izhar_hussain

Happy Bhaag Jayegi is the kind of film you'd slot into the "timepass comedy" category. It's light, it's occasionally funny, and it doesn't take itself too seriously. But if you're someone from Lahore, or familiar with Pakistani culture, you'll likely find yourself wincing more than laughing.

The biggest issue is how badly Lahore was portrayed. The Urdu accents are off, the Punjabi is worse, and the whole setup relies heavily on lazy stereotypes about Pakistan. It feels like the filmmakers didn't bother with accuracy, choosing instead to lean on caricatures for quick laughs.

Then there's the audacious claim that Pakistan imports salt from India, a bizarre line given that Pakistan has been one of the biggest exporters of salt to India. It's the kind of error that makes you roll your eyes and wonder if anyone did basic fact checking.

On the music front, a few songs are catchy in the moment, but none of them really stick once the movie ends.

In short, it works if you're only looking for a light, no-logic-required comedy. But if you care about cultural nuance, authenticity, or even just factual accuracy, it's more frustrating than fun.

Khauf is not your typical Indian horror series. It skips the cheap thrills, the overdone sound effects, and the forced comedy that has plagued the genre for years. Instead, it leans into atmosphere, dread, and layered storytelling and for the most part, it works.

What sets Khauf apart is its female gaze. Written and directed by a woman, the show looks at horror through women's lived realities. Almost every male character is deeply flawed, predatory, dismissive, or manipulative, which feels deliberate. Some may call that one-sided, but it gives the series a distinct perspective rarely seen in Indian horror.

The acting is strong across the board. Monika Panwar, playing a sexual assault survivor trying to identify her masked attacker, delivers the show's most compelling performance. Her arc is sensitive, chilling, and the most fleshed out. Rajat Kapoor as the hakim brings gravitas, though his storyline, steeped in black magic, fizzles after a strong start. The parallel threads involving hostel girls trapped in fear and a constable mother searching for her son add texture, but also drag the pace at times.

Technically, Khauf is impressive. The cinematography, sound design, and use of space give it a haunting quality that lingers. It's not constantly terrifying, but it's unsettling in a way that respects the audience's intelligence.

Where it stumbles is in the resolution. The finale ties the stories together but raises more questions than it answers. Why do some deaths result in vengeful spirits while others don't? Why is the ghost's obsession so specifically tied to control over women? These loose ends keep the show from being truly airtight.

Still, Khauf is a bold step forward for Indian horror. It blends psychological tension, social commentary, and supernatural elements in a way that feels fresh. Yes, it's a bit drawn out, and yes, the lore is messy, but it's also engaging, thoughtful, and crafted with heart.

If you're tired of horror that only relies on jump scares, Khauf is absolutely worth watching. It might not answer every question, but it keeps you thinking long after the credits roll.

Gullak is one of those rare shows that doesn't try too hard yet manages to capture your heart completely. Spread across four seasons, it tells stories of the Mishra family, Papa, Mummy, Annu, and Aman, through small, everyday incidents that mirror the life of a typical middle-class household. Each episode is presented like a "Qissa" rather than a grand "kahani," which is exactly what makes it feel so authentic and relatable. From arguments over expenses to moments of sibling banter, the series is filled with the kind of warmth that instantly reminds you of your own family.

The biggest strength of Gullak lies in its characters. Annu's struggles with failure and later the toxic work culture feel painfully real, while Aman's innocence and growth bring out the tenderness of a younger sibling. Papa, played with understated brilliance, embodies the loving figure of so many middle-class fathers, while Mummy carries the household with her wit, frustration, and fierce love. And then there's Bittu ki Mummy, nosy yet genuine, who adds humor in ways only a neighbor like her can. Even supporting characters like Lucky make the world of Gullak richer, proving that good writing and acting can make even the simplest roles shine.

Seasons one, two, and four are the strongest, with season three dipping slightly in comparison, but never to the point of losing its charm. What stands out across the series is the balance between humor and emotion. Just when a scene has you laughing, it slips in a quiet moment of reflection that lingers long after the episode ends. The background narration and the soulful theme song only deepen the nostalgia, making you feel like you're revisiting your own memories.

At its core, Gullak is more than just entertainment, it's a celebration of the ordinary. For viewers in India, Pakistan, or anywhere else in asia, the family dynamics feel universally familiar. It's a show you can watch with your parents, your siblings, or even alone, and still come out smiling with a lump in your throat. For me, it was a 10/10 experience, and like many others, I sincerely hope the makers keep bringing us more seasons. Because the Mishra family isn't just on screen anymore, they feel like our own.