$RAVE

In one colorful corner of Indian cinema lived an actress named Chandni Devi — a woman who overacted as if every scene was filmed on the last day of the Universe's existence. If a spoon fell in the frame — Chandni cried as if at the cremation of three generations. If the hero simply said, "I'm leaving," she would fall to her knees, thrashing in slow motion, gasping for air as if it had been canceled by censorship.

Directors initially tolerated it: "Expression, tradition, school." Then they began to cut her scenes. The cameraman once refused a close-up — Chandni's face up close looked like an apocalypse with mascara. The music had to be turned down so that the audience wouldn't laugh too soon.

The audience reacted strangely: tragedies turned into comedies, climaxes — into memes. The harder Chandni tried, the less she was believed. She inflated with emotions, gestures, screams, until she became a symbol of excess. Not depth, but volume. Not feeling, but hysteria.

Moral: an overacting actress is like a grotesquely inflated rave coin. There's a lot of noise, even more promises, emotions are off the charts — yet inside, there's emptiness. The price rises not from value, but from the scream. And when the lights go out, all that remains is an awkward silence and bewilderment.