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Old Souls Inc., House no. 191, CDA, F-03, Commerce View, Nasirabad Main Road, Chittagong (2026)

20/11/2025

There are some movies that don’t shout for your attention. They simply walk in, sit beside you, and quietly become a part of your life.

'Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na' is one of those films.

Even before you press play, you can feel the vibe
the soft blue tint of college life, the innocence of friendships yet to understand their depth,
the laughter that carried no weight,
and that gentle ache of a love you didn’t know was love.

This movie didn’t need big action or screaming drama. It gave us something far more precious
a slice of youth we didn’t know we would someday miss. You didn’t just watch Jai and Aditi.
You knew them.

That soft-hearted boy who smiled more than he fought. That wild, fierce, sensitive girl who barked louder than her emotions ever could.
The world called them “best friends.” But we knew. We always knew.

And the beauty is… so did they. They just didn’t realize it yet. Every friend circle had a Jai–Aditi pair. Maybe you were one of them. Or maybe you watched two people live that story around you arguing like enemies, protecting each other like soulmates.

Those college gang moments felt like home.
Those band practices felt like evenings we once lived. Those chaotic fights, those birthday surprises, that airport ride they weren’t scenes.
They were memories borrowed from our own lives.

And the music my God, the music...!
Rahman didn’t compose songs. He poured feelings into melodies.

'Kahin To,: 'Kaise Mujhe', 'Pappu Can’t Dance'.
Each one stitched itself to a moment inside us. 'Kabhi Kabhi Aditi' was a splash of comfort. Our go to song. The song we wrote in our short text messages on the Nokia button phones.

'Kahin To' still feels like a rainy evening,
like a half-open window, like an unanswered message. There’s a strange sadness inside its sweetness —
a longing we still cannot explain.

Imran Khan and Genelia didn’t act. They breathed life into two people we still miss. Their chemistry wasn’t loud. It was comforting, familiar, warm.
Like a friendship that has been quietly loving you for years.

And that airport climax? Jai running through the terminal with flowers. Aditi crying, confused, broken. The police catching him mid-confession.
It was filmi, dramatic, cheesy, yet somehow perfect.
Exactly the kind of madness love deserves.

“l'Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na' taught us that sometimes the person meant for you is already sitting beside you Stealing your fries, teasing you, fghting you. Loving you in a language you haven’t learned yet.

Let's take this moment to remember that one friend we all had and lost on the way. The number once was on the speed dial, we don't even have on our contact list today.
Still, whenever 'Kahin To' plays somewhere... The lyric reaches -

"Jaane Naa Kahan Woh Duniya Hai,
Jaane Naa Woh Hai Bhi Ya Nahin,
Jahan Meri Zindagi Mujhse,
Itni Khafaa Nahin.."

It takes us through a time travelling portal back to the college days. The purest and most beautiful days of our lives!

Bollywood keeps changing. Budgets, box office, noise. But this film didn’t rely on any of that.
It didn’t try to be epic. It just tried to be real.

And that is why, even after all these years,
it still hits where it hurts and heals where we didn’t know we needed healing. Movies fade. Trends die.
But Jai and Aditi’s story?
That’s permanent.

Because 'Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na' isn’t just a film.
It’s a memory. A soft corner. A gentle ache.
A reminder of friendships that turned into love
and moments that turned into forever.

18/11/2025

Some songs become part of your life without asking.
Wrapped in their melodies are small stories, tender memories—some clear, some fading.
And some films are like that too… not famous, not blockbusters, just quiet little films that somehow stay with you.
For me, that film is Meri Pyari Bindu.

The night it released, I watched it alone on a rainy balcony. Every dialogue, every pause felt like a poem disguised as conversation. Whoever wrote it must have written it like a soft poem of separation
the kind that settles in your chest and fills it with a delicate ache, the kind that makes you stare out of a window with blurred eyes for a long, long time.

The ones who made it, who acted in it, never looked like they wanted to create a typical commercial Bollywood film. They worked with tenderness, as if they were crafting a living piece of art. A film that quietly weaves itself into you—Ayushmann, Parineeti… all of them. Even Yash Raj doesn’t make films like this. Yet somehow, they made this one and it carried me into an old Kolkata of trams, friendships, typewriters, wet balconies, cups of chai, and cassette tapes.

“Zindagi side 'A' se side 'B' ki tarah ghoomti gaano ki reel ki tarah hi toh hai… kabhi koi gaana itna pasand hai ki khatam hone se dar lagta hai…
kabhi koi gaana poore din honthon se jaane ka naam nahi leta… aur kabhi koi gaane ke sirf dhun yaad reh jaati hai…!”

What a painfully beautiful tragic musical this film is. It suddenly brings back childhood afternoons filled with forgotten Alka–Shanu duets tunes that once made your heart quiet without reason.

Abhimanyu will never get Bindu. Yet his love for her stays inside him like a quiet monsoon the kind of rain Jibanananda might have written about.

Whenever I hear 'Maana Ki Hum Yaar Nahi', it feels like the song belongs only to me. No one else has the right to claim it. There was a time I listened to it four or five times every evening, long before the world discovered it. My love for that song had turned into a gentle obsession.

