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Fun Fact

Total funding amounts to $125.3M.

livetogether--diealone · 1 year

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André Lotterer - Hyderabad E-prix 2023

#did i had to make the last one?#no #but it was just for me #andre lotterer #fe #hyderabad eprix 2023 #jo.gif

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leadertelugunews · 2 years

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రాణి ఎలిజబెత్‌కు నిజాం నావాబు పెళ్లి కానుక…!

చారిత్రక నగరం హైదరాబాద్ అనగానే… దాన్ని పాలించిన నిజాం నవాబులు గుర్తుకు వస్తారు. ఈరోజుకు కూడా సిటీలో ఏ మూలకు వెళ్లిన నిజాం నవాబుల గొప్పతనం… వినిపిస్తూ ఉంటుంది. అయితే నిజాం నవాబులు ఎంతో ధనవంతులు. ఆ విషయం చాలా సార్లు మీడియాలో కూడా వచ్చింది. గత ఏడాది బ్రిటిష్‌ పత్రిక ‘ద ఇండిపెండెంట్‌’ ఓ ఆసక్తికరమైన కథనం ప్రచురించింది. 2018 నాటికి హైదరాబాద్‌ నిజాం మొత్తం ఆస్తుల విలువ 236 బిలియన్‌ డాలర్లుగా ఆ పత్రిక…

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#In 1947 #Known as the &039;Nizam of Hyderabad Necklace&039;#Nizam Nawab&039;s wedding gift to Queen Elizabeth...!#She had been ill for some time and breathed her last at Balmoral Castle in Scotland #the Nizam presented a diamond encrusted crown and necklace to the British Queen Elizabeth as a wedding gift.#the Rani wears the necklace during celebrations.

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janetsnakehole02 · 2 years

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This is probably my last post on the whole “Liz is dead” situation but I want to talk about my great grandmother, who is currently 92 years old. When I was growing up, hell even now, she’d tell me a lot about her own stories, mostly about how terrifying life was under both the British Raj and Nizam rule (her side of my family is from Hyderabad - Google the Nizams and the Razakars if you’ve never heard about them, that’s a whole other thing of its own).

Something I remember very clearly is her telling me about this one song she was forced to sing in her school - she went to a Christian convent school - and the song was about the greatness of “George Prabhu and Mary Rani,” aka George V, Elizabeth II’s grandfather. Recently my mom was able to film her singing this song so that we could listen to the lyrics, which are originally in Telugu, and roughly translated it means “we’re singing in honor of George and Mary, who are the rulers of India and have brought great fortune to India, and we see them as our father and mother.”

This is just a really difficult reminder that when we’re talking about why Elizabeth II and the royal family don’t deserve our respect or condolences, many of us have very personal stories that run deep through our families. “But she was a mother, a grandmother, a person” and I don’t care because she and her family were in the business of dehumanizing and erasing the identities of millions of other mothers, other grandmothers, other PEOPLE. Why else would my great grandmother be forced to sing a song in their honor? “But she wasn’t responsible for India” fair enough, her darling grandfather had a great time doing that, but how about you go and talk to Kenya? Or anyone in Africa? Or the Caribbean? I’m sick and tired of being told to “not speak ill of the dead” when REALLY I and millions of others should be getting an apology from anyone who wants to “praise her legacy” and talk about how “revolutionary” she was.

edit: i got the george’s mixed up before. george v is elizabeth ii’s grandfather. george vi is her father.

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phenakistoskope · 5 months

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There is a difference between Bollywood and Bombay cinema?

listen, subcontinental cinema began in bombay; the very first exhibition of the lumieres' cinematographe was held there in 1896, a few months after its debut in paris, 1895. this event predates the discursive existence of bollywood and hollywood. shree pundalik and raja harishchandra, the films that are generally considered the very first subcontinental features were also exhibited there first.

subcontinental cinema under british colonialism was produced in certain metropolitan centers such as lahore, hyderabad, and calcutta; bombay was just one of them. in 1947, when the indian nation state was formally inaugurated, the idea of a "national cinema" began forming, but given the cultural and linguistic heterogeneity of the indian union, this was quite untenable. regional popular cinemas flourished well into the 1950, 60s, 70s, and 80s and various art cinemas began taking shape alongside.

under the economy that i'm going to completely elide as "nehruvian "socialism"" bombay cinema focused on broadly "socialist" themes, think of awara (1951), do beegha zameen (1953), pyaasa (1957), all of which focus on inequality in indian economy and society from different perspectives. these films were peppered in with historical dramas, and adaptations from literature, but the original stories tended towards socialist realism. reformist films centering the family generally waxed poetic on the need to reform the family, but i haven't seen enough of these to really comment on them.

the biggest hit of the 70s, sholay (1975) was about two criminals, posited as heroes fighting gabbar singh who was attacking village folk. deewar (1975) also had two heroes, and the stakes were the two brothers' father's reputation; the father in question was a trade union leader accused of corruption.

"alternative cinema" included mani kaul's uski roti (1969) and Duvidha (1973) both of which were situated away from the city. then there's sayeed mirza and his city films, most of them set in bombay; arvind desai ki ajeeb dastan (1978), albert pinto ko gussa kyun aata hain (1980), saleem langre pe mat ro (1989) which are all extremely socialist films, albert pinto was set in the times of the bombay textiles strike of 1982 and literally quotes marx at one point. my point is that bombay cinema prior to liberalization was varied in its themes and representations, and it wasn't interested in being a "national cinema" very much, it was either interested in maximizing its domestic profits or being high art. note that these are all hindi language films, produced in bombay, or at least using capital from bombay. pyaasa, interestingly enough is set in calcutta, but it was filmed in bombay!

then we come to the 1990s, and i think the ur example of the bollywood film is dilwale dulhania le jayenge (1995) which, in stark contrast to the cinema that preceded it, centered two NRIs, simran and raj, who meet abroad, but epitomize their love in india, and go back to england (america?) as indians with indian culture. this begins a long saga of films originating largely in bombay that target a global audience of both indians and foreigners, in order to export an idea of india to the world. this is crucial for a rapidly neoliberalizing economy, and it coincides with the rise of the hindu right. gradually, urdu recedes from dialogue, the hindi is sankritized and cut with english, the indian family is at the center in a way that's very different for the social reform films of the 50s and 60s. dil chahta hai (2001) happens, where good little indian boys go to indian college, but their careers take them abroad. swadesh (2004) is about shah rukh khan learning that he's needed in india to solve its problems and leaves a job at NASA.

these are incidental, anecdotal illustrations of the differences in narrative for these separate eras of cinema, but let me ground it economically and say that bollywood cinema seeks investments and profits from abroad as well as acclaim and viewership from domestic audiences, in a way that the bombay cinema before it did not, despite the success of shree 420 (1955) in the soviet union; there were outliers, there always have been.

there's also a lot to say about narrative and style in bombay cinema (incredibly diverse) and bollywood cinema (very specific use of hollywood continuity, intercut with musical sequences, also drawn from hollywood). essentially, the histories, political economies, and aesthetics of these cinemas are too differentiated to consider them the same. bombay cinema is further internally differentiated, and that's a different story altogether. look, i could write a monograph on this, but that would take time, so let me add some reading material that will elucidate this without sounding quite as fragmented.

bollywood and globalization: indian popular cinema, nation, and diaspora, rini bhattacharya mehta and rajeshwari v. pandharipande (eds)

ideology of the hindi film: a historical construction, madhav prasad

the 'bollywoodization' of the indian cinema: cultural nationalism in a global arena, ashish rajadhyaksha

the globalization of bollywood: an ethnography of non-elite audiences in india, shakuntala rao

indian film, erik barnouw and s. krishnaswamy (this one's a straight history of subcontinental cinema up to the 60s, nothing to do with bollywood, it's just important because the word bollywood never comes up in it despite the heavy focus on hindi films from bombay, illustrating my point)

#does this sound insane?#probably #this has been an effortpost #phenakistoskope.txt

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thozhar · 3 months

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“What about ordinary and poor Muslims like me? We never had any jagir or any piece of land or even enough bread to survive the day. I know hundreds and thousands of Muslim families living in utter poverty. The ashraf and nawabi families – both from Muslims and Hindus as well – never cared for our daily basic needs of food, water, or housing.”

