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It began in 2020. The pandemic made everything foggy. I reached out to a friend in the mental health space and got myself a therapist. Let’s call them Therapist 001. We had a few sessions. Therapist 001 told me I had grown up in an environment that wasn’t entirely fair. It tracked. But after one session where I talked candidly about money, Therapist 001 increased their rates.

There are moments when we pause, caught between the practicalities of life and the whispers of something greater. In those moments, what drives us becomes clear—not always immediately, but in the quiet corners of our minds, we start to understand. For some, it’s the steady, reassuring rhythm of goals—tangible, practical, a checklist to be conquered. For others, it’s the fleeting, yet profound nature of aspirations—shifting, evolving, like the gentle pull of the tide, always m

In the often volatile world of film, art, and public scrutiny, Bunt artists don’t dazzle through noise or theatrics. They stand apart in the quiet certainty with which they carry themselves. They don’t chase fame as if it’s oxygen. Their bearing is different—anchored. Their boldness isn’t reactionary; it’s inherited, etched into their spine across generations.

The save button used to feel like a promise. A little digital pinky swear: "This matters. This is worth coming back to."

Welcome to Buntedi, a series born from memory, history, humour, and no small amount of stubborn pride — and possibly a few servings of neer

We don’t often think of the internet as a gentle place.