Eternal Darkness: The Night That Refused to End Once upon a time in the promising land of Bollywood, a cinematic marvel emerged, cloaked in the shadowy embrace of a single night. The film, “Is Raat Ki Subah Nahin,” strode confidently into the hearts of audiences with the charm of a magician pulling rabbits from hats—only to reveal that the rabbits were in fact actors stuck in a plot so tangled it resembled a ball of yarn abandoned by a kitten. We can only ponder if Sudhir Mishra, in a fit of existential dread, inadvertently penned a film where night became the eternal protagonist, laughing maniacally as dawn played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. In this urban labyrinth, where morality collided with depravity, and every twist of fate felt like a convoluted game of charades, the characters found themselves spiraling into the depths of a night that refused to yield. The dark, oppressive atmosphere must have felt painfully familiar to the average viewer, who wrestled not only with the narrative but also with a stout cup of chai that went cold long before the credits rolled. After all, isn't that the soul of cinema? To have your drink go lukewarm while you ponder how many more hours are left in this cinematic purgatory? Our protagonists, played by Tara Deshpande and Nirmal Pandey, trod the perilous path of desperation and disillusionment with the grace of dancers in a talent show gone horribly wrong. Each misstep served as a reminder that sometimes, those who least deserve it find themselves at a crossroads where the end of the night seems more like a cruel myth, whispered about in hushed tones by weary souls in search of sleep. As we watched them fumble through metaphoric dark alleys and existential crises, one could almost hear the collective sigh of viewers resigning themselves to the fact that the only escape was a toilet break. Yet, if life offers us one undeniable truth, it is that misery loves company. And if you could gather every disgruntled audience member who had made the pilgrimage to witness the dreariness unfold, you’d have an impromptu support group. Together, they could share weary anecdotes about how the plot twisted like a spaghetti strand dipped in a murky sauce of drama—one dubious turn leading to another, fueled by dialogues that expanded slower than molasses in winter. Much like the night itself, the film lingered, refusing to be done, while viewers prayed for the sun to ungraciously break through the melodrama, if only to break the dreadful silence. And so, in the cinematic void that was "Is Raat Ki Subah Nahin," time flowed in peculiar ways. Hours felt like days, minutes mocked our existence, and soon the bustling streets of Mumbai transformed into a ghost town of impatience, where the inhabitants cursed at the moon for showing up when it should have instead quietly retreated, allowing the dawn to reclaim its rightful place. One can argue the film was yet another artsy endeavor to convey the struggles of existence, but as it trudged through mountainous dialogue that practically begged for an intermission, laughter turned to lament. Fast forward to the spiritual sequel, “Yeh Saali Zindagi,” and we find ourselves thrust back into electrifying torments, as if Sudhir Mishra had decided that once was not enough to rouse the sleeping masses from their slumberous haze. Why offer them redemption when one could keep feasting upon the banquet of human despair? And so, like the proverbial night that clings to its darkness, he allowed a new generation of characters to suffer under the glowing glare of existential dread—a gripping reminder that when the pendulum of release swung, it simply did so into yet another bleak chapter. Eternal darkness—the phrase echoes hauntingly, not just as a metaphor for the struggles of our cinematic heroes, but for an audience forever stitched into the fabric of a prolonged narrative voyage. In our collective experience, it seems both cruel and comical that our hopes were regularly dashed, wrestling with a plot that seamlessly merged thriller with the absurd reality of an act extended beyond its due date. As the credits finally emerged—blinking like an apologetic neon sign in an empty street—viewers departed, blinking skeptically into the light. It was a parable for the times, an echo of struggles encapsulated within an eternal night. In a world where the sun refused to rise and plot points seemed more like cruel jests, one could only conclude that the night, in all its infinite misery, was a merciless teacher, imparting the lesson that perhaps some stories are better left untold.