Jeelani Bano and Dasarathi Rangacharya also brought out the contradictions apparent throughout pre-1948 Hyderabad. Bano’s novel Aiwan-e-Ghazal features a set of Muslim women characters from various strata of Asaf Jahi Hyderabad navigating both the zenana of the patriarchal nobility and the forests that served as the battlefields against the princely state’s rural gentry.

Nizam-ruled Hyderabad was a dominion where the feudal oppression of women and the exploitation of lower castes were woven within its pluralistic fabric.

— Hyderabad 1948: Literature Tells Better Stories Than WhatsApp University

#hyderabad #Afsar Mohammed #hyderabadi literature #1948 police action #hyderabad history #telugu literature #urdu literature

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srbachchan · 1 year

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DAY 5496

Jalsa, Mumbai Mar 4/5, 2023 Sat/Sun 8:53 AM

🪔 .. March 05 .. birthday wishes to Ef Satish Kumar Paig from Kochi ..

And the greetings of togetherness to Ef Suresh Jumani and his better half Tanya from Chennai for their 24th wedding anniversary .. 💍💕

the wishes do come and go from the family now known often as the Ef ..

And it needs to be told .. not be held ..

In Hyderabad at the shoot for Project K, during an action shot, I have got injured .. rib cartilage popped broke and muscle tear to the right rib cage .. canceled shoot .. did Doctor consult and scan by CT at the AIG Hospital in Hyderabad and flown back home .. strapping has been done and rest been advocated .. yes painful .. on movement and breathing .. will take some weeks they say before some normalisation will occur .. some medication is on also for pain ..

So all work that was to be done has been suspended and canceled dropped postponed for the moment until healing occurs ..

I rest at Jalsa and am mobile a bit for all the essential activities .. but yes in rest and generally lying around ..

It shall be difficult or let me say .. I shall be unable to meet, the well wishers at Jalsa Gate this evening .. so do not come .. and do inform as much as you can to those that intend coming ..

All else is well ..

Getting time to spend time with Babuji and his genius, his mind his words and his immense creativity .. the essence of life resides in his writings .. and such a learning and amazed joy to be in his company ..

There is desire to share .. to share what ever little that I may interpret from his words and his memories of the times spent with him .. to lament the limited .. to be in awe of the vision and the intellect of such a being .. and wonder how ever did one think of all that was written spoken thought by him ..

HOW ..

... and a book of a collection of some of the letters he corresponded with certain individuals finds me leafing through them to meet the mind of Babuji and one such :

Apne vatavaran se koi nirapeksh nahin reh sakta . Har pankaj mein pank ka kuch na kuch ansh rehta hai - pankaj ko keechad lapetne ki zaroorat nahin . Kuch lapet te hain ye aur baat hai . Aap kehte hain videsh mantralay ka vatavaran ya dilli ka vatavaran aapki kavita mein nahin aaya . Itna asamprikt rehna kisi ke liye sambhav nahin . Vo kisis na kisi roop mein aaya hi hoga . aisi sadhana mujhmein aa gai hai ki kamalvatt keechad ke oopar rahoon to meri aplabhdhi bahut choti nahin hai .

You cannot be dispassionate or indifferent to your environment. In every lotus ( Pankaj – the one that blooms in sludge and slime viz. the lotus ) a bit of the sludge always remains – it is not essential for the lotus to wrap itself in sludge . Some do it, but that is a different matter . You say that ‘the atmosphere or the environment of the Foreign Affairs Ministry or that of Delhi has not been reflected in your poetry’ . To be so untouched for anyone is not possible . It does appear in some form or the other . I have now achieved such meditative accomplishment that remaining above the sludge and mud of the lotus is no small cognitive accomplishment for me .

.. you may wonder about the Foreign Ministry .. and Delhi in reference ..

Babuji was the lecturer in the English Department of the prestigious Allahabad University .. he did his PhD in English literature from Cambridge in 1954 .. went in 1952 and within 2 years finished his PhD which normally takes 4 years .. his dissertation was ‘W B Yeats and Occultism’ ..

WB Yeats .. the accomplished and famed Irish poet, who had a passion for the occult, particularly that which emanated from India ..

When Babuji returned after this achievement, a rare PhD, perhaps the very first Indian to have got a PhD from Cambridge in English Literature, he was not given the recognition he so deserved from the University. In fact they actually reduced his salary. This was very upsetting for Babuji and he resigned from Allahabad University, joined the AIR, the All India Radio as a Producer, until eventually he was called by Pt Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of Independent India to the Foreign Ministry, now known as the External Affairs Ministry, then headed by Panditji , to be the OSD, Officer on Special Duty in the Hindi Department, in New Delhi .

Such learnings are indeed most rare .. and to have time now, as always, to be in the midst of all the incredible writings, is a god send .. I am blessed .. and to be able to share some of this with all is a duty ..

I feel your presence at the Jalsa gate .. but shall be unable to show the face ..

Apologies ..

love .. ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

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krishakamal · 9 months

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Raag - Anurag § Chapter 2

— Ram x Sneha Acharya [OC]

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : Sneha Acharya lost her parents at a young age. Her father's friend, Arjun decided to adopt and take her to Hyderabad. There she grew up to be a beautiful woman. Then came her doom. She arranged to marry Ram, the traitor. Where will this go now?

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : cursing, arranged marriage, fluff, romance, cliche, reblong if you like it, 2k words.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // RRR MASTERLIST // SERIES MASTERLIST

Murmurs howled through the diner, mostly filled with men who got off from work. Ram sat at one of the tables along with some of his co-workers. They all planned to go out for dinner together, when they invited Ram, he agreed too.

"Ram, you are such a boring man." Akhil laughed off, shoving a morsel in his mouth.

Another one spoke up, "Really Ram. You are only married for a few days and instead of spending time with bhabi, you are working all day?"

Ram answered nonchalantly, "Work is important."

"Aree, of course work is important but this is your honeymoon phase. You are supposed to be together all the time. Think how lonely bhabi must be feeling?"

Lonely? Sure.

Ram thought sarcastically, remembering when walking in on her reading books so focused that she didn't even notice him. Even after days of living together they still fight like cats and dogs.

God knows what she is doing right now. Probably finding new ways to kill me. O God!

Ram cried inside. What has his life come to?

Here back home Sneha felt a shiver down her spine, she mumbled under breath, "Who is thinking about me? Better not be that Shishupal."

The moon was hovering over in the sky, accompanied by millions of stars. Sneha was roaming around the house. She was feeling bored to death. She had nothing to read, or any motivation to write and no household work to do. So, she thought might as well explore the house as she had not gotten the chance before.

Sneha halted her steps in front of a wooden door, it was Ram's office. She had never been there before. Ram is way too secretive and reserved. A voice at the back of her mind told her going through someone else's possession is not okay but if the rumors were true then this was a great chance to know his plan.

