The Great Indian Kitchen: A Recipe of Silence, Steam, and Revolt

 

I remember the first time I watched The Great Indian Kitchen. It wasn’t just a film. It was an ache. A long, simmering ache that had been sitting inside my body, like steam trapped under a lid, waiting to rise. I am from Kerala, and I’ve seen these kitchens. I’ve smelled that morning filter coffee, heard the brisk chop of vegetables, the hiss of oil, and the weight of silence wrapped in duty. But I had never seen it so brutally, so tenderly, so hauntingly mirrored on screen until this movie.

There was nothing cinematic in the way the camera lingered on the dripping sink or the clinking of plates. And that’s precisely why it hit so hard. The film doesn’t scream for attention; it just observes. And that is its scream.

I could feel the weight of the protagonist’s routine in my bones—the rhythm of her work, the way her hands moved, constantly doing, constantly adjusting, constantly giving. The way she bent down to wipe a floor already clean, not out of necessity but because that’s what’s expected. That relentless need to erase herself to keep the space ‘pure’, to keep the house ‘respectable’. It was a kind of violence I recognised—not the kind with bruises and shouts, but the kind that builds slowly, methodically, with smiles and customs and centuries of silence.

And it’s not just about the kitchen. It’s about bodies. About control. About how even desire is colonized in the name of tradition. That moment—yes, that moment when her husband turns away from her during intimacy because of “impurity”—I had to pause the movie. Not because I was shocked, but because I wasn’t. Because I knew. We all know. Every woman who has been made to feel unclean for being alive in her own body knows.

The film’s genius lies in its normalcy. There are no villains, just people who have never questioned the way things are. There are no heroes either—only someone trying to breathe. What made it worse, what made it better, was how quiet it all was. There were no melodramas, just repetition. That repetition felt like a noose, getting tighter with each serving of rice, each word unsaid, each door closed quietly.

I sat with the ending long after the credits rolled. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud. But it was the loudest thing I’ve ever felt. A woman walking away from the kitchen shouldn’t feel like a revolution. And yet, it did.

Maybe that’s the power of this film. It tells us what we already know, but what we’ve buried under layers of rituals and respectability. It reminds us that a revolution can begin at the sink. That resistance can look like refusing to make tea.

Watching The Great Indian Kitchen wasn’t entertainment for me. It was like standing in front of a mirror and seeing my mother. My grandmother. Myself. But it also showed me what it looks like to step away from that reflection. To redefine it.

Sometimes, the most radical thing a woman can do is say “No.”
And then leave the door open behind her—not for an apology, but for fresh air.

Legally Blonde (2001): The Film That Taught Me to Embrace My Authentic Self

 

When I first watched "Legally Blonde", I wasn't expecting much. A movie about a bubbly blonde sorority girl chasing her ex-boyfriend to Harvard Law School? Not exactly my scene. Pink has never been my color of choice, and I've never been what you'd call a "girly girl."

But that's the magic of Elle Woods. She sneaks up on you.

What starts as a seemingly shallow pursuit of a man transforms into one of the most empowering journeys of self-discovery I've ever seen on screen. Elle, portrayed brilliantly by Reese Witherspoon, doesn't compromise who she is to fit into Harvard's stuffy environment. Instead, she brings her authentic self—pink suits, scented résumés, and all—and eventually thrives because of it, not in spite of it.

The film has become my ultimate mood-lifter, my cinematic comfort food. Whenever life gets overwhelming, when self-doubt creeps in, or when I just need a reminder of my own worth, I return to Elle's world.

What resonates most deeply with me now, years after my first viewing, isn't the romance or the comedy (though both are excellent). It's the sisterhood. The way women eventually rally around Elle is powerful and, sadly, still revolutionary in many films today. From her nail technician Paulette becoming her confidante to her former academic rival Vivian becoming her ally, "Legally Blonde" shows women supporting women in ways that feel genuine rather than forced.

I love how Elle never abandons her femininity to be taken seriously. She doesn't dim her light or change her style to fit someone else's idea of what a serious law student should be. Instead, she uses her unique perspective and skills to succeed on her own terms. Her knowledge of hair care helps her crack a murder case, for crying out loud!

Every time I watch Elle stand up to Professor Callahan's harassment or deliver that iconic graduation speech, I feel a little stronger. A little more myself. The film reminds me that I don't have to choose between being taken seriously and being true to who I am.

"Legally Blonde" came into my life when I wasn't yet comfortable in my own skin. Now it's the film I turn to when I need to remember that my worth isn't determined by a relationship, by other people's perceptions, or by fitting into someone else's box.

