tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86129296681149326942024-02-20T04:45:26.598+04:00The Indian Trumpeta bi-monthly e-magazine for NRIs, theindiantrumpet.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-19586649183833811192014-09-18T13:03:00.002+04:002015-01-10T21:22:16.333+04:00Open letter to TOI: OMG, Deepika Padukone's cleavage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="line-height: 20px;">Dear TOI,</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">I am wondering why men and women are so furious with your story stating: ‘Omg, Deepika Padukone’s cleavage.” I am sure you are regretting that you didn’t talk about her legs instead: ‘Omg, Deepika Padukone's long legs.’ Everyone would have loved that. Some portals would have even got a cue and uploaded stories like: Ten things only women with long legs can understand. Or: How to date a woman with long legs.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">You see, the problem was not with your remark: it was with the body part you chose.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">For us, breasts are a personal topic, a secret best not spoken about. When our daughters start to ‘grow’ we teach them how to sit properly, talk politely, laugh softly, dance appropriately, walk gracefully, eat & cook healthy, work passionately, love endlessly and care boundlessly. We introduce them to their five senses, legs & hands and back & stomach. And knowingly and unknowingly we ‘fail’ to acknowledge their breasts. It is personal.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">When we feel our teenager needs a bra, we just hand over one to her. Her world crashes down. No more bouncy. If her boobs are allowed to play freely, she can damage the world. Does she know that? Of course she doesn’t. Do we tell her, ofcourse not. It is personal.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Our little girl doesn’t even know that the word ‘boobs’ denotes flirtatiousness, that ‘breasts’ are restricted to brochures about ‘cancer’ that most people type ‘bust’ instead of ‘busy’ when in a hurry (T and Y are provocatively placed next to each other on the keypad) and that grown-ups giggle inwardly when she says ‘titbits’.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">When she grows up and one day walks up to us and tells that a man tried to feel her breasts at a railway station, we ask her to ignore it. When an aunt urges her to bend down with caution, we ask her to follow the advice. When a salesman at a bra shop stares at her, we ask her to remember that he is just doing his job. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">I think it is ridiculous that you didn’t know this. Breasts are personal: we don’t flash details about them or the periphery in national dailies.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">When she becomes a young adult, we watch her giggle looking at delicate lacelike lingerie. When she gets married (or dates, if we decide to acknowledge: when we learn about it) we watch her buy some stuff. When she becomes a mother, we watch her with pride as she feeds her child. When she dies of breast cancer, we watch her fight it.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">I think it is ridiculous that you didn’t know this. Breasts are personal, we laugh at crude breast jokes in films (juicy apples, oranges). We don’t raise an alarm when we spot a rash on the left or the right one (we only wear pink ribbons). At times we even forget that men die because of breast cancer too: we think it is a ‘woman’ thing. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">How else do I explain this to you? You see, not only are our breasts personal but even our bras are. We don’t leave bras unattended in the washroom or on the bed, couch or cupboard: this is to avoid embarrassment or appear ‘suggestive’.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Weren’t you the paper that flashed stories on the Pink Chaddi Campaign? Come on, didn’t you think that why was there not an equally bigger Pink Bra Campaign?</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">It’s really personal.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">It’s a body part that exists and we all know it does.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Look at Facebook and Twitter, people are proving just that:</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Deepika Padukone: “I have a nose and nostrils.”</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Others: Deepika, you have a spine too.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">It’s just that we really can’t talk about it. Unless ofcourse it is the month of October. Wait, did you confuse September with October?</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Okay, this is really exhausting and unnecessary. I am not sure if you are really getting the point: So let us for the sake of mankind and womankind pretend that while the men have chests (and breasts) and wear vests I’m roaming the streets sans boobs and ‘vest-less’. I have nothing to ‘hide’.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">But just one more thing before I go and put my bra to dry on the clothes line (And yes, the women in my family told me to cover it with a towel: my balcony faces the neighbours): Was there no woman colleague on the desk that day? May be, she would have stopped you, warned you.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">I am really feeling sorry for you. So here’s a little tip for your future pieces: Don’t talk about bras. And not even periods. But feel free to talk of bra straps and underpants (panties) I think we’ve been okay with that in the past.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Yours,</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Purva Grover</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 20px;">Image: here</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-30069010257222780672014-01-05T14:31:00.004+04:002014-01-05T14:31:38.215+04:00Add ‘preparing’ for death to your to-do-list?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Life comes with a
deadline and when the time is over death just lifts you with its claws. Life
teaches you a lot but it can never teach you the lessons that death can. Many
of you may not have the patience to read this long gloomy post, piece of
writing, but it is my request that you read. I am going to be comparing death
with things like a donut and you may find it lame, hurtful and hate it too. But
I am going to do so because I want each one of us, 25 or 65, to prepare for
death, not as much as for our sakes but for the sakes of the lives we leave
behind. We prepare so much to sit for an entrance exam, to get ready for a
party, to speak to our boss for a raise, to propose to our teenage crush…can I
request you to take a few minutes out and prepare for death? I don’t want
anyone to start living in a state of fear (as I admit, I do) after reading this
piece but I do want you to feel a lump in your throat by the end, the lump that
will make you brave enough to approach the topic, death, with your family and
friends. And if you don’t have the patience to read it all, just read the last
bit. I don’t believe in talking of my personal pain on public platforms, I
refrain from it all the time but this time around I want to, for two reasons,
one, I need to write this to help me feel better and two, I want everyone to
‘prepare’. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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It was two years and two months back that one of my best
friends lost her dad. Ever since I have changed as a friend, daughter, sister,
aunt, lately a wife; I am a different person. A person who lives in a constant
state of fear, a person who asks herself the same question each morning, ‘Are
we growing that fast that our parents are going away?’ Yes, we’re growing old,
and our parents older. But, ‘It is time for them to go away?’ Is there ever a
‘destined’ or ‘right’ time for parents to just go away? Is there a ‘time’ for
anyone to go away? I shiver when my phone rings at a time it should not. I
cross my fingers when I get a SMS at an odd hour that reads, Call Me. On that
day when we visited our friend, another friend had said, ‘There was a time we
stood with each other when we stepped on the stage for a school annual day
performance now we’re here, we’ve really grown up.’ It was true, is true, we’re
growing up. But growing up was not making things easier. It was just bringing
us closer to the loss. After I lost my
grandparents a couple of years ago (both within less than a gap of a year, such
was their love that my nana decided to join my nani, when she left) I spent
years crying in the dark when everyone was sleeping. I had to be brave, I was
in my 20s. I had tried to comfort myself in many ways. I told myself that at
least <i>nani</i> came back home after
staying in the coma for a while and lived and left us from home, not in a
hospital. When <i>nana</i> gave up on
‘living’ and we could see him slowly drifting away from us we prayed and tried
to comfort him with ‘our’ presence but we couldn’t, how do you comfort a person
to live without ‘someone’ he had lived with for more than 60 years? We panic at
the sight of having to give away even a phone that we have used for years. When he left us, I tried to comfort myself
saying, ‘At least they are together now.’ Even till date I get moist-eyed every
single day but I don’t hide my pain anymore, I just look up and imagine both of
them looking at all of us, smiling. I tell them, I love them and I rub off my
tears and get on with life. But that’s not one of the hardest lessons ‘death’
has taught me. To ‘go on with life’ is hard but not the hardest. I remember an
aunt of a friend who had lost her husband when her kids when 10 and 8 saying
these words, ‘You know why God build us the way he did? So that when we lose
someone we force ourselves to get busy with lives. If there were no food to
cook, no job to earn money from, no kids to live for, no electricity bill to
remember to pay, etc. what would we do fill up the hours, what would get us
back to life?’ And till date her words ring in my ears, the starkness of the
words. The simple truth about death. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I write this I have lost a dear uncle to a sudden heart
attack. One evening he was smiling, same night he was no more. Someone has lost
a son, someone a brother, someone a husband,
someone a father. They will bounce back, live, get on with life. We will make
sure they do, we will be around, we will be…but he will not. Life will never be
the same for all of us. How will they live from this day on, I don’t know. My
hands shiver as I write this. We can’t fight death. When I spoke to my aunt (his wife) she said, ‘We can’t bring him back.