Sneha hesitated for a second but then she opened the door and entered the room. There was a mahogany table crowded with files. But that's not what had her attention, her attention was on the shelf filled with books on the left wall.

Her feet lead her up to the bookshelf on their own. Her fingers brushed over the spines, feeling the curves. She randomly picked one up and read the title, 'Malavikagnimitram'. Sneha had heard about this one from one of her friends. It is a story of the love of Agnimitra, the Shunga Emperor at Vidisha, for the beautiful handmaiden of his chief queen.

Sneha never perceived Ram to be kind to read romance novels. She could not imagine his always so broody and cold personality to read romance novels.

Ram, you sneaky little swine.

Sneha opened the book, running her eyes over the black ink as she sat on one of the chairs. The story fascinated her, every character had so much depth that she could picture the story playing out in front of her eyes. She was so engrossed in the book that she failed to notice when the front door slammed shut, followed by heavy footsteps.

The office door opened and Ram walked in, only to stop, "What are you doing here?"

She flinched at his cold tone. She had not noticed when he came in. His eyes fell on the book in her hand and his body tensed up.

Ram advanced towards Sneha and snatched the book right out of her hands, "Don't you know that you should not touch others' possessions without their permission?"

"What the hell you Shishupal. It's just a book. I'm not going to eat it or something." Sneha tried to take the book back, "Now give it to me, I'm not finished yet."

Ram held it over his head, out of her reach, his expression morphed into a mischievous one, "You want the book back?"

Sneha nodded eagerly. The story was just spicing up, she was dying to know what happened next. Ram leaned forward, bringing his face down to her level.

"Then ask nicely. Then I might let you borrow it."

Ask nicely? To this Shishupal? No way in hell!

Sneha could just go to the library tomorrow and get the book but tomorrow is Sunday so the library will be closed and she will have to go Monday. Sneha doesn't think she could last that long. The curiosity and suspense will eat her from inside.

Sneha glanced at him briefly. His eyes were daring her to do it, he was hundred percent sure that she would never do that, she was too prideful.

Fuck my pride.

Sneha looked at him, eyes softening and eyebrows relaxing, with a sweet smile she asked, "Shisu— I mean, Ram, can I please borrow 'Malavikagnimitram'? Please?"

Time seemed to have stopped for Ram. His heart skipped a beat. She always called him Shishupal or Ravan. Hearing her say his name with that much sweetness awakened an emotion in his heart that he could not pinpoint. He just wanted to mess with her a bit but the plan seemed to have backfired.

Sneha grew nervous under his intense gaze. Why was he standing there like a statue? She fiddled with her fingers, calling his name but he remained still.

"So can I take the book?" As the nervousness grew, Sneha hasistately said, "I'll take that as a yes then."

She brought his hand down and took the book out of his hand and rushed out of the office before she could die of embarrassment.

As the door shut behind her with a bang, Ram snapped out. His mind still dazed. He put a hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating at the speed of a horse.

"What is happening to me?" He whispered under his breath.

Still feeling haxed, Ram sat on the main chair. Why is he feeling so wired? Is he dying? Everything is her fault. Ram jerked his head. No time for mending over these things he had more important work to do. Ram took out a file from the table's drawer and got back to work.

But why did he feel like he forgot something?

Sneha's room was dark, only the side lamp providing some golden light. She read the latter in her hand with horror. While reading the book a piece of paper fell off but she never expected it to shake her to the core.

It was from someone named Sita.

*⁠.⁠✧ *⁠.⁠✧ *⁠.⁠✧

Dawn came and roosters called for everyone to wake up and start their day. It was a new morning, new day and new changes.

Sneha sat in front of the dressing table, combing her damp hair with a wooden comb. She was still processing what she read in the letter last night. She had many questions she wanted answers to but asking Ram probably would not be a good choice.

There is little to no chance he would tell her the truth. She needed to take things into her own hands. Putting the comb on the table, Sneha applied sindoor on her mang.

She gave herself one last look over in the mirror before blowing herself a kiss, "How can someone be so pretty."

Sneha walked out of the room. She got down the stairs, when passing through the living room she noticed Ram was nowhere to be seen. Wired, he does not get up till seven. After that chai incident Ram had stopped sneaking out before Sneha woke up.

Even through the bickering and fighting, they have come to a middle ground. Sneha did the household works alongside her writing like the woman of the house while Ram whenever he could, he would help with her chores.

Sneha got to make breakfast for them. Today was a great day, she wanted to finish all the chores done and then get back to writing.

Dosa and sambar would be good.

Ram stood by the kitchen door, staring at her like you are an unsolved mystery. He didn't get a wink of sleep last night, nor could he do any work. Sneha dominated in his mind the whole time. When she looked up at him with her kajal smeared eyes, Ram felt like he was looking into the eyes of Mohini. Ram didn't know what to do with his heart. It has been restless since the previous day.

His eyes widened like a basketball when he saw Sneha getting up on a stool, trying to reach the container sitting over the cabinet.

Has she lost her mind?

Sneha balanced over the small stool on her toes. Who on earth put the rice powder there? Probably that Shishupal. Her fingers brushed against the steel, trying to grab it. Just as she did, her balance wavered and before she knew, she was falling backwards and the container was flying in the air.

"OH MY GOD!" She yelled, closing her eyes.

She waited to hit the ground and for pain to take over her body but that never happened. Her back hit a hard chest and two strong arms wrapped around her middle. She looked up, Ram holding her close to him. Time stopped. Their faces were so close that their breath interwinted.

Ram didn't release her but neither did Sneha try to free herself. The moment looked straight out of a romance novel. But the moment was short lived because the next moment rice powder rained on Sneha followed by two clanks of objects hitting the floor.

Ram's lips twitched, trying to surpass laughing but he could not. He released her, leaning over the kitchen island as loud laughter erupted from him. Sneha scowled at him, lips curling into a pout.

"Y-you look like, like a joker." Ram choked on his words.

Sneha gasped, "What? A joker? Come here you Shishupal."

Sneha grabbed a handful of rice powder and smeared it all over his face. This time Ram glared at her. Ram and Sneha faught like children playing holi and soon the whole kitchen was covered in rice powder.

"What did you say again, you Shishupal?" Sneha greeted through her teeth as she covered him in more white.

Again that Shishupal?

"First of all." Ram wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in his chest, "I'm Ram, not Shishupal."

He didn't say anything further. Sneha's palms rested on his firm chest. What is happening to her? Is it because of that letter that she felt a weird sense of possession over him? Yes, they did get married in a wrong circumstance but he was still her husband. Who's this Sita?

Her hand fisted his white shirt and spoke softly, too softly, "And?"

His lips curled into a smile, not a smirk or a mischievous one, but an innocent smile. He removed strands of hair front her face, "And—"

Chough. Chough.

You two jerked away from each other like the other one was on fire and looked at the interrupter. Ram's face lit up like the night of deepavali.

"Ramesh kaka, Mala kaki." Ram called out but the name he said sobered you up, ".....and Sita."

Sneha's eyes fell on the beauty hiding behind the elderly woman. The blissful moment broke as you came face to face with the mysterious woman of that letter.

*⁠.⁠✧ TAGLIST : @mayakimayahai @budugu

All the rights and credits of the characters, gifs, songs and pictures used here belongs to their rightful owners.

