we simply couldn't afford." Good news finally arrived in July 2024, when the family received a letter from the Home Ministry confirming that their sons' applications for citizenship had been approved. Totti, 20, received his MyKad in January, while Bubu, 21, first had to relinquish his Egyptian citizenship. Currently, Bubu and Totti are studying at the National Arts, Culture and Heritage Academy (Aswara), while Mimo is in Year Five of primary school. "Thank you to the government," Azura expressed.
Yahoo
08-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
The Wildest Controversies and Scandals Surrounding the Viral Labubu Dolls
We need to talk about Labubus. And no, Labubu isn't some off-brand kombucha or a Goop-approved fertility crystal. It's the name of those fuzzy toys with bunny ears and toothy grins that Gen Z and millenials seem to be losing their collective minds over. The buzz for Bubus has grown so loud that it even made its way to the Jenna Bush Hager-led fourth hour of the Today show this week. The Labubu was first introduced in a 2015 children's picture book created by Hong Kong-born artist Kasing Lung called The Monster Trilogy. Inspired by Nordic mythology, the Bubu are tiny elvish creatures with nine serrated teeth and pointy ears. They're also canonically female. Following the success of his book, Lung signed a deal in 2019 with Pop Mart, a Chinese-based toy company known for 'blind box' collectibles—a figurine sold in sealed packaging so that the item is unknown until opening—to create the first line of Labubu plushie charms. Since then, the toy has gone from a niche collectible item to a global sensation. While the Bubus come in many forms, from vinyl figures to pendant charms, the most popular iteration is the keychain. You can find them dangling from TikTokers luxury handbags, high schoolers backpacks, and proudly flaunted by celebrities like Rihanna, Lisa from Blackpink, and Dua Lipa. The Labubu collections are so popular that in 2024, Pop Mart generated $410 million in revenue, with its total revenue clocking in at a jaw-dropping $1.81 billion. It's so popular that some are even calling the toy 'tariff proof,' as President Donald Trump's trade war has done nothing to slow down the Bubu consumer demand. But like so many cultural obsessions that came before it, the Labubu craze hasn't been without scandal (or chaos). From full-on brawls to counterfeits to a thriving criminal underground, here are some of the wildest controversies surrounding the viral plushie that we could find. Why are people getting into fistfights over the Labubus? Well, it's thanks to a little phenomenon known as manufactured scarcity—a term for when companies create a false perception of limited availability, even when they could theoretically manufacture more products. You see, Pop Mart restocks their Labubu collections every week, from the immensely popular 'Exciting Macaron' series to the 'Fall in Wild' series. The restocks happen online on Thursdays and in stores on Fridays. But despite these weekly product drops, the Bubus often sells out in a matter of seconds. And no, that's not an over-exaggeration. Due to Bubu scarcity, people have taken to camping outside Pop Mart stores hours and sometimes days before the Friday restock. Don't believe me? Take a look at this recent video published by NBC Chicago, which shows hoards of people camping outside the Pop Mart store in anticipation of its opening. People are so desperate to get their hands on a Bubu that full on brawls have been happening at Pop Mart stores across the world. In the UK, the fights got so out of hand that the company decided, for the moment, to stop selling the toys in the region's stores. Pop Mart said they made this decision to figure out a solution to 'prevent any potential safety issues.' Typically, a single 'blind box' Labubu cost anywhere from $21 to $27, with a whole box coming in at around $167. However, thanks to the Labubu craze, resellers are jacking up the prices to an eye-boggling amount. On eBay, a limited edition Bubu is currently on the market for $9,500. On StockX, another popular online marketplace, a Labubu x Vans limited edition doll is going for almost $3,500. With the rise of Labubus came the Lafufus—fake Labubus. Although it can be hard to tell the difference between the 'real' and 'counterfeit' versions, most people find that the Lafufus have slightly off coloring, sometimes lopsided smiles, and an incorrect number of teeth. The Labubu criminal underground is thriving. Just last month, a Pop Mart shipment of Labubus in the UK containing the figure Hirono got intercepted by a group of thieves, who stole over $202,000 of product. A month before that, thieves stole around $27,000 worth of Labubu products from a store in Somerset, England. People are also getting their Bubu toys stolen right off their bags. For some, the fear of getting robbed has gotten so intense that they are now taking out insurance for their Bubus when they travel abroad. 'It might seem ridiculous to insure a toy, but it speaks volumes about how emotionally invested people are in what they pack,' Peter Klemt, chief of Australia's division of Passport Card, a travel insurance company, said to the New York Post. 'When you consider some Labubus are now selling for nearly $652 (1,000 AUD) on resale sites, it makes sense why they want to protect them,' he added. Maybe it's because the Labubu creatures look a little mischievous, but some people (religious people) are starting to believe Labubus are demonic. 'They. Are. So. Creepy,' a Bubu hater wrote on Reddit. Others in the thread agreed, with one Redditor even claiming that the doll was straight up 'evil.' On TikTok, a user posted a video talking about how they bought a Labubu at a thrift store, and immediately after, they almost got into a car accident. Then, they started experiencing health issues, which apparently only got better when they threw their Labubu out. After the demonic conspiracy theories became popular, Pop Mart uploaded a post for 'April Fools,' announcing they are recalling the Bubu toys for suspicious 'supernatural' behavior. Maybe the demon Bubus cast a spell on everyone and that's why people are so obsessed? Just some food for thought.


