The bourgeoisie pretends to be scandalized by corruption, but it is precisely corruption that allows it to exist.
I should rather have a completely free press, with all the dangers involved in the wrong use of that freedom, than a suppressed or regulated press.
Pier Paolo Pasolini
Truth is very often surpassed, exaggerated or distorted to add flavour and spice to the stories.
I try to give a face to the suffering of others, to be on the side of the weak, the oppressed, and the forgotten.
I do not believe in the separation between life and death; I believe they are inseparable, and death is not the end, but a continuation.
Death doesn’t exist. Only the fear of death exists.
A balance sheet of blood
Paisa paisa, each note a weight
Silver-tongued prophets whispering rates
"Sell your soul, it’s market price!"
Ash rains down, not from the sky
But from burnt contracts, burnt dreams
A prayer in counterfeit rupees
A hymn in falsified deeds
"The gods of capital demand sacrifice!"
The reel spins, the city smokes
Corruption is a film that never ends
A loop of crime, a loop of wealth
The credits never roll
"Your sin will find you out."
To some observers, indeed, it was a branch of Hell.
कुछ पर्यवेक्षकों के लिए, वास्तव में, यह नरक की एक शाखा थी।
A COMEDY IN HELL
The Damned Walk of Malabar Hill
(how we took a wrong turn and ended up in a scam)
Expected Completion by Judgement Day
Welcome to your Eternal Penthouse - please ignore the fire
Trains may be delayed due to existential dread.
L'entrata dell' Inferno
Canto III
«Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate!»
«Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto;
ogne viltà convien che qui sia morta.
Noi siam venuti al loco ov' i' t'ho detto
che tu vedrai le genti dolorose
c'hanno perduto il ben de l'intelletto.»
Quivi sospiri, pianti e alti guai
risonavan per l'aere sanza stelle,
per ch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.
Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle
facevano un tumulto, il qual s'aggira
sempre in quell' aura sanza tempo tinta,
come la rena quando turbo spira.
E dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta
di gente, ch'i' non averei creduto
che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta.
The Gate of Hell
Poem III
«Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost.
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!»
«Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
All cowardice must needs be here extinct.
We to the place have come, where I have told thee
Thou shalt behold the people dolorous
Who have foregone the good of intellect.»
There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded through the air without a star,
Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.
Languages diverse, horrible dialects,
Accents of anger, words of agony,
And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,
Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
For ever in that air for ever black,
Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes.
And after it there came so long a train
Of people, that I ne'er would have believed
That ever Death so many had undone.
Il Primo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto IV
«Or discendiam qua giù nel cieco mondo»
Così si mise e così mi fé intrare
nel primo cerchio che l'abisso cigne.
Non era lunga ancor la nostra via
di qua dal sonno, quand' io vidi un foco
ch'emisperio di tenebre vincia.
«Or vo' che sappi, innanzi che più andi,
ch'ei non peccaro; e s'elli hanno mercedi,
non basta, perché non ebber battesmo,
ch'è porta de la fede che tu credi;
Per tai difetti, non per altro rio,
semo perduti, e sol di tanto offesi
che sanza speme vivemo in disio.»
Genti v'eran con occhi tardi e gravi,
di grande autorità ne' lor sembianti:
parlavan rado, con voci soavi.
Traemmoci così da l'un de' canti.
The First Circle of Hell
Poem IV
«Let us descend now into the blind world.»
Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter
The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss.
Not very far as yet our way had gone
This side the summit, when I saw a fire
That overcame a hemisphere of darkness.
«Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther,
That they sinned not; and if they merit had,
'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism
Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest;
For such defects, and not for other guilt,
Lost are we and are only so far punished,
That without hope we live on in desire.»
People were there with solemn eyes and slow,
Of great authority in their countenance;
They spoke but seldom, and with gentle voices.
Thus we withdrew ourselves upon one side.
La Divina Commedia - Inferno
Il Secondo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto V
Così discesi del cerchio primaio
giù nel secondo, che men loco cinghia
e tanto più dolor, che punge a guaio.
E quel conoscitor de le peccata
vede qual loco d'inferno è da essa;
cignesi con la coda tante volte
quantunque gradi vuol che giù sia messa.
Or incomincian le dolenti note
a farmisi sentire; or son venuto
là dove molto pianto mi percuote.
Io venni in loco d'ogne luce muto,
che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta,
se da contrari venti è combattuto.
La bufera infernal, che mai non resta.
Così quel fiato li spiriti mali
di qua, di là, di giù, di sù li mena.
«O animal grazïoso e benigno
che visitando vai per l'aere perso
Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende,
prese costui de la bella persona
che mi fu tolta; e 'l modo ancor m'offende.
Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona,
mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,
che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona.
Amor condusse noi ad una morte.»
Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
menò costoro al doloroso passo!
Ma s'a conoscer la prima radice
del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto
di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Mentre che l'uno spirto questo disse,
l'altro piangea; sì che di pietade
io venni men così com' io morisse.
E caddi come corpo morto cade.
The Second Circle of Hell
Poem V
Thus I descended out of the first circle
Down to the second, that less space begirds,
And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing.
And this discriminator of transgressions
Seeth what place in Hell is meet for it;
Girds himself with his tail as many times
As grades he wishes it should be thrust down
And now begin the dolesome notes to grow
Audible unto me; now am I come
There where much lamentation strikes upon me.
I came into a place mute of all light,
Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest,
If by opposing winds 't is combated.
The infernal hurricane that never rests.
So doth that blast the spirits maledict;
It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them.
«O living creature gracious and benignant,
Who visiting goest through the purple air
Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,
Seized this man for the person beautiful
That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me.
Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,
Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,
That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;
Love has conducted us unto one death.»
How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire,
Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!
But, if to recognise the earliest root
Of love in us thou hast so great desire,
I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.
One day we reading were for our delight
Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral.
Alone we were and without any fear.
And all the while one spirit uttered this,
The other one did weep so, that, for pity,
I swooned away as if I had been dying,
And fell, even as a dead body falls.
Il Terzo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VI
Al tornar de la mente, che si chiuse
dinanzi a la pietà d'i due cognati,
che di trestizia tutto mi confuse,
novi tormenti e novi tormentati
mi veggio intorno, come ch'io mi mova
e ch'io mi volga, e come che io guati.
Io sono al terzo cerchio, de la piova
etterna, maladetta, fredda e greve;
regola e qualità mai non l'è nova.
Grandine grossa, acqua tinta e neve
per l'aere tenebroso si riversa;
pute la terra che questo riceve.
«La tua città, ch'è piena d'invidia
sì che già trabocca il sacco,
seco mi tenne in la vita serena.
Voi cittadini mi chiamaste Ciacco:
per la dannosa colpa de la gola,
come tu vedi, a la pioggia mi fiacco.
E io anima trista non son sola,
ché tutte queste a simil pena stanno
per simil colpa.»
«Alte terrà lungo tempo le fronti,
tenendo l'altra sotto gravi pesi,
come che di ciò pianga o che n'aonti.
Giusti son due, e non vi sono intesi;
superbia, invidia e avarizia sono
le tre faville c'hanno i cuori accesi.»
Sì trapassammo per sozza mistura
de l'ombre e de la pioggia, a passi lenti,
toccando un poco la vita futura.
The Third Circle of Hell
Poem VI
At the return of consciousness, that closed
Before the pity of those two relations,
Which utterly with sadness had confused me,
New torments I behold, and new tormented
Around me, whichsoever way I move,
And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze.
In the third circle am I of the rain
Eternal, maledict, and cold, and heavy;
Its law and quality are never new.
Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow,
Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain;
Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this.
«Thy city, which is full of envy
so that now the sack runs over,
Held me within it in the life serene.
You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco;
For the pernicious sin of gluttony
I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain.
And I, sad soul, am not the only one,
For all these suffer the like penalty
For the like sin.»
«High will it hold its forehead a long while,
Keeping the other under heavy burdens,
Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant.
The just are two, and are not understood there;
Envy and Arrogance and Avarice are
the three sparks that have all hearts enkindled.»
So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture
Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow,
Touching a little on the future life.
Il Quarto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VII
Poi si rivolse a quella 'nfiata labbia,
e disse: «Taci, maladetto lupo!
consuma dentro te con la tua rabbia.»
Così scendemmo ne la quarta lacca,
pigliando più de la dolente ripa
che 'l mal de l'universo tutto insacca.
Così convien che qui la gente riddi.
Qui vid' i' gente più ch'altrove troppa,
e d'una parte e d'altra, con grand' urli,
voltando pesi per forza di poppa.
Così tornavan per lo cerchio tetro
da ogne mano a l'opposito punto,
gridandosi anche loro ontoso metro;
poi si volgea ciascun, quand' era giunto,
per lo suo mezzo cerchio a l'altra giostra.
Quanta ignoranza è quella che v'offende!
Fece li cieli e diè lor chi conduce
sì, ch'ogne parte ad ogne parte splende,
distribuendo igualmente la luce.
Per ch'una gente impera e l'altra langue,
seguendo lo giudicio di costei,
che è occulto come in erba l'angue.
Noi ricidemmo il cerchio a l'altra riva
sovr' una fonte che bolle e riversa
per un fossato che da lei deriva.
L'acqua era buia assai più che persa;
e noi, in compagnia de l'onde bige,
intrammo giù per una via diversa.
The Fourth Circle of Hell
Poem VII
Then he turned round unto that bloated lip,
And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf;
Consume within thyself with thine own rage.»
Thus we descended into the fourth chasm,
Gaining still farther on the dolesome shore
Which all the woe of the universe insacks.
So here the folk must dance their roundelay.
Here saw I people, more than elsewhere, many,
On one side and the other, with great howls,
Rolling weights forward by main force of chest.
Thus they returned along the lurid circle
On either hand unto the opposite point,
Shouting their shameful metre evermore.
Then each, when he arrived there, wheeled about
Through his half-circle to another joust.
What ignorance is this which doth beset you!
