the rape season?

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… This phase too shall pass? 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? We don’t remember. We moved on. Once upon a time we got obsessed with incest victims? Our newspaper splashed gruesome tales. Did no hand reach a place where it should have not after that? We don’t remember. We moved on. 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… We will soon not remember. We will move on. This is the rape season. This phase shall too pass?

Image: here

Let the anger live

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.

Some stories have to be told.

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?

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.

Some voices need to be heard.

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.

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.

Some love stories need to end.

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 dhabha and ate ghee-drenched paranthas with daal. 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.

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 paranthas for breakfast. He loved paranthas. I heard him burp. I couldn’t laugh. My head was filled with loud cries.     

Some shields should not guard.

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.

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.

Image: here

lifestyle journalism is not DYING!

In 2012, they said the world will end. In 2013, they are saying lifestyle journalism is dying a slow death!

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 announcing the closure of its three licensed international publications, Marie Claire, People and Geo. 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!

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 Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani) 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.

  

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. 

Image: here

take these babies home!

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.

Here's a sneak peek of what got us smiling, grinning actually! The pictures are sure to make you feel jealous! :)

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!

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!

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!

Want to know more? Meet them at https://www.facebook.com/FuchsiaSweet or follow them on Twitter at @FuchsiaSweets.

Images: personal album

Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a disappointment

Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, a scene from the film

Milkha Singh

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.
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.
·         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?
·         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.
·         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.
·         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 Raanjhanaa it is going to take a while for me to call her an actor.
·         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!
·         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?
·         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.
·         Prasoon Joshi’s lyrics failed too, the passion was lukewarm.
·         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.

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.”

Bottom of Form

Image: here and here

our first step

We are live!! Presenting the debut issue of The Indian Trumpet magazine!
theindiantrumpet.com

To all the people I knew, got to know and will know through this magazine.

 Big fat Indian wedding. Friends, food, family. Tears and happy tears. Heena and happiness. NRI husband. Packing bags. Saying good bye to home.

 Big fat Indian magazine. Supporters, critics and stress. Enthusiasm and challenges. Dreams and deadlines. NRI readers. Proof reading. Uploading the magazine.

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.

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.

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.

Till we meet next, happy tooting!

Purva

founder & editor

editor@theindiantrumpet.com

the lensman

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. Keep watching this space to meet them all.

Image: personal album