For music lovers, legendary lyricist Anand Bakshi's songs have been the soundtrack to love, heartbreak and hope. But for his son, Rakesh Bakshi, those lyrics became deeply personal during one of the most difficult phases of his life. During The Art and Poetry Day, a tribute to Anand Bakshi, that was held at Subhash Ghai’s acting institute, Rakesh recalled how his father used his own words to help him heal after a painful divorce.

"My father had written around 3,000 romantic songs, but he was not a romantic," Rakesh says with a smile. Whenever people asked Anand Bakshi if he was a romantic person, his response was always the same: "Meri zindagi mein bilkul romance nahi hai. Agar hota toh main shayad aise gaane likh nahi pata. What you don't have is what you express."

Among all his father's compositions, Rakesh says Bade Achhe Lagte Hain remains his personal favourite.

Rakesh's relationship with his father's lyrics took on a new meaning after his divorce. "I was devastated," he recalls. "For nearly two months, I kept listening to Daddy's song, ‘Mujhe teri mohabbat ka sahara mil gaya hota, agar toofan nahi aate, kinara mil gaya hota. I would play it 15 to 20 times every day and just weep."

Watching his son sink deeper into grief, Anand Bakshi decided it was time to pull him back to reality. "He came to me and said, 'Beta, I know you've been through a separation and pain. Tumko yaad hai maine ek gana likha tha?' Then he reminded me of one of his own verses: Hum tum kitne paas hain, kitne duur hain chaand sitaare... Sach poochho toh maan ko jhoothe lagte hain yeh saare."

Confused, Rakesh asked his father what the lines really meant. "He told me, 'Beta, tumko jo chhod ke chali gayi hai, woh uss suraj-chaand ki tarah hai. It belongs in the sky—don't chase it. What is real is what is around you: this earth, these rivers, the rain, your mother, your brother, your sisters, your childhood friends and your work. You've turned away from all of them. Always remember this antara.'" 

For Rakesh, that conversation transformed the way he looked at loss. The lyricist who gave Indian cinema some of its most enduring songs on love had, in his quiet way, also written a philosophy for living—one that helped his own son find his way back after heartbreak.

Shabana Azmi is cut from a different cloth. At 75, while much of the film industry remained silent or issued carefully worded, "neutral" statements, she chose to travel to Jantar Mantar in solidarity with the student movement led by the CJP, demanding accountability from the education minister and those in power. The students remain resolute, vowing to continue their nationwide agitation until their demands are met. Back from Delhi, Azmi spoke to Bombay Times while recovering from an asthma attack triggered by tear gas during the protest. In a candid conversation, she reflects on why she felt compelled to stand with the students, what she witnessed on the ground, and why she believes silence is no longer an option. Excerpts…

The sheer injustice of it. Students of our country are peacefully demanding a dialogue for educational reforms. They seek an overhauling of the educational system and accountability for the several lapses in key entrance exams over the years leading to despair to the point of suicide. Why can’t you listen to them? We need to build their hope, not crush their spirit. The prolonged hunger strike by the students and Sonam Wangchuk whose deteriorating health we were all witness to deeply concerned me. Can you imagine the pain of their parents who made huge personal sacrifices to assure a better future for their children?

The complete indifference of the ruling party to initiate a dialogue. Sonam Wangchuk is a respected scientist and environmentalist whose work on climate change is applauded across the world. Yet, attempts were made to discredit him through canards and insinuations. The students, too, were branded anti-national and accused of being stooges of "foreign powers." That was the tipping point for me.

These are attempts to obfuscate the real issue and replace dialogue. And we take pride in being the world’s largest democracy?

Because we all know that the youth are the future of our country. Increasingly, young couples are choosing not to have children because they cannot guarantee them a secure or hopeful future. That should worry all of us. I remember a university student saying during a debate many years ago, "Humko azaadi aadhi raat ko mili thi, aur savera aaj tak nahin hua." ("We got Independence at midnight, but dawn has still not arrived.") Those words stayed with me. In fact, I used that line to open my maiden speech in the Rajya Sabha. Atal Bihari Vajpayeeji appreciated it, you can verify it in the records. He did not treat it as a personal insult or an attack on his government. It resonated with him because he understood the larger sentiment behind it and responded like a true statesman. They were leaders of a different mettle. It saddens me to see how far we've drifted from that spirit today, where every criticism is viewed through the lens of hostility instead of being seen as an opportunity for dialogue and introspection.