#rrr ram #rrr ram x oc #rrr ram x female!oc #raag - anurag #kamal writes #ram x wife!oc

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alezangona · 3 months

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Second Chances (Salaar AU)

Part 1: A Surprise Encounter

Summary: Amidst a crazy wedding season, the Mannar siblings face chance encounters that change the trajectory of their lives.

“Mam,” Bilal’s exasperated tone snaps Radha Rama out of her thoughts and she places the folder she’s holding on the desk, devoting her attention to him.

“What’s the matter, Bilal? Did the Arodha’s want to make another change to their destination wedding because I swear to god, I’ve told them in a million different ways that I cannot get those parrots flown into the island this late in the game without proper permits.”

“No, they’re actually being reasonable this time– if you can believe it.” He lets out a huff of air as he plops down in the chair across from her. “They’ve just decided that veganism is the new trend they want to hop on. Which means they want to drag their family and friends in on it too.”

“No! No, no, no.” Radha Rama squeezes the bridge of her nose, bangles clanging as they move down her arm. “Don’t tell me… the wedding is in three days Bilal!”

“I don’t think they seem to realize that, but anyway, they want new caterers. Baachi was able to reach out to some of his contacts and draw up a contract with one of the best vegan restaurants on the island.” She lets out a small sigh and sinks back into her seat.

“If that situation is handled, then what’s the issue?”

“I was supposed to meet with the Krishnakanths today to discuss their daughter’s wedding, but I just got a call that my son is sick. I need to pick him up from school and take him to the doctor.”

“Oh.” Radha Rama turns to her computer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she observes the screen. “That’s okay Bilal, you handle that. I’ll just send… ah, yes! Varadha is free around then. He can handle it.”

“Thank you, mam! I’m so sorry, I know how important their contract is, especially with how much power Krishnakanth holds. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t–”

“Bilal,” Radha Rama looks up at him, dark eyes filled with understanding. “I know. I know you wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t urgent. Don’t apologize, not to me, okay? Just make sure your son is okay and we’ll handle your projects till then.”

“You’re the best, boss.” Bilal stands, a relieved smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t I know it.” She winks, face alight with mischief as she sends him out on his way.

~*~

Varadha’s teeth grit together when he checks his watch, a curse leaving his lips. If there was anything he was proud of, it was his ability to be punctual regardless of any hurdles in his way. He didn't know what his sister was thinking, giving him a new assignment an hour before the meeting time, when she knew he had to make his way through Khansar traffic.

Varadha was nothing if not determined though. So his eyes scan the route on the GPS, mind rapidly putting together the different pieces of the puzzle till a picture flashes in his mind– the exit he could take, followed by the route that could get him to the meeting location as soon as possible. Ten minutes later, he’s sitting at the cafe, his laptop and documents arranged neatly on the table in front of him.

Two minutes later, his foot taps a staccato against the brick patio, still waiting for the family to arrive. After five more minutes of sitting around hoping to catch sight of these rich bastards who don’t seem to give a fuck about other people’s time, Varadha decides it’s best to kill time by being as productive as he possibly can. He pulls out the file Radha Rama handed to him as he was running out the door and flips it open to the page that describes the bride.

Aadhya Krishnakanth. Born and brought up in the States. A doctor initially based out of New York before deciding to move to India. Opened a free clinic for patients in marginalized regions of the country. Lives in Hyderabad with her mother–

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!” There’s a sudden pink blur that races through the cafe before crashing down in the seat across from him. “I’m so sorry! I always try so hard not to be late, but you have to understand it’s so difficult with my schedule. There was a surgery today that ended up getting more complicated than we expected and oh god! I’m so sorry!”

“Hey, no it’s okay!” The sudden noise after an excruciating phase of silence is enough to give him whiplash, but seeing how frazzled the poor girl is softens him up like butter. “We’ve all been there. I was late too, to be honest. Stuck in traffic actually but that’s nothing compared to saving lives now that I think about it.” She smiles at him, relieved and thankful, sinking into her seat.

“Aadhya,” she holds out a hand, grinning brightly in the way Americans tend to do. “So nice to meet you…?”

“Varadha. Is anyone else going to be joining us today?”

“Yeah! My parents weren’t able to make it, but my fiancé and f–”

“Ey, Tingari (crazy girl). Wait for me next time, will you?” A towering figure appears behind Aadhya, his arms wrapping around to pull her into a hug that is powerful enough to lift her off her chair for half a second.

“Rey! Let me down!” She swats at him playfully, bringing out a deep and melodic laugh from the man. He does as she requests and takes a seat next to her, an arm draped casually over the back of her chair.

“Hi sir! I’m De-” The sound dies on his lips when he makes out who exactly it is sitting in front of him. “Varadha?”

“Deva?”

“You two know each other?” Aadhya looks between the two of them, confused as to why they look like they’ve seen a ghost. They don’t say anything for a second, too stunned to speak. She might’ve left it well alone if it wasn’t for the fact that she was a nosey little fucker who wanted all the details. So she digs her fingers into the side of Deva’s waist, smirking when he jumps and his attention diverts to her.

“Yeah, we were roommates in college.” Deva mumbles, rubbing his hand over his side and glaring at Aadhya. Something about that answer doesn’t seem to be what Varadha expects because his face darkens for a moment, lips pursing when he takes a second to recompose himself.

“Yeah, roommates. Anyway, today’s meeting isn’t about that. Your father wanted to hire us because of our commitment to excellence in every event that we plan. However, as a company, we prioritize creating unique experiences that are a reflection of our clients and their journey. So I usually like to start by getting an idea of what you’re looking for going forward. It seems that according to the file, you’re hoping for a big wedding?” Deva immediately scoffs at that.

“Deva–” Aadhya starts, a slight blush coating her cheeks.

“What? It’s true.” Deva looks at Varadha then. “She’d prefer a smaller wedding. As small as we can get considering her dad is stuffing the list to the brim with his entire network.”

Varadha can’t find it in him to say anything, so he looks down at the file, making note of the fact. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s digging the pen into the paper though, till the free flowing movement stops and he realizes the pen is stuck in a tiny hole. Swallowing, he pulls it out and looks back up at the couple.

“Well considering we got most of our information from your father, I’m assuming more things in this file are wrong than right?” Varadha hands over the file to the other side of the table. Deva reaches over to grab it, placing it between him and Aadhya as they lean over to read it together. Varadha’s attention catches on how their expressions almost move in synch, going from light frowns to wide-eyed looks of incredulity. “So?”

“Well, they’re not entirely wrong…” Aadhya shrugs at the piece of paper, her hunched posture a direct contradiction to her tone.

“Pichi Pilla (crazy girl),” Deva crosses his arms over his chest and looks directly at Varadha, who can feel the world closing in on him, slowly but surely. “Look, half of this is bull. She wants a smaller wedding, something in India and not a destination abroad. She hates beaches, would probably rather burn herself alive than be caught dead dragging a trail of sand behind her. She loves food, so none of those small plates of Hors D’oeuvres that leave you feeling more hungry after taking a nibble than you were before that. Probably a big giant buffet where people can go back for fourths, that’d be ideal right?”

At that, Aadhya places her hand gently on his arm in an effort to stop him perhaps. Still, she gazes up at Deva with so much warmth, her eyes glassing over just slightly enough to let Varadha know that what Deva said mattered to her. Why he said it, mattered to her. He has to look away from the image in front of him, simply because he knows what it’s like.

Varadha knows what it’s like to be in Aadhya’s place because that’s where he was for the longest time. If anyone knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Deva’s love and affection, it’s him. It’s no surprise that the memories of that man are etched into every fiber of his being, even after all these years.