We all have lovely memories of him.’ She was giving me courage, holding herself
for her children. Her loss is unimaginable and she is already ‘living on’ for
the lives around her. Do we have the courage to do that? Or does death give us
the courage? I don’t have the answers. So, I am asking myself these questions
again and taking certain decisions, will you too please? Let’s prepare
ourselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Stay fit. Just like you take out time for a
drink with friends, a movie date with your partner, an extra hour for a
presentation… take out time to exercise, to visit a doctor regularly. Get the
required check-ups. If you can spend money on a pair of shoes you can spend it
on a semi-annual or annual medical check-up? FIT PEOPLE DIE, YOUNG PEOPLE DIE. Don’t
think you are a fit because you take the stairs and sleep well, get a check-up.
Go to a doctor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Encourage (if required force) your parents to
stay fit. They will ignore you at times. Gain weight, refuse to go to a doctor
for a cough, headache, chest pain etc. Even if they say they’re feeling better,
go visit them. Take them to a doc. Keep a tab on their pills, checking every
now and then if they’re taking the required dose. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Respect your parents. Once upon a time they were
patient with you when you threw tantrums to go to a doctor or drink the sweet
syrup. They missed movies, changed jobs, shifted homes, and sacrificed passions
for your sake. When it is your turn to do that, DO THAT. They are your KIDS
now, who need the love, care, warmth. Just like you were lost on the first day
at school or college and they held your hand, today they are lost, when you
left the home and went to hostel or started your own family or took a job
somewhere else, they felt as lost. HOLD THEIR HANDS. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Today it was he/he/them/his/her….tomorrow it
will be you/me/us. People go away. Remember there will be a day we will go
away. It is not always that ‘others’ lose their dear ones. WE WILL LOSE OUR
LOVED ONES TOO. Make arrangements. If you are married, sit down with your
partner tell him/her about the insurance covers, bank nominee papers, medical
covers…prepare a file with all the details, contact numbers, etc. You don’t
want her/him to be dealing with the paperwork in those times. Tell your
children the same thing too. Prepare them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Sit down with your parents and ask them to make
a WILL. You do that too. Pain, money, greed…such emotions make people act
weird, you don’t want to ever fight with your siblings or parent over money. God
forbid, you become your greedy or your sibling does, you don’t want to fight.
Not all children fight, but some do. Do your parents a favour, do yourself a
favour, and make a will. No you are not too fit or young, make a will.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Develop a hobby. You don’t want to be dependent
on anyone to fill in those empty hours when you have lost your partner and have
no one left to share a cup of <i>chai</i>
with. We will all die someday, sooner or later, we all feel lonely. We all look
up to our busy friends, children…whose lives will not halt as badly as ours
would when we lose our partner or parent or friend. So find for yourself a
comforting interest that will if nothing distracts your mind when you will
really need it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Never sleep over a fight, never leave home
angry, never hang up pissed… in short, complete every angry moment with a
resolve, smile, solution, hug. You will not be able to live with the regret of being
angry with the person you saw, spoke to for the last time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->Let the person grieve. Each one of us has our
own way of grieving with loss. If a person wants to be left alone for a while,
let him/her be, making sure they are fine. If they are angry, let them scream
at you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]-->And last, just tell your loved ones you LOVE
THEM, each day, each moment, hug them tight and tell them they mean the world
to you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: <a href="http://socialcomotion.com/Blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/R.I.P.-620x396.jpg">here</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-30777087690866625592013-11-16T12:54:00.001+04:002013-11-16T12:54:14.073+04:00R.E.T.I.R.E.M.E.N.T<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As I type this piece, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has retired.
Also, as I type this piece, thousands others have retired & retiring from
their workplace. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thousands just like SRT who are as good as him at their ‘jobs’
retire everyday from their work. They do well, inspire others. They say
goodbyes to their colleagues, collect their belongings in a cardboard box, cut
a ‘we will miss you’ cake… and as they walk back home they wonder to
themselves, “What will I do tomorrow morning?” They wonder where will they use
their work clothes, what time will they have their morning tea, what will be
happen to the mail that will be dropped off their work address… <o:p></o:p></div>
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We will all retire, one day. We all work hard. We all make ‘beautiful’
innings be it on the field, cubicle, garage, kitchen, school… <o:p></o:p></div>
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My Nana ji retired as a college principal, a long long time
ago. He used to cycle to college. Today, I am wondering what the thoughts in
his head were when he rode the cycle from college to home, the last time. I
remember the ‘moistness’ in his eyes. After he retired, he worked to restore
documents of historical literary work. He inspired us till he left us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Just a few weeks back, my dad retired after a very
beautiful, challenging & inspirational innings. I had dropped him this mail
on the last day of his work, “<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Hello
papa! </span>You must be feeling both sad & happy!
But I am sure you will enjoy and relax & then you can come and stay with
us! Yippiees!!Love you.” And he replied, “<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Dear Purva,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I am not felling sad at all.
Of course there will be a change in my life. I feel it would be ‘better’ than ‘present’.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I will
enjoy life in another way. May do something new. My new e-mail address
from 1st August is….. @gmail.com.
Love, Papa.” Today, I am looking back and smiling, my dad had planned his ‘farwell’
so well! He had even created a new e-mail id since he would not have access to
the official id! He is 63, he is an inspiration!! And he has taken up a new
course and is prepping for his exams! He had an exam last Saturday! <span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> </span><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> I am moist eyed as I am
thinking how he found the courage to tell us that he would not miss dressing up
for work each day, attending meetings, buying a goodie for us on his way back…
Dad, you inspire me, each moment!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Today,
I wish each one of our jobs & careers were such that we got a chance to
connect to millions, beyond our cubicles, and each one of us got the same ‘retirement’
as Sachin got today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Everyone who retires is sad & deserves a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Respect to SRT & all others who have said goodbye to their work.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Image: <a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/72570662/search?context_type=search&context_user=rae_horan&page=2&query=retirment">here</a></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-39095728819194147262013-11-03T14:06:00.001+04:002013-11-03T14:06:40.614+04:00Do diye zyada jalao... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLTNEUTe-3DmSQEonEdosl7KpqwbeCheI2LhgBokBsfWoU8-lFIpcRrmje1lKR5fU_pCXJrUDqAXFg7YQ_cUF95U0TZdMTLUKL-_Krla_l9yq6XB3c7_llZ9G-4m4fEZ_cA2G7LPEulg/s1600/IMG_7576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwLTNEUTe-3DmSQEonEdosl7KpqwbeCheI2LhgBokBsfWoU8-lFIpcRrmje1lKR5fU_pCXJrUDqAXFg7YQ_cUF95U0TZdMTLUKL-_Krla_l9yq6XB3c7_llZ9G-4m4fEZ_cA2G7LPEulg/s400/IMG_7576.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Do diye zyada jalao... </i></div>
