Richa Chadha Devi

A film is such a strange thing. Someone thinks it, someone writes it, someone lives it, it's made to be shown and one fine day, it's shot like a bullet from a pistol. Boom! It's out there, forever. Remembered till it fades from memory to be rediscovered somehow again.

Masaan has given me a lifetime of memories. As I write this, I can't help but get choked up. Images flash before me - of desolate, dusty Ganga ghats, of crazy, drunken parties in France, of a standing ovation that made adults sob like babies

A film is such a strange thing. Someone thinks it, someone writes it, someone lives it, it's made to be shown and one fine day, it's shot like a bullet from a pistol. Boom! It's out there, forever. Remembered till it fades from memory to be rediscovered somehow again.

Masaan has given me a lifetime of memories. As I write this, I can't help but get choked up. Images flash before me - of desolate, dusty Ganga ghats, of crazy, drunken parties in France, of a standing ovation that made adults sob like babies