Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  Funnily enough, the ‘Ma’ complex is not restricted to any one segment of our society. I've seen pompous industrialists behaving like whimpering puppies in their mothers' presence. And I've seen the reverence with which the sweepers in our building's compound treat old ailing mothers who arrive from the gaon often just to die in some ratty clinic in the slum nearby. But while they are in the sons' care, it is so touching to see the devotion and effort that goes into looking after them. To understand Indian society more thoroughly it is imperative to understand ‘Mataji's’ unique position.

  When someone, even a total stranger, calls me ‘Ma’ at a traffic signal, my resistance breaks down instantly. I part with all the coins in my wallet and my eyes mist over. Similarly, when I meet any elderly lady with kind eyes, I call her ‘Ma’ and frequently bend low to touch her feet. Maybe it's because I miss my own mother so terribly these days—more than I did when she passed away so many years ago. I miss having a mother to call my own. Someone to look out for me, someone I can love back equally. And to think I could have been a grandmother many times over by now had my children obliged! And yet, the emotional connect I feel with the sound that ‘Ma’ makes is enough to tear at my (tough) heart.

  Will the next generation be equally attached? Equally sensitive? Doubtful. From the ‘Ma’ generation to the ‘Me’ generation—one tiny letter of the alphabet, but what a sea change has taken place in under twenty years. I was talking to both my younger daughters as we sipped tea and watched a spectacular sunset. They asked me why I always muttered a prayer when the sun sank out of sight and disappeared into the Arabian Sea, and what I said during those few seconds. I answered simply that I thanked God for the gift of another day well spent. I thought they'd laugh. But both of them were suddenly serious. They asked with some concern, ‘But why thank God for the gift of a day… there will be several more, even better ones…’ Will there, really? I teased. What guarantee is there this won't be my last one? They glared and Arundhati said sharply, ‘Oh please, Ma, stop being such a drama queen.’ I changed the subject and we talked about other, less depressing things. It was a relaxing and entirely satisfying way of spending a summer evening.

  I don't recall a similar one with my own mother.Yes, we often met over tea, but it was always understood that she'd serve the tea and I'd sip, while chatting lightly about family matters. She could never access my world as fully as I access my daughters’—we didn't speak the same language. The hierarchy was more structured and a certain level of formality indicated exactly where and how the line was drawn between informality and licence. We respected our respective boundaries and rarely transgressed them. It was the same equation between her and her mother—my tiny, sparrow-like grandmother, clad in a coarse, muddy-maroon, widow's nine-yard saree for most of her life (she was very young when her much older husband died of cholera). How and when did the transition take place between mothers and children in our society? How will this impact the future? I'm frankly bewildered… we don't have a road map as of now. And without any signposts, we are slightly lost.

  I feel more like Cher's character in Mermaid than the stereotypical Bollywood ‘Ma’ à la Nirupa Roy, shedding copious tears over thirteen reels for no particular reason. We loved mothers who suffered for the sake of the family. We glorified mothers as martyrs sacrificing all at the altar of parivaar. And when we saw that it wasn't happening in real life, we stayed with the idealized screen mother and refused to let the myth die.

  Till today, even the hip, cool, new, improved Bollywood mom still gives up her personal happiness for the sake of her (undeserving) children and husband. It is her duty (kartavya) to do so… embrace deprivation and turn her back on anything that's seen as being selfish. The ‘me generation’ laps up movies andTV shows that exaggeratedly focus on this absurd ‘achchi Ma’ (there's no such thing as a ‘boori Ma’ in our book). ‘Ma’ has to be the embodiment of all virtues. And God help the woman who refuses to conform to this construct. In other words—this is an SOS. Please, please, God—help me!

  Mangta hai, kya… yeh bolo… I dared to ask this potentially explosive question of a twenty-one-year-old. She didn't miss a beat before answering, ‘Money’. Was I surprised, disappointed, shocked? Not at all. I'd met an honest person. A global thinker! Isn't that what the young really, really want, no matter where they come from? It's such an open-ended wish-list. How much money will it take to make the twenty-one-year-old happy—really, really happy? Ummm… errr… LOTS! Well, thanks, honey. That's so to-the-point. Money has become a goal in itself, an end in itself. This is again something of a sea change in a country that had made (pseudo-) socialism into some sort of a religion. In my time, chasing money was looked down upon. If you were fortunate enough to be born with it, well, that was a different deal. But even then, you played it down. Quiet money scored over flash. In-your-face was indulged in by the nouveau riche trying to gatecrash into high society. Today, it doesn't matter what the colour of one's money is (black? white? Sab chalega), so long as there's a great deal of the stuff to throw around. Everybody wants a piece of the action.