The coal-dark eyes that would come to life when Varadha would enter a room. The warm body that would press into his from behind during movie nights on that dingy-ass college couch. The smell of burning food left abandoned on the stove as wine coated lips explored each other against thin walls.

The man who dropped to his knees, begging Varadha to forgive him when–

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Varadha says, pushing out of his chair and walking himself out the door to the cafe. The second he gets to the parking lot, he pulls out the remaining half of a cigarette he bummed from a friend the night before at a party. Smoking wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed doing. It was an occasional habit he’d picked up after college.

Whenever Deva would feel anxious about something, he’d make his way onto their roof, taking a drag beneath the night sky. Every once in a while, Varadha would join him. More often when he knew times were tough. They’d lie there together in silence for a moment before Deva would point to different constellations and tell him the myths he heard as a child. Deva wasn’t much of a talker with other people, but when he loved people enough to let them into his small circle, conversation was something that dripped from his lips like sweet honey. Once he’d calm down, he’d turn towards Varadha, a look of pure gratitude in his eyes as his chapped lips would brush against his own. The taste of nicotine in those moments used to be so irresistible, because it became the taste of Deva.

That was all it was, to be honest. It wasn’t often that Varadha found himself in distress, but in those rare moments of weakness, the warmth of the cigarette against his lips would remind him of Deva. For some time, it would be as if they were still together, the mistakes of the past erased.

Yet, when the cigarette touches his lips today, it leaves behind a bitter taste. He scoffs as he lets out a puff, scraping his shoes against the ground. Why wouldn’t it? The man he’s in love with, even after all these years, is about to get married to a beautiful, kind, caring woman. His stomach churns uneasily and he gives up, too tired to try and process the day beyond the fact that the man he loves isn’t his anymore. Hasn’t been for a while now.

“Let me have a drag?” Varadha freezes, finger that was about to drop the cigarette tightening around it and passing it along to Deva’s waiting hand without further thought. “Thanks, ra.”

“Should you be smoking at this age? It kills you know?” Deva leans against the car, lips quirking up and he doesn’t bother to hide his amusement at Varadha’s hypocrisy. “I smoke occasionally, I don’t count. You probably do it on a daily basis.”

“Careful, Varadha. You don’t want me thinking you actually care do you?”

“Of course I care!” Varadha pauses, looking to his feet. “You’ve got a nice girl in there. Least you can do is make it to your wedding alive.” Deva’s eyes dig into Varadha’s profile and he can feel his skin rising uncomfortably. “What’s with all the staring?”

“I haven’t seen you in years, B- Varadha. I’m soaking up as much as I can before you go.” He flicks the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out before speaking again. “As for the girl, we’re not together. She’s just a friend.”

Varadha should be embarrassed by the immediate relief he feels at the statement. The churning pit in his stomach disappears in seconds as he takes a moment to really observe the man standing across from him. If it was possible, he was more handsome now than all those years ago. His lanky frame that used to be hidden behind drowning fabrics has now filled out deliciously, the protruding muscles emphasized by the various textured clothing that wrap snugly around him. His wild mane that would stick out in every direction, frizzing out during the humid months, is now styled to perfection with every curl staying in place. His once clean shaven face is now painted with a dark beard that makes him look less like the boy next door and more like a rugged stranger that Varadha wouldn’t mind running into during a night out. The tattoo wrapping around Deva’s arm further emphasizes that particular fantasy of his.

Was it pathetic how in love with him he still was? If Radha Rama was here with him, she wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.

“What about her fiancé?”

“He’s running late. His flight’s coming in from L.A. today. I just wanted to hop along because I knew if she was alone she’d say yes to all the shit her dad had laid out for her.” Deva lights another cigarette he pulls out of his pocket, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke settle in his lungs before he lets out a puff of air that fades into the afternoon breeze.

“Is that why you’re so stressed?” Varadha leans against the car as well, a couple of inches away from Deva. The hairs on his body stay on edge, aware of the electrical pulse that beats between them. He tries not to let that distract him.

“Please, I can handle Krishnakanth.” Deva passes the cigarette back to Varadha, who forces himself not to think about the fact that Deva’s lips were wrapped against the paper just seconds ago. He fails miserably. “He doesn’t mean any harm really. He’s a good man who just wants to see his daughter taken care of and she hasn’t met anyone she’s fallen for yet. So, why not say yes to marriage to make her family happy?”

“What about her? Will she be happy?” The look Deva gives him is enough for Varadha to understand and he keeps quiet, not knowing what else to say.

“Meeting you today was a surprise.” Deva offers and Varadha takes greedily.

“For me as well.” He admits, fingers coming up to play with his watch.

“You look good Varadha. You look happy.”

“Well… that’s open to interpretation.”

“You’re not happy?” Deva crushes the cigarette against the ground, rigidity taking over his body once more.

“I’m doing well, Deva. That should be enough right?”

“Not for me. It shouldn’t be for you either. What’s wrong Varadha? What’s missing?” Deva steps closer to him, the scent of his cologne surrounding Varadha in an intoxicating cloud. Maybe that’s what allows for him to let his guard down.

“You,” the word passes uninterrupted from his lips. “You’re missing from my life and I’ve wanted you back every day since–”

Deva takes a step back, snapping Varadha out of his daze. The broken expression on his face makes Varadha feel like an absolute asshole.

“Shit, Deva. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“I left that day because you asked me to. Not because I wanted to.” Varadha sucks in a sharp breath at the admission, mouth falling shut.

“I know. I shouldn’t have said anything, especially after all this time. Just because I haven’t moved on doesn’t mean the same applies to you.” Varadha looks away, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t owe me anything, Deva. Not after everything, but I need you to know that I regret what I did back then. Not a day goes by where I don’t wish that it played out differently because then maybe…” He swallows, stopping the words in his throat. The images play in his mind though, of an intimate wedding, a beautiful house on the edge of the river, a small child’s laugh echoing through the property.

“Yeah, well… I wish it played out differently too.” Deva takes in a deep breath, his gaze resting on the horizon. “I haven’t gotten over you either.”

“Oh?”

“So, where does that leave us? Are we just going to get that off our chests and never see each other again? Because I’m getting old, Varadha. I don’t think I have energy to wait anymore.” Deva hangs his head, hands tucked into his pockets.

Varadha can’t help but to think of how his life passed by in a blink of an eye over the past two decades. A lifetime of memories that felt as if they hadn't been experienced, not in the way they were meant to. All the moments of joy and pride, sadness and pain, nothing more than fleeting emotions that refused to ground themselves into the core of his very being. When he’d lie in bed at night, desperately trying to find a reason for this ache, Deva’s name would echo through his mind and he’d wonder how he could’ve ever been blind to it before.

Why did he ever let that man go?

“I won’t make you wait, not this time.” Varadha’s hand intertwines with Deva’s, touch as gentle as a feather brushing against glass. “Let’s start over?”

~*~

6 Months Later

Varadha makes deliberate cuts into the meat in front of him, trying hard to clear out any remaining bones so the previous week’s episode doesn’t unfold a second time. Sure he and his sister had their fair share of fights, but nothing drastic enough where we wanted to murder her through way of choking on a bone.

“Bujji?” The call comes simultaneously with the thud of the front door closing.

“In the kitchen.” Varadha replies, refusing to break his concentration.

