A Quote by Rakhi Sawant
Tanushree Dutta became Miss India as she slept her way to the top.
Related Quotes
Tanushree Dutta is spoiling my image with her fake 'me too' propaganda which she imported from America. She hates India and is bringing shame to the country with her antics. She loves America instead.
Tanushree Dutta is the real pig and not me. She is the sewer and not me. Just look at her face, she has become like a fat ugly buffalo.
See, I am straight woman, but Tanushree Dutta made me a lesbian. She used me thinking I will not become a big star and reveal what she did to the public. She is wrong.
I first decided to file a defamation case of Rs 50 Crore against Tanushree Dutta, but then I realized her value is nothing in the country so I chose 25 paisa as the defamation amount. That's all is her worth.
Priyanka Chopra - I have actually adored her since I was 10, maybe, when she became Miss India. She's just super strong, and I crush on all strong women!
I have a connection with Bengali heroines. I have worked with Tanushree Dutta and Bipasha Basu.
Tanushree is a very nice girl and I worked with her once. She is very focussed, and I could see how hard-working she was, with dreams in her eyes. She was one of the well-behaved girls on the set.
For once, he slept first. She lay in the dark, listening to him breathe, stealing a little of his warmth as her own body cooled. Since he was asleep, she stroked his hair. "I love you," she murmured. "I love you so much, I'm stupid about it." With a sigh, she settled down, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to empty. Beside her, Roarke smiled into the dark. He never slept first.
Little miss is taught by her mamma that she must never speak before she is spoken to. On this she sits bridling up her head, looking from one to the other, in hopes of being called to and addressed by the name of pretty miss.... But if this should not happen and no one should take any notice of her, she is ready to cry at the neglect. But should there be another miss in the room caressed and taken notice of whilst she is thus overlooked, it will be impossible for her to contain her tears, and blubbering is the word.
There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she'll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.
In a way, her strangeness, her naiveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings, had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like an artist with no art form, she became dangerous.
I miss my father. I miss my grandfather. I miss my home. And I miss my mother. But the thing is, for almost three years, I managed not to miss any of them. And then I spent that one day with that one girl. One day ... It was like she gave me her whole self, and somehow as a result, I gave her more of myself than I even realized there was to give. But then she was gone. And only after I'd been filled up by her, by that day, did I understand how empty I really was.
Imagine the first Burmese "giraffe woman"; she was probably a local icon in her village in the way she put the rings around her neck to sell her craft. Then she became a celebrity, so all of the wannabes started following her in that uncomfortable and unhealthy trend. But is that so different from Pamela Anderson? I don't think so.
It's easier to miss her at a cemetery, where she's never been anything but dead, than to miss her at all the places where she was alive.
When Gypsy was older, after she became Gypsy Rose Lee, I think she was both proud and slightly ashamed of her Seattle roots. She worked very hard to rid her voice of any trace of a local accent, cultivating an affected way of speaking that sounded as if she pinned the ends of her words.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, almost black, filled with pain. She'd let someone do that to her. She'd known all along she felt things too deeply. She became attached. She didn't want a lover who could walk away from her, because she could never do that - love someone completely and survive intact if her left her.
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