Somewhere between a man lifting a mountain and a woman twirling in chiffon on an actual glacier, Bollywood found its secret sauce. And no, it’s not logic. It’s whatever glorious nonsense happens when emotion, adrenaline, and glitter get thrown into the same kadhai.
Let’s be honest. Bollywood isn’t cinema. It’s a buffet of madness served with extra masala and tears. The kind where you go in for one plate and come out emotionally bloated but satisfied. It’s not just stories; it’s a feeling. One that involves screaming at the screen, crying during intermission, and pretending you could totally pull off that fight sequence if given the chance.
And if we’re talking secret recipes, then Baahubali is the chef’s kiss of it all. The modern masala blueprint. The biryani of the cinematic world. It had everything. Insane physics. Shirtless warriors. A waterfall so extra it could have its own fan club. And the mother of all mothers, who somehow managed to look like she was shooting a jewellery ad while avenging a kingdom.
We know it’s ridiculous. We know the physics department probably resigned mid-edit. But that’s the point. Bollywood isn’t meant to make sense; it’s meant to make you feel.
Because we don’t buy tickets for realism. We buy them for release. For three hours, life is simple. The hero wins, the villain loses, and everyone gets a dance number. And honestly? That’s the only logic I want in my life.
The laws of physics. Gravity who?
If Newton had seen Baahubali, he’d have packed up his apple and moved to Andheri. Because clearly, gravity took one look at Bollywood and said, “You’re on your own, kid; you always have been.”
Bollywood action scenes are less “physics” and more “faith.” In what, you ask? In vibes. Heroes don’t fight with muscles; they fight with emotional damage and protein powder. Fighter, Pathaan, RRR, Jawan — it’s all men and women doing cardio for patriotism, and falling in love for motivation.
You’ll see a guy run faster than a speeding train, punch ten people at once, and call his mother mid-air, and you’ll sit there whispering, “Yes king. Defy Newton. Defy logic. Defy rent.”
But you know what? We don’t care. Because watching Shah Rukh Khan walk away from an explosion in slow motion is the closest thing we have to one religion. Bollywood action isn’t about accuracy; it’s about aesthetic. You don’t need physics when you have faith and background music by Pritam.
And deep down, we’re all guilty. We cheer when cars flip in the air because we wish our problems could, too. Every stunt is a fantasy. Every punch is a little bit of therapy. Bollywood heroes are fighting villains along with our collective burnout.
It’s chaos. It’s nonsense. It’s beautiful. And I’d watch it again with my whole chest.
The unattainable love interest.
Most Bollywood women are not real people. They’re manifestations of the male gaze, the makeup industry, and divine intervention. They appear in soft light, hair blowing like a shampoo commercial sponsored by destiny, and for some reason, they’re always wearing chiffon in subzero temperatures.
But here’s the kicker — we love it. Because when Baahubali literally started a war just to prove his love to Devasena, we didn’t call him unhinged. We called him romantic. That’s the grip Bollywood has on us. A man climbs a mountain, kills fifty men, builds a temple, and we’re like, “Wow, he’s so emotionally available.”
Love in Bollywood isn’t subtle. It’s a full-blown musical with fireworks, violins, and poor life choices. In Rocky Aur Rani Ki Prem Kahani, they’re dismantling the patriarchy in chiffon. In Kabir Singh, they’re proving therapy is a myth. In Fighter, they’re making eye contact mid-air combat.
Bollywood doesn’t do soft launches. It does soft focus. Love here isn’t logical; it’s lyrical. It’s capitalism with a Cupid costume. And still, we buy into it because who doesn’t want to be looked at like that?
These heroines aren’t real, but they remind us that love doesn’t have to be realistic to be beautiful. Sometimes, it just needs a background score and a camera pan.
The escapist love song.
There’s a law in Bollywood: no emotion is valid until it’s sung about in at least three scenic locations.
You could be crying in a Mumbai local, but if A.R. Rahman starts playing, boom, suddenly you’re dancing in Iceland wearing clothes worth more than your tuition. Bollywood songs are emotional teleportation. They take you from reality to reel-ity.
When Baahubali sang by a waterfall, we all collectively decided geography was optional. When Fighter took a romantic duet from an airbase to the Maldives, we didn’t question it. Because the music hits, the lighting shifts, and suddenly, you’re there too. Not in the seat. Not in your life. But in the fantasy.
Bollywood songs aren’t filler. They’re therapy. They’re the comma in your chaos, the monsoon in your heartbreak. For three minutes, your life feels like choreography. The pain becomes poetic. The confusion becomes choreography.
And that’s why we keep listening. Because even if love fails, the chorus never does.
The satisfying aftertaste.
When the credits roll and the lights come on, you sit there with a dumb smile, wondering why a movie that made zero sense made you feel everything.
That’s Bollywood’s biggest scam. It tricks you into feeling alive. It feeds you a diet of melodrama, logic-defying stunts, and impossible love stories; and somehow, you leave nourished.
It’s not cinema. It’s collective delusion turned into art. It’s us, screaming “Maahishmati Samrajya!” in the theatre, pretending that if we trained enough, we too could lift a temple bell. It’s comfort food. It’s chaos. It’s catharsis.
Because Baahubali didn’t just lift a Shivling. He lifted our suspension of disbelief. He picked up our weary little hearts and said, “Here. Feel something again.”
Bollywood isn’t about realism. It’s about rhythm. It’s about how we fall apart in real life and then stitch ourselves back together in cinematic universes. Every film is a mirror we choose to look at sideways; just enough to dream.
So yeah, it’s absurd. But it’s also ours.
The moment we realise that we’re all a little Bollywood.
Here’s the thing: Bollywood works because we’re all a bit filmy.
We narrate our heartbreaks like monologues. We walk in the rain pretending there’s a camera. We cry on balconies like someone’s watching. And when life gets too real, we drown it in background music.
Maybe Bollywood isn’t unrealistic. Maybe it’s just honest about how dramatic we really are.
We crave stories that make our mundane feel magnificent. We want love that’s extra, pain that’s poetic, endings that hit like a violin crescendo. Bollywood isn’t just what we watch. It’s how we live.
Because deep down, we’re all heroes in our own badly edited movie (because we don’t have a 180cr budget). We all want our Baahubali moment: to lift something impossible, to love someone unreachable, to sing something unsayable.
Bollywood doesn’t serve reality. It serves emotion: medium rare, extra masala, with a side of delusion.
And you know what? I’ll take seconds.
Want more drama, delusion, and devotion packed into three paragraphs? Find us at Her Campus at MUJ, where logic takes a backseat and feelings do the choreography. Written by Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, who still believes every life crisis deserves background music by Pritam.