India, that vast and ancient land teeming with multitudes and steeped in the legacy of the Kama Sutra—a civilisation that once celebrated the human form with candour and artistry—now finds itself in a curious paradox. Its modern arbiters of morality, seated in the film censor’s chair, deem it necessary to obscure with blurred pixels those very parts of the body that nature, in all her honesty, has bestowed upon us, and to muzzle language that springs from the rougher edges of human passion.
One is left to wonder: are these guardians of propriety genuinely blind to the irony, or do they assume that we are?