“Here’s the sauce you asked for. They didn’t have the brand you usually get, but this seemed like it’d be good too.” Deva sets the glass container next to Varadha, leaning in to place a quick peck against his cheek. Varadha hears a sound of disgust from behind him and he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“You make a fuss now, but the second I put down the food, you’re the first to gobble it up.”

“You see how gross uncooked meat is right? Your chopping skills don't help the image either.”

“Rey–”Varadha turns, holding the knife threateningly towards Deva.

“Calm down, Kick Buttowski. Get back to work and look out for any bones. I’m not about to lose my favorite Mannar sibling to something smaller than a lima bean again.”

“Don’t let Baachi hear you say that. It’ll break his heart.”

“I’m sure it will. After all, we’re attached at the hip, the two of us.” Deva chuckles as he opens up a bottle of wine for them. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do to impress that kid. He’ll just hate me for the rest of his life.”

“He doesn’t hate you!” Varadha defends instantly, putting down his knife now that he was finished with his thorough inspection.

“The bruise from when he chucked a volleyball at my head last week begs to differ.” Varadha washes his hands meticulously before heading over to Deva and pulling him down to place a lingering kiss on his left temple, where the remnants of a pretty terrible bruise were finally starting to fade.

“You have a point, but he does it out of love. I swear.” Deva shakes his head at the comment before handing Varadha a glass of wine.

“No, me putting up with his murderous tendencies is what’s done out of love.” Deva whips out his phone and taps against the screen. A soft Hindi melody plays from the speakers and Varadha smiles at his boyfriend at the gesture. “But I can put up with that till death as long as you keep kissing all the wounds better.”

“God, you’re such a sap.” Varadha complains, but there’s no malice behind it. Just the light hearted tone that comes from being in love with an unbelievably sweet idiot. So he grabs at Deva’s shirt and tugs him in closer for a deep kiss. A small moan escapes his throat when he tastes his favorite wine lingering on Deva’s lips. The various notes of fruit, spices, and coco dust intermingle seamlessly into the unique flavor that belongs to Deva, and Varadha can’t possibly get enough. His fingers tangle into the taller man’s hair, pushing off the ground to wrap his legs around Deva’s waist. A grunt of surprise leaves Deva’s lips, but he’s quick to catch on to Varadha and move towards the counter. Placing Varadha down gives him more leeway than before, so he digs his ankles into the small of Deva’s back, pulling him closer to gain more access to his mouth.

“Rey,” Deva groans as he forces himself to pull away. “God stop teasing me. We have guests coming over soon.”

“They can wait.” Varadha’s teeth catch against the bottom of his earlobe, nipping playfully. “They’ll understand that a chef deserves his kiss.”

“I don’t know that chef is the right word when all that’s sitting out right now is a lump of meat.”

“Whyyyyy!” Varadha whines as he pulls away from his hot boyfriend. “Why do you do this to me? What’s the point of having a sexy boyfriend if I can’t make out with him whenever I want.”

“You can still ogle me.” Deva winks at him. “Now, stop pouting and get to cooking. We have the rest of the night once they leave.”

“It would take a S.W.A.T. team to evacuate them out of this apartment post dinner. The second Aadhya whips out the cards, everyone’s going to settle in for a round of poker and before we know it, she’ll have us drowning in debt.”

“Drowning you in debt. The rest of us actually win every once in a while.” Deva comments, making his way into Varadha’s room to change.

Varadha spends the next hour quickly shuffling through the kitchen and preparing the feast, while Deva tidies up around the apartment and sets up the dining table. They idly exchange stories from their day, where Deva speaks of his cute Kindergarteners who gifted him a paper crown that was more glue than paper at this point, while Varadha complains about how billionaires shouldn’t be allowed to get married because it is quite frankly impossible (potentially unethical) to bring in a whole herd of elephants just so the celebrity guests could make a grad entrance to the reception. Which would pale in comparison when the newlyweds would enter on the backs of lions. That idea was vetoed pretty quickly by him and his sister, thank god.

“Ey, Macha!” Aadhya bustles in just as they finish getting ready, a tray of brownies in hand. “This is about to be the best dessert of your lives! Crumb coffee cake brownies, made by yours truly.”

“There were supposed to be two trays, but I downed one on the way here!” Radha Rama shouts from near the entryway. A wide smile settles on Aadhya’s face.

“Seal of approval from the best Mannar sibling!” Aadhya declares happily as she grabs herself a hard cider from their fridge.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Varadha frowns in his sister’s direction. “What’s so special about you besides an undiagnosed sugar addiction?”

“I’m the one who’s kept this circus afloat for years, kid. Show some respect!” Radha Rama smirks as she pushes past her brother, making her way over to Aadhya and wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Don’t take it too seriously, Bujji.” Deva laughs leaning against the counter. “Our Tingari Pilla is just too in love with her girlfriend to see things objectively.”

“It’s not just her.” Baachi comes stomping into the apartment, carrying a heaving box of decorations that he plops unceremoniously to the ground. “Considering they’ve been using me as a pack mule for this wedding, the least you can do is declare me the best Mannar sibling instead of tucking tail and following my brother around like a lost puppy.”

In the blink of an eye, the siblings start bickering, bringing up every moment from the past in an effort to one up each other. Deva and Aadhya choose to sit back silently, watching the event play out in front of them.

“We’ll get to dinner soon, right?” Aadhya asks, anxiously gazing at the clock.

“Yeah… as soon as your girlfriend stops trying to rip my boyfriend to shreds with that pillow?” Deva’s brow furrows as he tries to determine when exactly the physical fight broke out.

“I’m going to be honest Deva. I think tonight’s the night we confess to them.”

“Confess what?”

“You know? That there’s no superior Mannar sibling because all of them are certifiably insane?”

“And that we’re the angels for putting up with them?”

“Mhm. Exactly!” Aadhya places down her cider and makes her way into the sibling’s circle to drag Radha Rama out by the arm. “Food first, fighting later. I refuse to eat cold lasagna again, Babe.”

They spend the rest of the night eating, drinking, and playing poker. Varadha loses every round and at some point, he gives up and leans against Deva’s side instead, inadvertently becoming a part of his team. It’s something he realizes he should do more often because he likes the feeling of winning every once in a while, even if it was his boyfriend doing most of the work.

By the time everyone leaves, Varadha can barely keep his eyes open. He leans his forehead against the door, eyes closed as he allows the silence to envelop him.

“Rey, come to bed.” Deva places a hand on his shoulder to peel him off the door.

“The door is so soft though.” Varadha slurs through wine drunk lips.

“The bamboo pillows you brought are softer, I promise. Come on now.”

Soon, the two of them are tangled up under Varadha’s sheets, holding each other close as they let the day finally slow down around them.

“This is getting annoying.” Varadha murmurs into Deva’s chest.

“What, family dinners? I love you Bujji, but you have to stop picking fights with your sister. We could get to eating faster for one thing.”

“No!” Varadha shoves Deva away before pulling him back when he realizes how cold it is. “No, you asshole. I meant having to work around our schedules to see each other recently.”

“Oh, that.” Deva hums and settles closer to Varadha. “I’ve been trying to find apartments closer to this side of the city. I think that could fix the scheduling conflict a little.”

“Rent in Pathran is abhorrent, Bangarm.”

“So? What’s your solution?”

“Move in with me?”

“Okay, yeah, sure.” Deva places a peck on Varadha’s head, chuckling a little.

“I’m being serious. Move in with me.” Varadha insists.

“I know, but let’s talk about this tomorrow when you’re less tipsy.”

Varadha groans, asking the gods silently why they fated him to fall in love with an oblivious, asshole of a man. He reaches over to switch on the lights and because he was just a little annoyed with Deva, he revels when the man shields his eyes from the sudden onslaught.