  ‘Bijness’ is sexy. India is hot. Why work for someone when you can work for yourself? Those who toil away in order to qualify for entrance to India's temples of higher learning, such as the Indian Institutes of Management or the Indian Institutes of Technology, are admired… but also pitied. ‘God! Imagine slogging away for so many years,’ the Urban Lazies drawl, as they slouch around stylishly, planning their next vacation. Slog is a nasty four-letter word. ‘There has to be an easier option,’ they groan, getting a relaxing massage at a Himalayan spa. Frankly, there is! All you need is a great idea—and investors will happily throw big money in your direction. It has never been this easy to get ‘attractive’ money at interest rates that don't kill. Banks chase you with lucrative loans. It's only a mindset-problem that stops someone from taking advantage of the current boom. Borrowing was once considered an honourable person's last and most desperate option (‘when all else fails—borrow’). Today, if you aren't paying back some fat loan or the other, you don't count. Money is easy to come by and only an idiot won't take advantage. Urban Lazies underwrite virtually everything, depending on how adept they are at turning various monies around without the law catching up with them.

  A thirty-year-old entrepreneur looked at me like I was deranged when I expressed horror at his over-extended status. ‘As long as you keep the money rolling and don't get caught, you're doing great. Borrow from one source to pay the other—negotiate margins carefully—and you're in business. There's always another sucker to bail you out in case you get stuck.’

  He is absolutely right. He has managed to amass quite a neat fortune without investing a single buck. He has charm, a good family name and a certain languid approach to business which seems to work amazingly well! For men like him, Donald Trump and Richard Branson are role models, along with the Russian billionaire Sergey Brin with a hot wife who is a biochemist with an even hotter lifestyle. Azim Premji? RatanTata?

  Vijay Mallya? The ‘King of Good Times?’ Yeah… oh yeah… what a life! Mallya has emerged as the number one symbol of spectacular success. Youngsters frequently vote for him as their favourite icon. His larger-than-life image is further bolstered by smart positioning—he is the ultimate brand ambassador for his range of ‘products’. A range that comprises India's first-ever ‘five-star airline’ to leading alcohol brands (Mallya is number three in the world of booze barons). But more than his business profile, its Mallya's jaw-dropping personal style that attracts the youth—jumbo-sized solitaires in each earlobe, enough gold chains around his neck to give P. Diddy a complex and a yacht (Indian Empress) that's huge enough to host megaparties on its multiple decks.

  There is his private 727 jet, too. And grand residences in every glamorous destination in the world—from California and Monaco to Goa. Which wide-eyed, ambitious Indian youngster wouldn't want to be in Mallya's snakeskin shoes?

  Austerity à la Narayanmurthy? No, th
ank you. Too discreet. Flamboyance is in. That goes for the Ambanis as well. Given their more sober living (no booze, strictly vegetarian), and their workaholic reputation, the contrasts between their style and Mallya's are sharp and definitive. Never mind that in business terms and personal wealth ratios, there can be no comparison between them. The Ambanis, too, make the Indian Idols' list routinely. The innate brilliance of all three players is there for the world to see and admire. Anil Ambani isn't India's ‘Marathon Man’ for nothing. He runs. He has stamina. And he wins. Mukesh Ambani isn't the wealthiest Indian ever for nothing, either. He strategizes. He plans. He invests. He wins, too! It seems there are no losers in today's aggressive India. Isn't that splendid?

  The profile of the successful Indian businessman has changed dramatically. Compare the sartorial swish of a Sunil Mittal to the homespun appeal of the late G.D. Birla, and you'll get the picture. The earlier tycoons conformed to the political mood of the nation—they wore khadi kurtas and finely spun dhotis. They were insanely affluent even then, but looking at them, you could have mistaken them for modest grain merchants in a mandi.

