Jehangir Khan (Shahrukh Khan), and talking about her own childhood, opening the cellar in her heart no one else’s been privy to: the shame and guilt of abandonment, of rejection, of not feeling loved. At one point in the movie, Kaira (Alia Bhatt), an up-and-coming cinematographer, is sitting opposite her therapist, Dr. I didn’t expect to revisit that feeling at all, much less while watching a film. But when that moment receded, I felt relieved and calm, as if a part of me had just been set free, had just been accepted. I was very embarrassed, and very surprised, because I was talking about something that had happened one and a half decade ago, but the pain, even after such a long time, felt real and new and physical, stinging deep and not stopping. Those tears were hard and uncontrollable, as if they had lives of their own-some formed a film over my eyes, some fell on my shirt, some hung on my cheeks, some trailed down. “Yeah, I did not,” I said, and started crying-first slowly, and then in spurts. It was an innocuous question, really, which just sat there, not asked with an intention to elicit a reaction. “You didn’t take tiffin to school after eight grade?” She asked, as a matter of fact. But, more importantly, I was tired of being tired. It was a regular March afternoon this year, and I was sitting opposite my therapist, whom I had started seeing recently, because I was tired of my own emotional vacuum, one I had been carrying and hiding for years.

“You know, I haven’t really cared for breakfast in a long, long time, because I stopped taking tiffin to school after eight grade.” A still from Dear Zindagi featuring actors Alia Bhatt and Shah Rukh Khan.

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