I don't think it can be generalized like that. I would leave that to experts in the field. Speaking for myself, I was raised until the age of nine in Red Flag Hall, the commune of the Communist Party of India (CPI) in Mumbai. It was a remarkable space where discussions on social justice, women's empowerment and India's composite culture were part of everyday life. Progressive writers, poets, artists and political thinkers came together there, and our parents believed that art should be an instrument of social change. My brother Baba and I absorbed these values almost by osmosis. We were encouraged to ask questions, voice our opinions and speak up whenever we felt strongly about something, even if it meant disagreeing with others. That environment taught us that dissent and dialogue are not acts of disrespect; they are essential to a healthy society.

Prakash Raj and I had been helped into a police truck by the protesters. I had to lie down for a while to catch my breath after one of the activists rushed to pull me up because the police had entered the area, triggering a stampede. Looking through the truck's grills, I narrowly escaped being hit by a large stone that was hurled towards it. Soon after, the tear gas and lathi charge began. The police were furious because they claimed that a shoe had been thrown at one of their colleagues. Now, who can verify that? It is their word against the students'. What is beyond dispute, however, is that there is a clear protocol the police are mandated to follow while dispersing a gathering they deem "unlawful." It is fair to assume that those protocols were not strictly followed. I personally witnessed young boys and girls, many of them barely out of their teens, badly injured and bleeding because of the lathi charge. When I sat down in the mud with the protesters, I saw students who had themselves been injured rushing to shield and protect me instead of tending to their own wounds. One young man told me, "Ek lathi khaane ke baad lathi ka darr nikal jaata hai." ("Once you've been hit by a baton, the fear of it disappears.") A 15-year-old boy said, "Had I not joined this protest, I would never have been able to look myself in the mirror." My respect and salaam to these young people. Their courage, compassion and conviction showed us the way.

Every artist has to make that decision for themselves. I don’t think it’s fair to judge people for speaking out, and I don’t think it’s fair to judge those who choose not to. Everyone weighs the consequences differently. What is important is that we don’t lose sight of the real issue. The conversation should remain focused on the concerns raised by the students and on how those concerns are addressed, rather than on whether individual celebrities have commented. Artists can amplify conversations, but they are not a substitute for institutions or democratic processes. Lasting educational reform and the protection of democratic rights come through public engagement, civic participation and accountable governance. It is encouraging that many members of the film industry have chosen to speak this time. The issues affecting young people because they are our future and we are all stake holders.

If Dhurandhar has been a disruptor in Indian cinema, Rakesh Bedi has emerged as one of its biggest rediscoveries. Nearly five decades into a career spanning cinema, TV and theatre, the veteran has won widespread acclaim for his portrayal of Jameel Jamali, proving that one role can remind audiences of an actor’s enduring brilliance.

Citing his role of Khabrilal in Tirangaa (1993) as an example, he says, “No matter the role, big or small, I always worked honestly and to the best of my ability. When Uri: The Surgical Strike (2019) was being made, I received several calls from the production, but I kept refusing because I didn't want to do just one scene. Finally, Aditya Dhar called me. At the time, I barely knew him. He told me, ‘Sir, whenever I reach this page in the script, I can only think of you for this part. Now you tell me, will you do it or not?’ I was overjoyed. Since then, Aditya and I have shared great mutual respect.”

At the sequel’s screening, Arjun Rampal told him, “Aap sabko khaa gaye.” Bedi smiles at the memory but is careful not to let the compliment go to his head. He says, “That was his way of appreciating my performance. Everyone has done justice to their role. So did I. It's just that my part took a bigger slice of the pie.”

The veteran is equally mindful of not allowing success to inflate his ego. Clarifying a recent remark about finally feeling like a star, he says, “I don’t have the feeling that I am a star. I said it in reference to the love I have received after Dhurandhar. If that’s what people call stardom, so be it. I never assume that maine sabki chhutti kar dee. That mindset can be dangerous. It can get into your head, and luck or fortune can humble you overnight. Main uss zone mein nahi jaata ki main bahut phail jaaun.”