“Now you can look at me and see how serious I am when I ask this. Move in with me, Deva.” Varadha intertwines their hands together when their gazes meet. “It’s as simple as this: I’m happiest when I’m with you and I hate not being around you. I love it when you walk into the apartment, I love it when you help me cook, I love it when you help me clean. I love it when you curl up with me to watch a movie, I love it when you read next to me before bed, I love it when I see your teaching plans scattered across my desk. I even love it when you’re grading your students’ art projects and all the glitter falls onto the carpet. Nothing I do gets rid of it and I keep finding it everywhere, even in my coffee! I just love you so can we go back to being roommates? Please?”

The way Deva flips him over onto his back and devours him is answer enough.

#salaar #varadeva #devaratha raisaar #varadha rajamannar #salaar fic #salaar fanfic #khansar #aadhya krishnakanth #radha rama mannar #ramaadhya #ramaadhya fic #varadeva fic

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livetogether--diealone · 1 year

Text

In conclusion everyone saw André being calm and minding his own businesses and decided to be him for a day

#we had A race #i am very confused #but it was fun #and jev won :3 #fe #hyderabad eprix 2023 #jo.text

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ramayantika · 9 months

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A goodbye needed

From being born in Hyderabad to living in the northern part of India, that is Gurgaon and then the Western side, Maharashtra to Vishakhapatnam in the south and finally in the eastern states of Chhattisgarh, West Bengal, and Odisha, I do get to say that I covered eighteen years of my life in the four main directions of India. But my favourite city has and will always be Kolkata.

To be honest, my brother desperately wanted to live in Kolkata because of Eden Gardens in our GK book. I wasn't that interested until I arrived in Kolkata in 2016 to appear for the written test in my school. The exam went well and so did the interview. I remember my father lived in a small bachelor's one room apartment in Ruby Park. My eleven year old eyes were stunned as they took in the grandeur of the old buildings from the British era to the modern metros and malls of Kolkata. When I came back to Raipur, all I knew was Kolkata would be life changing for me.

And in 2017, I did come home. To Kolkata. A small roadside apartment facing a canal where you don't have crystal clear water but drainage water. Somehow the water wasn't stinky until the arrival of the monsoon showers. I lived there from 2017 to 2020. I was supposed to stay there until 2022 but fate had other plans but that's a story for another day.

I always call Kolkata home even though I am from Odisha. It was the only city that embraced all shades of me. I spent the first two years of my teenage there. The damp roads leading to my apartment have heard my songs above sweet love and true friendship. On quiet midnights, my tiny balcony knew the whispers of my soul, and the questions it asked about fate and the world. The monsoon rainfall told me how to appreciate nature and beauty. I learnt to dance with storms, and dream of stories that I now write and desperately wish to be a part of.

I met a teacher who told me in a tone akin to a whisper in front of the class that I am like a small pandora box, hidden from view but having the most wonderful and beautiful things to offer the world. The next month I danced for a school event and God since then I never looked back. Kolkata connected my soul to literature and culture.

I am no longer in Kolkata but each time my calendar notifies Rabindranath Thakur's jayanti, my heart goes to the old tunes of Rabindra sangeet; the beauty and tenderness of his songs that captured my heart and caused me to spill some of my poetry in the last page of my rough notebook.

I visited kolkata again in December 2021 after first term examinations of class twelve. My connection with kolkata broke like a plant uprooted from its soil. It felt as if I had been banished from home. All the months that passed, and all the seasons that changed showed me memories and dreams of what could have been in kolkata. But when I visited kolkata, I saw how some things had changed.

My home appeared....... different? I always say that my young soul blossomed in Kolkata. The same soul turned sad at the emotion that the city showed me. Perhaps that's how growing up is. To see that things around you change, people, roads, hearts everything but somewhere there still lies a calling that says, 'hey, I know things are different. But I am still here. Look at me, embrace the new me. Embrace yourself. You are changing too.'

Where it once used to be wonder, nostalgia filled my heart as I met my friends after two years. I passed through my apartment again and smiled at the balcony, my small corner for solitude. I saw a few towels hanging there.

Going back from Kolkata felt a little sad. I could not accept the change. I had been uprooted from my roots, and when I come back I see new flowers springing up. Without me?

Then after a year, I visited Kolkata again in July 2023. I had grown so had the city. When I passed by the same British era buildings and Howrah bridge, the same wonder struck my soul. I saw a few flowers growing on the pathway, getting their nourishment from the July showers. The empty space in my heart too was filled with flowers. My friends who are now in their respective colleges, doing their own things with their own friend circles now but somehow we come together. Just like old days before.

Home is always home no matter how far you go or how long you stay away from it. Home will always welcome you back. The fragrance of wet earth filled my soul with a warm blanket, as if telling me that all this while, I waited for you. I am different but I am still your friend.

Era sukher laagi chahe prem, prem mele na.

Shudhu sukh chole jaye emoni mayar cholona

This song will always remind me of Kolkata, the warm monsoon nights that were filled with a longing of love, friendship and magic. It will take me back to dreams and whispers of a fantasy that my heart still believes in that I would one day bring forth the wonder and beauty of my Self to the world. It will remind me that there must be tender days to be spent in reading poetry on a cool evening.

The day I boarded the train to Durgapur, my heart hummed the tune of Era Sukher Lagi from Choker Bali. As the train left the station, I waved at my young self through the window. It was farewell. I would come home later for my dance work, a thread that shall tie me to this wonderful city forever but I would never come home this way ever again and for the first time I was happy. And perhaps to witness an end to a heartwarming journey of nostalgia, acceptance to change and farewell, the clouds showered rainfall against the window just like the cool monsoon nights years ago.

All was well....

#samridhi writes #kolkata #desiblr

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warwickroyals · 3 months

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list those ugly irl tiaras, sis!

I think I will, actually, because I have no issue dragging IRL royalty, as they deserve. Like, if you like a tiara that I dislike . . . kick rocks I guess, this is just my opinion. I'll do five to keep it brief. And these are in no particular order.

The Burmese Ruby Tiara 🇬🇧

Queen Elizabeth II had a perfect tiara in the Nizam of Hyderabad, that was literally gifted to her and she just randomly decided to take a sledgehammer to it and made the meatball splatter tiara? I'm still so annoyed because the old tiara was so much better and this is a huge downgrade.

Elizabeth II sucked at making jewelry. All three of the tiaras she commissioned are ugly as sin, but this one is just insulting. At least the Brazilian aquamarine has character.

Princess Madeleine's Aquamarine Bandeau Tiara 🇸🇪

It looks like an arts and crafts tiara. Like I get it, she was 18 and you want to give her something practical as a baby's first tiara, but it's just ugly and Madde deserved better. It's funny because Sweden has some of the best tiaras and the other Aquamarine tiara they have is one of my favourites.

The Empire Tiara 🇱🇺

Luxembourg has some of the worst tiaras, but this one takes the cake. The issue with many of these huge tiaras is that they were made during a time when hair was way more dramatic, which complemented these big gun tiaras. However, modern hairstyles just don't work, and that's why I can't vibe with the Empire Tiara. It also is just too gaudy, stiff and heavy-looking, like one of those beauty pageant tiaras.

MT just looks bad in it and I already have a negative opinion of her for, um, other reasons . . .