Time of India
06-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
‘What's in a name?': Daak Naam confidential
She loves delving into the mundanities of pedestrian life and unveil the underlying magic that they hold, in her writings. She has dabbled effortlessly between children in her creative writing classes and her workshops for teachers. This has given her an understanding of the spectrum of human emotions that reflect in her articles. LESS ... MORE 'What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,' opines Juliet in William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. It's a lovely line, terribly overused, and I do beg to differ. My name means the world to me, and more than my name, it's my daak naam, my pet name, my call-of-love identity, that really seals the deal. Every Bengali worth their rosogolla has one, and it's never meant for passport use, bank transactions, or Zoom interviews. It's for kitchens echoing with love, red-floored verandahs sprinkled with rain, and that one aunt who can't pronounce your real name even if threatened with fangs of a cobra! Others, of course, don't get it. My husband, for example, a no-nonsense man from a different cultural zone, often wonders aloud, 'Why do you people have two names? Is this a built-in catfish feature?' He finds it confusing, inefficient, and possibly suspicious. This from the same man who chants 108 names of Lord Vishnu without flinching, but thinks 'Mishtu' is the name of a dessert that's used by a sleeper cell as a possible cover-up. (To be fair, it is a dessert.)I tried explaining. 'The daak naam is not a fake ID. It's the name by which my mother refers to me, soothes me, when I'm sick. The name by which my father taps me on my back, when I make him proud. The name that unlocks my childhood.' But he still looked unconvinced, like I'd tried to sell him emotional insurance. It's not just him. The outside world thinks our daak naams are funny. Which, fine, I'll admit, they can be. You'll find a Puchu running a bank, a Ghoton heading the research wing at ISRO, and a Tublu preparing for the UPSC interview. We've got Bappa, Buli, Monu, Khuku, and the evergreen Tinku, who may now be a cardiac surgeon in Houston but will always be Tinku when he visits Gariahat during Durga Puja. Daak naams are not mere names. They are proper nouns filled with affection to the brim. They are musical notes. They are secret codes you never share with the world, unless it's by accident, like when your mother yells 'Tuku!' across the supermarket aisle while you're trying to appear like a functioning adult. It is a name you'll find in no official records, but etched into your childhood lunchboxes, your grandmother's letters, and the back of a now-yellowing school photo. Take my friend, for instance. Officially, she is Anindita, elegant, respectable, capable of passing the UPSC on paper alone. But at home, she's is Bubu. Yes, Bubu. A name that sounds like a hiccup and a giggle had a baby. It's the name that still follows her like a love-sick puppy into adulthood. You may leave Calcutta, but your daak naam will cling to your soul like mustard oil on a sari. They have a tenacity of their own. Like bubble gum on shoes, they stick. Paromita once attended a formal conference where someone introduced her, very grandly, as Dr. Paromita Munshi, when a familiar voice from the back hollered, 'Oi Nontu!' The spell broke. Heads turned. Nontu? Was it a code word? A mild insult? A small furry animal? Paromita sighed. There was no point denying it. Once a Nontu, always a Nontu. My cousin Tumpa (real name: Debarati) has it worse. She was once on a Zoom job interview when her little brother burst into the room and bellowed, 'Tumpaaaaaaaaaa, where's the achar?' The interviewer blinked. 