It’s devastatingly hard to crush a skull.
For all its lifelong fragility, the human skull is a significantly tough nut, which is why crematoriums have assistants on call to shove a stick into a pyre and ram it through what once was head, breaking it down so the flames licking at it can consume it quicker. As a child, I thought this skullcrushing was the reason these people are called Domes. They aren’t, even if it sounds like they are. Doms — or Masaanis, as they’re frequently referred to in North India, the ones who man the Masaans, the crematoriums — are a brutally marginalised people, one the rest of our frequently filthy yet eternally queasy nation considers too filthy to touch.
It is here that Neeraj Ghaywan’s directorial…
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