Jameel Jamali has revealed a side of Bedi that even many within the industry hadn’t seen before. Yet, he has never measured his career by the opportunities he missed.

He says, “One thing about me is that I have never been frustrated. I believe an actor who becomes frustrated burns out very quickly. If I keep dwelling on what I didn’t get, it will only breed anger, and sooner or later, that will reflect in my work and behaviour towards colleagues ki tum nahi jaante main kya hoon. Arre bhai, nahi jaante tum kya ho, lekin tumko jo kaam diya hai, usko toh theek se karo. I never want to get into that space.”

If there’s one thing Bedi wants younger actors to remember, it is to let the work speak louder than the trappings of stardom. He says, “Aap jo bhi kaam kar rahe hain, usko achha kijiye. Uska kahin na kahin aage jaa kar asar padta hi hai. A lot of newcomers focus more on the frills than on the work, like meri vanity, mere dry fruits, and everything that comes with stardom.”

Drawing from Bollywood history, he adds, “We often think Amjad Khan became an overnight star after Sholay (1975). He didn’t. Before that, he had done around 10 films, playing small parts, sometimes just a scene or two. But whatever he did, he did well. The same is true of Nawazuddin Siddiqui and Pankaj Tripathi. I’m not saying you should accept completely inconsequential roles with a single dialogue like, ‘Yeh aapka letter aaya hai,’ or ‘Maine injection laga diya hai. Baaki Bhagwan par bharosa rakhiye.’ Luck plays a huge role, but it isn’t in your control. What is in your hands is doing every role with honesty, dedication and complete focus.”

Finding a director who can look beyond an actor’s established image, Bedi believes, can be career-defining.

He says, “Ye iss industry ki vidambana hai that once you’ve played a certain kind of role, people tend to see you only through that lens. They either can’t or don’t imagine you differently. They often cast whoever is available and fits the budget. Very few filmmakers are willing to wait for an actor rather than compromise on their vision. That kind of faith gives an actor tremendous confidence. It’s always a two-way street.”

He concludes, “After Dhurandhar, people have expectations from Rakesh Bedi. So, I have to choose my roles more diligently and carefully. Whatever I achieved in Dhurandhar, I owe equally to Aditya Dhar. He wrote a wonderful part, and I’m grateful he entrusted me with it.”

For Paritosh Painter, convincing Nawazuddin Siddiqui to return to the stage after decades came with immense pressure. The writer-director recalls walking into their first meeting knowing he had just one chance to impress the acclaimed actor. Nawazuddin stars in Painter’s play Naqaab, which also marks the acting debut of his daughter, Shora. The team is currently on an international tour, staging the play for audiences across the world.

Paritosh recalls, “When I was meeting him, I knew I had only one chance. If he said no, it was over. He has done every kind of role as an actor, so the challenge was to bring something interesting and challenging to the table. I’m happy he liked what we narrated. He also contributed ideas, and we developed the play together. The challenge was how to excite a man who has done every kind of role, but he loved the script.”

Paritosh says one of Nawazuddin’s biggest requests was to preserve the authenticity of theatre. “Nawaz bhai wanted the feel of theatre. He didn’t want LED screens as the backdrop. He wanted an actual set.”

That commitment extended to every aspect of the production. Nawazuddin has five to six costume changes during the play, with brief pauses built into the performance to allow him time to change backstage.

“We gave him a short break so he has time to go backstage, change and come back. I keep asking him, ‘Do you need more time?’ He says, ‘No! I want to do it quickly and come back.’ He loves challenges. They give him a great high,” shares Paritosh.

Speaking about directing Shora, he says, “When we did the first reading, Shora was quite raw. She studied in an American school and later in London, so her command over English was good, but her Hindi was weak, and this is a full-fledged Hindi play. She put in a lot of effort and used to sit with my assistants to improve.”

Nawazuddin was equally invested in helping his daughter settle into the production. Paritosh says, “Nawaz bhai didn’t need to spend much time in rehearsals. After about 10 readings, he was ready. But he still put in the effort so Shora could catch up. He has done around 90 run-throughs of the play.”

