
Amitabh Bachchan vs Salman Khan: Who is richer? The answer will shock you, their net worth is...
The quiz show, known for its iconic theme and legendary host, premieres on August 11, and excitement is already sky-high.
This marks yet another chapter in Bachchan's long-standing association with the show. But this time, it's not just the format that's making headlines; it's the price tag.
How much is Amitabh Bachchan earning?
According to Siasat.com, Amitabh Bachchan is reportedly charging a whopping Rs 5 crore per episode for KBC 17. Since the show airs five times a week, that's an estimated Rs 25 crore per week, making him the highest-paid TV host in India.
Is he earning more than Salman Khan?
In terms of TV hosting fees, absolutely. Salman Khan, who reportedly charges around Rs 25 crore per weekend for Bigg Boss, has been overtaken by Big B's per-week rate.
However, net worth is a different game altogether. As per media reports, Salman Khan's total net worth stands at Rs 2,900 crore, while Amitabh Bachchan's is around Rs 1,600 crore. So while the Sholay star may be winning on TV, the Sultan still leads in overall wealth.
Earlier this year, Bollywood Hungama reported that Amitabh might skip this season due to personal reasons. But those reports were soon debunked when Sony TV released the first promo on April 4, announcing that registrations were open.
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Scroll.in
16 minutes ago
- Scroll.in
These poems by Ifaam Bashir and Zainab Ummer Farook won the inaugural Osmosis Poetry Prize
The Osmosis Poetry Prize is a newly instituted award founded by poets Yashasvi Vachhani, Kunjana Parashar and Kinjal Sethia. The aim of the prize is to celebrate contemporary Indian poets writing in English. It is awarded to two poets, each winning a cash reward of Rs 10,000 and a citation from an external judge. This year the prize has been won by poets Ifaam Bashir and Zainab Ummer Farook. Sohini Basak was the judge for the inaugural iteration of the prize. Basak said about Bashir, 'In [his] packet of poems, loss and yearning are stitched delicately along the margins of the landscapes and the architecture the poet inhabits. The ghosts who tread these atmospheric poems offer soft and warm solace. Crucially, the deft control of an even-toned yet dreamy register of images and emotions left ample gaps for me, the reader, to dwell in 'the grammar of absence': the nooks and crannies of the houses in disrepair, the frayed end of things, fading memories, the whispering moonlight, and allowed me a gentleness to grieve with/in.' 'It is not easy to write a poem about My Neighbour Totoro without going into clichés about trees or cats, but Zainab Ummer Farook's first poem homing a 'prolific irumban puli tree/beaded with red ants' is transformative. The tug of war between childhood and adulting becomes apparent and entertaining in this convincing set of coming-of-age poems. Animated with scenes of feasting and family, of moving and stagnation, lore and pop culture, these poems celebrate tedium and plotless-ness, berate the imposter syndrome, and revel in the slapdash in joyful, meandering ways,' added Basak about Farook. Here are their winning poems: Ifaam Bashir What the Tide Leaves At dawn, the shore is a ledger – pages of wet sand where the sea writes and rewrites itself. I walk the tideline, collecting what the night's waves coughed up: a starfish, stiff as a leather glove, a bottle neck, glinting with barnacle teeth, driftwood carved into bones by the wind. Once, I found a child's name etched in a plank, the letters sandblasted to ghosts. Now it sits on my windowsill, half prayer, half kindling. The sea doesn't distinguish. It returns even our grief as something useful – salt for the soil, shells to grind into mortar, a tin locket, emptied of its face. They say the ocean keeps nothing. But tonight, I press my ear to a conch and hear the static of a thousand hungers – fish bones humming in the dark, shipwrecks dissolving into mica, voices from the past, years gone, still teaching the waves the dialect of rain. I learn to read the tides by what they abandon: a frayed net, a rusted hinge, a single sapphire button. When I leave, I take only the cold weight of the horizon, that blue ache the water stitches to the sky. Let the gulls claim the rest. Even their cries are borrowed things. ghost-threading The snowmelt river stitches the valley's hem – a silver thread unravelling into silt. I am learning to weave with what remains: – the wrong side of saffron fields, burnt threads that outlast the bloom, – the silence between two strikes of a moth's wing against a lantern. Grandmother called it ghost-threading – the art of mending holes with light. Her needles, almond twigs. Her thimble, a shard of glacier. I work the way fog writes on mountains: half-erasure, half confession. Every knot, a swallowed word. Every warp, the breath before no becomes yes. The loom's teeth gnaw the yarn to dust. Still, I spin – – the ache of unripe apricots, – the bluedawn cry of a heron into something that might hold the shape of leaving. When they ask where I'm from, I hand them a spool of smoke. Some nights, even the river forgets whether it's water or the ghost of water. I knot the frayed ends. Begin again. The Museum of Shadows In the house where the clock's hands froze, dust stitches a shroud over the piano's mute keys. The walls peel back to reveal their bones – cracks like maps of roads we never took. A teacup cracks its porcelain spine, spilling decades of steeped silence. The curtains, thin as a widow's breath, still tremble when the moon whispers remember. Outside, the garden knots itself in ivy, throttling the sundial's forgotten tongue. Winter's teeth gnaw the fence to splinters, leaving only the scent of almond blooms to haunt the air – sweet and feral, a