“Phool jo bandh hai panno mein,
Tum usko dhool bana dena…
Baat chhide jo meri kahin
Tum usko bhool bataa dena…
Lekin wo bhool ho aisi,
Jis’se bezaar nahin...!”

When someone else talks about this song, a strange ache rises inside me as if someone is taking away my sadness that I've been holding tight for long. Let this feeling be mine, only mine. Let no one else love this song the way I do. Let no one else claim this ache.

And that final scene, Abhimanyu and Bindu standing in the rain, smiling yet hollow. It spreads an indescribable emptiness in the air. Everything looks cheerful, yet something is missing. That mysterious “something missing”… that soft emptiness is Meri Pyari Bindu. And perhaps, that is life too, a beautiful aching void.

“Kuch combinations hai na itna kamina kisam ka hota hai… alag alag mazedaar… lekin saath mein na phata-phatti… magic sa ho jaata hai…!”

Maybe the combination of me and Meri Pyari Bindu is just like that. Strange, quiet, and impossibly magical...!

16/11/2025

THE YEAR WAS 2004.
A year caught in the soft blur between who we were… and who we were becoming.

High school felt like a long corridor filled with echoes— whispers of dreams too big for our teenage hands, and fears too small to be spoken out loud. We were suspended somewhere between childhood and courage,
trying to understand identity, longing, friendship, and the quiet fire of ambition.

And then, like a spark falling on dry grass—
Dhoom arrived. Not as a film, but as a sensation that ran through our generation like electricity through a wire.

It came into our world of chalk-dusted classrooms, slow internet cafés, and phones whose memories were always full, but always somehow had space for one more 3gp clip.

Dhoom broke into that world with a roar—too stylish for our reality, too fast for our slow, simple days. It didn’t just entertain us; it redefined what excitement meant.

And at the heart of that cinematic thunderstorm… stood John Abraham.

He didn’t walk through the film—
he glided. He didn’t speak much— he didn’t have to. His long hair swayed like rebellion. His leather jacket fit like destiny. His silence was more powerful than any dialogue ever written. He became the stillness before the storm. The smirk before the sprint. The calm before the chaos. Kabir wasn’t a villain. He was the poetry of danger.

For the first time, teenage boys didn’t dream of saving the world. They dreamed of outrunning it.
They wanted to sit on a bike, tilt their chin, narrow their eyes— and ride like the world had just opened its gates for them.

But Dhoom wasn’t only fire and speed. It was also heartbeat and laughter. And that heartbeat had a name— Ali.

Uday Chopra’s comic timing wasn’t the loud, exaggerated humor of that era. It was gentle, effortless, unforced. He made us smile with his confusion, laugh with his innocence, and love him for his simplicity. Ali was the friend every group had— the one who lightened the weight of life with a single line spoken at the right moment. In a film full of speed, he gave us pause. In a story filled with danger, he gave us warmth. He turned a heist film into a memory we could return to.

And then… the bikes.

They didn’t just race on the screen. They raced in our dreams. The Hayabusa. The R1. Machines that looked like they had stories written in chrome. Machines that belonged to a future far away from our modest lives… yet somehow felt like ours.

We cut out pictures from magazines. We drew them on the last pages of notebooks. We imagined riding them down empty roads we had never seen. Even on the slowest Splendor, our souls rode at 300 km/h. We weren’t riding bikes we were riding freedom. But what truly stitched the film into our hearts forever was the Dhoom theme music.

The first note hit like a spark. The rhythm crawled under our skin. The beat rewired the way our hearts thumped.

That tune wasn’t just heard— it was felt. It played in cyber cafés with dusty speakers.
It played in barber shops, in stationery stores, in autorickshaws reversing. It played on phones with cracked bodies and limited storage.
It played in school corridors, on playgrounds, in late-night radio shows. It seeped into our lives until it became the anthem of our teenage years.

Even years later, when Zohran Mamdani danced to it after winning the New York election,
the world smiled— because Dhoom wasn’t music. It was a generational pulse.

Pritam didn’t compose an album. He captured an era. An era that now lives inside us like a flame that refuses to dim.

Dhoom wasn’t just about bikes, or heists, or style. It was about youth. The reckless, restless, impossible energy of being sixteen and believing
that the world was ours to outrun. It was about the afternoons we wasted, the nights we dreamt through, the versions of ourselves we have quietly left behind.

Years moved on. We grew slower, quieter, more responsible. Life demanded more from us than we once knew how to give. But even today, when the Dhoom theme begins, just those first few notes something ancient stirs within us.

A spark, a rush, a memory of being fearless.
Of believing that a jacket, a bike, and just the right amount of attitude could change everything because Dhoom was never just a film. It was the wind in our hair before we ever rode fast.bIt was the heartbeat in our chest before we ever learned fear.

It was the rebellion we lived quietly, the freedom we worshipped silently, the youth that lives still, somewhere inside us.

For us millennials, Dhoom was a moment.
A sensation a pulse, a memory that still races long after the credits have rolled.

Kids nowadays, would never get the craze. You just had to live that era. The early 2000's...! ❤️

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