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I am sure all of us have way too many places, people, moments, memories that deserve the extra two diyas... </div>
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I have a lot to feel grateful this Diwali and I hope it is the same for you! "The lovely cupcake, my niece, please don’t grow up. The ‘can’t-live-without’ sister, I will always call you at all odd hours. The ‘make-me-proud’ daddy, you are my inspiration. The smile, keep visiting me and all those I love. The books, I loved all the nights I spent with you. The new-found joke partner, bro-in-law, we rock.The Wi-Fi, you are the reason I wake up each morning. The ‘know-it-all’ mommy, how come you have a solution for everything? The grey cells, please don’t give up on me. The husband, thanks for being a lovely room mate! The Indian Trumpet magazine, thanks for making my life so colourful & stunning! The cosy work desk, can’t imagine life without you. The blessings, keep coming. The deadlines, you make time dearer.The lessons, I am learning. And all the wonderful people I have met & will meet in this new land, Dubai! </div>
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May each one of yours world sparkles a lot more this Diwali!</div>
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Image: Personal album</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-24791392042193797952013-10-21T18:07:00.001+04:002013-10-21T18:07:26.866+04:00The bitter truth about Karwa Chauth!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekU_FI98xyig6nsTMMWJyoMAm3Ez9Cnt7Bxb4-SHg_h5b9uUZ8dvi7f2HOHrmq6DEeiRnwusBKBjlR5aqtQxnOQgG3rSRBt12rNRwsjPCfGDgFPH67_0KFvAwF_juC2BIk5wBAZpcebg/s1600/359056-karva-chauth-spl-bwood-best-scenes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekU_FI98xyig6nsTMMWJyoMAm3Ez9Cnt7Bxb4-SHg_h5b9uUZ8dvi7f2HOHrmq6DEeiRnwusBKBjlR5aqtQxnOQgG3rSRBt12rNRwsjPCfGDgFPH67_0KFvAwF_juC2BIk5wBAZpcebg/s320/359056-karva-chauth-spl-bwood-best-scenes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The DDLJ Karwa Chauth scene!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I have just finished reading a piece on Karwa Chauth by
Shobhaa De titled ‘The bitter truth about Karwa Chauth…’, which appeared in
Mumbai Mirror on October 19<sup>th</sup> (Link here, <a href="http://www.mumbaimirror.com/mumbai/others/The-bitter-truth-about-Karwa-Chauth-/articleshow/24354820.cms">http://www.mumbaimirror.com/mumbai/others/The-bitter-truth-about-Karwa-Chauth-/articleshow/24354820.cms</a>)
and I couldn’t stop myself from penning my views on her piece!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I respect the women who fast, and do it with full belief and
faith. I will be fasting too and my hands are not devoid of heena! In fact,
just two hours back I got heena on my hands and I think it looks lovely. And while I was getting it done someone
commented, “Hey, you don’t really look like the type who would fast!” Now, I
honestly don’t know how people who fast are supposed to look! In fact, a few
days back someone had even commented, “Hey, you don’t really look like someone
who would be a vegetarian!” Again, I don’t know how vegetarians are supposed to
look! Am I to walk around with a cauliflower on my head! <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> Well, that’s another story. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So back to the piece by Miss.De. Is simple for me, just like
I don’t keep the doors of my home open on Diwali in the hope of Lakshmi walking
in, I don’t think a fast could lead to the prosperity or long life of my
partner. I feel it is a custom and as & when my heart and body allows me to
follow it, I will follow it. At the same time, I don’t think not fasting makes
Miss. De a terrible wife. I think this is a festival just like many other
Indian festivals and each one of us has the right to indulge and enjoy it in
our own way! We don’t need to really adopt a ‘feminist’ attitude towards
everything. Right? My husband won’t be fasting for me simply because it is a
custom followed (as per their individual choices) by women. We don’t wish our
fathers, a Happy Mother’s Day, right? If he wishes to fast along with me that
is completely his choice, not a judgement on our affections for each other. And
yes, some women like to dress up in ‘bridal finery’ on Karwa Chauth, which I
think is their way of celebrating the festival! Don’t we dress up on Diwali? Or
wear pink ribbons in aid of breast cancer? Or walk into mall adorned with red
hearts on Valentines? I see nothing wrong in woman over-dressing on Karwa
Chauth just like I see nothing wrong in woman under-dressing while attending ‘high-profile’
social gatherings, fashion dos, et al (which, the internet tells me Miss. De
attends just like she attended this one Karwa Chauth lunch). I see nothing wrong
in women fasting for a man, a custom, a tradition…just like I see nothing wrong
in women dieting to be a size smaller or smoking or drinking to fit in a circle
or generally because they enjoy it… Each
one to oneself, right? And yes, I do drink, diet, under-dress and over-dress!!<o:p></o:p></div>
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So Miss De you are a good wife and I am sure your husband
would love you irrespective of you nibbling on a macaroon or two or a 1 kg chocolate
cake! (Not that I am ‘someone’ who needs to say this to you) Whether you fast
or don’t is your choice. And whether the rest of women do or don’t is theirs. But
let’s not get so ‘cracked up’ about it! You may not believe in something we
believe in, and vice versa. And just one question, did you always spell your
name as Shobhaa with a double ‘aa’ or is it a result of something that some astrologer
said to you and you believed it would work? Just curious, for the internet says
you were once upon a time called Shobha! Beliefs and opinions are funny things,
I tell you! But I am glad all of us have our own platforms, papers, FB accounts, blogs...to pen down our views!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=karwa+chauth&espv=210&es_sm=93&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=oTRlUvD6M4mQtAb9sIGYCQ&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1517&bih=714&dpr=1#es_sm=93&espv=210&q=karwa+chauth+DDLJ&tbm=isch&facrc=_&imgrc=Sq_PT5sgwF_fnM%3A%3Bnlmt-pKqH7i_sM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fimage6.buzzintown.com%252Ffiles%252Farticle%252Fupload_18000%252Fupload_bigcrop%252F359056-karva-chauth-spl-bwood-best-scenes.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.buzzintown.com%252Fbollywood-news--karva-chauth-spl-bwood-best-scenes%252Fshow--full%252Fid--6382.html%3B400%3B207">here</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-58773866558075799882013-08-27T22:37:00.002+04:002013-08-27T22:37:49.565+04:00Gulf News, not again!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCntN9eGeGwTEuQdg0JhgxKCW8433XmNzmHKTckehDKJ3ZE23r-llSiXnbfNatZb9CblnVJit8tVPIcxYJ_VMKkBuL0LhpnsuMeiKzGOEn-KFumJ7AZCar0Istfxv0f59G5v03zhS-ns/s1600/6a01127947363b28a40168e65e0c05970c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCntN9eGeGwTEuQdg0JhgxKCW8433XmNzmHKTckehDKJ3ZE23r-llSiXnbfNatZb9CblnVJit8tVPIcxYJ_VMKkBuL0LhpnsuMeiKzGOEn-KFumJ7AZCar0Istfxv0f59G5v03zhS-ns/s400/6a01127947363b28a40168e65e0c05970c.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I have been debating with myself over the last few
weeks/days on whether I should write this post or not. And there are many
reasons for which it should not be written, especially by a journalist for it’s
only a journalist who understands that a newspaper is made/created/written by a
human being hence errors are bound to happen. I too, have made some at my job
and am sure will make some in future too. But today what got me pen this was
yet another ‘slip’ in the Gulf News!!<o:p></o:p></div>
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In The Views section of Gulf News August 27<sup>th</sup> on
Page A 27 (<a href="http://gulfnews.com/opinions/offthecuff/he-grew-up-in-jail-to-free-his-mother-1.1224232">http://gulfnews.com/opinions/offthecuff/he-grew-up-in-jail-to-free-his-mother-1.1224232</a>)
is a piece titled, ‘He grew up in jail to win his mother’s freedom’. The moment
I saw the headline I knew I had it read somewhere recently! The same piece
penned with full details (Name, Age) had appeared a few weeks back in Gulf News’
Friday magazine (<a href="http://fridaymagazine.ae/features/the-big-story/freed-after-20-years-by-son-i-had-in-prison-1.1207832">http://fridaymagazine.ae/features/the-big-story/freed-after-20-years-by-son-i-had-in-prison-1.1207832</a>).
