Maisha Islam Monamee

"The Ba***ds of Bollywood" arrives like a party that knows it is both entertaining and dangerous to attend. It is gleefully loud, crammed with cameos and inside jokes, and built out of the familiar ingredients of commercial Hindi cinema. At the same time, it repeatedly lets loose sharp, uncomfortable flashes that refuse to be smoothed over. Watch it as a satire and you will laugh often. Watch it as an indictment and you will feel the edges. The series wants to do both things at once, and that ambition is its central thrill and also its chief flaw.

At its heart, the film is a story of Krish Kapoor, a volatile and ambitious young musician played by Ahaan Panday, and Vaani Batra, a lyricist played by Aneet Padda, who together discover not only the soaring highs of romance but also the fragility of time when Vaani is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. What begins as a meeting of music and words gradually turns into a meditation on the meaning of love when memory itself starts slipping away.

I remember the first time I heard about "The Summer I Turned Pretty". It was in a group chat with my friends, where two of them were fighting as Team Conrad vs Team Jeremiah. "You have to watch it," they said and I was skeptical at first, dismissing it as just another teen drama. But when I watched the first episode, something clicked. I know it is super embarrassing to be obsessing over a teen drama as a twenty-something year old but this show really had its sweet way of pulling me in. I never thought a show about a teenage love triangle could make me feel like a teenager again, but here I was, waiting eagerly for a new episode each Wednesday.

The sheer volume of administrative and creative tasks when applying to multiple jobs can feel overwhelming, and that is where AI can genuinely become a personal productivity partner. When used thoughtfully, AI can save time, reduce errors, and help you present your best self to potential employers.

“Metro… In Dino,” currently trending at No 4 on Netflix, plunges viewers into the messy, unpredictable, and deeply human world of modern love. Director Anurag Basu returns with his signature intertwining narratives, tracing the lives of four couples across Mumbai, Bengaluru, Delhi, Kolkata, and Pune as they wrestle with desire, loyalty, heartbreak, and self-discovery. At its core, the film probes the nuances of contemporary relationships, exploring the spaces between desire and fidelity, longing and responsibility, routine and excitement. Basu never shies away from the uncomfortable: questions of infidelity, emotional neglect, and the tension between individual ambition and shared life are addressed head-on, yet never in a preachy way. His storytelling is deliberate, oscillating between comedy, melancholy, and romantic whimsy in a way that mirrors the characters’ own emotional unpredictability.

From language models to workflow automation, AI tools are increasingly integrated into everyday work, promising efficiency and insight. Yet adoption remains uneven, in part because misconceptions abound.

Every September, Apple asks us to upgrade. And every September, we wonder whether the shiny new iPhone is worth stretching our wallets again, or if last year’s model is still good enough. How much better is the iPhone 17 compared to last year’s iPhone 16? And if you are already thinking of spending big, how does it hold up against Android’s superpowers?

There is a sense of possibility in the air, a rare, almost tangible feeling that something is different.

When Netflix released the second season of "Wednesday" in two parts, I initially wondered whether this decision was driven by narrative necessity or simply by the platform’s strategy to keep the conversation alive for longer. After all, the first season had been a global phenomenon, and splitting the follow-up into two halves carried the risk of breaking its rhythm. Having now seen the complete season, I can say that while the release format interrupted its flow, the content itself proves that the creative team paid attention to the lessons of season one and delivered something richer, darker, and more confident. This time, the show leans further into the shadows while still delivering the sharp wit and macabre humour that made its first season so irresistible.

I found myself wondering why an animated film had suddenly taken the world by storm, topping Netflix’s global charts. Animated titles rarely reach this kind of universal acclaim unless they are tied to a massive franchise, and yet here was "KPop Demon Hunters", a seemingly niche story about idols battling demons, sitting at number one. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to dive in. What I found was a film that managed to wrap a playful premise around a surprisingly layered commentary on fame, identity, and the relentless machine of modern pop culture.

