Hindi song composed for the Dalai Lama's 90th b'day
A Hindi song composed by Mumbai-based Som Dasgupta will be sung by Bollywood singer Mohit Chauhan on the occasion of the Dalai Lama's 90th birthday on July 6 in Mcleodganj, Dharamshala.
Dasgupta wrote the song following a request made by the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts (TIPA), a cultural body that functions under the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA).
Dasgupta told TOI that there are also English and Tibetan versions of the song. "I am feeling blessed. The 90th birthday of the Dalai Lama is a great occasion. I sent the song to Mohit Chauhan and he likes it. Musician and singer Bidisha Sen will also sing along with Chauhan," he said.
Dasgupta is currently in Mcleodganj to teach 400 students of TIPA the song, on the latter's request. "They will sing in chorus on the Tibetan spiritual leader's birthday in Mcleodganj," he added.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Hindu
41 minutes ago
- The Hindu
Poetry's role in queer visibility: in conversation with Stephanie Burt
Stephanie Burt, the Donald P. and Katherine B. Loker Professor of English at Harvard University, has edited a new, remarkable anthology titled Super Gay Poems: LGBTQIA+ Poetry after Stonewall (Belknap Press/ Harvard University Press). Each of the 51 poems in this collection is followed by lucid, reflective, and insightful commentary by Burt, who sheds light on the transformation of queerness over the decades since 1969, the year of the Stonewall riots, which marked an important chapter in the history of the gay rights movement both in the U.S. and across the world. In this interview, Burt shares not only the motivation behind collating this work but also discusses how the poems in this collection illuminate the shared queer futures that one had imagined ever since Stonewall, that quintessential moment in the history of transfeminism. Edited excerpts: Q: Anthologising is as much an art of record-keeping and celebrating, as it is of making selections based on constraints. What are some of the challenges you faced in putting together this book? A: As with most such projects, I ended up sad about the poems and poets I had to leave out. Maybe that sadness ended up as the biggest challenge. In practical terms, I had to work to catch up with the eras and kinds of LGBTQIA+ poetry written and published before I was old enough to read it, during the 1970s and 1980s, to ensure I had not left out anything crucial. A few discoveries startled me, because in a just world, I would've known all about them already: Melvin Dixon, for example. Not so much a challenge as a lot of work I knew I'd have to do, and a lot of work I loved doing: finding more poems and poets written and published entirely outside the U.S. alongside poems about international diasporic experience. Stephanie Dogfoot (Stephanie Chan) is another example. Q: Given that these poems were written at a time when the world was more difficult to negotiate as a queer or trans person, I could see the secretive codes in which several poets told their histories, transforming acts of violence and lovelessness into literary devices. Your views? A: You're not wrong, although the closet, the maintenance of open secrets, and the need to protect an identity probably had much more influence on the queer poetry written beforeStonewall — on the generations of Hart Crane, W.H. Auden, [and] perhaps Langston Hughes. Super Gay Poems begins with a Frank O'Hara poem ('Homosexuality'), published only in 1970, about queer lives as open, easily detected, and supposed secrets, about the risks that we take in order to feel loved. The next poem after that one (Judy Grahn's 'Carol, in the park, chewing on straws') has to do with coming out, with watching a lesbian announce, unmistakably, the shape of her life. Wonderful poems can arise from fears and codes, but also from self-disclosure and pride. Q: Can you reflect on the legal pushback against queer and trans people, the campaigns to take away their rights, and how the written word, poetry in particular, stands as a resistive force towards them? A: The farther we go, the more visible more of us get, and the clearer it gets — to cisgender people, to straight people, to people in or near positions of power — that we're just living our lives, that we can't go back, that we're not a threat to them … [and] the harder it gets for sociopaths, bigots, and opportunists to hurt us. Cisgender gay adults found legal protection in the U.S. after they found some cultural acceptance because people in power knew gay men and lesbians personally. It's one thing to outlaw a scary weird 'other'. It's quite another to tell your sister, your daughter, or your best friend's wife that you want to pass laws that could make them miserable, expose them to violence, or (especially in the case of trans children) kill them. I do think more visibility, sooner, helps keep us safe. Literature, writing, and poetry — the shortest and most easily circulated of all literary kinds, maybe of all the art forms — have a part to play in that visibility. It shows us that we've got a history. That we're not just a trend. That we're certainly not alone. The interviewer is a Delhi-based queer writer and cultural critic. Instagram/X: @writerly_life
Hindustan Times
an hour ago
- Hindustan Times
Bengaluru entrepreneur says he's often mistaken for a north Indian due to skin colour, Hindi: ‘When I speak in Kannada…'