While, I was surprised to see the same piece (written by different writers)
appear yet again in the pages published by Gulf News, what also shocked me was
the fact that this particular one didn’t carry any name (Assuming the names
were not to be kept anonymous for the sake of the people involved, wondering
why they were not there) and read like a piece of fiction. Two, the tone of the
piece in terms of how the husband’s relationship was with the wife, who was in
the prison, felt like we were talking of two different people! Three, the
amount that the son paid to free the mother, two varied in the two pieces. I am
not 100 per cent sure if they were talking of the same mother-son but one read
and you would know it is. Shocking that
there is no check to ensure pieces are not repeated or factual errors are not
made or stories are printed with complete information. Talking about a few days
back I was flipping through the Tabloid! Section of Gulf News wherein I found two
events being listed twice! I understand we all live in the world of Copy &
Paste but a little thorough won’t harm anyone. At another time, when I called
to attend an event I was told it was not scheduled for the day at all! Another slip
that comes to my mind, which spoilt my morning cup of coffee, was the misspelling
of Red Fort. Another one where the name of actress Vidya Balan was spelt incorrectly in
the headline… <o:p></o:p></div>
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The list is long. The work of running a paper is tedious. But
then, tomorrow is a new day!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: <a href="http://www.badnima.com/2012/01/to-err-is-human-but-to-really-foul-things-up-you-need-a-computer.html">here</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-56128391233558755912013-08-26T13:33:00.002+04:002013-08-26T13:33:33.208+04:00I can survive this day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIMEZvfRYgsSWfv0K4jd7B8Yf-IBvXY0rEjRzmQiRZM8__fLW2FqGHyOJoGUCeVXDQNWwENxPfu3wTYm9EzhzmExkkmCBN4kcdqmbPxW6lMK-Eof8m0dUoeUNgrAiA3uBjBcS-dnFcrE/s1600/large+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIMEZvfRYgsSWfv0K4jd7B8Yf-IBvXY0rEjRzmQiRZM8__fLW2FqGHyOJoGUCeVXDQNWwENxPfu3wTYm9EzhzmExkkmCBN4kcdqmbPxW6lMK-Eof8m0dUoeUNgrAiA3uBjBcS-dnFcrE/s400/large+(3).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;">I </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;">can survive this day. Days like these that leave me feeling empty and cramped at the same time. Days when ‘RAPE’ dominate the newspapers, TV channels and FB status updates. Days when roads witness candle marches and protests. Days when leaders tell me not to interact freely with men. Days when cops tell me I dress inappropriately. Days when men transform into animals. Days when I secretly thank god it was not one of my loved ones. Days when I say a prayer for the girl fighting it out in the hospital. Days when I shiver in fear. I can survive this day. I have to survive this day. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Today, I feel sorry for my parents. Sorry that I was born as a girl. Sorry that while I gorged on popcorns in a theatre they stayed hungry in anxiety. Sorry that while I worked long hours to climb up the career ladder they stared at the watch and prayed. Sorry that while I became an independent woman they worried that I was growing up too fast. Mom-dad, did I ever let you sleep? My prayers go out to parents with daughters. I wish they can survive this day.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;">Image: <a href="http://weheartit.com/">here</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-53743170650437759612013-08-24T15:59:00.002+04:002013-08-24T15:59:21.085+04:00the rape season?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuNB-IY5Fexfs6kg3Kh_Rn8beJRjSPYks65rCSstS8h99eZPAQTV1z_eAD1325luNjanCxNhH4vBVM6ekKdTb0qGkL5mr24bNxlVsHBCWfYNPWUbq8KVGgLoaMzEdVhP32ght1npM33Y/s1600/large+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuNB-IY5Fexfs6kg3Kh_Rn8beJRjSPYks65rCSstS8h99eZPAQTV1z_eAD1325luNjanCxNhH4vBVM6ekKdTb0qGkL5mr24bNxlVsHBCWfYNPWUbq8KVGgLoaMzEdVhP32ght1npM33Y/s400/large+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: #330099; font-family: tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<span style="text-align: justify;">There are seasons. If you are natureholic then you would know of summer, autumn, spring and winter. If you are a fashionholic then you would know of Autumn/Winter and Spring/ Summer, Fall/Pre-fall. And if you are an Indian then you would know of the scam season, rape season, incest season, dowry season, bomb season, murder season… </span><i style="text-align: justify;">This phase too shall pass? </i><span style="text-align: justify;">Once upon a time we got obsessed with kids falling in pits. The whole nation prayed for a child who was in a pit and troops of men tried to save his life. Did no one fall in a pit post-that? Were all the manholes covered after that? </span><i style="text-align: justify;">We don’t remember. We moved on.</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> Once upon a time</span><i style="text-align: justify;"> </i><span style="text-align: justify;">we got obsessed with incest victims? Our newspaper splashed gruesome tales. Did no hand reach a place where it should have not after that? </span><i style="text-align: justify;">We don’t remember. We moved on. </i><span style="text-align: justify;">Once upon a time we got obsessed with a 23-year-old who was gang raped? Then a six-year-old, then a 45-year-old, now again a 22-year-old… </span><i style="text-align: justify;">We will soon not remember. We will move on. This is the rape season. This phase shall too pass?</i></div>
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<i style="text-align: justify;">Image: <a href="http://weheartit.com/">here</a></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-52058362543077182652013-08-23T12:39:00.001+04:002013-08-23T13:54:17.540+04:00Let the anger live<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdU3kDFYPIOmLOMFQ0xGO-XBSVrErFB4GmrsUHx4YaD02qp0G7zNLum_anKZtAhId3hGbdFSKunTWFKVJq5IgoZwC8BqDYCHuIikP5DEM2wMD17D1xBlo5UPA_nJZcsxu8ux9B4Rv1Yw/s1600/large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdU3kDFYPIOmLOMFQ0xGO-XBSVrErFB4GmrsUHx4YaD02qp0G7zNLum_anKZtAhId3hGbdFSKunTWFKVJq5IgoZwC8BqDYCHuIikP5DEM2wMD17D1xBlo5UPA_nJZcsxu8ux9B4Rv1Yw/s400/large.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This happened
to women you and I know. I am breaking their trust and narrating their secrets
here because I don’t want this anger to die off. I want each one of us to stay
angry. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Some stories
have to be told.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I never feared the breeze. It was always a friend. I
loved it even when it blew the flower in my hair in the wrong direction. I
smiled at it even on the day when it took away my umbrella with it. I always
tried to feel its rhythm and sing along. We were friends. We got along well on
all days, in all seasons and at all turns. So why did it betray me? Why did it
stand away from me, quiet and feeble. Why can’t it meet my eyes today? Why
can’t I breathe in it anymore? Why did we stop being friends?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I loved that polka dotted skirt. It was a cheerful
lime green with happy white dots. My mother had got it for me for my birthday.
I had slipped into it, the moment she took it out from the brown paper bag. I
still remember the giggly sound the bag made when I jumped and took it from her
hands. It made me smile. I hopped around it till I fell asleep wearing it. I loved
how it made me feel and look. I used to love the mirror. A year later, I grew an inch taller. It could
still cover my knees. I wore it to a birthday party of a friend. We were neighbours.
When I walked back home, the breeze made my skirt flutter. It couldn’t cover my knees anymore. It got
tainted with a secret I guard. I still look into the mirror. I hope one day I
will find myself there. Till then, I stare back at the stillness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Some voices
need to be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a cosy winter night. My father had tucked us
into bed. My mother was in the kitchen, warming up hot chocolate for me and my
brother. We were laughing uncontrollably. My brother was five years elder to
me. With pride he was showing us his young moustache. My father had then hugged
him and called him a grown-up man. That
night I dreamt of him, my handsome brother. I am sure I smiled in my dream.
Next morning, my father taught him how to shave. I watched. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At the dinner table that night mom laid down a special
meal. We were even allowed to eat two ice-creams. My father’s friend shared the
dinner with us. He made me laugh. He tickled me when my brother teased me, and
I laughed again. There was a lot of noise in the room. The pots and pans made a
clanking sound when mother cleared the table. My father walked up to his room
to play the radio. My brother ran up to our room to get his shaving kit. There
was a lot of noise in the room. My voice got muffled. My father’s friend too
had a moustache.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Some love stories
need to end. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We were a bunch of six. We had all bunked our offices
for two days to spend a chilly weekend on the hills. It was a lovely drive
uphill. I felt the tiny raindrops on my hand when I rolled down the window. We
stopped at a <i>dhabha</i> and ate
ghee-drenched <i>parantha</i>s with <i>daal</i>. My friend burped out loud when we
got back into the car. We laughed out loud. I was in love with him, even when
he burped. We reached at three am. We were exhausted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We rented two rooms, one for the girls and the other
for the boys. My boyfriend had carried my bag. I went to their room to get it.
He was alone. He smiled at me and pulled me towards him. It was a cold night.
The sun would rise soon. Half an hour later, our friends returned. I went back
to our room, without my bag. Next morning, we ordered more <i>parantha</i>s for breakfast. He loved <i>parantha</i>s. I heard him burp. I couldn’t laugh. My head was filled
with loud cries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Some shields
should not guard.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a pale blue sheet. The walls were painted in
stark white. My mother held my hands in hers. I could see my father standing
outside. He looked forlorn and tired. I wanted to tell my mother to be with
him. But she would not leave my side. She was my shield. I felt weak, I could
not stay awake. I think I slept for a few hours. When I woke up, I saw my
mother was shaky. She was trying to rest her head on the arm of the bed. My
father was still outside. He needed some rest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Next morning, they took me home. On our way back they
asked me if I was participating in the college fest this year. I was a runner.