So here's to Elle Woods and her bend-and-snap, her chihuahua Bruiser, and her unforgettable phrase: "What, like it's hard?" Because sometimes we all need that reminder that we're capable of so much more than others—or even we ourselves—might believe.

My Personal Connection with "Liberal Arts": Age, Attraction, and Unexpected Endings

 

"Liberal Arts," Josh Radnor's 2012 indie film, I wasn't prepared for how deeply it would resonate with my own life. The film tells the story of Jesse (Radnor), a 35-year-old college admissions officer who returns to his alma mater and becomes involved with Zibby (Elizabeth Olsen), a 19-year-old student. Their connection is intellectual and emotional rather than immediately physical, which made the story all the more compelling and familiar to me.

I've always found myself drawn to older men. There's something about their maturity, wisdom, and established sense of self that I find irresistibly attractive. Maybe it's the way they carry themselves with confidence, or how they've moved beyond the uncertainty that often characterizes people my own age. Whatever it is, I've experienced that same magnetic pull that Zibby feels toward Jesse.

The film beautifully captures the complexity of age-gap relationships without being judgmental. As I watched Zibby and Jesse's relationship unfold through handwritten letters and classical music exchanges, I felt seen in a way few movies have accomplished. Their connection transcended the physical; it was about minds meeting, perspectives shifting, and worlds expanding.

Like Zibby, I entered this movie expecting—perhaps even hoping for—a traditional romantic ending. I wanted Jesse to overcome his hesitations about their age difference. I wanted them to find a way to make it work despite societal judgment and practical obstacles. I was rooting for them because, in many ways, I was rooting for my own similar experiences to be validated.

But "Liberal Arts" takes a more nuanced approach. Jesse ultimately decides their relationship would be inappropriate, not because of what others might think, but because he recognizes that Zibby deserves to experience youth with someone at a similar life stage. His decision comes from a place of genuine care rather than rejection.

I'll admit—the ending frustrated me initially. I sat watching the credits roll with a knot in my stomach, feeling somehow betrayed by the narrative turn. Where was my catharsis? Where was the vindication that age-gap relationships could work beautifully? I wanted my own attractions validated, not questioned.

It took me time—weeks of reflection, actually—to appreciate the wisdom in that ending. Jesse and Zibby both end up exactly where they need to be. He finds someone age-appropriate who challenges him intellectually, while she continues her journey of self-discovery without skipping important developmental stages.

Looking back, I realize the film gave me something more valuable than validation: perspective. It helped me understand that attraction across significant age gaps isn't wrong or invalid, but it does warrant careful consideration of what each person needs at their particular life stage.

"Liberal Arts" didn't give me the fairy tale ending I initially craved, but it gave me something more valuable—a thoughtful meditation on growth, timing, and the different forms love can take. Sometimes the most caring decision isn't to pursue a relationship but to recognize when someone needs to walk their own path.

And maybe that's the happiest ending of all.

"The Substance" Made Me Gag: A Grotesque Masterpiece About Beauty's Dark Price.

 

So I finally watched that movie everyone's been talking about – "The Substance." And wow, I was NOT prepared for what I signed up for.

Let me just start with this: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT watch this while eating. Trust me on this one. I made that mistake, and my appetite vanished faster than my comfort zone.

The thing about "The Substance" is how it sneaks up on you. It starts with this seemingly straightforward premise about a woman desperate to hold onto her relevance and youth. Relatable enough, right? We've all had those moments staring in the mirror wondering where the time went. But then the film takes this concept and absolutely runs with it into territory I wasn't expecting.

The way this movie portrays greed is unlike anything I've seen before. It's not just about money or power – it's about greed for youth, for perfection, for acceptance. And it shows you the disgusting, visceral consequences of that hunger in graphic, unflinching detail.

I found myself physically recoiling at certain scenes. There's body horror here that makes David Cronenberg look tame. The practical effects are so convincing that several times I had to remind myself "it's just a movie, it's just a movie."

What makes it all the more disturbing is how the film forces you to confront uncomfortable truths about our society's obsession with youth and beauty. You watch these characters make increasingly horrifying choices, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you can almost understand why they're doing it – and that's the truly unsettling part.

I'm still processing my feelings about it days later. Part of me wishes I could unsee certain images, but another part recognizes the artistry behind something so provocative. The performances are incredible – the actors fully committed to some truly demanding roles.

Has anyone else seen it? I'm dying to talk about that scene near the end – you know the one. I literally had to look away. My friend who watched it with me actually had to step outside for a minute.

Bottom line: "The Substance" is brilliant filmmaking that I simultaneously admire and never want to experience again. It's a visceral, nauseating warning about the ultimate price of greed that will stick with you whether you want it to or not.

Just don't say I didn't warn you about watching it on an empty stomach.