Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  It is these young people who make me feel less cynical about our politicians’ misadventures. The hope is this generation will see through the games and manipulation of those wily, old rascals and refuse to play ball.

  That same night, while watching the news on TV, I came across a heated (and meaningless) spat between the spokesmen of two leading political parties. An ‘anti-Muslim’ ad campaign was being questioned by an aggressive anchor. The veteran spokesmen had come fully prepared to slug it out. This was a run-up to the elections in Uttar Pradesh. Much was at stake. The communal card was being played adopting the usual sly strategies. And I thought of the nikaah album and whether any of this would impact with nastiness on the lives of the couple in the picture. Would they feel victimized/threatened/targeted/ marginalized/enraged by persecution? Or would they take it in their stride, refuse to be affected and get on with their lives instead? My guess is they'd take the second route. The day young Muslims in India decide not to fall prey to false propaganda or play footsie with devious, devilish politicians, they'll finally free themselves and do what everyone does when the dirty tricks department goes into overdrive— resist, fight back and win. Education is the only weapon needed. And the message has finally gone home. Teach tolerance, not hate, and see the difference. But will our political bosses ever consider it a priority? Not on your life. It suits everybody to keep the minorities illiterate and insecure. That's the bitter truth. Hate creates vote banks. Tolerance doesn't. It's that simple.

  *

  The heat is on in Uttar Pradesh and Mayawati is holding the hottest iron. There isn't much of a choice, is there? It's she or it's Mulayam Singh and his merry men. Who Mayawati finally chooses to bed (politically, that is) will decide the fate of that crazy state. And our own, of course. When UP votes, India quakes. UP decides the fate of the country, so, in a way, we need to hold our collective breath and keep all those twenty billion fingers and toes crossed that all goes well. India's Big White Hope (Rahul Gandhi) has been trying hard to slip into Daddy-o's shoes. So far, the lad has only managed to get his into his mouth.

  He has talked about the ‘Division of Pakistan’ (oops!) and how his dad would have ensured nobody touched the Babri Masjid (ooops, and ooops again). His more sensible sibling Priyanka (the one who should be in politics, but isn't) has rushed to her foot-in-mouth-disease-ridden brother's defence by reminding us Rahul is no ‘novice’ in politics. Damn! He could have fooled us!

  The situation is looking decidedly deadly, so deadly, in fact, that Ms Cape (Jayalalitha) has been inspired sufficiently to break through the Hindi barrier. For thirty years, this remarkably intelligent politician/battle-tank, has successfully tricked us into believing she ‘don't Hindi’. It was an astute position to adopt down south, where ‘Hindi’ is a bad word. Understandably so, given that every north Indian witheringly dismisses all those who live south of the Vindhya's as ‘Madrasis’. Jayalalitha won the hearts and votes of her hardcore followers by resolutely refusing to acknowledge the existence of the so-called ‘national language’ (heck—I don't accept Hindi as mine!), and to English (she has a master's in English literature and don't you forget it, folks). Well, now that ‘J’ has decided to back ‘M’, her linguistic skills have suddenly come to the fore, as she gives fluent soundbytes in a lingo she claimed she didn't know. So much for language diplomacy!

  But what astonished me was the decision of a young, handsome, well-educated MNC type from Mumbai who decided to jump into the UP fray one fine day. Recently married, the man was very much a party animal from urban India, more comfortable in lounge bars than dusty bustees. And yet, he did it! Quit a high-salaried job selling detergents to become a neta. His young and attractive wife was totally baffled as she struggled to apprehend the immense changes that lay in store for them. Here was a man who had courted her à la Brad Pitt, following the standard trajectory, the predictable route: flowers, choccies, wine and romantic dates, clad in Rock and Republic jeans (£539 at Selfridges). Now, he planned a radical shift by joining politics and taking his chances. Refused a Congress ticket, he'd opted for the Samajwadi Party (‘Oh God!’ moaned his well-heeled friends).

