Ed Sheeran reveals he's a fan of Tollywood movies; "Why not?"
Picture Credit: X
British pop sensation Ed Sheeran recently amazed Indian fans with his collaboration with
Arijit Singh
on the newly released track 'Sapphire'. On his Instagram the 'Shape of you' singer expressed his love and admiration of Bollywood and Tollywood films.
Arijit Singh's voice hooked Ed from '
Aashiqui 2
'
After the release, Ed Sheeran took to Instagram to pen a warm note expressing his gratitude and admiration for Arijit Singh. But what caught fans off guard was Ed's confession that he first became a fan of Arijit after watching 'Aashiqui 2' and listening to the iconic song 'Tum Hi Ho'. "I was proper spellbound by his voice, the song, the scene in the movie," Ed wrote. "I checked him out and got in touch, and said whenever you wanna sing together, I'm down.
"
https://www.reddit.com/r/BollyBlindsNGossip/comments/1l8jraa/ed_sheeran_on_insta/
Ed's love for
Indian cinema
A fan found it hard to believe that the 'Perfect' hitmaker had watched a Bollywood romance. One fan jokingly commented, "Bro, in no world did you watch Aashiqui 2." But Ed's candid and unexpected reply won hearts, "Why not? I watch loads of Bollywood and Tollywood movies, no one makes movies like that, I love it."
In his social media post, Ed shared that the two first connected online and kept in touch over email.
When Ed was in India for his tour, he reached out to Arijit with a suggestion to finish the song in person. To that, Arijit warmly responded, inviting Ed to visit his hometown.
Ed wrote, "I was with my dad on tour, which is a rarity to get so much one-on-one time with him. Me and him got a flight to Kolkata, then a 5 and a half hour drive to his home town." There, the duo finalized 'Sapphire' a song born not just from musical synergy but a shared cultural curiosity and mutual respect.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Hindustan Times
20 minutes ago
- Hindustan Times
Drawing Room: Hemant Gavankar on Gieve Patel's Peacock at Nariman Point
Most art students face a dilemma at some point in the course of their studies. They are confronted with questions about the very nature of art and creativity, and finding one's artistic voice. When I went through this phase, I sought out the works of some of India's greatest artists. In that process, I discovered Gieve Patel. Patel, who passed away at 83 in 2023, was the kind of artist who over the decades, seamlessly switched from painting to poetry, from sculpture to theatre. He was, until he retired in 2005, also a practising doctor. While realistic urban landscapes and human figures formed the subjects of his earlier works, the abstract and symbolic took over much of his later ones. My favourite work by him is Peacock at Nariman Point, made in 1999. It depicts a man, standing before the south Mumbai skyline, with the sea and distant skyscrapers forming the backdrop. Yet the scene is far from normal. The man is holding a peacock. The painting was inspired by Hoshi Jal's black-and-white photograph published in a newspaper at the time. Despite the change of medium, Patel's version captures the analogue quality of '90s print photography. It highlights the frozen quality of that never-before, never-again moment. The painting is straightforward: Bright and complementary colours, clear visuals. The title is simple too – there's no play on words. But it calls attention to the moment itself – our beautiful, dramatic national bird right in the middle of the biggest office district in the big city. It is Patel's statement about Mumbai's incredible growth after India's economic liberalisation. At a presentation in Chandigarh's Lalit Kala Akademi in 2016, Patel shared that he felt the need to memorialise the peacock's journey, as it would never return to this space. To many who view it, the work also marks a specific point in Indian art – the end of 20th century, with its tremendous cultural, political and social changes. Even the peacock echoes a connection to how frequently the bird recurs as a motif in Indian miniature paintings, as decoration or as a symbol of opulence and power. Patel was slyly clever at what he did. He was unafraid of infusing his works with vivid colours and bold strokes. Even the abstracts display intricate detailing. The human figures he drew benefitted from his medical knowledge of the human anatomy. He also often challenged the perceived placement of the viewer in his works. Whether it was his series of deserted railway stations or his series of wells reflecting the beauty of nature, it still makes us wonder where we are. Are we waiting for a train or are we just arriving at our destination? Are we looking into the well from above or are we inside it, admiring the sky? And with the peacock, what's really on display? I'm intrigued by this sense of ambiguity. ARTIST BIO: Hemant Gavankar's mixed-media paintings and video art explore how gentrification and social change have transformed Mumbai. His work focusses on the simultaneous shifts in physical spaces and inner emotions over time. From HT Brunch, June 14, 2025 Follow us on
Hindustan Times
24 minutes ago
- Hindustan Times
Smol pleasures: Why miniature thalis, sofas and paintings are big business