requiem for the unharvested. We buried nothing here, but the soil remembers what our hands discarded: a locket's rusted clasp, a diary's waterlogged plea, the ghost of a fire that refused to take. I pocket a single shard of cobblestone, cold as the space between two stars. The house exhales, its rooms collapsing into the grammar of absence. Tonight, even the wind hesitates to speak our names. Zainab Ummer Farook Epiphany During a Rewatch of My Neighbour Totoro Some childhood stories are best left untold. If we must, let it be a movie. The countryside gives way to a town in the garb of a city; the father is a grim garbled voice on a five-minute ISD call. Everything else stays as it is: sick mother sent away, two girls let loose, austere house reluctant to be home. Days plod into eventless days – seasons tick by. The girls do their homework and float paper boats down monsoon's short-lived rivulets. There is a cat, of course, and a prolific irumban puli tree beaded with red ants. The younger child takes a liking to the puckeringly sour fruit, bountiful clusters promising a sharp green crunch. The older one prefers to watch her little sister's face scrunch, an elfin thing unshadowed by knowledge. Blessed are we, that our memory sieves. The dregs belong to another movie: wizened neighbour banging on the front door, throng of people, firefighters, mother (a limp, wet rat) propped against a stoic uncle. You recall nothing. I retain the distinction between fell and jumped, between accident and intent. The truth lies at the bottom of an old well – a steel bucket that slipped off its rope, slumbering away on the gravelled bedrock forested with moss. In that watery grove dwells a spirit: kind and monstrous, neither rabbit nor cat nor grey owl, guardian of lost children, benevolent robber of memory. Mise-en-place Things are nowhere close to where they should be. No home, no bookshelf, no glassware, no ducks in a row. No lovers, too. But there is a tiny kitchen with a dinged steel plate. Soak two slices of bread in milk, a generous pour of honey. Then, top it off with a big mango, diced slapdash. Bliss rigged in the middle of nowhere. And you are where you are, make-do creature digging into a make-do treat. Ode to Imposter Syndrome 'I went to sleep a poet and woke up a fraud' ~Fall Out Boy, 'The Music or the Misery' Little imp on my right shoulder nattering into my ear – bless you. Bless your purple-faced bluster, your ready cudgel, talons honed to razor through letter and paper. Bless your eyes' ice-white fire, its jubilant gobbling of drafts. Bless that pudgy nose fishing for an iffy simile, bridge wrinkled in disdain. Bless the eardrums tuned to suss out discordance. Bless the tsk and ayye and chee stuffed into your cheek pouches, spat and pinged against my skull. You huffy chipmunk, you skittish rascal: bless your slingshot aim, the stone of it whistling sense. The welts are left to yellow, token of the world's largeness: you suck, this sucks, anyone can do it better. Bless you for playing two truths and a lie. You forget that l thrive in webs of lies, nettling truth for song. Bless you for picking my shoulder for a perch, you brave, brave thing – captive, all you can do now is listen. Ifaam Bashir is a student of English literature at EFLU, Hyderabad, and is originally from Jammu and Kashmir. He writes poems and short stories, often circling around memory, longing, and the quieter moments of life. Zainab Ummer Farook firmly believes that picture books are for everyone, even those who call themselves adults. She was a 2023 South Asia Speaks Fellow and won the 2024 Toto Funds the Arts Award for Creative Writing in English. Her poems have been featured in Muse India, Nether Quarterly, and The Bombay Literary Magazine. Having grown up in Kozhikode, she is now amused by Bengaluru's paltry monsoons.


India Today
16 minutes ago
- India Today
Is Ahaan Panday dating actor Shruti Chauhan? Her Saiyaara review fuels rumours
Amid glorious reviews for 'Saiyaara', the personal life of debutant actor Ahaan Panday has also come to the limelight. He is reportedly dating actor and model Shruti Chauhan. Although neither has confirmed the relationship, Chauhan's praise of the recent release has sparked public wrote on Instagram, "To the boy who dreamed of this his entire life, to the boy who believed in it when no one else did, to the one who gave his all for this moment. To the one who deserves this more than anyone! The stage is yours @ahaanpandayy.(sic)"advertisementShe raised further interest in their relationship by adding, "I love you, I'm proud of you, I'm crying, I'm screaming, and I'm only wishing and praying that there is more and more to come for you! The world will finally know you and what you can do! Forever. (sic)" Chauhan, originally from Jaipur, made a mark in the entertainment industry as an actor and model. She played the role of Maya in 'Gully Boy'. The 28-year-old has appeared in a music video titled 'Hadh Se' with singer Jubin romantic link between Panday and Chauhan has added another layer of interest in the debutant. The duo is yet to address the speculation around their relationship status. However, their social media interactions are being closely watched by on July 18, 'Saiyaara' is making all the right buzz for his on-screen chemistry with Aneet Padda. The film is marching it's way ahead of several big Bollywood releases in 2025. It has already minted Rs 37 crore at the box office over the by Mohit Suri, the romantic film is backed by Yash Raj Films. It narrates the journey of Krish, played by Ahaan Panday, an aspiring singer, and Vaani, portrayed by Aneet Padda, a lyricist.- Ends

Time of India
16 minutes ago
- Time of India
Karan Johar Claps Back at 'Nepo Kid Ka Daijaan' Troll After Praising 'Saiyaara'
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