Every few years, Bollywood offers a story of maternal heroism, where a mother becomes both protector and saviour, taking centre stage in a narrative traditionally dominated by male leads. "Maa" enters this lineage with Kajol in the titular role, a choice that immediately draws attention. The film, currently streaming on Netflix, blends horror with mythology to weave a narrative that pits a mother’s fierce love against supernatural forces rooted in Bengali folklore. Set in Chandrapur, West Bengal, the story is anchored in the legend of Raktabeej and the fierce presence of Kali Maa, aiming to merge ancient myth with contemporary familial stakes. On paper, the premise is ambitious: a mother willing to defy mortal and supernatural odds to protect her child, all while exploring broader social themes, particularly the value of a girl child in a patriarchal setting.

This summer, we, the netizens, turned Instagram into a courtroom to decide whether Belly should pick Conrad or Jeremiah. My feed, once a respectable mix of vacation reels, fit checks, work memes, and unsolicited life advice from people who barely graduated high school, has turned into a teenage courtroom where strangers plead their case for fictional love triangles. We type furiously about the fate of a girl whose biggest problem is which handsome boy gets to stand in the rain with her, and read captions declaring loyalty to a boy who exists only in Prime Video’s servers. It feels as if the world pressed pause on adulthood and collectively moved into a beach house where heartbreak is cinematic, summers are eternal, and every decision feels like a new episode. And we—fully grown, allegedly serious and busy people—are here for it.

Whether you are a student juggling classes and part-time jobs, or a young professional navigating hybrid workdays, effective planning tools can make all the difference. So, here are five apps that can help you plan, prioritise, and stay on top of your day.

For students and recent graduates, networking can provide access to internships, mentorship, industry insights, referrals, and even long-term career opportunities. But how do you begin building a network when you are just starting out?

My first instinct, when walking into “Troubling Rain” at Alliance Française de Dhaka, was to recall how often rain has been romanticised in this city’s cultural memory. Generations have sung about it, written about it, danced to its rhythm. The monsoon, in Bangla literature, has been the backdrop for longing, love, and lyricism. From Tagore’s verses to Nazrul’s songs, it has always been imagined as something that enhances beauty and deepens emotion. And yet, what Abir Abdullah does in this exhibition is strip the rain of its poetry and return it to its grit.

Every time I settle in for a binge-watch, armed with snacks and the delusional belief that I have “just one more episode” worth of self-control, an OTT platform finds a new way to personally offend me by splitting a season into two. You open Netflix or Prime Video, click on a highly anticipated series, and halfway through, realise you are too early for the binge-watch. “Stranger Things” did it. “The Witcher” did it. “Bridgerton” and “Squid Game” Season 3 did it—and, more recently, the second season of “Wednesday” just did the very same. And don’t even get me started on the “Money Heist” final-season split, which had the entire internet in a chokehold for weeks.

Over the past week, my Instagram feed has been practically throwing "My Oxford Year" at me, with Tumblr-text captions over softly lit stills, reels romanticising ancient libraries and English cities, and teary-eyed confessions that claim this film destroyed them, in the best way. And like any curious cinephile, I clicked to watch it on Netflix. What I found was a film trying to be both the dream and the ache, the fantasy and the wake-up call.

Bangladesh's pet food market is largely reliant on imported products, with limited domestic manufacturing and few established local brands. The industry faces several challenges, including supply chain disruptions, high retail prices, and concerns regarding product authenticity. Although demand for packaged pet food is gradually increasing, particularly in urban areas, the market remains in the early stages of development.

We’ve all done it—clicked “next episode” with tears still in our eyes, let the credits roll as we stared blankly at the screen, a pit of something nameless blooming in our chest. Shows like “Baby Reindeer”, “Euphoria”, “13 Reasons Why”, and “BoJack Horseman”, to name a few, are not easy watches. They are raw, haunting, sometimes violent. Yet we keep returning— even when we say we need a break, even when we feel worse afterwards. And somewhere along the way, watching pain became the very way we process our own. Or maybe, just maybe, it became the way we avoid it.

In the early days of cinema, female friendships were like decorative wallpaper—always present but rarely integral to the narrative. They giggled in the background, shared screen time over shopping trips or heartbreaks, and usually vanished once the male lead arrived. Where men had bromances that drove plots, whether on a battlefield or a basketball court, women, even in the company of other women, were set up to compete, compare, and eventually capitulate to romance. They were often designed to orbit the male protagonist, and when more than one appeared, you could almost smell the narrative setup: one would be the virtuous angel, the other a scheming vamp.