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That was my first brush with the word—what I’d later understand was the Bunt version of dowry. Since then, every time I’ve brought up the topic in conversations with people from Europe or America, I’ve noticed a similar reaction: a quick moral monologue, complete with a shake of the head and a “how could your country still do this?” tone. They’d launch into a takedown of the dowry system with the kind of conviction that made it hard to interrupt.

Panchaatige wasn’t just mediation—it was an institution. A person revered for their fairness, wisdom, and ability to weigh complex matters without bias would be called upon to resolve disputes outside the court system. Their final word was the paathera. It wasn’t notarised, stamped, or sealed. It simply had weight—because it came from them. Their word was their bond.

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

The saga of Bunt hoteliers is not merely a tale of migration or economic endurance—it is a choreography of inherited behaviour, etched into

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