My room was full of my medals and trophies. I don’t remember if I replied. I
stared outside the window. I saw people jogging, some were running. It was very
early in the day. Every day I watch people run in the park. My mother still doesn’t sleep well. My father
looks older. I smile at times. I have given up running.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Image: <a href="http://weheartit.com/">here</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-5153393622787060312013-08-03T22:50:00.003+04:002013-08-06T12:34:39.253+04:00lifestyle journalism is not DYING!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVXFI8CzahmzGtNr5UKc1Y0DCQwyU3N_HcpzgHIQM1xdaX8DZgYdsvF6YSGIe8Frziqyf-_xMK5P0vKW5VG8jyStFqN4u4LP9oHi0pdsGGxCmbaiy_DPyuM83K3bWEVb7JYK6aWxFki4/s1600/large+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVXFI8CzahmzGtNr5UKc1Y0DCQwyU3N_HcpzgHIQM1xdaX8DZgYdsvF6YSGIe8Frziqyf-_xMK5P0vKW5VG8jyStFqN4u4LP9oHi0pdsGGxCmbaiy_DPyuM83K3bWEVb7JYK6aWxFki4/s400/large+(4).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><i>In 2012, they said the world will end. In 2013, they are saying
lifestyle journalism is dying a slow death! <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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I am opinionated but I prefer to keep most of my opinions to
myself even when I have a reasonably active Facebook account and a slightly
ignored Twitter account. But this time around I decided to get vocal with my
thoughts on the ‘hype’ surrounding the death of lifestyle journalism because of
the sudden action by Outlook group <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">announcing the closure of its three licensed
international publications,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Marie Claire, People</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">Geo.</span></i></span> Yes, it
is extremely sad to see so many people losing their jobs in a jerk but I am not
convinced that this is the end. How can it be? I don’t have statistics to share
but a trip to any of the magazine vendors is enough to convince me that a
lifestyle magazine is born every fortnight, a lifestyle journalist every day
and a lifestyle blogger every hour. So it saddens me to think that shutting
down of a handful of magazines is making us believe that soon there will be a
time when no woman with kohl-rimmed eyes will pick up a magazine to know what
she can cook for a festive dinner or how she can keep the flowers fresh. Or no
man with his ‘magazines and soaps are for women’ attitude will flip through a
magazine to read what are the latest boy toys or fairness products on the
shelves. When you finish reading this piece I hope you understand that lifestyle
journalism is not a frivolous fad but a real job, the death of lifestyle
magazines (if it happens) can’t be blamed on the content of the magazines and
that there are enough supporters, readers and writers to keep lifestyle
journalism alive, kicking, FBing, blogging and tweeting! <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I landed in Dubai a few months back I had two choices,
one to join a full time job as an editor of a lifestyle magazine or two, to
start my own lifestyle magazine. I took the risk and chose the latter, my
e-magazine for NRIs in Dubai is just one-issue old and I am facing teething
problems in running the show. Yes, in the magazine we talk of Bollywood,
gourmet, telly, fashion, memories…and the other ‘blah blah’ of lifestyle
journalism and each time I approach an advertiser I fear he/she would tell me
that they have enough ‘Likes’ on Facebook so they don’t need to place an
advertisement. Each time I prepare an edit list of the magazine I am faced with
the ultimate question, ‘What’s new in this? We’ve all been there; written that,
read that…” Each time an intern (in the very Ranbir Kapoor of <i>Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani</i>) answers the
question I want to be a journalist by saying, ‘I want to travel and host a
travel show’ I am reminded of my days as an intern when for the first year all
I was allowed to cover for the local city supplement were management seminar
and blood donation camps. Yes, things have changed and will probably get worse
with Google writing most of our copies, pre-framed emails forming our interview
questionnaires and celebs sprouting faster than saplings but I am still not
convinced that lifestyle journalism is a job that deserves no respect or
lifestyle magazines deserve no readers. Yes, they say lifestyle journalism is
the so-called easiest job on earth, often referred to one that allows you to
get your hands on freebies but it is still not something that everyone can
handle! You may be a party-hopper but what if your job involved attending
parties and taking quotes from ‘not-so-sober’ socialites at one am? You may love the sight of free MAC products
reaching your desk but can you work insane hours to meet deadlines at unearthly
hours? You may get puppy-eyed at the chance of interviewing stars but do you
have the patience to wait for them for hours and then keep mum when they annoy
you with their egoistic replies (a lot of us have done that for we have a boss
waiting for a story in the office)? Perhaps, not. And to top it all can you
deal with people who think all you do at your job is take smoke breaks, attend
fashion events, drink in evenings, go for food reviews….? Having said that I still know a lot of
journalists who don’t behave like malnourished African kids at the sight of
lavish spreads at press conferences or barter bridal spa packages for half-page
coverage in the magazines. Yes, we don’t bring you the breaking news, we are
not activists…we create leisure reading, something different than that daily
dose of what’s happening in the zone of ‘timeliness’. Journalism is information
about people/world on a public platform, nobody ever defined the contours of
its context, weren’t we taught at our journalism schools about the hard and
soft aspects of it? Yes, we sell dreams…we talk of what you should have, aspire
for… we talk of things that we (journos) can’t afford… In my last job, I was
the editor of a magazine of a luxury automobile brand while I drove a humble
compact hatchback that came at a price of my annual salary (including the
standard performance appraisal). But what’s wrong in selling aspirations and
dreams? Why can’t we accept the journalism that extends beyond fierce reporting
on rape cases or scams? Yes, we’re here to entertain you and that’s our job and
we are not ashamed of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now if lifestyle magazine will die it will not be because we
are failing at making a reader read, re-read and re-visit the list of summer
fashion essentials but because we simply don’t want to READ anymore beyond 200
words on FB or 140 characters on Twitter. We still love to know what’s
happening in the life of SRK as much as we want to gossip about the lady in the
neighbourhood. We still pick up a magazine to know the various options to dine
or holiday at. We still take pictures, from a magazine, of a showstopper at a
fashion show and take it to our local tailor to get the same outfit… There are still many more investing in
starting new magazines every day! I for one, with no funds at hand, am still
hoping that one day I will print my mag! How do I explain this better? Aah,
that there are still many who prefer the smell and sound of flipping paper? Or
that you can’t swat a fly with a laptop or kindle but can with a magazine? Or
that you will get constipated if you don’t read a magazine on the shit pot? Electronic
is the way but the death of lifestyle journalism has nothing to do with what
we’re filling in the pages! And then here’s the stark truth lifestyle
journalism will survive for all of us writers, together, will make sure it
does. When I blog, I expect people to comment on it and to initiate the flow of
comments on my blog I have to take out time to visit and comment on the blogs
of others. When I put a status message on Facebook I know mostly those are going
to ‘Like’ or ‘Comment’ on it on whose pictures & status messages I have
made my presence felt. When I get a by-line I want my fellow journos to read
it, and he/she will, if I also take interest in his/her writing. So we will
help each other survive. I don’t know how to end this rather long piece but
people keep the faith, we are not a dying breed nor are we in a dying
profession!! And yes, till we don't
respect what we do no one else will! And I can say so for I am at a position
where I am responsible both for bringing in money in the magazine but also
creating content for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: <a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/70760084/search?query=magazine">here</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-18185376256572044652013-07-26T12:15:00.001+04:002013-07-26T12:15:19.700+04:00take these babies home!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Are you one of those individuals who have a weakness for all things pink? Then, well you have would have completely fallen in love at the sight of cake pops on display at the recently concluded Eventra Fair, Sunset Mall, Jumeriah. We were there last week and found ourselves drooling over the yummy, cutesy and adorable treats from Fuchsia Sweets! Fuchsia Sweets is the baby of Nouran Saad and we must say she is doing a wonderful job raising this one.<br />