The heavens created, and gave who should guide them,
That every part to every part may shine,
Distributing the light in equal measure;
Therefore one people triumphs, and another
Languishes, in pursuance of her judgment,
Which hidden is, as in the grass a serpent.
We crossed the circle to the other bank,
Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself
Along a gully that runs out of it.
The water was more sombre far than perse;
And we, in company with the dusky waves,
Made entrance downward by a path uncouth.
Il Quinto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto VIII
Li occhi nostri n'andar suso a la cima
per due fiammette che i vedemmo porre,
e un'altra da lungi render cenno,
tanto ch'a pena il potea l'occhio tòrre.
Lo duca mio discese ne la barca,
e poi mi fece intrare appresso lui;
e sol quand' io fui dentro parve carca.
Tosto che 'l duca e io nel legno fui,
segando se ne va l'antica prora
de l'acqua più che non suol con altrui.
Noi pur giugnemmo dentro a l'alte fosse
che vallan quella terra sconsolata:
le mura mi parean che ferro fosse.
Io vidi più di mille in su le porte
da ciel piovuti, che stizzosamente
dicean: «Chi è costui che sanza morte
va per lo regno de la morta gente?»
E a me disse: «Tu, perch' io m'adiri,
non sbigottir, ch'io vincerò la prova,
qual ch'a la difension dentro s'aggiri.
Questa lor tracotanza non è nova;
ché già l'usaro a men segreta porta,
la qual sanza serrame ancor si trova.
Sovr' essa vedestù la scritta morta:
e già di qua da lei discende l'erta,
passando per li cerchi sanza scorta,
tal che per lui ne fia la terra aperta.»
The Fifth Circle of Hell
Poem VIII
Our eyes went upward to the summit of it,
By reason of two flamelets we saw placed there,
And from afar another answer them,
So far, that hardly could the eye attain it.
My Guide descended down into the boat,
And then he made me enter after him,
And only when I entered seemed it laden.
Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat,
The antique prow goes on its way, dividing
More of the water than 'tis wont with others.
Then we arrived within the moats profound,
That circumvallate that disconsolate city;
The walls appeared to me to be of iron.
More than a thousand at the gates I saw
Out of the Heavens rained down, who angrily
were saying, «Who is this that without death
Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?»
And unto me: «Thou, because I am angry,
Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial,
Whatever for defence within be planned.
This arrogance of theirs is nothing new;
For once they used it at less secret gate,
Which finds itself without a fastening still.
O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription;
And now this side of it descends the steep,
Passing across the circles without escort,
One by whose means the city shall be opened.»
Il Sesto Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto IX
«In questo fondo de la trista conca
discende mai alcun del primo grado,
che sol per pena ha la speranza cionca?»
Quell' è 'l più basso loco e 'l più oscuro,
e 'l più lontan dal ciel che tutto gira.
Però che l'occhio m'avea tutto tratto
ver' l'alta torre a la cima rovente,
dove in un punto furon dritte ratto
tre furïe infernal di sangue tinte.
Li rami schianta, abbatte e porta fori;
dinanzi polveroso va superbo,
e fa fuggir le fiere e li pastori.
Vid' io più di mille anime distrutte
fuggir così dinanzi ad un ch'al passo
passava Stige con le piante asciutte.
Dal volto rimovea quell' aere grasso,
menando la sinistra innanzi spesso;
e sol di quell' angoscia parea lasso.
Dentro li 'ntrammo sanz' alcuna guerra;
e io, ch'avea di riguardar disio
la condizion che tal fortezza serra,
com' io fui dentro, l'occhio intorno invio:
e veggio ad ogne man grande campagna,
piena di duolo e di tormento rio.
«Qui son li eresïarche
con lor seguaci, d'ogne setta, e molto
più che non credi son le tombe carche.
Simile qui con simile è sepolto,
e i monimenti son più e men caldi.»
E poi ch'a la man destra si fu vòlto,
passammo tra i martìri e li alti spaldi.
The Sixth Circle of Hell
Poem IX
«Into this bottom of the doleful conch
Doth any e'er descend from the first grade,
Which for its pain has only hope cut off?»
That is the lowest region and the darkest,
And farthest from the heaven which circles all.
Because mine eye had altogether drawn me
Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit,
Where in a moment saw I swift uprisen
The three infernal Furies stained with blood.
The branches rends, beats down, and bears away;
Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb,
And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds.
More than a thousand ruined souls I saw,
Thus fleeing from before one who on foot
Was passing o'er the Styx with soles unwet.
From off his face he fanned that unctuous air,
Waving his left hand oft in front of him,
And only with that anguish seemed he weary.
Within we entered without any contest;
And I, who inclination had to see
What the condition such a fortress holds,
Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye,
And see on every hand an ample plain,
Full of distress and torment terrible.
«Here are the Heresiarchs,
With their disciples of all sects, and much
More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs.
Here like together with its like is buried;
And more and less the monuments are heated.»
And when he to the right had turned, we passed
Between the torments and high parapets.
Il Settimo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XII
Era lo loco ov' a scender la riva
venimmo, alpestro e, per quel che v'er' anco,
tal, ch'ogne vista ne sarebbe schiva.
Oh cieca cupidigia e ira folle,
che sì ci sproni ne la vita corta,
e ne l'etterna poi sì mal c'immolle!
Io vidi un'ampia fossa in arco torta,
come quella che tutto 'l piano abbraccia,
secondo ch'avea detto la mia scorta;
e tra 'l piè de la ripa ed essa, in traccia
corrien centauri, armati di saette,
come solien nel mondo andare a caccia.
«Ma per quella virtù per cu' io movo
li passi miei per sì selvaggia strada,
danne un de' tuoi, a cui noi siamo a provo,
e che ne mostri là dove si guada,
e che porti costui in su la groppa,
ché non è spirto che per l'aere vada.»
Or ci movemmo con la scorta fida
lungo la proda del bollor vermiglio,
dove i bolliti facieno alte strida.
Poi vidi gente che di fuor del rio
tenean la testa e ancor tutto 'l casso;
e di costoro assai riconobb' io.
Così a più a più si facea basso
quel sangue, sì che cocea pur li piedi;
e quindi fu del fosso il nostro passo.
The Seventh Circle of Hell
Poem XII
The place where to descend the bank we came
Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover,
Of such a kind that every eye would shun it.
O blind cupidity, O wrath insane,
That spurs us onward so in our short life,
And in the eternal then so badly steeps us!
I saw an ample moat bent like a bow,
As one which all the plain encompasses,
Conformable to what my Guide had said.
And between this and the embankment's foot
Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows,
As in the world they used the chase to follow.
«But by that virtue through which I am moving
My steps along this savage thoroughfare,
Give us some one of thine, to be with us,
And who may show us where to pass the ford,
And who may carry this one on his back;
For 'tis no spirit that can walk the air.»
We with our faithful escort onward moved
Along the brink of the vermilion boiling,
Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments.
Then people saw I, who from out the river
Lifted their heads and also all the chest;
And many among these I recognised.
Thus ever more and more grew shallower
That blood, so that the feet alone it covered;
And there across the moat our passage was.
L'Ottavo Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XVIII
Luogo è in inferno detto Malebolge,
tutto di pietra di color ferrigno,
come la cerchia che dintorno il volge.
A la man destra vidi nova pieta,
novo tormento e novi frustatori,
di che la prima bolgia era repleta.
Nel fondo erano ignudi i peccatori;
dal mezzo in qua ci venien verso 'l volto,
di là con noi, ma con passi maggiori.
Da l'altra sponda vanno verso 'l monte.
Di qua, di là, su per lo sasso tetro
vidi demon cornuti con gran ferze,
che li battien crudelmente di retro.
Poscia con pochi passi divenimmo
là 'v' uno scoglio de la ripa uscia.
Assai leggeramente quel salimmo;
e vòlti a destra su per la sua scheggia,
da quelle cerchie etterne ci partimmo.
Del vecchio ponte guardavam la traccia
che venìa verso noi da l'altra banda,
e che la ferza similmente scaccia.
Quindi sentimmo gente che si nicchia
ne l'altra bolgia e che col muso scuffa,
e sé medesma con le palme picchia.
Le ripe eran grommate d'una muffa,
per l'alito di giù che vi s'appasta,
che con li occhi e col naso facea zuffa.
Lo fondo è cupo sì, che non ci basta
loco a veder sanza montare al dosso
de l'arco, ove lo scoglio più sovrasta.
The Eighth Circle of Hell
Poem XVIII
There is a place in Hell called Malebolge,
Wholly of stone and of an iron colour,
As is the circle that around it turns.
Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish,
New torments, and new wielders of the lash,
Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete.
Down at the bottom were the sinners naked;
This side the middle came they facing us,
Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps.
On the other side they go towards the Mountain.
This side and that, along the livid stone
Beheld I horned demons with great scourges,
Who cruelly were beating them behind.
Thereafterward with footsteps few we came
To where a crag projected from the bank.
This very easily did we ascend,
And turning to the right along its ridge,
From those eternal circles we departed.
From the old bridge we looked upon the train
Which tow'rds us came upon the other border,
And which the scourges in like manner smite.
Thence we heard people, who are making moan
In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles,
And with their palms beating upon themselves
The margins were incrusted with a mould
By exhalation from below, that sticks there,
And with the eyes and nostrils wages war.
The bottom is so deep, no place suffices
To give us sight of it, without ascending
The arch's back, where most the crag impends.
Il Nono Cerchio dell'Inferno
Canto XXXII
S'ïo avessi le rime aspre e chiocce,
come si converrebbe al tristo buco
sovra 'l qual pontan tutte l'altre rocce,
io premerei di mio concetto il suco
più pienamente; ma perch' io non l'abbo,
non sanza tema a dicer mi conduco;
ché non è impresa da pigliare a gabbo
discriver fondo a tutto l'universo.
Per ch'io mi volsi, e vidimi davante
e sotto i piedi un lago che per gelo
avea di vetro e non d'acqua sembiante.