The Duchess of Edinburgh's Wedding Tiara 🇬🇧

So, I don't know what they were thinking giving Sophie this hideous hodge-podge mess. It was made up of pieces from a different tiara belonging to Queen Victoria and it shows. It has tons of empty space and is gapping at the bottom. It also just doesn't have a proper base. I think they renovated it recently and while it looks better, it's still ugly.

Also not that point, but that pearl necklace? Your husband designed that for you? Sorry.

The Modern Gold Tiara 🇳🇴

I like a sci-fi look, and I like how Sonja wanted to step outside the box with this one, but I just find it ugly and awkward-looking, and the diamonds on add nothing. This is maybe the best version of it, though. Extra points for creativity, I guess.

#warwick.answers #anonymous #non sims #long post

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sometimesbrave · 4 months

Text

warnings: slapping

June 1985

***

"You'll be the saddest part of me

A part of me that'll never be mine.

It's obvious. Tonight is gonna be the lonliest"

- The Lonliest by Måneskin

***

Baba came up with the plan: a series of dropoffs, which will make tracking Deva and Amma more difficult. The fifth driver said that he was supposed to hand them over to the next driver in Hyderabad. When he went away to get them some food in the morning and returned, Deva and Amma were gone. After Deva and Amma's escape from Khansaar, Raja Mannar had his goons round up everyone involved in the matter.

All the seven drivers and Baba were beaten brutally and imprisoned. The fifth driver was tortured the most. He pleaded for his life but he never changed his answer.

Varadha remembers that he was slapped by his father across his face so hard that he fell to the ground. He remembers his father spat on the floor and walked away. After that, the rest of that day was blurry.

The search for Deva and Amma continued.

Now, Varadha's only priority was to get Baba and the drivers out of prison. He requested to meet his father everyday to no avail. He met every Dhora who gave him a chance. Most of them only agreed to meet him to reiterate his pathetic position and feel superior. Those who were sympathetic wanted him to let go of this issue, clean his hands of it and let others bear the burden of his decisions. They wanted him to understand his luck that he is not dead or rotting in prison because his father spared him.

Varadha did not stop. He and Baachi needed Baba. The only solace Varadha had during this year was his brother. Baachi was only 5 years old and he missed Baba very much. Varadha played with his brother and dodged every question the kid had about Baba, their mother or their father. He lied that Aai is in heaven because she turned into an angel on his birthday. He lied that their father doesn't visit them anymore because he is an astronaut on the moon. He lied that Baba will come home soon after defeating all the evil monsters in the forest. Because Baachi was only a child, he didn't need the truth. He only needed a story. Sometimes, Varadha only needed a story to get through the day.

Months passed. Every second ticking at the slowest pace.

Varadha celebrated New Year 1986 in the balcony of their house with his brother sitting in his lap. Baachi was giggling and clapping his chubby fists when he saw the fireworks light up in the sky. Varadha hugged him tightly and desperately wished for Aai, Baba, Amma and Deva to appear before him. He just wanted to celebrate the New Year with his family.

*****

tags: @deadloverscity @ghostdriftexistence @sambaridli, @rambheem-is-real @sinistergooseberries @vardhamannartitties, @moonnpaww @literariyumi @sana2410 @varadevaficrecs

#salaar #varadharaja mannar

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iirulancorrino · 5 months

Text

But Dallas? Haunted, uncool, materialistic, understudied, deeply second-tier and determinedly urbane at the same time. Try-hards in Bottega Veneta, their endless oil-and-gas money gleaned from other people’s sweat. Dallas is the America that America don’t want to show. And yet the city has a seductive appeal. When Nobel Prize winning writer and expert chronicle of empire V.S. Naipaul covered the Republican National Convention in Dallas in 1984, he wrote: “Air-conditioned Dallas seemed to me a stupendous achievement, the product of a large vision, American in the best and most humane way: money and applied science creating an elegant city where life had previously been brutish.” Naipaul was right. Like Jack Adkisson smoothing the edges of professional wrestling for his little family empire, Dallas loves to smooth the boundaries between country and city. Here you get a luxury car to cosplay city rich, then you get actually rich, then you buy a recreational ranch to cosplay country. Maybe only Miami enjoys money on as pure a level as Dallas does. I’ve seen men in stingray cowboy boots chatting through their manicures and heard a waiter in an expensive restaurant share a bawdy anecdote from their childhood in the Panhandle as they uncork the Krüg. One of my first weekends living here, I went to Deep Ellum, a neighborhood as essential to early blues recordings as New Orleans was to jazz. It was the peak of a Friday night. I saw a glistening new canary-yellow Porsche with paper tags and a license plate frame that read PORSCHE OF SHREVEPORT crawl down Elm Street. A young woman drove and her friend rode shotgun, the top down, their hair in the wind, sugar money and refinery money drifting in their wake. What Northern Ireland is to poets, DFW is to child stars (Selena Gomez; Demi Lovato; Kaitlyn Dever; etc.). Local Millennials and Zoomers will argue that Dallas is the progenitor of “bro” as an omni-race omni-gender pronoun. There’s exceptionally good eating here: Lao, Viet, Ethiopian, various sub-genres of barbeque, seafood from Sinaloa, pozole from San Luis Potosi, Iraqi bakeries, a half dozen steakhouses so thoughtful and so good that they make one reconsider the entire genre. AT&T Stadium absolutely rules. I’m the son of a Philadelphia Irish sports zealot and—forgive me father—when I was a guest at a Cowboys game, I bought Cowboys gear for my then-infant son and snapped up a Michael Irvin shirt for myself. I hit the Emmett Smith shimmy in a hallway. I regret nothing. Critics would say that Dallas was built to house the money. Yes, it was. As were Milan and Hyderabad.

#what I'm reading #I know very little about texas or pro wrestling but this was a great essay

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beasiannow · 2 months

Text

Meanwhile, in an upscale suburb of Seattle, Washington, the Sharma Sisters from Hyderabad are still running their successful line of clothing stores.

At first, a small affair known as The Sharma Sisters' Indian Apparel Boutique sold sarees, where they sold sarees, dhoti kurta, salwar suits, and other items of Indian apparel.

Not a business fated for grand success in your average upscale Seattle suburb.

Then, as fate or karma would have it, they came into possession of something they came to call The Threads of Karma Cloth.

This, though super-science they didn’t understand, caused those who wore it (picked from a selected few) to become physically and psychologically attuned to the land of India. This, in turn, led to a much larger clientele in search of other less “esoteric” Indian apparel.

That's why they renamed their shops, which now had four in Washington state, to “You Are What You Wear Fine Indian Apparel.”

Which at last led them to branch out again with the opening of a shop in Boise City, Idaho.

To run it, they hired experienced local sales manager Pamela Sheridan, whom they insisted she and everyone she employed in their name dress in East-Indian style while doing so.

Pamela played along, being a go-along-to-get-along sort of person; plus she really needed the job. However, she had to ask.

“I’m sorry, but isn’t this cultural appropriation?” “Not to worry,” said the Sharma sister, who had helped her get dressed in her first saree. Trust me, wear what I’ve given you, and things will work themselves out before you know it.”

A week later, Pamela Sheridan was surprised to find this to be more true than she could have imagined.

A month later, Pamvati Shiravadan was reassuring her four new Western women hired for the coming opening day that they, too, would soon be as comfortable in their new free sarees as she was.

The four young ladies just hired, Vivian, Chloe, Lydia, and Willow, did not greet this news with much excitement.

However, a year later, the four, now known as Veha, Kavuri, Lakshmi, and Wishi, were more than happy on winning the outstanding sales team with accompanying big bonuses.

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