It is easy to forget that before she became a familiar face across television, theatre and cinema, Mita Vasisht was simply another young actor fresh out of the National School of Drama, hoping for the role that would change everything. That opportunity came after her striking turn in Kumar Shahani’s 1986 short Var Var Vari caught the attention of Mani Kaul who, by then, had already secured his place among the defining voices of India’s New Wave cinema with films such as Uski Roti, Ashadh Ka Ek Din and Duvidha.

Kaul would go on to become her mentor, teacher and, ultimately, a lifelong guide. “It was after he saw Kumar Shahani’s film that he decided to offer me Siddheshwari,” Vasisht recalls, referring to the docu-feature on the Thumri artist that turned her from a budding actress into an arthouse regular.

“I hadn’t seen any of his films. I didn’t know who he was; I was just a young actress at the time. Everyone told me he was a famous director, but that I should work with someone like Shyam Benegal instead, to win National Awards. For some reason, though, I was drawn to him.”

Thirty-seven years after that breakthrough, Vasisht has chosen to honour the man who shaped her craft. Her film, Mani Kaul and That Thing Called the Actor, celebrates his mind. After a screening at the Film and Television Institute of India, Pune, on June 6, the anniversary of Kaul’s death, Vasisht brings the film to Third Bell Studios, Versova, on July 16.

Kaul was a man of many quirks, and one shaped the very title of Vasisht’s film: his distrust of trained actors. “He disliked trained actors,” she laughs. “I had trained for four years at NSD, and before that at the Department of Indian Theatre in Chandigarh. Yet he cast me in the lead role. I later realized he wanted to challenge me, to help me break free of every convention I had learned.”

This insistence, Vasisht discovered, was Kaul’s way of letting an audience find its own emotional response rather than have one imposed on it. “We were taught us things connected to acting: painting, sculpture, music, poetry,” she says.

“Most people considered him a non-actor director, but I found him deeply connected to the craft, with no patience for loud, outward performance.”

Capturing the life of such an unconventional figure proved a creative challenge. Vasisht refuses to call her project a documentary, preferring the term “fiction feature”. “It follows an actress and a young musician who travel through a director’s mind while they prepare for Siddheshwari,” she explains.

“The film moves before and after that making of the film, and deconstructs the process of its own making.” Vasisht wanted to present the auteur’s psyche, beyond the reach of a conventional biopic.

“I don’t know if Kaul ever wanted to be an actor. He thought he might, but he never appeared in a film beyond his diploma projects.”

After FTII, Kaul turned to direction and produced his acclaimed debut Uski Roti at twenty-five, “an extraordinary film by any measure.”

“I studied Kaul closely and noted everything he told the cinematographer or the costume designer. Few realise how much work goes into a single moment on camera,” says Vasisht. Aside from him, though, she credits directors like Shahani and Govind Nihalani for her path into filmmaking.

“I observe directors very closely to see what they’re searching for. What they ask for isn’t always what they’re actually trying to achieve.”

The film is, in many ways, less a tribute than that conversation continued across time. Vasisht hopes it will introduce a new generation to not just Kaul but to ideas that remain as radical today as they were nearly four decades ago.

As protests continue over the alleged NEET-UG 2026 paper leak, actor and former Miss World Manushi Chhillar has spoken about facing a similar ordeal in 2015, when she had to appear for the medical entrance exam twice following a paper leak.

“I remember the uncertainty more than anything else. You prepare for years believing that the exam day is the finish line, and then suddenly you’re told that it isn’t. It’s not just about writing another paper. It’s about reliving months of anxiety, postponing plans, and staying mentally prepared all over again,” she tells us.

Manushi, who had enrolled in medical college before entering the Miss India pageant, says, “I appeared for the Joint Entrance Examination (JEE) Main in April after my board exams and the All India Pre-Medical Test (AIPMT), now known as the National Eligibility-cum-Entrance Test (NEET), in May. I chose not to take JEE Advanced because I was clear that I wanted to study medicine.”

She adds that while she had the privilege of choosing between fields, many students do not: “For most, NEET is a chance to build a better life. You feel responsible not just for yourself, but for the hopes of everyone around you. By the end of it, most students are exhausted.”

She reappeared for the examination 45 days later and secured a good score, but says the burden of another attempt cannot be overlooked. “Another attempt comes with emotional, financial, and psychological costs that deserve to be acknowledged.”