Non fece al corso suo sì grosso velo.
Ognuna in giù tenea volta la faccia;
da bocca il freddo, e da li occhi il cor tristo
tra lor testimonianza si procaccia.
Quand' io m'ebbi dintorno alquanto visto,
volsimi a' piedi, e vidi due sì stretti,
che 'l pel del capo avieno insieme misto.
E poi ch'ebber li visi a me eretti,
li occhi lor, ch'eran pria pur dentro molli,
gocciar su per le labbra, e 'l gelo strinse
le lagrime tra essi e riserrolli.
Con legno legno spranga mai non cinse
forte così; ond' ei come due becchi
cozzaro insieme, tanta ira li vinse.
Poscia vid' io mille visi cagnazzi
fatti per freddo; onde mi vien riprezzo,
e verrà sempre, de' gelati guazzi.
E mentre ch'andavamo inver' lo mezzo
al quale ogne gravezza si rauna,
e io tremava ne l'etterno rezzo;
se voler fu o destino o fortuna,
non so; ma, passeggiando tra le teste,
forte percossi 'l piè nel viso ad una.
«Via, via!» Uno gridò.
Noi eravam partiti già da ello,
ch'io vidi due ghiacciati in una buca,
sì che l'un capo a l'altro era cappello;
e come 'l pan per fame si manduca,
così 'l sovran li denti a l'altro pose
là 've 'l cervel s'aggiugne con la nuca.
Dante Alighieri
The Ninth Circle of Hell
Poem XXXII
If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous,
As were appropriate to the dismal hole
Down upon which thrust all the other rocks,
I would press out the juice of my conception
More fully; but because I have them not,
Not without fear I bring myself to speak;
For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest,
To sketch the bottom of all the universe.
Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me
And underfoot a lake, that from the frost
The semblance had of glass, and not of water.
So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current.
Each one his countenance held downward bent;
From mouth the cold, from eyes the doleful heart
Among them witness of itself procures.
When round about me somewhat I had looked,
I downward turned me, and saw two so close,
The hair upon their heads together mingled.
And when to me their faces they had lifted,
Their eyes, which first were only moist within,
Gushed o'er the eyelids, and the frost congealed
The tears between, and locked them up again.
Clamp never bound together wood with wood
So strongly; whereat they, like two he-goats,
Butted together, so much wrath o'ercame them.
Then I beheld a thousand faces, made
Purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder,
And evermore will come, at frozen ponds.
And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle,
Where everything of weight unites together,
And I was shivering in the eternal shade,
Whether 'twere will, or destiny, or chance,
I know not; but in walking 'mong the heads
I struck my foot hard in the face of one.
«Begone!» One cried.
Already we had gone away from him,
When I beheld two frozen in one hole,
So that one head a hood was to the other;
And even as bread through hunger is devoured,
The uppermost on the other set his teeth,
There where the brain is to the nape united.
Dante Alighieri
THE DEVIL IN THE MODERN WORLD
Pier Paolo Pasolini
A 21st century
Divine
Comedy
Sarah Floreani
Lorena Schrott
There is no past, no future, everything flows in an eternal present. [28]
Dante and I walked side by side, navigating through the dense shadows of Mumbai.
The streets pulsed with neon lights, their glow illuminating the sordid sides of human nature—greed, corruption, and a hunger for power. For every flashy advertisement promising paradise, there was a soul drowning in misery beneath it.
OG dramatic poet Dante Alighieri
intellectual madman who hated the world but loved art Pier Paolo Pasolini
Article I: Acknowledging the Total Moral Sh*tshow
We admit, without any sugar-coating, that the world is a hot mess of moral pollution. We're swimming in capitalism, greed, TikTok challenges, and whatever “influencer culture” is supposed to be. Whether it's mindlessly scrolling, getting lost in the endless scroll of despair, or watching political chaos unfold like a trainwreck, we're guilty. We admit it. We are all sinners.
We acknowledge that the stuff we’re consuming—Instagram lies, YouTube drama, mindless consumerism, and corporate greed—has completely polluted our souls, and we need to clean it up ASAP. Like, we get it, we’re lowkey trash. Let’s fix it.
Article II: Personal Responsibility
We promise to stop blaming the algorithm for our bad decisions. Yes, you. Stop acting like the algorithm is out here controlling your life. We commit to being better, because—plot twist—it’s not the universe that’s the problem, it’s the choices we make. Like Dante said, hell is just a bunch of personal screw-ups that lead to an eternity of awkwardly trying to avoid your ex.
Article IV: Art, Culture, and the
Ultimate Flex of Human Consciousness
Stop being basic.
Article III: Hypocrisy
Don't be a Karen.
Dante’s Divine Comedy was basically one big roast of people who talked a good game but did nothing.
Article V: Redemption
Try Not to go to Hell (Literally or Figuratively)
Article VI: the Society we need
believe in redemption
act with purpose
aim for the stars
#DanteVibesOnly #PasoliniPower #HellYeahDante
#DanteAndChill
#PasoliniRants
#FromInfernoWithLove
#DanteDidItFirst
#PasoliniSaidWhat
#RedemptionArcLikeDante
In Mumbai today, corruption’s a business model—just sell your soul for a quick profit and call it 'hustling.
In my day, the fraudsters got stuck in hell. Now they get paid for their sins.
"Where greed is crowned and guilt walks free,
Where gold and ruin share the sea.
The waters cleanse, yet stain the soul,
Come find me here, 'ere bells toll."
I: Perhaps writing is a matter of life and death. [29]
Dante: No, writing is just death.
The crowd bustled around them, people hungry for more—more things, more fame, more money.
Dante: Greed of money and greed of honour both are greed, the one as wrong as the other, and he who fights in this vice gets hell for himself. [30]
I: Perhaps the wealthy are infallibly damned. Even possessing a change of clothing is an obstacle to salvation. [31]
Dante: The cities, in the end, make ferocious men because they make corrupt men. [32]
As we walked through Colaba Market, the heart of consumerism, we encountered the overwhelming display of advertisements and endless desires. Neon signs screamed out promises of happiness and fulfillment. People buying things they didn’t need to fill a void they couldn’t name.
The New Inferno
Dante: They desire what they are led to desire. [33]
I observed the procession of people, all moving as if in a trance.
I: Consumerism is the new form of fascism. The markets control people like never before.[34]
A billboard flickered: "SELL YOUR SOUL – IT IS MARKET PRICE."
Dante: See how it is, Pasolini! It is desire we desire. [35] The Dance of Human Life [36] is in full swing here. People chase desires like they’re performing an eternal tango. This market, this festival of temptation, is where it all begins. The End of the Beginning, the End of the End. [37]
I: Yes, it’s like every ideology here is a fraud. They all claim to be the truth, yet they aim only to mislead, control, and subjugate. [38] We’re surrounded by the instruments of oppression [39], masked as consumer choice. In the era of consumerism, man has become an object, a mere thing. [40]
Dante: You’re right.. It’s capitalism at its finest—desire manufactured to be consumed. It’s all a game to them. A thousand plateaus: Capitalism, Schizophrenia [41] and desire, and yet no real progress is made. The markets control people like never before.
Dante: The desire for enrichment is a trap. [42] People are led to want, to consume, without ever questioning whether they truly need what they’re chasing.
We strolled further, passing the mansions and luxury cars of Malabar Hill.
Dante: For seeing the wills of most men are governed only by fear, and where there is no power of coercion, there is no fear. [43] Here, the passions of covetousness and greed rule, to the breaking of covenants. The rich live in their castles, oblivious to the moral pollution around them.
I: Yes, and it’s not just here. All that they had been able to see and experience concerning morality was daily life in a working class family where it was evident no one had ever thought there was any way other than the hardest kind of labour to acquire the money necessary to their survival. [44] The rich feed off this, never realizing that they have become part of the moral decay.
Dante: Time and life swirl around us, yet it all feels like a performance, a series of actors performing on the infinite stage of human existence. [45] It is a comedy!
I: It’s meant to be a dance. [46] It seems to flow by the law of causality.
Dante: And yet, individualism is only an appearance and an illusion. It is the hanging curtain behind which the reality of capitalism conceals itself. [47] A disturbing history of inequitable treatment [...] [48], of consuming desires that never cease.
The sound of distant laughter echoed through the alleyways as a group of children played by the steps of Banganga Tank.
I: The existence of evil was not something to discuss idly or theorize, but to live with. [49] It’s part of this dance we’re all part of—one way or another.
Dante: It’s true. Absolute oblivion separates what is thus forgotten from the person, but not from the man.[50] And to behold the Dance of Death, there remained the dead only. [51] We’re all dancing to a tune we can’t hear until it’s too late.
I: And when you're dancing, of course, everyone you bump into is a legend. [52] Perhaps they too are lost in their own dance of life, trapped in this cycle of desire.
Dante: Abandon every hope, all you who enter. [53] For here, the Dance of Human Life [54] is not about the steps, but about what we’ve become in the end.
I: The irony, Dante, is more profound than they suspect. [55] But here, in the end, it’s all just a brief outline of Hell. [56]
Dante: You would be surprised!
The Disease Without Cure
The city’s core exhaled the stench of corruption. We arrived at Malabar Hill, where the opulent mansions gleamed with money stolen from the people below. The luxurious neighbourhood stood in stark contrast to the poverty that surrounded it. A well-dressed man handed a bribe to a politician, sealing the future of an unjust deal.
Dante: Governments are a conspiracy of the rich, who, on pretence of managing the public, only pursue their private ends. [57]
I: Corruption, on the other hand – either corruption for the sake of money or corruption for the sake of power – has a different nature from that of strait-laced bureaucracy. [58]
We glanced at a group of officials shaking hands, their smiles false.
Dante: The belief that wealth always originated in crime linked crime and corruption as the indissoluble bond between the MANsion and the slum. [59] This corruption never ends. The struggle for property and the greed for money are a basic social evil. [60]
We passed by a new skyscraper, rising high above the slums. It is ultimately a disturbing history of consistently inequitable treatment in both opportunity and recognition. [61]
The Theatre of Lies
A glowing television screen flashed an image of a charismatic politician smiling broadly, making promises as hollow as the air. The image reminded Dante of the false narratives he’d seen unfold throughout history.