Small is huge right now. Instagram Reels are zooming in on thalis no bigger than your little finger, laden with tiny rotis, veggie bowls, a cute papad and a mound of rice. Someone's handpainting model-train compartments the size of an eraser. Matchbox-sized wardrobes open up to contain five of Carrie Bradshaw's iconic looks, down to the Choos. Like. Like. Like. What began as a niche COVID-time hobby for craft-loving folks is now a thriving little business too. Miniature collectibles, especially food, are showing up as fridge magnets, wedding favours, pooja offerings and personalised presents for the besties. At 18th birthday parties, mini versions of the cake are turning into 'keep-cake' keychains. Artists work within a strict size range — five to seven centimetres — small enough to feel delicate, not so tiny that the details are lost. It's driven by precision and intention, everything must look cute. You don't need a psychology class to remind you that miniaturised bits of real life — model trains, Lego sets, architectural models, Barbie's Dreamhouse, even bobbleheads — tap into our sense of control. Items and ideas that are too much to take in at full scale are easier to process when they're shrunk down. Plus, in an age when we're filming everything, mini versions of the familiar are that much easier to like. It's why Chennai-based Sudha and Neha Chandranarayan's videos (@CNArts_Miniatures) of their handmade clay micro Maggi noodles has quietly amassed 39.6 million views. And the money coming in? Not so little. Minis to the max Sudha Chandranarayan, 55, spent more than three decades in traditional crafts. She's picked up mural work, doll-making and other painting styles while moving through Mumbai, Indore and Porbandar. 'Everywhere we lived, my mom absorbed the local art forms like a sponge,' says her daughter Neha, 25, who works alongside her. About 20 years ago, Chandranarayan discovered clay miniatures. 'She began sculpting tiny plants, birds, animals, even people, all by hand.' They ran workshops, passing on their techniques in an era before fancy art-supply shops and 10-minute delivery apps. 'We use air-dry clay, and back in the day, we had a relative bring it back to us from Thailand,' Chandranarayan says. Now, materials are readily available and the daughter puts up videos featuring prep, process, BTS and final product on social media. 'It's how we market, connect and get inspired by other artists.' Their keychains, magnets and earrings start at ₹499, on their website In Mumbai, Sailee Samel, 35, who runs The Yellow Brush (@TheYellowBrushh) works with polymer clay to create vada pao carts, vintage bakery nooks and chai tapris. It's 'like roti dough, just more refined,' she says. It comes in different colours, which reduces painting time, and gives miniatures a crack-free, stone-like texture when baked, 'but I have to import it in bulk from the US,' Samel says. It drives up costs. Polymer clay is four times the price of the air-dry version. Add the cost of workmanship, and a little banana-leaf platter can cost as much as ₹1,999. But customers love it. Her biggest order: A miniature collector who happily shelled out ₹1 lakh for 50 handcrafted pieces. Sourcing is just the first step. The real test lies in recreating a complex object, say, a South Indian thali, in miniature. Chandranarayan's version includes over 15 individual foods, all crafted by hand. 'Just the rice takes 8 to 10 hours, we stick together nearly 300 tiny grains,' she says. Observing the real thing is a big part of the prep. 'We study how gravies settle, how oil pools on curry.' After all, even if it's morsel-sized, the thali must look good enough to eat. Shrink wrap Everything, it seems, is making money when miniaturised. In 2020, Nagpur-based interior designer Ishani Umre, 29, owner of The Miniature Co. (@The_Miniature_Co), fell down a Pinterest rabbit hole and emerged obsessed with tiny furniture. Her first piece, a replica of her house, wasn't perfect, but she was hooked. She began taking on custom mini-teriors — a child's exact bedroom by a mom, someone's wedding venue, a home preserved in old photos. It's carpentered like the real thing. Sofas are upholstered with real fabric, cushions stuffed with cotton or rice, the plumbing in the little kitchens works, cabinets have working drawers. She uses foam board, balsa, polish, paints, even 3D-printed parts. 'I can't reuse anything. Your bed has to be your bed,' she says. A single piece can take 15 to 20 days, but clients, largely those looking to preserve a memory, don't mind the wait. They don't mind paying between ₹8,000 and ₹40,000 either. Umre says she's not selling objects but 'emotional storytelling in 1:16 scale'. Noida resident Meghna Roy, 36, switched from law to crafts (@Ashnalia_By_Meghna) but faced challenges selling her handmade greeting cards and bookmarks until she added tiny hand-painted artworks — Van Gogh's Starry Night, Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, down to the gilded vintage frames — to her repertoire in March. One customer bought 20 mini paintings in a single order. 'You'd think tiny means quick,' she says, 'but each painting takes four to five hours. The detail demands patience.' Nostalgia and storytelling, drive much of the sales. One of CN Arts Miniatures' customers gifted a platter of pao bhaji, curd rice and idlis to her husband stationed abroad: 'It was like sending him a piece of home'. Their bestseller is their crispy dosa — they've sold 3,000 of them worldwide. Despite demand, they cap production at 150 pieces a month to stick to handmade, precise in-house work. Umre's viral Reels push website sales. Her mini cabinets and lamps sell the best. It's like holding a memory in your hand. AI can't compete yet. From HT Brunch, June 14, 2025 Follow us on .