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Here's a sneak peek of what got us smiling, grinning actually! The pictures are sure to make you feel jealous! :)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZPm7ZmURk6JiUOMxr0gUobM06W7BXVfeE5b_-lP0bBX4zmu1Hb3tZK1HT2537iJlbfD9kBkayMVF0beGzHNuKZh-YJNM580cLc8Cqx7ZT3MntfWhhWl-JeqAEm7D2iKh2uvjTgl2nbM/s1600/IMG_2102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEZPm7ZmURk6JiUOMxr0gUobM06W7BXVfeE5b_-lP0bBX4zmu1Hb3tZK1HT2537iJlbfD9kBkayMVF0beGzHNuKZh-YJNM580cLc8Cqx7ZT3MntfWhhWl-JeqAEm7D2iKh2uvjTgl2nbM/s400/IMG_2102.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Look at the detailing, the stunning bow, the tiny hat, the half closed eyes, the rosy cheeks.... There is just one problem, how the hell will we convince ourselves to eat one of these? These are one of those babies you take home!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVf8ydVUBlNyqgAbJqnEq9fDvvndXbEZJgyPok4lqBJeAGN5NRqnOTE2KVquFzH6GRRpzqYboZHtAdou5IkSGkfn8vJFRPKZAeft5znxa2EAwDbVtyP-Fga59tcWFgR5uSHoBmfp7OiJs/s1600/IMG_2107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVf8ydVUBlNyqgAbJqnEq9fDvvndXbEZJgyPok4lqBJeAGN5NRqnOTE2KVquFzH6GRRpzqYboZHtAdou5IkSGkfn8vJFRPKZAeft5znxa2EAwDbVtyP-Fga59tcWFgR5uSHoBmfp7OiJs/s400/IMG_2107.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The white gets entangled with a soft pink and makes for a visual treat. The tiny pops are perfect to bring a smile to anyone on a rainy day. And please, these are not just for KIDS! We're going to gorge on these too!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkjXOW6xWfQlvCe2rYHRmlIpQe3-Q9dlZmLsPLmflFMCZ3Y8zj_GbO4KimUdO31kIUMUZ_fH03pNDVvmRmkwKtUVEBEI61kcTMYdgfj3wWlAmsToSJ9k7nTy1_tz6hgKqRJJdp5CX9hA/s1600/IMG_2104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkjXOW6xWfQlvCe2rYHRmlIpQe3-Q9dlZmLsPLmflFMCZ3Y8zj_GbO4KimUdO31kIUMUZ_fH03pNDVvmRmkwKtUVEBEI61kcTMYdgfj3wWlAmsToSJ9k7nTy1_tz6hgKqRJJdp5CX9hA/s400/IMG_2104.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Twinkling stars, we want these to light up my day, noon and night! And do you see the baby lanterns up there? Now that's what we call baby perfect presentation!<br />
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Want to know more? Meet them at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/FuchsiaSweet">https://www.facebook.com/FuchsiaSweet</a> or follow them on Twitter at @FuchsiaSweets.<br />
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Images: personal album<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-36404265473384090112013-07-15T14:55:00.002+04:002013-07-15T15:21:03.248+04:00Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a disappointment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1coCKub8h_wZ3I-c8mG3g6tP8JgbZX2Fmj4n6TcMVQCeAM8CMjpDMCE9dRX9g8aAHSzkF88EEt42yzCMcwSkdXCFObCXpJfJaZd4qInvnci5pFeOdN1rGrv0YPqiSQMnWM0mJXQGBq2A/s1600/Bhaag-Milkha-Bhaag-1st-day-Box-Office-collection-done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1coCKub8h_wZ3I-c8mG3g6tP8JgbZX2Fmj4n6TcMVQCeAM8CMjpDMCE9dRX9g8aAHSzkF88EEt42yzCMcwSkdXCFObCXpJfJaZd4qInvnci5pFeOdN1rGrv0YPqiSQMnWM0mJXQGBq2A/s320/Bhaag-Milkha-Bhaag-1st-day-Box-Office-collection-done.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a scene from the film</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkOgcjazjyRMMKsUyx_Xr2EfzyDk-f_eYBG_Hp0h2_zrSIkZT05nHL3QkFdqp6uZHzg_Cm-vFUnuDGR_5sUbPLWgluIt9i5K07HelVcAYUwiKV_b4qcB8pXHEkZfewuqdypsun296QDE/s1600/Milkha-Singh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkOgcjazjyRMMKsUyx_Xr2EfzyDk-f_eYBG_Hp0h2_zrSIkZT05nHL3QkFdqp6uZHzg_Cm-vFUnuDGR_5sUbPLWgluIt9i5K07HelVcAYUwiKV_b4qcB8pXHEkZfewuqdypsun296QDE/s320/Milkha-Singh.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Milkha Singh</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am not a movie critic or an expert. In fact when someone
asks me how a particular Bollywood flick was I steer away from saying, ‘Good’
or ‘Bad’. For I have never held a camera, given orders to a large crew and
more. But I do feel ‘happy’ or ‘disappointed’ with films. Not in the ‘I will
cry’ way or ‘It didn’t tickle my funny bone’ way but in the way that I feel a
film could have been better for the maker is talented, the producer is rich, there
is no dearth of talent, the theme was iconic and more.<br />
So when yesterday I walked out of the theatre after watching
Bhaag Milkha Bhaag I was disappointed. As I mentioned I am no expert neither do
I belong to the generation – ‘I have a FB account so I have an opinion’ but
these were the few things that popped up in my head. A lot of you may disagree
and I would not want to debate on that.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Why were most of the dialogues of Milkha Singh in
Hindi? While as a child we saw him talk in Punjabi and from what I know and
read he does talk mostly in Punjabi?<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->If the Indian audience can watch films in French
and Spanish & can swing to Punjabi numbers am sure a little more of Punjabi
would have been acceptable.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I understand most films and film flockers go
after big stars – But why was not an actor from Punjab chosen to play Milkha
Singh? The actor, Jabtej Singh, who played Milkha Junior was far more convincing
than Farhan.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Why was Sonam Kapoor in the film at all? When a
fellow viewer (non-Indian) in the theatre raised a brow and asked me who Sonam
was all I could say was ‘She is a model and fashion icon’. Even after her
so-called ‘acting’ in <span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Raanjhanaa</span>
it is going to take a while for me to call her an actor.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Why was Art Malik (a Pakistan born Brit actor)
selected to play Milkha’s father? Even in the Hindi dialogues uttered by him
one could sense the accent!<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->The script laid emphasis on the girls that came
in Milkha’s life before he tied the knot. Why couldn’t there be at least a
fleeting mention about the woman he married and is his wife?<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->I would say Pavan Malhotra who has played Milkha’s
coach Gurudev would have done justice to the iconic role! Yet again, Divya
Dutta was brilliant. Respect.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Prasoon Joshi’s lyrics failed too, the passion
was lukewarm.<br />
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->In the end, I still had hoped that there would
be a befitting tribute to Milkha Singh – not a hazy collage of pictures. At
least, the viewers, especially the youth, could have gotten a chance to see the
real man or heard his voice.<br />
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Honestly,
I missed the passion and patriotism in the film. I was expecting a lot more
from the man who had us moist eyed and thinking in Rang De Basanti. For that
matter, Chak De! India ( SRK - an actor we all love to criticise) touched me but this one completely failed. This was one good chance to pay tribute to an
icon and it was wasted by a team of people, who had the potential to do justice
to it. There will never be another Milkha Singh and knowing our film industry
nobody would ‘waste’ their time, effort and energies on attempting to make a
film on him again. In fact, just reading up the Wikipedia page on Milkha Singh
was far more inspiring than watching a three-hour film. Not one dialogue gave
me goose-bumps in fact a status update on FB by one of my friends (journalist,
Pallavi Rebbapragada) stirred a sea full of emotions. It read, “The rushes of
Bhaag Milkha Bhaag remind me of the time we spoke to Milkha Singh for our India
Today cover story on Olympics 2012. "Sorry beta, medal haath se nikal
gaya" , after which he broke out into a hysterical monologue. Thank you
Milkha Singh for adding emotion to our article and telling us how an Olympic
contender lives every moment of his life with the despair of losing, and
rarely, with the pride of winning.”
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #37404e;">Image: <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=bhaag+milkha+bhaag&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=itPjUbTLBI3LsgadyIGoDA&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=667#tbm=isch&sa=1&q=milkha+singh&oq=milha+s&gs_l=img.3.0.0i10l10.27033.28801.0.30096.9.8.1.0.0.0.194.839.5j3.8.0...0.0.0..1c.1.17.img.mBXoQaZ5Da4&bav=on.2,or.r_cp.r_qf.&bvm=bv.48705608,d.Yms&fp=4341d0dc6ea9bb0c&biw=1366&bih=624&facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=h3qc0zIuPwIXhM%3A%3BaOPGNpd7e7xDEM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fimages.mid-day.com%252F2012%252Fjun%252FMilkha-Singh.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.mid-day.com%252Fentertainment%252F2012%252Fnov%252F211112-Bollywood-Shah-Rukh-Khan-big-fan-of-Milkha-Singh.htm%3B500%3B389">here</a> and <a href="http://www.newsaboutall.com/2013/07/10/bhaag-milkha-bhaag-amazing-facts/">here</a></span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-61326400389659364202013-07-01T09:58:00.000+04:002013-07-01T09:58:05.723+04:00our first step<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2ieLaOtXWXKpway3QmJdTmG57ObpdysErhVbVGYNgvrGbdBnThcxF94-md4e2-vQezcdYSA0TFyOozbikOc6uejv-ZEpp_3pNrxNjkEQvokNnC4MmPe1K87az9Mxa2AUti_dTaqX3yA/s1600/cover_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2ieLaOtXWXKpway3QmJdTmG57ObpdysErhVbVGYNgvrGbdBnThcxF94-md4e2-vQezcdYSA0TFyOozbikOc6uejv-ZEpp_3pNrxNjkEQvokNnC4MmPe1K87az9Mxa2AUti_dTaqX3yA/s400/cover_1.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
<br />
We are live!! Presenting the debut issue of The Indian Trumpet magazine!<br />
theindiantrumpet.com<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">To all the people I knew, got to know and will
know through this magazine.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"> Big fat Indian wedding. Friends, food,
family. Tears and happy tears. Heena and happiness. NRI husband. Packing bags. Saying
good bye to home.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"> Big fat Indian magazine. Supporters, critics
and stress. Enthusiasm and challenges. Dreams and deadlines. NRI readers. Proof
reading. Uploading the magazine.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">The last few weeks have been exciting, tiring,
fascinating and challenging. I lived through moments that made me smile and
scream at the same time. There were times when the laptop misbehaved, fonts got
mixed up and writers and photographers missed deadlines, but then these
were complemented with times when my inbox got flooded with
encouraging words, download speeds improved and colours and words just fell
into place. And while the ‘new’ bride in me had made me believe that planning
an Indian wedding was perhaps the toughest thing to do in the world, I
realised that it was easier than living the dream of starting a magazine on
your own. (Honestly, my mom-dad and sister were the real wedding planners and I
was just the showstopper, but even watching them do it all was exhausting.