Dante: Fraud is man’s peculiar vice. [62] It is the false image of reality that corrupts the soul of the people. Fraud twists their perception of truth. [63]
I glanced at the crowd, their eyes glued to the screen, entranced by the lies.
I: Television is not just a medium of communication; it is a fraud that shapes the consciousness of the people, making them believe in false realities and corrupting their minds. [64]
The advertisement shifted to a new image, a smiling family holding up product boxes.
I: Capitalism now involves the skilful manufacture of desire. [65]
Dante: In the end, the greatest fraud of all is the false image of reality—the corruption of authentic culture by the market, the selling of a fake, plastic version of the world.
A beggar knocked on the door of a luxurious restaurant near Banganga Tank, and the chef shooed him away.
I: Fraud, wherewithal is every conscience stung. A man may practice upon him who trusts. [66]
Dante: Fraud lies at the heart of every system. It corrupts not just the material but the very soul of society.
The Violent Descent
Dante: Wrath. The eternal fire of rage and destruction. There is no sin sacrifice and no atonement for wrath except the dearest, highest sacrifice, the death. [67]
I: Life killed life. It was the first guilty act, from which all others followed. [68] Crime is not born from necessity—it is the product of greed and rage, of an uncontrollable desire to conquer, to destroy.
Dante, watching a group of young men: Every man who eats the sour grapes shall have his own teeth set on edge.” [69]
I: Crime is the reflection of the city itself— Crime is always rooted in the public sphere of economic and political corruption. [70] The people who rise through crime are only following the path laid out for them by the system.
Dante: Sin is a fire that never dies. Wrath, greed, and all their ilk burn the soul. And they make us blind.
Dante and I walked through a dark alley near Banganga Tank, where the screams of violence echoed in the distance. A street gang engaged in a brutal brawl, fists pounding against skin, violence bleeding into the streets.
The Eternal Sleepwalkers
We reached a district near Banganga Tank, where people wandered aimlessly, disconnected from the world around them, as if trapped in a waking dream.
Dante: The one who acts is like a sleepwalker. How can he be guilty? [71]
I: Guilt disappears, but like radioactive matter, it continues to emit radiation. [72] People choose not to see their own guilt. They’re trapped in a cycle of ignorance, sleeping through their lives.
Dante: Your sin will find you out. [73] Perhaps the greatest sin is refusing to see the truth.
I observed a man on his phone, oblivious to the chaos around him.
I: The hell, the tragic, the abyss [74]... people are living in it every day, and yet they cannot wake up from it.”
Dante’s voice grew distant, as if speaking to himself: Life is dead. Destiny consented to this irony. [75]
you know me
CONTRACT
1 Hugo, Les Miserables
2 Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
3 Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
4 Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815
5 Hugo, Les Miserables
6 Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt, Twentieth Century Architecture
7 Hugo, Les Miserables
8 Dante, The Divine Tragedy
9 Carter, Shaking A Leg
10 Luther, Works of Martin Luther Vol 5
11 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
12 Hugo, Les Miserables
13 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
14 Carter, Shaking A Leg
15 Erasmus, Poems
16 Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology
17 Calvin, Harmony of the Law Vol 3
18 Melanchthon, On Christian Doctrine
19 Rosemont, Black Brown Beige Surrealist Writings from Africa and the Diaspora
20 James Joyce, Prayers
21 James Joyce
22 Etlin, In Defense of Humanism
23 James Joyce
24 James Joyce
25 Calasso, Ardor
26 Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968
27 Calasso, Ardor
28 Narendra Modi
29 Carter, Shaking A Leg
30 Luther, Works of Martin Luther Vol 5
31 Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium
32 Hugo, Les Miserables
33 Chiapello, The New Spirit of Capitalism
34 Pasolini, Ilm Corriere della Sera
35 Sedlacek, Economics of Good and Evil
36 Haskell, Patrons and Painters
37 Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968
38 Pasolini, The Destruction of the Italian Left
39 Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
40 Pasolini, Empirismo eretico.
41 Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture
42 Marx, Capital Volume 3
43 Hobbes, The Elements of Law Natural and Politic
44 Camus, The First Man
45 Lavin, Past Present
46 Palmer, Queer Defamiliarisation Writing Mattering Making Strange
47 Lefebvre, State Space World
48 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
49 Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt, Twentieth Century Architecture
50 Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding
51 Michelet, The History of France Vol 2
52 Duncan, The James Bond Archives
53 Sloterdijk, Globes Spheres Volume II Macrospherology
54 Haskell, Patrons and Painters
55 Marx, Collected Works
56 Mallgrave, Modern Architectural Theory
57 More, Utopia
58 Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities
59 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
60 Da Vinci, Notebooks
61 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
62 Dante, Divine Comedy
63 Pasolini, The Cinema and the Culture of Consumerism
64 Pasolini, interview
65 Varoufakis, Technofeudalism
66 Dante, Divine Comedy
67 Melanchthon, On Christian Doctrine
68 Calasso, Ardor
69 Voegelin, Order and History 1
70 Agrest Conwy Weisman, The Sex of Architecture
71 Calasso, Ardor
72 Calasso, Ardor
73 Erasmus, Poems
74 Rosemont, Black Brown Beige Surrealist Writings from Africa and the Diaspora
75 Hugo, Les Miserables
CIRCLE ONE: LIMBO - THE POET AND THE PROTEST THAT DOESN'T SELL
Setting:
PASOLINI and DANTE enter the scene, their footsteps soft on the ground, disturbed only by the echoes of their own presence. The scene feels thick with staleness, a city that has forgotten its soul. In the middle of this forsaken place stands JAYANT, the revolutionary poet, reciting verses — not to an audience, but to the void.
The Poet’s Voice:
At the heart of Limbo, Jayant, a revolutionary poet long forgotten, stands alone, clutching his dog-eared notebook. His eyes are burning with the intensity of old ideals, but his voice falters, knowing it will not reach anyone. The protest, once fierce and righteous, now falls on deaf ears.
JAYANT (Poet)
(shouting with intense passion)
“Who speaks of freedom while the children starve?
Who sings of justice in the land of the blind?
The wealthy dance, their feet on the backs of the poor—
Their silence louder than the cries of the unheard!”
The words echo through the empty, stagnant air. PASOLINI watches, his expression grave, but DANTE seems unperturbed, as if this is the expected fate of those who dared speak truth without a listening ear. Around them, the exiles sit, expressionless, weary. They’ve heard it all before.
DANTE
(with a resigned tone)
“This is Limbo, Pasolini. A place where the lost souls speak and no one listens. The voices of those who dared but failed.”
PASOLINI
(with a soft sigh)
“But these words should matter... Why do they not echo in the world above?”
DANTE
(pauses, looking around)
“Because the world up there is deaf to this kind of cry. The message you hear, the truth you see — it's no longer valued. No one is listening, and no one wants to hear.”
CIRCLE TWO: THE INTERRUPTION - GRANDPA’S DANCE OF REVOLUTION
Setting:
Just as the weight of Jayant’s words lingers in the air, a figure emerges from the shadows — Grandpa, an elderly man with a mischievous grin and a knowing twinkle in his eye. He steps forward, shaking his head as he watches Jayant, his laugh like a small rebellion against the sorrow in the air.
GRANDPA
(calling out with a jovial tone)
“Protest doesn’t sell anymore, Jayant!”
(grins playfully, tapping his foot)
“But you know what does? A good dance!”
Without waiting for a response, Grandpa begins to dance — not with grace, but with wild abandon. His movements are erratic, joyful, and infectious. PASOLINI watches in disbelief as Grandpa twirls and stomps, completely unfazed by the solemnity of the situation.
GRANDPA
(laughing, to himself, as he dances)
“They don’t want our words, so let’s give them our feet!
They don’t hear the cries, but they’ll hear this beat!
Protest doesn’t sell, so why not dance instead?
Give them movement and make them lose their heads!”
The exiles look on with confusion at first, some raising an eyebrow, others shaking their heads. But then, something strange begins to happen — Pasolini, though initially hesitant, finds himself caught in the rhythm.
DANTE
(with an amused glance at Pasolini)
“This... is how they will resist now. No one listens to the poets. But everyone will watch a dance. The revolution has changed, Pasolini. It wears a different face.”
CIRCLE THREE: THE DANCE OF THE SOULS - JOINING THE REBELLION
Setting:
As Grandpa dances, he beckons others to join him. The first few hesitant souls glance around, unsure whether this madness has a purpose. But slowly, one by one, the exiles begin to move. They rise from their seats, their stiff bodies gradually loosening as they sway and shuffle in time with the dance.
Grandpa’s infectious joy spreads through the group. The weight of years of protest, of empty words, begins to lift, replaced by the strange power of shared movement. Pasolini finds himself swept into the rhythm, his initial awkwardness giving way to the joy of liberation.
JAYANT (Poet)
(laughing, despite himself, watching the absurdity of it all)
“A dance? This is what we’ve come to? Is this the new revolution? A carnival?”
GRANDPA
(spinning wildly, pulling Pasolini into the dance)
“Protest doesn’t sell anymore, but this does! Who cares about the speeches when you can move, when you can laugh? Come on, Pasolini, move those feet!”
Reluctantly at first, Pasolini joins in, and soon he is spinning, stumbling, but alive in the shared rhythm of rebellion. Dante, watching the scene unfold, smiles, sensing something that Pasolini is only beginning to grasp — that sometimes the deepest rebellions are not the ones that scream the loudest, but the ones that make people feel something — even if it is joy.
CIRCLE FOUR: THE LESSON - MOVEMENT AS REVOLUTION
Setting:
As the dance continues, the atmosphere in Limbo begins to change. The lost souls, so weighed down by years of desolation, now share in this moment of unity. The movement becomes something more than just an act of defiance — it is a communion of the forgotten, a rebellion against the commodification of their pain.
