The Punch Magazine

Oct 7, 2024 | thepunchmagazine.com | Manjula Narayan

Artist K G Subramanyan in front of a painting commissioned for Saffronart’s exhibition, Ode to the Monumental, in 2014. Photo courtesy of Krishen Khanna. Excerpts:Manjula Narayan: Your body of work has been so extensive. What have you enjoyed doing the most? Kalpathi Ganpathi Subramanyan: Well, if I didn’t enjoy doing all of them, I would not have done them. Whatever kind of work I engage in, I always find joy in the process.

Sep 21, 2024 | thepunchmagazine.com | Sharika Nair

I reconstruct my first meeting with Shravan, altered with the weight of forensic evidence. I still attempt to solve this cold case from my youth. Yes, it was murder, but not the fun Agatha Christie kind. It was a boring slaying; an annihilation of my dreams. Not a malicious homicide either. Involuntary manslaughter, by negligence. There are no red flags that stand out in my memory. Convent school English, sociable, nice smile. Shravan radiated warmth.

Sep 21, 2024 | thepunchmagazine.com | Shireen Quadri

Helmed by Hridik Chawla, the Experience Center reflects a philosophy of sustainable luxury. Photos: Shireen Quadri and Essentia Home Experience Centre Stepping into the Essentia Home Experience Center in Gurugram (Sector 34) was like entering an entirely new world where luxury, craftsmanship, and modern innovation come together in perfect harmony. I had followed the journey of Hardesh and Monica Chawla, the founders of Essentia Environments, for the last couple of years.

Sep 8, 2024 | thepunchmagazine.com | Yahia Lababidi

Letter to the EditorSend your suggestions, ideas and feedback: CONTRIBUTION SUBMISSION ADVERTISE WITH USReach your target audience of motivated professionals and consumers to boost your brands: VOLUNTEERBe a part of our creative journey, create synergy through connections and creative vibes :PARTNER WITH USCelebrate the diversity of creative expressions and explore mutually beneficial ways to engage:

Sep 8, 2024 | thepunchmagazine.com | Dana Miller

In the desert,in the midday time,he would meet me at the celestial soda counter on Tuesdays,wearing bovver boots and a leather choker studded with sardonyx— the exosuit of a peregrine. The entire duppy congregation set immediate fire to itself every time. There was myomancy in his murmur,Chekhov’s gun in his cheeks,and an intercepted treaty,waxed and blued and vulcanized,right where you’d think his tiger-in-the-tank ought to be.