At a time when online debates around Bengaluru's treatment of outsiders continue to surface, a city-based co-founder's personal account has struck a chord with many. Sharing his lived experiences on X (formerly Twitter), Srijan R Shetty opened up about how language plays a crucial role in shaping interpersonal warmth in the city, and how locals respond with unexpected joy when they hear outsiders making an effort to speak Kannada. An X user shared how welcoming Bengaluru is to outsiders if anyone spot them putting efforts learning local language. (Pic for representation generated by AI) Also Read - 'Bengaluru's cosmopolitan life very alluring': SC rejects government doctors' plea against transfers Shetty, who was raised in North India and speaks with a noticeable Hindi accent, said that people often assume he is a North Indian, partly due to his upbringing and skin tone. But the moment he switches to Kannada, particularly with his Mangalorean-style diction, it transforms the interaction completely. 'Every time I speak Kannada with someone new, I see genuine surprise and delight in their eyes,' Shetty wrote. 'Conversations become lively, and they're always curious about how I picked up the language. When I tell them I'm a Mangalorean, they gently point out that my diction is a bit off, but they do so kindly, often chalking it up to regional variations.' He explained that while there are political undercurrents tied to language and identity, most people in Bengaluru are welcoming. 'Yes, there's a narrative that some locals feel left out of the city's rapid growth,' he acknowledged. 'But I've found that very few will force you to speak Kannada. On the contrary, even small efforts are met with kindness and inclusion.' Also Read - 'Never went to kitty parties': Nithin and Nikhil Kamath's mom says children were her life Shetty also touched on the linguistic diversity within the state, noting that Kannada itself has many regional variants that can be hard to follow for outsiders — especially in areas influenced by Konkani. Despite these nuances, he said, what matters is the attempt. 'People recognise effort,' he added. 'In my experience, if you try to speak the language, you're often treated like one of their own.' He ended the post on a light note, saying, 'P.S. In my books, if you've stuck by RCB during their bad seasons, you're Bangalorean enough.' The post resonated with several users who echoed similar experiences. One user commented, 'Totally relatable. I'm a Tulu-speaking Mangalorean, born in Dubai, lived in the US, and now settled in Bangalore. And yes, I'm a Shetty too.'
Scroll.in
an hour ago
- Scroll.in
‘Maa' review: A feeble and dull battle between mothers and monsters
Forty years ago, a girl was born in a landlord's family in Chandarpur village in Bengal. The girl was immediately sent to her death – the landlord was steeped in Kali worship and believed that the girl infant must be sacrificed if Kali's adversary, the demigod Raktabeej, was to be vanquished. In the present, the landlord's son Shubhankar (Indraneil Sengupta) has a mysterious accident while visiting his ancestral mansion. Shubhankar and his wife Ambika (Kajol) have avoided visiting Chandarpur for years. They especially don't want to take their 12-year-old daughter Shweta (Jherin Sharma) there. Yet, here is Ambika and Shweta in Chandarpur, fulfilling the first rule of the horror film formula: the lead characters will walk resolutely towards peril, ignoring every warning sign. Ambika finds herself battling a manifestation of a demonic force that has ghastly designs on Shweta and the other girls in the village. The problem with Maa isn't Ambika's unreasonable actions – irrationality is a cornerstone of horror. Rather, the trouble with Vishal Furia's movie is how literal-minded and feeble it turns out to be. For a film about a potent and fierce goddess, Maa is a resolutely tame affair. Like Ambika, Maa too in constantly looking for miracles – a tough ask, given Saiwyn Quadras's plodding screenplay, a barely scary monster created with pedestrian visual effects, and clumsy links between Ambika's maternal instincts and Kali's divine powers. Furia's previous three films – the Marathi-language Lapachhapi, its Hindi remake Chhorii and the sequel Chhorii 2 – have all been about women trying to protect their daughters from malevolent beings who represent the very real horror of patriarchy. Furia is admirably dedicated to making pure horror films rather than follow the trend of horror comedies. Maa is a poor showcase of Furia's feel for the genre. The film neither creates emotional engagement with its characters nor has the technical polish to be a convincing scare-fest. Except for a few scenes, there is a lack of atmospherics needed to carry off a tale of demonic possession. No heart beat is skipped when the monster, looking like a mean-tempered version of the tree spirits from the Lord of the Rings films, makes its appearance. Nor is the big revelation about the monster's human helper a real surprise. A haunted jungle that is right next to the mansion, separated by a crumbling wall or two? A concerned mother who drags her daughter to a place that has never been good to young girls? A Bengali pre-teen who has been raised in Kolkata but has no idea about the belief system in Kali? Maa isn't even trying. The 135-minute film gains some traction towards the climax, when Ambika channelises her inner goddess. A heavily made-up Kajol tries her best, but the battle was lost even before Ambika set foot in Chandarpur. Play