PASOLINI
(panting, laughing, caught in the moment)
“Is this how it’s done now? A revolution without words?”
DANTE
(with a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming)
“Words are no longer enough, Pasolini. The world has grown tired of hearing them. But the dance... the dance speaks in a language everyone understands.”
GRANDPA
(twirling in the center, laughing loudly)
“Revolution can be funny too! And it can move your soul if you let it.”
The dance becomes a symbol of joy, of rebirth, a momentary escape from the crushing weight of protest as usual. In the rhythm of movement, Pasolini understands — sometimes the most powerful act of resistance is not to fight, but to find joy, to be free from the systems that seek to oppress, even if only for a moment.
THE POETS WATCH - THE CITY BURNS
MUMBAI - NIGHT
A sprawling metropolis, its skyline punctuated by neon lights, slums merging with high-rises. A torrential rain washes over the city.
PASOLINI, an aging filmmaker and poet, wanders the desolate streets of Dharavi, lost in an existential crisis. He hums Piazza Grande under his breath, its melancholic melody mixing with the honks of rickshaws and the sizzling of street food stalls.
He stumbles near an abandoned textile mill, where shadows stretch unnaturally under flickering tube lights.
From the darkness, DANTE, a gaunt, enigmatic figure in a white kurta, emerges. His eyes burn with ancient knowledge.
DANTE(calm, knowing)“You walk as if your soul weighs more than your body.”
PASOLINI(annoyed, wiping rain from his face)“And you talk as if you just stepped out of a myth. Who the hell are you?”
DANTE“A poet, once. Now, a guide. I’ve been sent to show you what lies beneath this city’s shimmering veil.”
PASOLINI(scoffing, looking around)“Beneath? I already see the filth.”
DANTE“There are worse things than filth, Pasolini. Come.”
Dante turns into a dark alley, leading Pasolini into THE INFERNO OF MUMBAI.
CANTO II: LIMBO – THE FORGOTTEN VOICES
EXT. BANGANGA TANK – NIGHT
A half-moon reflects in the still, black water. The surrounding temples are cracked, overtaken by weeds. Small fires flicker where people sit—poets, activists, whistleblowers, all long forgotten.
An OLD POET, wrapped in a shawl, recites to a small audience, his voice rough yet defiant.
OLD POET(with rising passion)“They erased our words,Buried our ink in concrete dreams.Now we speak in whispers,And only the rats listen.”
The crowd murmurs in agreement. A JOURNALIST, eyes bloodshot, lights a bidi.
JOURNALIST“I exposed a scam. They called me an enemy of progress. Now I write wedding announcements.”
A middle-aged TEACHER chuckles bitterly.
TEACHER“I taught history, until history became optional.”
A YOUNG POET, dressed like an influencer, laughs, holding up a phone.
YOUNG POET(mocking)“Oh, grandpa, that’s cute. But revolutions don’t get views. Wanna go viral? Add a dance challenge.”
Laughter ripples through the group, but beneath it, there’s grief.
Pasolini watches, disturbed. He turns to Dante.
PASOLINI(softly)“They remind me of the poets of my time.”
DANTE(nods, voice heavy)“And like your time, no one listens.”
A television mounted on an ancient shrine flickers to life, playing a news broadcast ridiculing the old poet. The audience throws crumpled newspapers at it.
OLD POET(quietly, to Pasolini)“Truth will never trend. But it will survive.”
Pasolini lowers his head, unsure whether to weep or rage.
EXT. HAJI ALI DARGAH – DAWN
Dante disappears, leaving Pasolini alone in the golden morning light. The city, for the first time, feels still. The Arabian Sea laps gently against the causeway.
A familiar figure appears—NINETTO DAVOLI, his longtime friend, now a radiant vision in a simple kurta. His curly hair bounces as he grins.
NINETTO(grinning)“You look like hell.”
PASOLINI(exhausted, chuckling)“I’ve seen hell.”
Ninetto playfully ruffles Pasolini’s hair. They walk together through the waking city.
EXT. CHAWL – EARLY MORNING
They pass a CHAI VENDOR sharing tea with a beggar. A FISHERMAN hums an old prayer as he casts his net. A MURALIST paints an alleyway with a vision of a better world.
NINETTO(laughing, pointing at the chai vendor)“See? The city isn’t all lost.”
Pasolini watches as a CHILD STREET PERFORMER balances on a tightrope between two rooftops, grinning fearlessly against the sky. A group of young students paint over hateful graffiti, transforming it into a vibrant mural of unity.
Further down the street, a woman in a simple sari hands out books to eager children. Nearby, an old man fixes discarded bicycles and gives them to kids who need them.
PASOLINI(softly, to himself)“They endure. They build.”
Ninetto turns to him, eyes gleaming.
NINETTO“They do more than endure. They create.”
As the city awakens fully, the streets fill with life—not just of survival, but of laughter, of community, of shared dreams.
The notes of Piazza Grande rise over the city as the sun illuminates Mumbai’s streets.
Pasolini, for the first time in his life, allows himself to believe.
He smiles.
FOURTH AND FIFTH CIRCLE (CAPITALISM & THE DEAD SOULS) – THE EXECUTIVE GRAVEYARDINT. CORPORATE OFFICE – NIGHT
An endless row of glass-walled offices high above Mumbai. The city below is a sea of lights, but the faces inside are dimmed.
Inside, CORPORATE WORKERS sit hunched at their desks, scrolling spreadsheets, their movements robotic. Their eyes flicker like dying bulbs.
A CEO, dressed in a tailored suit, watches from his private office. His hands grip gold-plated stress balls.
CEO(whispering to himself, a twisted prayer)“More. More. More.”
A young FINANCE ANALYST, barely in his twenties, stares blankly at his monitor. His reflection in the screen is gaunt.
FINANCE ANALYST(softly, to himself)“If I quit, I am nothing.”
Pasolini touches his shoulder, but the young man does not react. His eyes remain fixed on numbers that never stop growing.
Dante gestures toward a CONFERENCE ROOM, where ghosts of past workers sit at a table, their hands moving as if still typing, their voices repeating the same reports, though no one listens.
A BURNED-OUT MANAGER clutches his chest, breathing heavily, ignored by colleagues glued to their screens. An ambulance siren wails outside, unheard.
PASOLINI(to Dante, horrified)“This is worse than death.”
DANTE(solemnly)“Because it is living without a soul.”
SECOND CIRCLE (LUST) – THE BROKEN DREAMSINT. LUXURY HIGH-RISE – NIGHT
A lavish penthouse, where Bollywood producers and political elites revel. The air is thick with perfume and false promises. Ghostly women, victims of exploitation, dance endlessly under golden chandeliers. Their faces shift between desire and despair.
A STARLET, smoking on the balcony, gestures at a torn movie poster of herself.
STARLET(sarcastic, exhaling smoke)“I was their dream girl. Now, I’m just a bad investment.”
Pasolini tries to flirt, but she laughs.
STARLET(smirking)“Oh, honey, I don’t do art house. Subscribe to my OnlyFans.”
Inside, a director whispers promises into a young actress's ear. She nods, hesitant, as shadows stretch behind her, whispering warnings only she can’t hear.
THIRD and FOURTH CIRCLE (EXCESS & EMPTY DESIRE) – THE SHOPPERS’ PURGATORYINT. SHOPPING MALL
A massive luxury mall in Lower Parel, glowing like a temple of excess. Screens play endless advertisements. People wander, zombie-like, eyes glued to their phones, fingers scrolling mindlessly.
A row of FAST-FASHION CUSTOMERS fight over discounted clothes. They grab and tear at fabric, obsessed with owning more, only to discard it minutes later. Nearby, a PLASTIC SURGEON hands out leaflets promising “New Faces, New Lives.”
DANTE“They chase something they can never catch. And they know it.”
A YOUNG WOMAN, perfectly styled, records a video.
INFLUENCER(cheerful, robotic)“Hey guys, so today I’m showing you how to look poor but aesthetic!”
Dante leads him past a CASHIER, stuck in an endless loop of scanning and bagging. Her face is blank, her hands move mechanically. A CORPORATE EXECUTIVE watches from above, sipping expensive whiskey.
Setting: The Unfinished Towers
A half-constructed skyscraper looms over the city, abandoned midway due to a failed investment. Rusting scaffolding and skeletal beams stretch toward a polluted sky. The sound of the wind howling through the empty corridors resembles distant, mournful cries. This is the realm of those who lived without conviction, those trapped between failure and fulfillment.
Dante and Pasolini ascend the unfinished floors, each level housing a different kind of regret.
FIRST TERRACE: THE LOST CREATORS
(The Artists Who Sold Their Voices)
Here, filmmakers, poets, and musicians pace endlessly, carrying unfinished scripts and songs that no one will ever read or hear. Their eyes flicker with past ambitions, but their mouths are sealed with golden tape.
A FAMOUS DIRECTOR shuffles toward Pasolini, clutching an Oscar-shaped shadow.
FAMOUS DIRECTOR
(whispering, ashamed)
"I told them I would make cinema that matters. Instead, I made what they paid for. They called it a masterpiece. I called it a mistake."
A POET sits at a typewriter, forever rewriting the same verse, never satisfied.
POET
(muttering to himself, crumpling paper)
"Too soft… too safe... too late."
Dante turns to Pasolini.
DANTE
"These are the ones who had fire but let it die in exchange for comfort. Now, they chase a perfection that will never come."
Pasolini watches as they continue their endless revisions, their creativity now a prison.
SECOND TERRACE: THE INDENTURED DREAMERS
(The Youth Who Waited Too Long to Live)
A sea of office cubicles stretches across the unfinished floor, glowing in the dull light of computer monitors. Here sit young professionals, their fingers twitching over keyboards, though the screens show nothing.
A YOUNG MAN IN A SUIT notices Pasolini and Dante. He gestures toward a framed certificate hanging from nothing.