  The current-day Birlas come in different moulds. Yash Birla is avant garde in his attire, spiritual in his personal beliefs, and a trend-setter in his lifestyle. Kumarmangalam carries the old Birla tradition forward, but has replaced dhotis with charcoal-grey suits. Kumar is seen as the face of conservative business. He lives like a maharajah in a palatial home filled with priceless art. It is believed his sculpture collection (which he inherited from his grandfather) is virtually priceless—no curator to date can put a value to it.

  With so many billionaires crowding the field, the aam janata needs a new definition for the rich. It was enough in the old days to say, ‘I am not a Tata or a Birla, you know…’ Everybody got the message. Somehow, I don't envisage anyone saying, ‘I am not a K.P. Singh or a Sunil Mittal, you know…’ The Tata and Birla names were synonymous with wealth. Today's tycoons lack that mystique. Although, one does hear the occasional ‘Kya samajhta hai… I am not an Ambani.’ Sure, but the punch is missing. The Tata—Birla zing had converted the two brands into a generic category symbolizing wealth. Unimaginable wealth. But interestingly enough, today, billionaire status is more accessible. Nobody hoped to become a Birla forty years ago. You had to be born a Birla. Now, even that twenty-year-old entrepreneur running the Mumbai marathon next to Anil Ambani can match his speed and timing—on and off the road. Big difference.

  If you think this is a Mumbai/Delhi phenomenon, you're wrong. I meet management students across India all the time (who inexplicably believe I have ‘the answers’… or maybe they just want to gawk). A lot of these kids are from small towns and have busted their butts to get in arduous mugging, all-night tutorials, fiercely competitive entrance exams… the works. Often, their parents have sold land holdings, tractors, gold and other assets to make this happen. Do you think the children factor this in when they push off to Pune/Delhi/Kolkata/Ahmedabad? Not a chance. They have their beady eyes on the next big thing— a ticket to the good life, with these strenuous courses seen as stop-gap years. The very fact that they're in indicates their IQ and ambition. It is tough, very tough to make the cut, given the numbers (around 200,000 students compete for the 1,200 general seats in the IIMs). Their predecessors, who believed sweetly in ‘nation-building’, were brilliant pioneers who really and truly contributed to today's aggressive, confident India—but got very little in return. Their children and grandchildren no longer share the same dream. Sure, a lot of ABCDs (American-Born Confused Desis) are coming home now that they think they'll be able to live in the style they've been accustomed to in… oh, even Ohio.

  What's your motive?

  But their motivations are different. They are in India simply because India today is offering them a far better deal than the one they've worked their asses off to ‘enjoy’ overseas. The prodigals get paid the sort of salaries their grandpops' eyes would've widened at. They have far more comfortable homes to live in (especially if they are from the IT sector), staff to look after their babies and meals, keep the house clean, drive saab, memsaab and bachchas around, plus, the unbeatable high of being in one's comfort zone. Definitely a big issue in a world where for all the big talk of multiculturalism and the absorbing of diversity, colour remains an ongoing issue. To be labelled a ‘Brownie’ in Britain or a ‘Person of Colour’ in the USA cannot be fun, for all the other advantages of living there. Back in India, the one issue that doesn't have to be addressed is the colour of the skin. No wonder so many families are relocating. What is amazing is the speed at which they put down roots and get on with their lives, even if they've never ever lived in India, and are second-/third-generation immigrants in the countries they've uprooted themselves from. ‘Home’ is still hearts and minds.

  Poverty angers most Indians. We are upset when we are reminded of an old blight

  In reality, that ‘home’ is generally a Bollywood film. But so what? India is embracing the ‘returnees’ with open arms. I meet them frequently and suppress a smile at their strange accents (Eddie Murphy meets Al Pacino meets Peter Sellers meets Dharmendra) and the sincere efforts to go desi overnight. Cho chweet, as they say in film mags. Money no longer weighs on our conscience. Money is not evil. Money does not corrupt. Money is yummy. Even our gods agree! Going by the staggeringly wealthy temple trusts, it is obvious the gods themselves have sanctioned excess and freed us from purana guilts. This is so liberating, especially for my in-between generation, caught crazily in the big debate (austerity vs ostentation). While I still lack my children's clear thinking vis-à-vis lolly, I'm beginning to relax… just a little. My wallet bulges with a stack of credit cards, but I use just one. Afraid that if I go all out with the others, I'll end up in… you've guessed it… debt.