And yes, they were patient with me both when I chattered about the
wedding or mag! ) I also learnt that a husband could be a perfect roommate and
be as supportive as a 4 am friend in the hostel room. (I was happy to
watch the NRI husband switch roles between being a business development manager
and a web-designer & proof-reader.) I even accepted that while I couldn’t
do it all in one issue, each day would bring me one step closer than I was
the day before to achieving my dream of starting my own
magazine. I began to smile at the thought that as an NRI, I was getting a
chance to love, miss and appreciate the ‘home’ as well as greet, explore and
admire the ‘new home’. And honestly, even if someone had told me that this
is how the journey would be from Delhi, India to Dubai, UAE, I would have
still done exactly the same thing and with the same enthusiasm.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;">Yes, when this Indian girl landed in Dubai she felt
she couldn’t leave behind her passion for journalism& love for home. At the
same time, she couldn’t help but play with fonts, colours and words to create
something for the fellow NRIs here. Little did she know that hearts & minds
from all communities would greet her dream with the same passion and
love.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-IN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">So this is my story. And the story of how The Indian Trumpet magazine came into being. And from here on it is going to be our story for this is your space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Till we meet next, happy tooting!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Purva<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">founder & editor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="mailto:editor@theindiantrumpet.com"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12.0pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">editor@theindiantrumpet.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-30268729162528728932013-06-30T15:30:00.002+04:002013-06-30T15:30:17.227+04:00the lensman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpOic6ShVnVpkNbnwwyNcbEPTuFvZfOeR6L0yv8zn9iC_V3DpD-22lBVd3KJtRX8TJ8kkKySAN4Lj-ctihikeTSh3XPuFtStnpOnb1a8TrFTRvAnNvNbTLHar54OnKLAV2swAdX2TSQg/s1334/Nabi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpOic6ShVnVpkNbnwwyNcbEPTuFvZfOeR6L0yv8zn9iC_V3DpD-22lBVd3KJtRX8TJ8kkKySAN4Lj-ctihikeTSh3XPuFtStnpOnb1a8TrFTRvAnNvNbTLHar54OnKLAV2swAdX2TSQg/s400/Nabi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Nabi Ahmadi</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">. Keep watching this space to meet them all.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-26609222462255397292013-06-27T11:05:00.001+04:002013-06-27T11:05:06.904+04:00bring on the delicacies!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LNP7U1HIYfBicq2ECaGx1g0IV_pEM9P-pFKx4HfCiol8FlFRLA3qHhcFKTCBCiGGm41upEZlSrhOo77cWx04FAs80EmkFvYpd1KcU7F8AaIMJB1kVOTxrA1PAS-1T5_7j9T5ARSQwWY/s1600/Kabab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LNP7U1HIYfBicq2ECaGx1g0IV_pEM9P-pFKx4HfCiol8FlFRLA3qHhcFKTCBCiGGm41upEZlSrhOo77cWx04FAs80EmkFvYpd1KcU7F8AaIMJB1kVOTxrA1PAS-1T5_7j9T5ARSQwWY/s400/Kabab.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">People who love to eat are always the best people - Julia Child. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Forks, spoons and knives! Yumm rolls and tandoori delicacies. We love the sight of a table laid down with mouth-watering food! Thanks to our savoury partner, Kabab Kolony</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> we're going to be biting into lovely food at our launch celebrations.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 17.98611068725586px;">Image: Personal album</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-3513056325438616972013-06-27T10:19:00.001+04:002013-06-27T10:19:06.916+04:00cakelicious!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9HziKHp2BkLChnkVfkhl_EaFqEXRPDMraK2yfn4sjrel8uAdG1SMBGctmQKiyYHWe_Q0uublCSJUurTg3hCkY6lXguf-KPCccFjXMfERgIESEHSRXWzPjZ2CA9hIcDRBNXUOg36BgCk8/s1600/Cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9HziKHp2BkLChnkVfkhl_EaFqEXRPDMraK2yfn4sjrel8uAdG1SMBGctmQKiyYHWe_Q0uublCSJUurTg3hCkY6lXguf-KPCccFjXMfERgIESEHSRXWzPjZ2CA9hIcDRBNXUOg36BgCk8/s400/Cake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Just yesterday our food writer Prachi had posted this message on her food blog's FB page (</span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Orange-Kitchens/286246328081214" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">http://www.facebook.com/pages/Orange-Kitchens/286246328081214</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">) "A party without CAKE is just a meeting" Julia Child! And we couldn't agree more with her!! Thanks to our sweet partner, </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=133502406708227&extragetparams=%7B%22directed_target_id%22%3A0%7D" href="http://www.facebook.com/Whenindoubteatacupcake?directed_target_id=0" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">When in doubt, eat a cupcake</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> we're going to be biting into a gorgeous & yummy cake!!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-50290970454837557172013-06-26T17:43:00.002+04:002013-06-26T17:43:28.401+04:00fashionista & entrepreneur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRa6we5pXYFQxluZppYGGVrdOdGoYoDIxnRtP_WdbIBFBT1MCefIsGR5HGZ7NXncYiIj4youa-l68l0kFXw3agw0OM7SQMr6N9OJKRx5iIvtmddsJvbvt7keOugaIGcAqkr0f36NXd10/s1600/Jinali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyRa6we5pXYFQxluZppYGGVrdOdGoYoDIxnRtP_WdbIBFBT1MCefIsGR5HGZ7NXncYiIj4youa-l68l0kFXw3agw0OM7SQMr6N9OJKRx5iIvtmddsJvbvt7keOugaIGcAqkr0f36NXd10/s400/Jinali.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Jinali Sutariya.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"> Keep watching this space to meet them all.</span><br style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-17160980169657778382013-06-26T17:39:00.003+04:002013-06-26T17:39:55.357+04:00designer with a cause<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfumX-3AxW7tEW0WFttAwi-ur_7MKDA0jYjIV9QurDayfBLC2mUln_STfM1QQ_GcGozST-x1hAteRulG0DvT9ep0iweidN7_Ch9pTynLduaIWrnvMqRUtTAX2VnX-L75yXWYIdrP0yqF8/s1600/Navneet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfumX-3AxW7tEW0WFttAwi-ur_7MKDA0jYjIV9QurDayfBLC2mUln_STfM1QQ_GcGozST-x1hAteRulG0DvT9ep0iweidN7_Ch9pTynLduaIWrnvMqRUtTAX2VnX-L75yXWYIdrP0yqF8/s400/Navneet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Navneet Banwait.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"> Keep watching this space to meet them all.</span><br style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-17043448668048700132013-06-26T17:37:00.000+04:002013-06-26T17:37:00.097+04:00bollywood addict<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CRgF9lvuCg8oz_QTedD5gtCulyXcy_7KbQ3Resq1Ws2jL0BrJGLXJ9HRWxFZYNGIGX79TNFu2aFqzX6kyGD4NZKkStSuUuMp-P40-0kgpJB_NMAwy78JZUnnFamCl0kA2LFhyTDeaaU/s1600/Beth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CRgF9lvuCg8oz_QTedD5gtCulyXcy_7KbQ3Resq1Ws2jL0BrJGLXJ9HRWxFZYNGIGX79TNFu2aFqzX6kyGD4NZKkStSuUuMp-P40-0kgpJB_NMAwy78JZUnnFamCl0kA2LFhyTDeaaU/s400/Beth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Beth Watkins</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">. Keep watching this space to meet them all.