YOUNG MAN
(half-smiling, exhausted)
"I was promised it would mean something. The degree, the job, the money. I worked. I waited. I saved. But when I looked up, my youth was gone."
Pasolini sees a woman in her thirties staring at a boarding pass that will never be used.
WOMAN
(laughing bitterly, to herself)
"I was going to leave this city. Just one more year, I said. Then another. Then another."
The workers' hands move, filling out invisible forms, their faces frozen in expressions of hesitation.
Dante sighs.
DANTE
"They were told to sacrifice their present for a future that never arrived. Now, they are stuck in between, neither young nor fulfilled."
THIRD TERRACE: THE PARENTS OF UNFINISHED LEGACIES
(Those Who Lived for Others but Lost Themselves)
Pasolini and Dante step onto an abandoned terrace. Families sit at long dining tables, but no one speaks. Mothers and fathers clutch old photographs, their gazes distant.
A FATHER grips the armrest of his chair, his voice shaking.
FATHER
"I gave everything to my son. The best schools, the best clothes. But I never gave him time. Now, he doesn’t know my face."
A MOTHER, dressed in expensive but faded silk, holds a wedding ring.
MOTHER
(softly, almost to herself)
"I stayed in a marriage that drained me. For my children. For society. And when I finally wanted to leave… I had already disappeared."
Some try to speak, but their words evaporate before reaching their children, who stare at their phones, unaware.
Pasolini watches in silence.
THE FINAL ASCENT: THE MIRROR OF REDEMPTION
At the highest level of the unfinished skyscraper, a single rusted elevator door stands open. A cracked mirror inside reflects Pasolini’s own face.
DANTE
"Regret is heavy, but there is still time. Those who climb this far must make a choice—stay here forever, or step forward and change before it’s too late."
Pasolini hesitates. The weight of the stories he has heard pulls him backward.
Then, in the reflection, he sees something—a flicker of himself, younger, unafraid, stepping into the unknown.
He steps into the elevator. The doors creak shut.
As the screen goes dark, the sound of the city returns—distant, humming, alive.
SIXTH CIRCLE (PRIDE) – THE MIRROR MAZE
ELITE - MALABAR HILL
A terrace overlooking the Arabian Sea. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting an endless loop of self-obsession. The wealthy elite sip overpriced cocktails, their laughter hollow, their eyes flickering between their reflections and their phones.
A SOCIALITE, dressed in designer clothes, adjusts her face under the neon glow, practicing the perfect expression for her next post.
SOCIALITE(murmuring to herself, taking selfies)“Effortless. Confident. Powerful.”
A YOUNG ENTREPRENEUR, recently crowned a ‘visionary’ in a business magazine, boasts loudly to a silent crowd.
ENTREPRENEUR(grinning, sipping whiskey)“I built this empire from nothing. Hard work. No handouts. You just have to want it enough.”
Dante gestures to the mirrors. Pasolini peers into one. He sees distorted versions of the guests—thin, stretched, and cracking at the edges.
A CELEBRITY CHEF, followed by millions, stares at his reflection with panic. His lips move, but no words come. A screen behind him shows a scandal breaking—his image shatters into tiny pixels.
DANTE(whispering to Pasolini)“They worship themselves, yet they are trapped in the gaze of others.”
A TYCOON, surrounded by wealth, lifts a glass to toast himself. But when he drinks, the wine turns to dust in his mouth. He coughs, but no one notices.
TYCOON(eyes widening, voice cracking)“Why can’t I taste anything?”
The guests, despite their wealth, their beauty, their curated perfection, all seem terrified. Trapped in a cycle of validation, they are unable to look away from their own reflections.
Pasolini steps back. The mirrors distort further, revealing masks—each guest wears one, shifting constantly, desperately adapting to whatever trend will keep them relevant.
Pasolini turns to Dante, unsettled.
PASOLINI“They live only to be seen.”
DANTE“And in doing so, they vanish.”
The mirrors begin to crack. The guests scream, but the sound is silent.
Pasolini and Dante step into the ancient Banganga Tank, where the first golden rays of sunlight reflect off the still water. The ghats are quiet but alive—a sacred place hidden within the city's chaos.
Women wash clothes at the steps, their voices carrying old songs across the water. A priest lights incense at a small shrine, its fragrance mingling with the scent of wet stone and morning air. Children, oblivious to the sanctity of the space, chase each other barefoot, laughter echoing between the temple walls.
There are no advertisements here. No artificial glow. Only time itself, untouched.
Pasolini watches an elderly man feeding stray dogs. Nearby, a group of fishermen prepare their nets, their hands moving with the precision of generations before them. A tabla player sits by the water’s edge, drumming softly, lost in his own rhythm.
A woman in a simple sari notices Pasolini watching.
WOMAN(smiling, handing him a diya)“For those who have lost their way.”
Pasolini hesitates, then kneels at the water’s edge, lighting the small oil lamp. The flame flickers, reflected a thousand times on the rippling surface.
Dante watches, satisfied.
DANTE(softly, almost to himself)“The poets always return to the people.”
A melody drifts through the air—Piazza Grande. Someone hums it softly, and slowly, others join in, voices blending, imperfect yet true. The song floats over the water, a hymn for the forgotten, a quiet rebellion against the noise of modernity.
The New Inferno
The Disease without a Cure
Colaba to Charon
THE POETS WATCH – THE CITY BURNS
MUMBAI – NIGHT
A sprawling metropolis, its skyline punctuated by neon lights, slums merging with high-rises. A torrential rain washes over the city. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a single, small echo of protest against the night.
PASOLINI, an aging filmmaker and poet, wanders the desolate streets of Dharavi, lost in an existential crisis. He hums Piazza Grande under his breath, its melancholic melody drowned in the relentless crescendo of rickshaw horns, neon advertisements, and the sizzling of frying bread. He pauses by a crumbling textile mill, where shadows stretch unnaturally under flickering tube lights.
A thought grips him suddenly: The poet wonders when the rising crescendo of destruction will end. [ ]
From the darkness, DANTE emerges—a gaunt, enigmatic figure in a white kurta.
DANTE "You walk as if your soul weighs more than your body."
PASOLINI "And you talk as if you just stepped out of a myth. Who the hell are you?"
DANTE "A poet, once. Now, a guide. I’ve been sent to show you what lies beneath this city’s shimmering veil."
PASOLINI "Beneath? I already see the filth."
DANTE "There are worse things than filth, Pasolini. Witness them! [ ]"
DANTE "It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science into its paid wage laborers. [ ]"
DANTE "In a more advanced state of civilization, a poet is rather the creature of art, than of nature. [ ]"
PASOLINI "He who says poet, says fool, madman. [ ]"
DANTE "The poet, the man of strong feelings, gives us only an image of his mind, when he was actually alone, conversing with himself, and marking the impression which nature had made on his own heart. [ ]"
PASOLINI "More than a poet, you’re a dramatist! [ ]"
The words linger between them like the final notes of an incomplete poem.
DANTE "One poet said of another poet: He won’t go far, he doesn’t know the secret. [ ]"
A trick. A foolish fantasy. [ ] An illusion. [ ] Everything is perhaps illusion, but with no credulity. [ ]
And what is the difference between illusion and blank nothingness? [ ]
Dante vanishes into the shadows.
Pasolini follows.
Into the Brief Outline of Hell. [ ]
THE MASKED FEAST: A GATHERING OF SHADOWS
INT. LUXURIOUS MANSION – NIGHT
The air is thick with opulence and deceit. A long dining table stretches into the distance, its surface gleaming under the chandelier’s cold light. Beyond the velvet curtains, there is a terrace, providing a magnificent view of the city. The skyline shimmers, but here, inside, the glow is artificial—manufactured.
This is a place where masks are worn, not to conceal, but to define. The belief that wealth always originated in crime linked crime and corruption as the indissoluble bond between the mansion and the slum. The guests here shape the world, or at least, they believe they do. Their laughter is hollow, their smiles calculated. They have power, they have wealth—but they have no soul.
At the center of it all sits THE STARLET. Her posture is poised, her expression serene, her beauty sculpted to perfection. She is watched by the camera but never truly seen by those around her. There is something constant, however, in its dance. She wears elegance like armor, but her eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty, a silent longing for something real.
Beside her, THE PLASTIC SURGEON surveys the room through cold, analytical eyes. His presence is precise, his gestures minimal. He is a man who controls appearances—whether through his scalpel or through silence. Ideologies dance about in this void , but he does not partake. He remains still, resisting the movement, the pull of the dance.
At the far end, THE CELEBRITY CHEF stands, watching, listening. His humility is an illusion, his posture betraying quiet arrogance. His hands are those of a creator, but he creates only for the applause. And when you’re dancing, of course, everyone you bump into is a legend. He feeds the poor to keep his name in the headlines, an artist in performance rather than in passion.
In the corner, half-shrouded in shadow, THE CORPORATE EXECUTIVE plays his role. A villain by design, but no one truly understands why. His power is secret, his philanthropy hidden beneath layers of self-preservation. So—stand up, run, jump, move, dance! The world sees a ruthless tycoon, but beneath the mask, something restless stirs.
And then, DANTE and PASOLINI—silent witnesses on the outskirts of this charade. They watch as the room moves, as the dance unfolds. Then came the dancing. A masked ritual of power, ambition, and deception. Dancing and singing: Kallim.
Pasolini leans toward Dante, his voice barely a whisper.
PASOLINI "What are they waiting for?"
DANTE "It’s meant to be a dance."
DANTE "That truth, no matter how we look at it, is always the same."
PASOLINI "Such is true knowledge, ambiguous yet ultimately more relevant than scientific truth."
A toast is raised. A toast to power, to beauty, to artifice. The glasses clink—a moment of unity that is nothing but an illusion.
DANTE "Truth always lags last, limping along on the arm of Time."
The chandelier flickers for a moment, casting brief, uncertain shadows across the guests' faces. The masks slip, if only for a second.