  And, of course, nothing can be more shameful than being a debtor. My father's voice comes back to me each time I find myself buying ‘unnecessary’ things. My children have no such issues. Their friends share the attitude, which, I'm repeatedly told, is perfectly OK to have in the first place. ‘The whole world thinks so,’ I'm witheringly reminded if I dare to question them. Honestly speaking, I don't get it… never will. At one level, it scares me to think money has been stripped of its mystique and therefore its value. It's become notional. Worse, it has become pedestrian: Hundreds, lakhs, crores, billions…. who's counting? The only philosophy that rules is, ‘Paisa vasool’.

  Value for money. Are you getting the biggest bang for your buck? No? Go sue. Okay, we are a few years off from the ‘go sue’ mantra that keeps America on its toes, but it's going to come. Getting damages (hard cash, brother!) after going to court and relentlessly pursuing prey is seen as a total waste of time here, since the backlog in virtually any court in India will take twenty years (conservative estimate) to clear. It's a mug's game, and everybody knows as much.

  Love-shove, pyaar-vyaar

  We have devalued the power of money, and I'm not sure whether that's democratic, or plain ‘capitalist pig’. Money spelt romance in the old days. A good-looking desi girl generally married for money—and it was considered a romantic decision (‘How can my daughter be happy with a poor man? Love-shove is okay, ji. But a girl needs security first… pyaar-vyaar automatically follows. Where's the problem?’). This was largely true. A moneyed man was respected, and he exhuded a certain aura. People talked about the number of cows he possessed. Or the number of cars. He was judged by the staff around him. ‘Kitne khansamey the?’ Gabbar Singh could've asked, with awe in his growl. The village headman could never be a pauper. Urban communities, too, always made reverential references to someone coming from a wealthy zamindari in the back of beyond.

  Old money scored over new. Snobs sniffed at the ‘quick-buck Murugans’, especially those who left India to mint dirhams in the desert. ‘Gulfies,’ we'd say dismissively, of the flash-and-cash types in shiny polyester. But even those cartoons would get the best-looking virgins from their ‘native place’ as brides. It was enou
gh to know a guy was loaded. Better him than some broke bloke with bad breath to boot. The colour of money is no longer an issue— you've got it, flaunt it. Dirhams, dollars, euros or yen. No problem. Besides, everybody has money these days—God knows where it's coming from. And nobody cares about all these annoying statistics. Poverty line? Ooh… is that what Sabya's latest collect at Fashion Week is called? Kewl. Farmers dying in Vidharba? Come on, girls, let's host a Charity Auction. Call that Princess of Kadkaland as patron. Champagne on the house. Dress code, minimal. Must do something for these poor guys, yaar.

  Poverty no longer registers. In fact, poverty angers most Indians. We are upset when we are reminded of an old blight. It's really a nuisance to be told the India story isn't all that rosy, after all. In the present rah-rah scenario, we want rainbows and butterflies on our mental screensavers. Not begging bowls and emaciated bodies. We're done with that image. Done, done, done. Take it away. Banish it. Oh please… not that ghasa-peeta rubbish again. Young India is going great guns… nobody can spoil the party. One can sense the euphoria, feel the excitement. India is on a roll, brother. Don't be a bloody spoilsport and talk about farmers’ deaths and stuff like that. People die, man… people die. But the point is: you can get a life.

  Sure.

  In such a scenario, it's cruel to burst the bubble. Who needs a reality check? Look at those hearty farmers from the Punjab. They look like Akshay Kumar and are equally hip. They may not have gone to a swish public school, nor seen the insides of a college, but hey—are they hot! Go to any nightclub in Delhi on a Friday night, and you'll see these guys, outfitted in the latest D&G gear, with their chicks in Versace, top to toe. They come carrying bags filled with currency. It's their ‘pocket money’ for a night on the town. They place that bag on the bar counter and instruct the barman to keep pouring till the money runs out. There's a lot of ‘liquidity’ in that plastic bag!