A documentary series across India celebrating culture.
Created by Nikhil Velpanur and Joi Barua.
Lovingly made by the team of Nikhil, Joi, Dhruv, Angad (Chill panther films), Murtazza Ezzi and Shivani Gupta, with special thanks for Manvendra Singh Shekhawat.


"Fuck the Monoculture" - Nikhil Velpanur

Somebody said we should all be the same. All humans are the same. Beneath the colour of your skin, you and me are the same. 
But we humans, on Mother Earth, are a virus. We take what’s good and we twist and turn and corrupt, and metastasise into varying hues of moral turpitude. That piece of advice, died, stillborn, segregated and criminalised. We are trying very hard to not be the same. 
But then. Metastasise. That ‘be the same’ bullshit is showing up in a different place, with a different motive, controlled by different forces. 
Be the same. Sure. 
Let’s all listen to the same music. Let’s all Dress the same way. Let’s Have the same opinion. Let’s all Buy the same things. Let’s all Believe the same political bullshit. 
Let’s all be identical copies of each other, all zombies controlled by unseen forces, usually following the loudest voice in the room. 
Let us all be Kardashians. Let us all dance to DJ Calvin Harris. Let us all get tattoos like David Beckham. Let us all buy Ferragamo belts and half tuck our shirts in, so the logo is seen along with our unkempt attitude. Let us hate Trump and Modi because they’re ‘right wing fascists’, a new term you just learnt watching a debate on television last night, made by a cool looking lady with a booker prize and communist card on her shoulder who made an eloquent point. Let us fight intolerance by Facebook sharing that article written by an exotic journalist risking his life living in a banana republic amongst mango people doing investigative journalism into the spirit of india. 
Or why, let us do a startup and wear a black turtleneck and jeans, and practice the line ‘the dots connect looking backwards’, so you can explain your thrilling journey from cubicle to unemployed. Let us go watch a movie about startups, or just about life, which is copied from some other lame movie about life, with the auteur claiming ‘inspiration’ which is more likely perspiration from the backs of the B grade actress who came to the ‘industry’ prepared to whatever it takes. Just like the rest of them, and a parallel industry is born. 
Let us become fashion bloggers, convince a friendzoned boy who still hasn’t gotten the memo to take glamorous pictures of me dressed in clothes I pressured my parents to buy me because I wanted to look like Khloe. Let us attend a blogger meetup, and talk about our fledgling blogging business that is attracting brands in droves to give me free merch, so I can wear and expose, brand or otherwise, so I can grab the eyeballs, sneak into pervy spank banks, and convince more young girls that they should dress like me, the exact clone of all the other girls the brand sent those free clothes to. 
Let us go to a club, just in the way those West coast bitches say, go to a cluuuuuuub - with your winged eyeliner, free clothes and friendzone dullard in tow. He’s got plans of his own, to order shots of that new liquor he saw his friends throw up on last week - and hoping it does the equivalent of knock you fucking out so he can grab some boob on the cab ride home. He’s wearing his jeans real low and a chain dangling like those boys who belong to a gang - he probably saw that on Netflix and he’s too dumb to realise that TV show was a parody and he’s copying a parody, which makes him somewhat cool, as he’s the only glitch in this well oiled system. 
The alcohol company now owns the game, they’ve spent far too long being the victims of draconian laws that doesn’t let the liquor industry advertise directly. They’re tired of issuing music CDs and apple juice, and have decided to move onto the real thing. 

Music is my surrogate, music is my surrogate. Is. My. surrogate. 

So they bought the DJs, they bought the clubs, they bought the girls in the skimpy clothes, they bought the bouncers, they bought the influencers, they bought the furniture and said ‘DANCE MOTHERFUCKER’. 
And we danced. We danced till the morning came. We came back the next day. We couldn’t get enough. 
Then the they bought the beat. They said insert this break here so the poor motherfucker has time to take a loo break, and orders a shot of vodka on his way back. Our sales are dipping. We must be proactive in our customer engagement. We must own his mind entirely, is the march of this new breed of ants. 
Our minds are owned. 
Free will, dead.
Welcome to our monoculture. 
Let us all be the same.
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