  Oh, God, is right. Within weeks, he was out of sight. Lost in the heat haze of some obscure hamlet, sweating it out in Ralph Lauren tees, a generous supply of mineral water stashed at the back of his SUV. His puzzled wife was left holding the baby—literally. Their newborn had yet to cut his first tooth. The new mother naively believed her husband would be back to home and hearth after his little adventure. Wisely, she'd decided to retreat to a friend's luxury villa in the hills and wait it out. ‘He'll be back… he needed to get it out of his system. Politics is a nasha. I hope he loses.

  Well, for a greenhorn, he has shown guts. His wife may delude herself into thinking he'll become a ‘suit’ again, once he sheds his neta gear (and foolish notions). My feeling is that the guy isn't as stupid as he appears. Perhaps he looks at politics as the best career move of his life. Where would he have gone in the MNC pecking order? Climbed five rungs up in twenty years? Led a boring bourgeois life of complacency? Become a platinum card-holder? A frequent flier? A member of a good club? Playing golf on weekends? Taking two holidays abroad a year? Public school for sonny boy? Diamonds for the wife? A beachfront property in Goa? Hell, no… not for him. Even if he loses this round, he'd have tasted blood, and man… that blood is sweet, indeed. He is in it for life—win or lose. There'll always be the next election… and the next.

  He's young, ambitious, hungry. Give him six months and he'll have learnt the ropes and every trick in the book. By then, he'd have wormed his way into his political boss's inner circle and developed his own precious network of wheeler-dealers. He'd have access to money, made some, and realized its further potential. There's gold in them plains… today's boys know as much.

  He must've figured he had a far better chance of accumulating serious assets and wealth by hanging on in politics. If his trusting wife couldn't see the bigger picture, tough luck. Soon, she'll be wondering where the new Merc has come from… or the fancy phone. She'll ask questions… she won't get straight answers. Then, she'll stop asking. And just enjoy the perks of being a politician's pampered (if neglected) wife. That's the scenario as I see it. Cynical? Yup. I'd love to be mistaken. I want to believe the hunk is in it for nobler reasons—that he genuinely cares. But I think I know better. He's in it for the big bucks. If he makes it, he'll be a crorepati in under two years. Even if he doesn't, they'll still get that SUV. So, who's the loser?

  She became Miss India at nineteen, and narrowly lost the international title when she candidly stated her life's ambition

  *

  The young Indian is confused. But not angry. Angry enough, that is. Nobody reacts to atrocities any longer. One Jessica Lall murder investigation does not indicate change. By and large, there is widespread indifference in place of indignation. Naxalites kill and maim policemen at random. Mumbai city faces the unprecedented dread of power cuts during a long, hot summer, corrupt top cops battle charges of extortion, high court judges submit incriminatory letters damning colleagues, court cases drag on for decades and more, bribery charges rock various state governments, our cricket heroes fall from grace during the World Cup, the BCCI (the all-powerful cricket club) shrugs off responsibility, a high-profile murder of Pakistan's coach (Bob Woolmer) sends shivers across the globe… but what do our youngsters do? Grin foolishly on assorted TV shows and blabber on… their words sound hollow, and their expressions are—go on, admit it—seriously annoying.

  While all sorts of monstrous goings-on rock the country, all of us, admittedly, are riveted to our chairs, lapping up every nauseating detail of a big, fat Bollywood wedding. Yes, our doe-eyed Aishwarya Rai married the kohl-eyed Abhishek Bachchan, and all we goggle-eyed idiots could do was hang on to every scrap of the spectacle thrown our way. Young India—and Old—loved every micro-second of it. Nobody questioned the obsessive nature of the coverage the wedding generated, relegating all other new
s to page 13! Even the Virginia Tech mass murder took a back seat to the shaadi, despite the fact that a young Mumbai student, Minal Hiralal Panchal, and an IIT professor, G. V. Loganathan, were victims of the massacre. The deranged Cho's lethal rampage ought to have engaged the student community at large. But did it? ‘Oh… poor Minal,’ said the students, as they surfed channels hoping for a glimpse, instead, of the heavily bedecked Bachchan bahu.

