Flight Mode On

Sometimes, home really isn't where the heart is

- Sharan Sanil

If you're an Indian millennial—or if you've ever dated one—there's a good chance your ideas about love, heartbreak, and the increasingly blurred lines of infidelity were shaped, at least in part, by Imtiaz Ali's films. I've usually felt like a bit of an outlier when it comes to his work, but then there's Tamasha—the one that stuck.

The film unfolds like a dream, or maybe a memory, the kind that's too good to have lasted. The entire first half is an escapist fantasy, played out in Corsica between real-life exes Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika Padukone, who slip into their characters, Ved and Tara, with the kind of chemistry that makes fiction feel too close to home. They make a pact: no real names, no personal details, no strings attached. But then, right when the magic feels permanent, reality sneaks in. Ved's words, "Real life mein? Real life mein toh main ek bohot hi boring aadmi hoon," are what echo once the pair meet away from the safety net of their holiday fling, back in Delhi, where it all inevitably goes to shit.

Dating in your home city—especially one as socially interconnected (or incestuous, as my friends say) as Mumbai—comes with its own unique challenges. The city is vast, yet its social circles are deceptively small. No matter who you're with, someone knows someone who knows your ex, or worse, that you talk in your sleep. It's a web of history you can't escape, a suffocating loop where old relationships never quite leave you. There's always an awareness of being seen, of reputations forming and reforming in real-time. It fosters an unspoken pressure, making casual dating feel heavier than it should. Every encounter carries baggage, every flirtation is scrutinised, and every new experience is coloured by the ghosts of the past; perhaps I sound a tad dramatic, but anxiety does have a way of doing that.