A lot has been spoken about the death of originality in the Indian film industry. Sequel after sequel. Remake after remake. Universe after universe. The cries are familiar: Where are the new stories? Where are the fresh voices? But if we look closely, the problem isn’t just the industry. The real culprit is much bigger. Much subtler. Much more addictive. We are slaves to the algorithm. Let me explain. There was a time when social media was social in the truest sense. You saw what your friends posted. You liked pictures, shared thoughts, and yes, even sent those relentless FarmVille requests. There was spontaneity. Chaos, even. But it was damn real. Then came the age of engineered engagement. Platforms discovered that our attention was valuable—and they began to control what we saw. Suddenly, content wasn’t being shown because it was honest or human. It was shown because it performed. It answered questions we didn’t ask. It triggered emotions we didn’t plan to feel. And we click...
Asked for cool from fire, for warmth from ice — burned by both, I learned nothing twice. I knew you’d say no. You did. Still, I stood where our shadows used to meet, just for two minutes, just in case the sky changed its mind. No music plays here — no rock, no roll — just my foolish heart still tapping its feet to a beat long gone I've stopped expecting the unexpected, given up the hope that hope might surprise me. But habit is a stubborn dancer — it twirls in circles while I stand still. So once more, I’ll wait at that old bend with nothing in hand and a world in my chest, asking fire to cool me, ice to hold me warm — knowing both will leave me just as they did before. But for two minutes, I’ll still believe Only because I see you In a BBY me