Costume Sits Uncomfortably As It Makes It Melodious: Slut-shamers will be quite ‘uncomfortable’ with Monali Thakur in these 6 stunning photos! Monali Thakur, one of the country’s most outstanding vocalists, was subjected to a Predicament that every female in India must experience at least once in her life: slut-shaming. The 31-year-old is currently being treated for a.
Monali Thakur, one of the country’s most outstanding vocalists was subjected to a predicament that every female in India must experience at least once in her life: slut-shaming. Monali, who is currently a judge on Colors TV’s Rising Star, a singing reality show, was asked by a random concerned sanskari Instagram follower to stop wearing short dresses on the show because they made him ‘uncomfortable.’ Monali Thakur was outraged by the user’s unwarranted moral policing, and she rightfully criticized the user for slut-shaming her on social media. We adore the National Award-winning singer for speaking out against such filthy slut-shamers on social media.
As we salute Monali Thakur for being an amazing kickass role model, here’s a gallery of stunning photos of the singer that will make her fans swoon, while slut-shamers will be irritated. Monali Thakur responds to a troll who criticized her short dress in an Instagram photo. Monali, along with singer-actor Diljit Dosanjh and music composer Shankar Mahadevan, is one of the three judges on Colors’ live singing reality show Rising Star. When this female admirer of Monali chastised her for not living up to the usual image of a parent or mentor to the participants, she uploaded a picture of herself wearing a lovely outfit on the show.
“You are doing a great job in Rising Star on Colors
But, to be honest, we don’t like how you dress up on the show,” the user commented to Monali Thakur. Why do you only wear short dresses? That appears to be extremely unsettling. Because aapko dekh rahe hai, aap show mein participants ko guidance karte ho like parents, please apne dress pe thoda concentration kijiye. Please don’t worry; we’re simply making a request because we’re feeling a little uneasy.”
This request for the singer irritated her to no end, and Monali responded with a stinging retort. Before blocking a stupid like you, the Rising Star judge wrote: I wanted to let you know what I thought of brains and minds like yours. It’s your perverse psychological problem, not mine or any other girl’s, that you’re uncomfortable in my short dress! So toss that bullshit about’sabhyata’ up your a**. And just pray that I never see you in person because no one will be able to stop me from demonstrating what my legs can do to your little crotch with just one kick! Please accept my apologies if I have insulted you. After all, it’s just a request.
- Posing with a four-man group! Where are your sanskars, Monali Thakur?
- Monali Thakur deserves credit for her gorgeous strapless ensemble.
- It’s ‘uncomfortable’ to observe Monali Thakur’s fearless and confident eyes!
- Looking nice while sitting on the pot is a crime. Keep this in mind, Monali Thakur.
- Monali Thakur, you’re not supposed to look like this!
- Hide your dress’s cutaway; it’s giving us the chills!
You are an inspiration to tens of thousands of young women, Monali Thakur. Thank you for standing up to the self-proclaimed moral policing trolls on the internet. It’s vital to understand that the problem stems from perverted eyes and filthy thinking, not from the garments, which have nothing to do with the gutter brain’s activation. Monali, maintain your sweet voice and fiery passion for conquering the world!
Leonard Cohen Darker is releasing another CD
It’s morbid, God-infused, and humorous, like him. At age 25, Leonard Cohen lived in London and wrote sorrowful poems. He survived on a $3,000 CCAA award. This was 1960 before he played for 600,000 at the Isle of Wight. He was a Jamesian Jew, a Montreal literary fugitive, then. Cohen, from a prominent and sophisticated family, viewed himself ironically. His first purchases in London were an Olivetti typewriter and a Burberry raincoat. He had a clear concept of his audience before he had many. He told his publisher he wanted to attract “inner-directed teenagers, lovers in all degrees of sorrow, disillusioned Platonists, pornography-peepers, hair-handed monks and Popists.”
Cohen was tired of London’s rain and gloom. An English dentist just extracted a wisdom tooth. He queried the teller about his tan after weeks of cold and rain. The teller returned from Greece. Cohen purchased a flight. Soon after, he arrived in Athens, toured the Acropolis, and took a ferry to Hydra. Cohen took in the horseshoe-shaped harbor, the people drinking retsina and eating grilled fish by the water, and the pines, cypress trees, and whitewashed buildings that crawled up the hillsides. Hydra seemed ancient and mythological. Cars were disallowed. Mules humped water up the steep stairways to the dwellings.
There was only intermittent electricity. Cohen rented a home for fourteen dollars a month. Eventually, he acquired a whitewashed house of his own, for fifteen hundred dollars, due to a bequest from his grandmother. Hydra promised the life Cohen had craved: spare rooms, the empty page, eros after dark. He collected a few paraffin lamps and some old furniture: a Russian wrought-iron bed, a writing table, chairs like “the chairs that van Gogh painted.” During the day, he worked on a passionate, phantasmagoric novel called “The Favorite Game” and the poems in a collection named “Flowers for Hitler.” He swung between intense discipline and kind of abandon.
“Less Bromance, more Productivity”
Cohen was spending more time away from Hydra pursuing his career. Marianne and Axel stayed on awhile on Hydra, then left for Norway. Eventually, Marianne married again. But life had its burdens, particularly for Axel, who has had persistent health problems. What Cohen’s fans knew of Marianne was her beauty and what it had inspired: “Bird on the Wire,” “Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye,” and, most of all, “So Long, Marianne.” She and Cohen stayed in touch. When he toured in Scandinavia, she visited him backstage. They exchanged letters and e-mails. When they spoke to journalists and to friends of their love affair, it was always in the fondest terms.
Here and there, Cohen saw glimpses of a lovely Norwegian woman. Her name was Marianne Ihlen, and she had grown up in the countryside near Oslo. Her grandma used to tell her, “You are going to meet a man who speaks with a tongue of gold.” She thought she already had: Axel Jensen, an author from home, who wrote in the spirit of Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs. She had married Jensen, and they had a kid, little Axel. Jensen was not a constant spouse, however, and, by the time their child was four months old, Jensen was, as Marianne described it, “over the hills again” with another lady.
One spring day, Ihlen was with her young son in a grocery shop and café. “I was standing in the shop with my basket waiting to pick up bottled water and milk,” she said decades later, on a Norwegian radio program. “He is standing in the doorway with the sun behind him.” Cohen urged her to join him and his friends outside. He was wearing khaki slacks, sneakers, a shirt with rolled sleeves, and a cap. The way Marianne remembered it, he seemed to radiate “enormous affection for me and my child.” She was taken with him. “I felt it throughout my body,” she said. “A lightness had come over me.”