Then the music swells. The dance continues.
DANTE "The masked dance is the danced law of causality."
PASOLINI "Existence is not only an agitated void, it is a dance that forces one to dance with fanaticism."
The city glows beyond the terrace, distant yet watching. The slums breathe in their sleep.
Here, in this room, in this moment, nothing is still.
DANTE "The Dance of Human Life."
PASOLINI "Except for the point, the still point, there would be no dance, and there is only the dance."
The music plays on. The night does not end.
In a mansion grand, beneath a crystal dome,
The city's wealthy gathered, far from home.
Their laughter hollow, their words rehearsed,
Each one playing a part—each soul cursed.
THE STARLET’S ILLUSION: THE PRICE OF DESIRE
INT. HIGH-RISE APARTMENT – MIDNIGHT
Rain. The rain is ever. [ ] It beats softly against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the neon skyline beyond.
The STARLET stands before a mirror, scrutinizing her reflection. The soft glow of the vanity lamp carves shadows along her face—sharp, deliberate. She checks her phone again, scrolling through endless comments and likes. Each one a small burst of validation, yet none of them feel real.
DANTE (appearing quietly in the doorway)
"Do you ever look away? Can you survive without the mask?"
She pauses. The screen’s glow flickers in her pupils as she forces a smile.
STARLET "Looking away means disappearing. I can’t afford to disappear."
She turns, flicking through old photos of herself. A different time, a different face. She felt the rain and turned to her solitary home. [ ]
STARLET "I used to be their dream. Now I’m their distraction. And distractions are disposable."
Her fingers hover over the screen. Another post, another performance. The cracks are widening. When will it end? [ ]
Dante steps closer, watching. His voice is calm, but heavy with something unspoken.
DANTE "And yet individualism was only an appearance and an illusion, the hanging curtain behind which the reality of capitalism concealed itself." [ ]
STARLET "Actors performing on the infinite stage of human existence. [ ]"
They appear in a multiplicity of figures: departing, tearing oneself away, journeying, wandering, drifting in the anonymity of great cities. [ ]
DANTE "The theatre—the site par excellence of the multiplication of identities, of mystification, conspiracy, fraud." [ ]
The phone screen dims. A push notification reminds her: They desire what they are led to desire. [ ]
STARLET "What is the greatest fraud of all?" [ ]
Dante watches her through the mirror, his reflection overlapping with hers.
DANTE "It is the false image of reality, the corruption of the authentic culture by the market, and the selling of a fake, plastic version of the world."[ ]
Her jaw tightens. The miserable souls of those who lived without infamy and without praise. [ ]
She tosses the phone onto the vanity, where it lands with a hollow thud.
STARLET "Trust vanished. Without trust, nothing works." [ ]
She turns to him now, her eyes searching.
STARLET "I want the real thing."
A silence stretches between them. Rain streaks the windowpane.
DANTE "Is desire an emotion?"[ ]
She doesn’t answer.
He steps forward, picking up the phone from where she dropped it. The great danger is the corruption of the soul, not only in terms of morals but in terms of culture. [ ]
DANTE "The soul of a people is a cultural question, and it is this culture that is being systematically destroyed." [ ]
She looks away, watching the storm outside.
STARLET "The society of consumerism is the greatest fraud of all: it tells people they are free, but in reality, they are slaves to a false sense of desire, a hunger that can never be satisfied." [ ]
DANTE "In the era of consumerism, man has become an object, a mere thing." [ ]
She leans against the mirror, closing her eyes.
DANTE "Consumerism is the new form of fascism. The markets control people like never before." [ ]
STARLET "They tell us we are progressing, but in reality, we are being duped into believing that consumerism is the only way forward, when in fact it is a trap, a fraud that masks our true needs." [ ]
The rain keeps falling. It does not stop. It does not last.
DANTE "They desire what they are led to desire." [ ]
Her eyes flutter open, glassy, unreadable.
DANTE "It must show off, tempt, and stimulate desire." [ ]
STARLET "The growth in needs and the desire for enrichment." [ ]
A notification buzzes on her phone. Another brand deal, another collaboration, another opportunity to stay afloat.
She picks it up, thumb hovering over the screen. To desire action is to desire limitation. [ ]
Dante watches, waiting.
DANTE "Capitalism now involved the skillful manufacture of desire."[ ]
STARLET "It is desire we desire." [ ]
A gust of wind rattles the glass. The city stretches beneath them—a glittering abyss, hungry, waiting.
STARLET "Was there no hope of enlightenment?"[ ]
He does not answer.
She looks back to the mirror, but all she sees now is an incomplete image. A fragmented self.
The cracks are there. And they are growing.
DANTE "Production not only supplies the want with material, but supplies the material with a want."[ ]
STARLET "Hope again?"
Dante watches her, unreadable. His desire, or her desire, does not enter the picture at all. [ ]
She presses the phone against her forehead, closing her eyes. But there is no guarantee that this desire coincides with the general interest. [ ]
The rain continues. The city waits.
STARLET "For, whether we call it satisfaction, delight, pleasure, happiness, or uneasiness, trouble, pain, torment, anguish, misery… they are still but different degrees of the same thing." [ ]
She finally sets the phone down. The screen turns black, a void reflecting nothing but herself.
DANTE"A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia."[ ]
STARLET "Where bourgeois capitalism made elements like citizens?"
DANTE "Time, Work Discipline, and Industrial Capitalism." [ ]
STARLET "The hell, the tragic, the abyss."[ ]
A flash of lightning cuts through the skyline. The city is burning in lights, flickering like an illusion.
Her voice is quiet now.
STARLET "We wish, so long as this fire burns the mind, to plunge to the depths of the abyss." [ ]
Dante turns to leave.
She stares into the mirror, one last time.
STARLET "Hell or Heaven, what does it matter?" [ ]
She reaches for the phone. The screen lights up. The cycle begins again.
The rain is ever. [ ]
THE STARLET’S ILLUSION: THE PRICE OF DESIRE
INT. HIGH-RISE APARTMENT – MIDNIGHT
The STARLET stands before a mirror, scrutinizing her own reflection, her face glowing from the soft light of a vanity lamp. She checks her phone again, scrolling through endless comments and likes—each one a small burst of validation, but none of them feel real.
DANTE (appearing quietly in the doorway)
"Do you ever look away? Can you survive without the mask?"
STARLET (pausing, staring back at him, forcing a smile)
"Looking away means disappearing. I can’t afford to disappear."
She turns away, flicking through photos of herself from another life—when she was younger, when she was everything.
STARLET
"I used to be their dream. Now I’m their distraction. And distractions are disposable."
Her fingers hover over her phone. Another post, another attempt to remain relevant. But the cracks grow wider.
________________________________________
THE SURGEON’S GUILT: FACING THE SHATTERED IMAGE
INT. PLASTIC SURGEON’S OFFICE – DAY
The PLASTIC SURGEON works with eerie precision, his hands a blur over the face of a client. The person in his chair talks happily about her upcoming wedding, but his mind is elsewhere. It always is.
DANTE (sitting, watching, detached)
"Is this your salvation? To fix what can’t be fixed?"
PLASTIC SURGEON (without looking up, his voice hollow)
"I fix the outside. Maybe that will make the inside feel better. Maybe it won’t."
He glances at a photo on his desk—a young girl, smiling, laughing. His daughter, lost to a world that values beauty over all else.
PLASTIC SURGEON
"It doesn’t bring her back. But maybe, just maybe, I can save someone else."
His hand shakes for a split second as he holds the scalpel.
________________________________________
THE CHEF’S DUALITY: A KITCHEN OF CONTRADICTIONS
EXT. SLUMS – NIGHT
In a dim alleyway, the CELEBRITY CHEF kneels beside a hungry child, offering food from his own hands—hands that cook for the rich, hands that now serve those who cannot pay.
DANTE (standing in the shadows)
"Which world do you belong to, chef? The kitchens of the elite, or the alleys of those you pretend to save?"
The chef doesn’t respond immediately. He gazes down at the child, ruffling the boy’s hair gently.
CHEF (softly, as if speaking to himself)
"Neither. Both. The work here is honest, but I’m not sure it’s enough."
He stands, moving with a grace that is more performance than necessity. His eyes meet DANTE’s, and there’s a fleeting vulnerability—a hint of the man who serves with both pride and shame.
________________________________________
THE EXECUTIVE’S SHADOW: THE TASTE OF HATRED
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE – NIGHT
The CORPORATE EXECUTIVE leans back in his leather chair, reading the reports from another destructive deal he’s closed. His phone vibrates—a text from a charity asking for more. He types a quick reply, his fingers swift, but there’s no joy in it.
DANTE (emerging from the shadows)
"You play the villain so well. But the truth… is there any room for that in your world?"
EXECUTIVE (smirking, cold)
"The truth? The truth doesn’t make money. Villains are easy to hate. People need to blame someone for the mess they’ve created. I’m happy to oblige."
He closes his laptop, his eyes hard as he stares out the window. The protests below—he relishes their anger. It’s control in its purest form.
________________________________________
THE FINAL DAWN: THE GATHERING OF SECRETS
EXT. BANGANGA TANK – DAWN
The early light of day spills over the water. The four figures stand silently, drawn together by fate—or by something older. Their faces are a mixture of pride, regret, and something much darker. Their stories remain hidden beneath layers of secrecy.
DANTE and PASOLINI observe, watching as the city stirs awake. No one says a word. The surface of the water reflects their faces, fractured and incomplete.
Here, on the edge of this city of endless contradictions, they are forced to confront their own truths—though none of them will admit it just yet.
Pasolini out there having an existential crisis in HD.
Dante popping in like a philosophical jump-scare.
#EatTheRich
Pasolini and bestie overthinking at 2AM. #brojustgotosleep #MidnightCrisis
Bro thinks he's Dr. Frankenstein but with Botox.
#Botox&Regret
#CapitalismGotHands
#PlasticnotFantastic
Dante lurking in the shadows like the world's most judgmental food critic.