Supporting students speaking out for a fair examination system, Manushi adds, “A paper leak isn’t just an administrative glitch, it affects millions of hours of hard work. For many families, preparing for competitive exams involves significant financial sacrifices, years of disciplined study, and immense emotional investment. The real damage goes beyond one examination. It erodes trust. Students should walk into an exam hall believing that effort and merit alone will determine the outcome.”

JNU and DU have issued advisories asking students and faculty to stay away from protests at Jantar Mantar, citing safety concerns, possible legal consequences and the impact on academics. The notices drew criticism from Rahul Gandhi and Pooja Bhatt.

Meanwhile, comedian-actor Anubhav Singh Bassi (above) postponed his July 25 show at Talkatora Stadium and actor-podcaster Soha Ali Khan cancelled this week’s episode in solidarity with the protesting students. Sonu Nigam (left) also postponed his July 25 concert at Delhi’s Yashobhoomi Convention Centre in solidarity with the students.

Following Scam 1992: The Harshad Mehta Story (2020) and Scam 2003: The Telgi Story (2023), filmmaker Hansal Mehta is nearing completion of the franchise’s third instalment, Scam 2010: The Subrata Roy Saga. The series traces the rise and fall of controversial Sahara India Pariwar founder Subrata Roy Sahara, who spent over two years in jail in connection with the long-running SEBI-Sahara investor refund case.

Marathi actor Siddharth Bodke plays Roy, while Kritika Singh and Moon Banerjee portray his wife Swapna Roy and mother Chhabi Roy, respectively. Aditya Srivastava is also part of the cast. “The team has shot in Lucknow, where Sahara’s head office is based, as well as in Kanpur-Bithoor, Malihabad and other nearby locations. After completing schedules in Noida, Delhi and Dehradun, they are now shooting the final leg in Mumbai,” a source tells us.

When contacted, Mehta said he “can’t speak about it” and directed the query to Applause Entertainment, which did not respond.

The project, announced in May 2024, has also faced legal opposition from Sahara. “Yes, we have filed a case which is still pending. We are aware that the series is being shot and is based on Tamal Bandyopadhyay’s book, which has Sahara India Parivar’s full-page disclaimer on its opening page,” a Sahara source says.

Actor Mohd Zeeshan Ayyub has distanced himself from Ajay Devgn’s upcoming action film Chauhaan, alleging that a line he recorded without being told its context was used in its controversial teaser.

Released last month, the Kashmir-set teaser reportedly opened with Ayyub’s voice saying, “Major, there were 300 boys on the street; only 270 reached their home; 30 are less,” before showing stone-pelting and military action. It ended with the line, “Pathaanon se kehna… Chauhaan aa raha hai.”

Ayyub clarified on X that he was not associated with the film and had dubbed the line “without any reference” as he knew the makers personally. After watching the teaser, he objected to how his voice had been used. “After my strong objection, the makers removed my voice from the teaser fifteen days ago,” he wrote, adding that he “would never be a part of any such project”.

The updated teaser features another artiste delivering the opening line. Chauhaan is scheduled to release in theatres on October 1, 2027.

Nitesh Tiwari’s Ramayana: Part 1 found itself at the centre of two different conversations on July 24. While the epic’s first major showcase at San Diego Comic-Con was met with applause from the international audience, its India trailer launch was called off amid the ongoing student protests.

Minutes before the Comic-Con panel began with actors Ranbir Kapoor and Yash in attendance, producer Namit Malhotra announced that the trailer would no longer be released globally as scheduled. 

A source said, “The makers chose to withhold the online launch, saying it would arrive at a later date. The protests across India had prompted the makers to do a rethink.”

The presentation itself went ahead as scheduled, with the team unveiling exclusive footage of the epic to an enthusiastic response from the nearly 4800 attendees.

“This marked only the second time an Indian film has received such a prominent showcase at San Diego Comic-Con after Kalki 2898 AD,” added the source.

While rumours over the past few days suggested that Ramayana: Part 1 might arrive ahead of schedule, the makers reaffirmed at the event that it will be a Diwali 2026 release.

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A dance performance preceding the ‘Ramayana: Part 1’ panel was widely criticized for being a mish-mash of multiple dance forms