  While the Mumbai tamasha was on, I met Madhu Sapre (one of my favourite gals). She was on a short visit to the city from a smallish village in Italy, Riccione, where she lives with her husband of six years. Madhu is a unique creature. A self-made, self-taught success story that defies categorization. She became Miss India at nineteen, and narrowly lost the international title when she candidly stated her life's ambition—and no, it wasn't to emulate Mother Teresa. Madhu wanted to build several stadia in India, since she felt we neglected sports! Her honest and innocent reply cost her a big win. But she didn't let that get her down. Coming from a middle-class Maharashtrian background, she broke several rules when she posed in the buff for a running shoes ad with her then boyfriend, co-model Milind Soman. The court case went on forever, well after the shoe company had shut shop. She acted in a dreadful film called Boom and then disappeared from the scene after a cheerful ‘Ciao’ to it all.

  Over coffee and khakras at my dining table, we chatted about her life since her wedding (which I had attended). Five kilos heavier than her former svelte self, Madhu continued to look ravishing at thirty-five. Today she leads the life of a suburban Italian contessa (but well-shod, not barefoot!). She works in her father-in-law's gelato company as a marketing director, while her thirty-two-year-old husband handles international sales. She zips around in a Porsche, and flies private jets on business trips. And yet, her heart beats for India, for Mumbai, for the life she left behind. ‘My friends don't understand it,’ she told me, ‘but I miss the smell of Mumbai… the stink. People think I'm mad… but I really love my city, my country. I read, write and speak Italian… but I long to converse in Marathi and eat puran poli.’ It wasn't an off-hand remark. I could tell from the plaintive tone in her throaty voice that she desperately missed home—missed India. And not even the Prada/Porsche lifestyle she currently enjoyed in Italy could make up for her deep sense of loss. I empathized with her entirely as she said, ‘When people criticize India and say “It's so filthy, it's so dirty, nothing works… look at those beggars… the noise, the poverty”, I feel so upset, so angry. Whatever it is, this is our country, and I want to give positive energy to it.’

  Madhu is an original. She is a transparently open and honest person who, when she exclaims incredulously, ‘My God! Look at me… look at where luck has taken me… who would have imagined I would become so famous one day?’ there is no element of affectation in the words. Someone like Madhu makes such a credible ambassador for today's India. Looking at her, dressed in trendy jeans, red peep-toe shoes, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag and wearing discreet but impressive diamonds, with a jewelled Chanel watch on her slim wrist, I thought Madhu could pass for an international movie star—every detail is impeccably in place. And yet, scratch the surface and you'll meet a Mumbai mulgi, rooted in her Shivaji Park life, longing to eat dal-bhaat with her fingers, and yet, equally comfortable cooking pasta for her Italian family—when she wants to. ‘My mother-in-law cooks for us and sends packed dinners—she knows how hard we both work and that I'm too tired to go into the kitchen when we get home.’ The pride in her Italian family is unmistakable. And I'm amused by the obvious irony of the situation—would she have found as understanding a mother-in-law in India had she stayed back?

  What goes up…

  We are waking up to so many new realities, almost on a daily basis. To many of my generation, the world as we knew it is spinning out of control. Nothing is as it once used to be. There are no constants. Adapt or perish, I advise my agitated friends, who tend to hit their foreheads in frustration and wonder where they've gone wrong.

  A ‘cool’ (by his definition) dad phoned to moan about ‘losing control’ over his teenage children. ‘They don't obey me… they don't listen to me… my daughter smokes, drinks and stays out late. My son wants us to accept his girlfriend and have her live in with us over weekends. My wife has given up and blames me for it all. I feel powerless. And then, I reason, it's no use trying to assert myself. At least my son is bothering to tell me he's bringing his girlfriend home for the weekend. My parents made duplicate keys to my room and would frequently barge in without warning, just to catch me red-handed doing something they thought would be objectionable.’

  His mixed-up feelings sounded familiar. I can clearly remember my own parents recoiling in horror at the sight of me puffing away on the balcony of our home during my college days. They didn't know that while my one-ciggie a day posturing was bad enough in their books, my friends were doing weed up to four or five joints a day. And their unsuspecting parents knew nothing.

