I’ve spent months unable to tell someone how I actually feel about them just because admitting it out loud would expose a vulnerability I'm not ready to deal with, and that is human nature. We invent these silent fictions to protect our own egos, choosing the safety of a half-truth because the real shit demands a level of exposure we aren't ready for.

That will always be one of the more inconvenient parts of existing relationally. We live in a constant friction between our actual thoughts and what we’re able to voice, until deceit fuses into the routine upkeep of human connection; sometimes we tell our parents that we’re fine to avoid conversations we lack the energy to navigate, and sometimes we tell an old friend we miss them when we just miss the person we used to be when they were around. Most of these betrayals are so mundane that they barely register as dishonest.

Which is precisely why 'Pinocchio' got under my skin before I had a chance to even get through the first few tracks.

With an album built around the anatomy of lying, my initial skepticism came down to how exhausted the metaphor felt. Everyone knows the archetype: a wooden puppet lies, his nose grows, and the takeaway insists that honesty is the price of becoming a human being. It is an elementary fable diluted through relentless repetition but Shashwat Bulusu bypasses that to ask a much uglier question: at what point does deceit cease to be a tool you deploy and turn into a void you are forced to inhabit?

Bulusu’s previous work already demonstrated a willingness to step away from predictable songwriting. Where earlier releases relied on traditional folk arrangements and accessible vocal hooks, Pinocchio takes a far less comfortable turn. The album abandons background-friendly melodies meant to be played while driving or working. By forcing an immediate confrontation with its awkward subject matter, it deliberately disrupts the safe expectations listeners usually bring to independent Indian releases.

I plugged in my headphones and went for a walk through the humid evening heat in Gurgaon, letting the album play out in real time. My knee-jerk reaction to the opening was hesitation; the production came off heavy and dense, making me pause for a second just to contemplate if I was in the right headspace to sit with something this demanding.

Giving it room to breathe changed my perspective for sure. The dense arrangements capture that frantic feeling of getting caught in a lie and trying to talk your way out of it. But the record actually succeeds when the production drops down to bare vocals over simple percussion and that contrast grabs your attention. Without extra layers to hide behind, the vocal delivery lets go of the theatrical urbanity found in mainstream indie pop, leaning instead into an awkward, conversational cadence that makes the subject matter feel uncomfortably close.

To understand why this approach matters, one must look at the current state of the independent Indian music scene. The market is overwhelmingly saturated with unenterprising mood-based tracks composed specifically for algorithmic consumption. We get endless streams of soft acoustic pop, suave synth tracks, and comforting heartbreak anthems that ask very little of the listener. Most records function as sonic wallpaper, making them pleasant, unobtrusive, and easy to forget the moment the track ends. Independent music was supposed to offer an alternative to mainstream formulas, yet much of it has settled into a seemingly inevitable MO.

Instead of conforming to those expectations,'Pinocchio tries its best to resist that pattern by anchoring itself to an uncomfortable theme that forces a friction that's largely absent from most contemporary indie releases. The album doesn't care about being playlist-friendly, nor does it try to charm you into liking it right away. It demands your attention by making the listening experience feel intentionally heavy. In a scene where artists routinely play it safe to secure brand partnerships or curator spots, making an album this abrasive is a calculated risk because it challenges the assumption that independent music must always be easy to digest.

As the walk dragged on, the weight of the concept became exhausting. Spending an extended period submerged in this level of self-examination gets tiring; the music starts repeating the same emotional cycle, and eventually, the central premise begins to fatigue you, turning a compelling idea into something you want to step away from for a bit. The heavy arrangements that initially felt purposeful start to crowd the space, making the latter half of the record feel like a slog through familiar territory. By the time you reach the back end of the tracklist, the album has made its point several times over, leaving you wishing for a change in tone or a moment of relief that never arrives.

That structural flaw says a lot about the difficulty of maintaining a single conceptual framework across a full-length album. Lying is an exhausting subject, and by committing so thoroughly to mimicking that exhaustion, the album ends up testing the listener's patience. Whether that repetition is intentional or not, sitting through forty minutes of the exact same sonic experience starts to wear thin. There are stretches where the project feels burdened by its own ambition, holding onto a bleak tone long after the initial impact has worn off.

By the time I made it back to my front door, the humidity had settled and the final notes faded out. Pinocchio isn't an easy listen, nor do I think it is trying to sell a neat moral lesson about truth setting you free. It just forces you to look squarely at the minor dishonest accommodations you make every single day just to survive your own relationships. You might leave the experience drained by its repetition, but you carry the discomfort with you long after the headphones come off.

In the end, that discomfort is precisely why the record warrants attention. Indian indie music needs fewer polished crowd-pleasers and more projects willing to risk alienating the audience in pursuit of something genuine. Pinocchio may be flawed, and at times frustratingly monotonous, but ironically, it refuses to lie to you about what it is, and in a landscape built on easy pleasantries, that honesty is worth writing about.

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