The Hindu
27 minutes ago
- The Hindu
Age of the lesbian cop
Pride month means rainbow emojis galore. And these days web series seem to be the new place to show Pride. LGBTQIA+ characters are all over the OTT platform. 'Everyone is putting in a lesbian cop,' laughs Sridhar Rangayan, filmmaker and director of the KASHISH Mumbai International Queer Film Festival. 'The lesbian cop is the new trope.' If OTT series like Aarya and Paataal Lok gave us the gay cops, the lesbians are popping up in series such as Dabba Cartel and Inspector Rishi. The lesbian cop might just be the new 'gay best friend'. Sure, it's better than the old days when Anupam Kher put on an orange-pink mohawk and camped it up as the villainous, simpering, handsy Pinku in the film Mast Kalandar (1991). It was one of the first representations of queerness Rangayan had seen on Indian screen. 'That was horrible,' he says. 'I didn't dress like him. I didn't make a fool of myself like him.' Lesbian cops undoubtedly make for better representation than Pinkus. Representation is certainly important but is it the end goal? 'There was a time when just visibility was a struggle,' says novelist Santanu Bhattacharya whose latest book, The Deviants, follows three generations of gay men in one family. 'Now I need a deeper understanding. I don't want that lesbian cop.' Representation matters Years ago, I used to edit a South Asian LGBTQIA+ magazine called Trikone. As we put one issue to bed, I would worry whether we'd find enough material that was both queer and South Asian to fill the next issue. At that time, I would have been grateful for Indian lesbian cops even as side characters. In the 90s, Trikone did an issue on new South Asian queer titles. Short of models, the board members lay on the carpet holding copies of the few books around — like Shyam Selvadurai's Funny Boy, a gay coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of the civil war in Sri Lanka and Rakesh Ratti's anthology, A Lotus of Another Colour. We called it a 'blossoming of South Asian gay and lesbian voices in literature', but in reality the options were pretty sparse. Some were not even desi. John Irving's Son of the Circus snuck into the round-up because it had gay and transgender characters in a rambling novel set in Mumbai. The list even included Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy thanks to a 'tantalising whiff of homosexual romance buried deep' in the magnum opus. Shobhaa De's collection of essays, Shooting from the Hip, made the cut because she had one on being a 'fag hag'. All in all, it covered barely two pages. Nevertheless, the article optimistically hoped readers would flood the magazine with letters saying 'How could you leave out…?' No flood happened. More than just tokenism That same issue carried a profile of Selvadurai who said he wrote Funny Boy because he wanted to 'record for posterity, and for now as well, our lives', to say gay people existed in Sri Lanka, because 'that is so seldom recorded in any significant way'. That visibility remains important. But now we must also understand that there is a difference between being visible and being seen. Bhattacharya says being seen is about 'engaging with the interiority of these characters'. The lesbian cop needs a back story. She should be there because she matters to the story, not to make some studio or director feel woke. Otherwise, she remains nothing more than a novelty factor. Rangayan has been making films since The Pink Mirror in 2003. Despite the proliferation, 'blossoming' if you will, of queer characters in popular culture, it's still not easier to raise funds for a film that has queer lives in the spotlight. Rangayan still crowd-funds and says no matter how family-friendly he makes his films, shorn of all sex and violence, he has to argue against an A-certificate every time. Just because it has gay characters, he says. At the same time, the cool cachet exists as well. In his book The Urban Elite v Union of India, Supreme Court lawyer Rohin Bhatt mentions another lawyer who quips, 'I want to do LGBT cases and become famous.' The coverage LGBTQIA+ cases like the same-sex marriage case receive, especially in English-language media, can create the optical illusion where we think that jumping on the rainbow is a shortcut to fame and recognition. Perhaps it is. But one suspects it's more so for the ally than for the queer persons themselves. Delhi advocate Saurabh Kirpal's openness about being gay became a red flag (or pink flag?) when the Supreme Court recommended him for judgeship. That still hasn't happened. And it certainly hasn't made it easier for someone like Rangayan to make films. But hey, at least we have lots of lesbian cops. The writer is the author of 'Don't Let Him Know', and likes to let everyone know about his opinions, whether asked or not.