  Dating? Good God! Nobody ‘dated’ back then. You met. You married. Dating was an evil import (like much else that was remotely, potentially sexual). Good girls didn't date. They wed. Bad girls dated and got pregnant. Today, India is struggling to address the sensitive, tricky issue of sex education in schools. There have been debates and protests across the board regarding the ‘need’ for introducing such a topic. Most parents have registered ‘shock’ and said they don't want their kids to be exposed to that ‘dirty’ subject. They've said it will lead to moral degradation. Amazingly, these protests have also been voiced by some students themselves who claim to be embarrassed by such talk, especially in a mixed classroom. It's not just people in smaller towns that have recoiled. A survey in Sin City Mumbai showed the level of resistance to the initiative. The kids were as vociferous as their prudish parents in rejecting the proposal. Paradoxically, when quizzed about the birds and bees—basics, actually—the youngsters either played dumb, or were ignorant about the facts of life. And I'm talking about teenagers, not primary schoolchildren.

  Money is sexy. Nobody takes money for granted, certainly not the middle class

  ‘What is semen?’ was one of the questions asked. Five, out of the ten quizzed, didn't know for sure. ‘Have you heard of AIDS?’ got startling responses, most of them completely wrong. Similarly, ‘How does a girl become pregnant?’ was answered in ways that were terrifyingly ingenuous (‘She swallows a man's saliva while kissing’). In such an environment, the phenomenon of young people living together, that too, in the same home as their parents, is nothing short of outrageous.

  And yet, other surveys conducted by hip, smart glossies tell an entirely different story. Pre-teens boast nonchalantly about their sexual adventures, claiming they've had multiple partners and attempted daring feats while tripping out on a cocktail of party drugs. Which is the representative picture? I'm confused myself. Sometimes, when I overhear my children chatting after a night out, I feel alarmed at the casual tone they employ for fresh couplings, break-ups, make-ups, flirtations, making out in the loo, doing substance, smoking up… it seems like they've been partying with Paris Hilton, Kate Moss and Britney Spears all at once. Well, night life in Mumbai/Delhi is the closest India is coming to similar fun and games in Miami or St Tropez. It's all about mobility and money—the young urban desi has both. And more. There's attitude to match. And the chutzpah to pull it all off with panache.

  If I were to have told my father that a galpal of one of my kids was given a designer bag worth a lakh and a half by her boyfriend as a twenty-first birthday gift, he wouldn't have believed me. That amount far exceeds the money he'd put down for his very first flat in Dadar (the one we never moved into, thank God!). It was a big, no, huge, moment for him, when he proudly took us (south Mumbai snobs even then) to show off his acquisition. We were not impressed and were insensitive enough to say so. When I saw a movie called Khosla ka Ghosla recently, dealing with a similar scenario, I grinned at the memory! One lakh rupees seemed like a fortune then—I hadn'
t thought I'd ever see the five magical zeroes on a cheque myself! When I did receive my first, I actually danced with joy and kissed it, sheer disbelief taking over the moment. And here was a young lady whose equally young boyfriend had spent more than that on a birthday gift! Casually, at that. No big deal, he must have told himself. In another shocking incident, Avinash Patnaik, a twenty-two year-old young man from Rourkela, drove over two thousand kilometres to Mumbai. His mission? To settle scores with his girlfriend, a model called Moon Das, who he believed was cheating on him after accepting a Valentine's Day gift of five lakhs! Well, Avinash is dead. So is Moon's mother. And an uncle. Avinash shot them, before shooting himself! Happy Valentine's Day, Moon!

  It is a huge shift. In values as well as the overall cost of living. Money is still idealized. Money has not been demystified—wholly. Myths about money continue to dominate our fantasies. Money is sexy. Nobody takes money for granted, certainly not the middle class. Yes, there's much more of it around. And that leads to a certain disorientation, especially for the older generation. What has changed—is changing—is how the young look at money. They aren't as awestruck by it as my generation to be. Money is still big in their books, but the reverence is missing. And money is hardly seen anymore. It doesn't change hands in its old traditional form. Plastic removes the romance from any transaction. Nobody deals with notes and coins. Even kids have plastic in their purses. Their grandparents don't get it—it's not real money to them. When these old folks see a wallet bulging with titanium cards they are curious but not impressed. They think of credit cards as being somewhat fraudulent. In a way, they're right.