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-64492142739885315132013-06-26T17:00:00.000+04:002013-06-26T17:00:15.977+04:00the young poetess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2jNbzGWvsGwp78z3vikrwZo6pRaI9t_wRfpPaZOUQ4TRQ8UPPEfFZBazQIZQllqcvHmZTJ7HpWv-fwoainIhnkHP8aQoegOk9q6k5RtbXTt4ybLhaeNFzo7w6IO0QOMVCCtdCLlLbm0/s1600/Michelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2jNbzGWvsGwp78z3vikrwZo6pRaI9t_wRfpPaZOUQ4TRQ8UPPEfFZBazQIZQllqcvHmZTJ7HpWv-fwoainIhnkHP8aQoegOk9q6k5RtbXTt4ybLhaeNFzo7w6IO0QOMVCCtdCLlLbm0/s400/Michelle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Michelle d'Costa. Keep watching this space to meet them all.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: center;">Image: personal album</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-30079052866233378732013-06-26T16:50:00.001+04:002013-06-26T16:50:03.948+04:00travel on her mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgtQvpJtiVnXQSoNMks80L9-baGYY3SRLu-6hbFtAcd9dydt46ewHBr5CeFJFj2utjYTWRkw8_22alcs0zSaNAcTY_aJIHgvftqkSH_nFO9OsZOIf2RgZ6wKA3cPJKYzLIYUPJxfL2e0/s1600/Jayanthi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgtQvpJtiVnXQSoNMks80L9-baGYY3SRLu-6hbFtAcd9dydt46ewHBr5CeFJFj2utjYTWRkw8_22alcs0zSaNAcTY_aJIHgvftqkSH_nFO9OsZOIf2RgZ6wKA3cPJKYzLIYUPJxfL2e0/s400/Jayanthi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Jayanthi Somasundaram. Keep watching this space to meet the rest. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafa; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 18.99305534362793px;">Image: personal album</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-18646000892690492962013-06-26T11:18:00.002+04:002013-06-26T11:18:58.546+04:00the imaginative one<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hHttOoTlHAqAIUY5MjP_fiOUp88ksfA0sNFyW9TNoF0gLMU0iJRKdsiPf-GM6DVNk1WRz_WoObb1OkL48yrOihhuGTuk9dmbZHiXPy7jj3q45GcobH6ZecXsZtAANmrKCPfAGmmEXXo/s1600/Reema.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2hHttOoTlHAqAIUY5MjP_fiOUp88ksfA0sNFyW9TNoF0gLMU0iJRKdsiPf-GM6DVNk1WRz_WoObb1OkL48yrOihhuGTuk9dmbZHiXPy7jj3q45GcobH6ZecXsZtAANmrKCPfAGmmEXXo/s400/Reema.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Reema Bajaj. Keep watching this space to meet the rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: Personal album</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-55109098860849884142013-06-26T11:15:00.001+04:002013-06-26T11:15:16.678+04:00the thinker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMWLlNzL5abM-vvgsNxjFDJrsWjbOjItl-KWx5-4wYyAv9rhjnRC3e1bR1SAsolSkOu31YUIAT_zwimzUzXfRX_u4KyV_sKhJyuZ4kQMK6bQIOUEqBnYkVV4T1XHVgwqFzyIIpkS8Y8nE/s1600/Megha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMWLlNzL5abM-vvgsNxjFDJrsWjbOjItl-KWx5-4wYyAv9rhjnRC3e1bR1SAsolSkOu31YUIAT_zwimzUzXfRX_u4KyV_sKhJyuZ4kQMK6bQIOUEqBnYkVV4T1XHVgwqFzyIIpkS8Y8nE/s400/Megha.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one of our trumpet blowers, Megha Sabharwal.Keep watching this space to meet the rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Image: Personal album</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-29941278603782427442013-06-25T19:18:00.004+04:002013-06-25T19:23:32.255+04:00Ahana Deol gets engaged!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I usually don't blog about Bollywood news or gossip! I am doing so today for I got to know that there are a huge number of Dharmendra fans out here !! So well just for his sake, a sneak peek of Ahana Deol's engagemen<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">t </span>to Delhi-based businessman Vaibhav Vora.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrlpuYQ3FEDZhrJop9JnLQ4jVl6Sn5-B7zURZxYxBjRsMlRGHW8-axSg6x-ui2RmcO_96AwBf3vF8EhqsgZAGLnIIulKrLjKWFmPWalnJsTeUHfJwhk6KqEi7tisN6clo4l7wHfMZAoc/s1600/DSC_0237...jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrlpuYQ3FEDZhrJop9JnLQ4jVl6Sn5-B7zURZxYxBjRsMlRGHW8-axSg6x-ui2RmcO_96AwBf3vF8EhqsgZAGLnIIulKrLjKWFmPWalnJsTeUHfJwhk6KqEi7tisN6clo4l7wHfMZAoc/s320/DSC_0237...jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpfRKJEznIe_melOUYF3w7lY-b-H83ivQrGiol41f4DmO57jz1INDTCO-d-TJ-kMGILmnuMkSkjm-wdCz_zv0A23Ua2Oq9ksGaeLlyxI7zx1VVRsbZ5cmZvO1yXEULi-6mzrUVYJyWS8/s1600/DSC_0310....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpfRKJEznIe_melOUYF3w7lY-b-H83ivQrGiol41f4DmO57jz1INDTCO-d-TJ-kMGILmnuMkSkjm-wdCz_zv0A23Ua2Oq9ksGaeLlyxI7zx1VVRsbZ5cmZvO1yXEULi-6mzrUVYJyWS8/s320/DSC_0310....jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DGlxXLOAs4-_PMq0Rynv0nDvcGb2cCjEbu7Sct63x2vPRMLa0v5SXJV3R6Mbbrrn40d9UKvc4YNGd3cWjMnzsm9epm23EoYWZSCruHGPH7QtgvbVnAYewZI_S-hRTGpYCngtgZodLEw/s1600/DSC_0406....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DGlxXLOAs4-_PMq0Rynv0nDvcGb2cCjEbu7Sct63x2vPRMLa0v5SXJV3R6Mbbrrn40d9UKvc4YNGd3cWjMnzsm9epm23EoYWZSCruHGPH7QtgvbVnAYewZI_S-hRTGpYCngtgZodLEw/s320/DSC_0406....jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ6ryK6Quo5bqO72WYkEll8A4T2MCGAEw1xNhWDbO1q3RvVnsQsiVVLME9NF7KfDSdDrLd7_YEt7tvzIvXxErLl__joHVZeurQ1Hx5fY91KoTL-tivppRSLEpSThQPHwVJ_obWm7ADEQ/s1600/DSC_0421...jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ6ryK6Quo5bqO72WYkEll8A4T2MCGAEw1xNhWDbO1q3RvVnsQsiVVLME9NF7KfDSdDrLd7_YEt7tvzIvXxErLl__joHVZeurQ1Hx5fY91KoTL-tivppRSLEpSThQPHwVJ_obWm7ADEQ/s320/DSC_0421...jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qDw0cngUh1lcuRjo8_4ypdYiLeoA1tOhZGI1xjsc3rzHXEWzT_1dRfPcqM-lAcbM2-meo0np2FbaesXhl2N3kiLQGfNQtGN5RMm432BY29BD-AzmEFE0NJ6GWyU0S3DpccvIxj5vGts/s1600/DSC_0762....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qDw0cngUh1lcuRjo8_4ypdYiLeoA1tOhZGI1xjsc3rzHXEWzT_1dRfPcqM-lAcbM2-meo0np2FbaesXhl2N3kiLQGfNQtGN5RMm432BY29BD-AzmEFE0NJ6GWyU0S3DpccvIxj5vGts/s320/DSC_0762....jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Image: Karmic Media</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8612929668114932694.post-86097545464403651662013-06-25T12:19:00.000+04:002013-06-25T16:22:29.464+04:00our little guest writer, author, Facebook Phantom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGUeQ61XKo1_vYqzM-YaCV9WhYpMv-skHpVy7bZyyoApSBHgSyRsU7gfekqxs1kiU_uvP27rT95uClGn4cpwmLpnpUrnGIE192Z0tG4ds48N1Y1frt2pqZbqIoRDVu1S3SyW-lTTDVVc/s1600/Suzzane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGUeQ61XKo1_vYqzM-YaCV9WhYpMv-skHpVy7bZyyoApSBHgSyRsU7gfekqxs1kiU_uvP27rT95uClGn4cpwmLpnpUrnGIE192Z0tG4ds48N1Y1frt2pqZbqIoRDVu1S3SyW-lTTDVVc/s400/Suzzane.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A couple of weeks back I had an idea that of starting an
e-mag to feed the NRI souls in Dubai. It’s been a fascinating journey so far
and as the countdown to go live with The Indian Trumpet magazine (we go live on
July 1, theindiantrumpet.com) starts I’d like to introduce you to the people
who joined me to blow the trumpet. Here’s a loud, louder, loudest cheer to one
of our trumpet blowers, Suzanne Sangi. Keep watching this space to meet the rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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