'We'll get back to you,' they said, and they never did. Then there's my friend Jhumpi (real name: Arpita). She was at immigration in Frankfurt when the officer looked at her forms and asked, 'Who is Jhumpi? You're Arpita.' Her mother had filled out an 'emergency contact' form too honestly, where 'Aliases (if any)' featured 'Jhumpi'. The officer looked suspicious, as if she was a double agent smuggling poppy seeds and kashundi (mustard sauce). You see, our daak naam is not just a name. It's a time-stamp. It's a giggle that refused to grow up. It's the way our identities were first shaped, not by society, but by love. It might never appear on our passports, but it travels with us, tucked in the corner of our suitcase like a jar of pickles from home. Bengali daak naams are also strangely creative, sometimes outright absurd. I know a Babla, a Ghoton, a Chhutki, a Bappa, a Papu, a Dhumdam, a Boombam and one immortal Puchku who is now a corporate lawyer in Singapore. They wear suits, speak about deep topics and use serious terms like 'synergy' in meetings, and sign emails with full names, but somewhere within, their daak naam lives on, like a reassuring hug when all else seems alien. And don't even ask us to explain the names. There is no logic. 'Why are you called Laltu?' 'Because I was.' End of story. It's not meant to make sense. It's meant to feel warm like rice with ghee, familiar like a Rabindra sangeet on a Sunday morning. So laugh if you must. Call us strange. Mock the name Bhombol, till the cows come home. But remember this: when the storm hits, it's Bhombol his mother will cry out for, not Bhaskar Chattopadhyay, M.A. Gold Medalist. And that, dear Juliet, is what's really in a name. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.


Time of India
29-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Labubu doll fever grips NBA legend LeBron James' wife Savannah James
Savannah James via Instagram The Labubu Dolls' fever has gradually taken over the world of glitz and glamour. With prominent celebrities flaunting the trending doll with an out-of-the-box appearance, NBA legend LeBron James ' wife, Savannah, is gradually following the trend with respect to her obsession with the Labubu Dolls. From flooding feeds on social media to celebrities flaunting their favorite Labubu Dolls clipped on their bags, the elfish-appearing dolls have been in existence since 2015. LeBron James' wife Savannah shares her obsession with the trending Labubu Dolls With a long list of followers on social media, LeBron James' entrepreneur wife, Savannah James, revealed being fascinated by the trending Labubu Dolls. The brain behind the cosmetic line Reframe posted a picture of the Labubu Doll on her Instagram story and captioned it as- 'Who do I owe a Bubu to??' The Labubu Dolls have already taken over the internet. From popular sports personalities to Hollywoods, people are catching on to the trend globally. The mischievous-looking little dolls went on to become one of the most hyped accessories of 2025 as of now. Celebs around the globe have been spotted flaunting the jagged tooth as a statement piece. Labubu Dolls came to prominence when popular K-pop star Lisa shared a snap with her millions of fans on Instagram, and the rest is history, as after that, popular soccer star David Beckham, Kim Kardashian, and Grammy Award winner Dua Lipa were spotted flaunting the doll. The global fashion trend came into existence from children's storybooks. Lisa's Secret Obsession with POP MART | Vanity Fair The Labubu Doll franchise has even collaborated with reputed apparel brands, including Coach and Louis Vuitton. As the trend progressed with time, the launch of every Labubu Doll went on to divert media attention and they were quickly sold out as soon as they were on the shelf. The weird-looking Labubu Dolls were created by a Hong Kong-based artist, Kasing Lung. The trending dolls were mere characters in a children's book named The Monsters back in 2015, based on Nordic tales, which became a prominent part of the Labubu Doll's physical feature. Also Read: LeBron James' wife Savannah makes a massive confession about her personal life on Everybody' Crazy Get IPL 2025 match schedules , squads , points table , and live scores for CSK , MI , RCB , KKR , SRH , LSG , DC , GT , PBKS , and RR . Check the latest IPL Orange Cap and Purple Cap standings.