#MonopolyThings
#InfluencerMeltdown
#MainCharacterVibes
Pls say it is Macarena?
Burn.
Dante lurking in the shadows like "Sir, explain yourself!"
Corporate dude clicking "Donate" like it's a game of Minesweeper
THE SURGEON’S GUILT: FACING THE SHATTERED IMAGE
INT. PLASTIC SURGEON’S OFFICE – DAY
A sterile, immaculate space. The faint hum of fluorescent lights.
The PLASTIC SURGEON works with eerie precision.
His mind is elsewhere. Empty? IT was empty. The empty one?
DANTE "Is this your salvation? To fix what can’t be fixed?"
PLASTIC SURGEON "I fix the outside. Maybe that will make the inside feel better. Maybe it won’t."
A framed photograph on his desk. A young girl, laughing—his daughter, long gone. The empty coffin remains.
For a brief moment, his hand trembles.
DANTE "How would they be diverted to see the ambitious man consuming himself by running after a phantom, and, pursuing the bubble fame in ‘the cannon’s mouth’ that was to blow him to nothing?"
PLASTIC SURGEON "For when consciousness is lost, it matters not whether we mount in a whirlwind or descend in rain."
The woman in the chair, oblivious, continues talking about perfection. About beauty. About capturing the perfect moment.
He listens. There is a lust of conquering, no matter by what means, which is called opinionativeness.
DANTE "Greed for money."
PLASTIC SURGEON "In all hearts there is naturally a reserve of grand passions; when greed for gold alone remains, it is because all the rest, which should have been stimulated and developed, have been enervated and stifled."
His eyes linger on the woman’s expectant, hopeful face.
PLASTIC SURGEON "Money cannot buy love, nor can it guarantee happiness."
DANTE"Here we witness the advent of desire, the advent of want—desire for something you don’t have and don’t really need."
PLASTIC SURGEON
"This excess is at work across the entire range of culture, from high art to the lowest consumerism."
The woman smiles at her reflection in the hand mirror he offers her. She sees perfection. He sees something else.
DANTE
"In a related usage, consumerism is the idea that the choices made by consumers should shape production and, by extension, the structure of the economic system as a whole."
Silence. More silence.
Stark, empty, ticking.
The woman chatters on, her voice fading into the background.
The surgeon watches his own reflection in the mirror. The impression of endlessness. The sensation of oppressiveness and horror. The sensation of complex irrationality.
THE CHEF’S DUALITY: A KITCHEN OF CONTRADICTIONS
EXT. SLUMS – NIGHT
A dim alleyway, slick with the remnants of rain. Neon lights flicker in the distance, reflecting in puddles like dying stars.
The CELEBRITY CHEF kneels beside a hungry child, offering food from his own hands—hands that craft delicacies for the elite, hands that now serve those who cannot pay. The boy eats quickly, as if the meal might vanish before he is full.
In the shadows, DANTE watches, his voice a quiet murmur against the night.
DANTE
"Which world do you belong to, chef? The kitchens of the elite, or the alleys of those you pretend to save?"
The chef does not respond immediately. He gazes down at the child, ruffling his hair gently. Shadow. Darkness. A wild darkness, full of traps, full of unseen and formidable shocks, into which it was alarming to penetrate, and in which it was terrible to remain.
The boy looks up at him, eyes wide, trusting.
CHEF (softly, as if speaking to himself)
"Neither. Both. The work here is honest, but I’m not sure it’s enough."
He stands, moving with a grace that is more performance than necessity. His eyes meet DANTE’s, and for a moment, something flickers—pride, shame, contradiction. The End of the Beginning, the End of the End.
A gust of wind rattles the metal shutters of a nearby stall. A figure emerges from the darkness, lighting the street lamps with a long pole. I misliked this, and when I sat a little longer, there entered a man, who filled the candelabra in the saloon and lit the waxen candles; and behold, he also was handlopped.
DANTE
"The urban slum was always cast as ‘other,’ providing necessary resolution but never existing as a place on its own, only as a counterpoint to the sites of wealth, power, and corruption."
CHEF
"All that they had been able to see and experience concerning morality was daily life in a working-class family where it was evident no one had ever thought there was any way other than the hardest kind of labor to acquire the money necessary to their survival."
The child swallows the last bite, licking his fingers.
DANTE
"For seeing the wills of most men are governed only by fear, and where there is no power of coercion, there is no fear; the wills of most men will follow their passions of covetousness, lust, anger, and the like, to the breaking of those covenants, whereby the rest, also, who otherwise would keep them, are set at liberty, and have no law but from themselves."
The chef’s hands tighten into fists.
CHEF
"Add the fact that money gathered up with enormous pains cannot alleviate greed or put it to rest."
DANTE
"By then, people were maintaining that all the rich, being corrupted, were infallibly damned; that even to possess a change of clothing was an obstacle to salvation; that to invite a rich man to dinner was a mortal sin. That it was right to take from the rich in order to give to the poor; but that the poor, on the other hand, were necessarily in a state of grace which carnal indulgence could in no way impair."
CHEF
"The flood comes upon them because of the sins of others."
A distant siren wails. The city continues on—unaware, indifferent.
Dante and the chef stand in silence, the air thick with the unspoken.
DANTE
"The conversation monotonously, but also fiercely, negotiated the thorny question of whether one had the right to pursue happiness in a troubled world."
The child, now full, looks up at them both. He grins, revealing missing teeth.
The chef forces a smile, but Dante has already turned away, vanishing into the dark.
THE EXECUTIVE’S SHADOW: THE TASTE OF HATRED
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE – NIGHT
The CORPORATE EXECUTIVE leans back in his leather chair, eyes scanning the reports of another destructive deal closed in his favor. A notification glows on his phone. The money he uses to build is tainted with mockery and corruption.
A shadow shifts in the dimly lit room. DANTE emerges from the darkness, his voice edged with quiet amusement.
DANTE
"You play the villain so well. But the truth… is there any room for that in your world?"
The EXECUTIVE smirks, cold, controlled. Every ideology is a fraud when it claims to be the truth; all ideologies are tricks that aim to control, to mislead, and to subjugate the masses.
EXECUTIVE (leaning forward, folding his hands)
"The truth? The truth doesn’t make money. Villains are easy to hate. People need to blame someone for the mess they’ve created. I’m happy to oblige."
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawls in its neon-lit hunger. Below, protesters chant, their anger a distant murmur, like waves crashing against a cliff. He watches them with detached satisfaction. The power of the negative and the sweet poison of corruption.
DANTE (softly, almost a whisper)
"Pride is the beginning of sin."
The EXECUTIVE chuckles, shaking his head.
EXECUTIVE
"The cities, in the end, make ferocious men because they make corrupt men."
Dante steps closer, his presence almost spectral.
DANTE
"Your sin will find you out."
The smirk fades for a fraction of a second. The EXECUTIVE grips the armrests of his chair, his knuckles whitening. Have you forgotten?
The protests below intensify—flares of red smoke curling into the air, voices raw with rage. Even though their evil doings become at length too glaring for concealment, they, either by their wealth or by identifying themselves with some political clique, laugh to scorn the complaints of justly indignant public opinion.
The EXECUTIVE rises, pressing a hand against the glass, staring down at them like a god surveying his creation.
EXECUTIVE (murmuring, as if to himself)
"One shall arise from small beginnings that will rapidly become great. He shall have respect for no created thing; but by his power, he shall transform almost everything from its natural condition into another."
DANTE
"The struggle for property and the greed for money are a basic social evil."
The EXECUTIVE turns, his expression unreadable.
EXECUTIVE
"Governments are a conspiracy of the rich, who, on pretense of managing the public, only pursue their private ends… first, to preserve all that they have so ill-acquired, and then, to engage the poor to toil and labor for them at the lowest rates possible."
He exhales sharply, as if pushing something away.
EXECUTIVE (laughing bitterly)
"Corruption?"
DANTE
"Corruption, on the other hand—either for the sake of money or for the sake of power—has a different nature from that of strait-laced bureaucracy."
The EXECUTIVE smirks once more, but there’s something brittle in his eyes.
EXECUTIVE (mocking)
"Every one shall die for his own guilt: every man who eats the sour grapes shall have his own teeth set on edge."
Dante watches him for a long moment. Then, he turns, walking back into the shadows.
DANTE (as he disappears)
"The decline and fall. The decay of the world. Endlessness. The smallness and ephemeral life of human beings."
The EXECUTIVE stares at the glass again, but this time, his own reflection is all he sees.
THE FINAL DAWN: THE GATHERING OF SECRETS
EXT. BANGANGA TANK – DAWN
The first light of day spills over the water, casting long shadows over the ancient steps. Four figures stand silently, drawn together by fate—or by something older. Their faces hold a mixture of pride, regret, and something much darker. There are still secrets to be known.
Nearby, DANTE and PASOLINI observe, their gazes fixed on the rippling surface of the tank. The city begins to stir, but here, on the edge of its endless contradictions, time seems to hold its breath. The silence of a night saturates a void.
No one speaks. The water reflects their faces—fractured, incomplete, shifting with the movement of the world around them. Does nobody understand?
For a moment, it feels as if something is about to be revealed. But the moment passes.
Only joy, only anguish.
Still, they do not turn away. Not yet.
Perhaps writing is a matter of life and death.
Mumbai calls. And still, in silence , they remain.
Pasolini stood, and breathed in the air,
A final question, a moment of prayer.
"The city will burn," Dante whispered low,
"But through the flames, we learn and grow."
And so, the journey came to end,
Not with answers, but with the truth to mend.
We all wear masks, we all hide pain,
But in the end, we rise again.
In a mansion grand, beneath a crystal dome,
The city's wealthy gathered, far from home.
Their laughter hollow, their words rehearsed,
Each one playing a part—each soul cursed.
Dude is saving a kid but doesn't realise his soul is cooked anyway.
clown.
This surgeon out here acting like fixing faces will solve his whole life, bruh just go to therapy like the rest of us.