Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  I felt overwhelmed by a sense of protectiveness towards Pune. I felt like a fake Maharashtrian, almost an imposter. I guess a lot of us feel the same way when we go back to places that are supposed to represent our roots. It's an unsettling, disconcerting feeling.

  I touched the Japanese tattoo on my exposed right arm. I'd seen people staring at it with puzzled expressions at the wedding. They must've found it pretty weird. Suddenly, I found it pretty weird, too. What was I thinking? I drew the pallu of my turquoise-blue Chanderi saree over my right shoulder. Maybe I was hiding more than just my tattoo that evening?

  Parde Ke Peechhe

  Parde Ke Peechhe: The literal translation would be ‘Behind the Curtain’. But it actually means much more than that. The veils, curtains, screens we hide behind in India (particularly those in our minds) are pretty sinister. I suppose every curtain has its country (or the other way around), but we are very fond of ours. Everywhere else in the world it may be considered rude for strangers to crowd behind a curtain and stare fixedly at a visitor. Not so in India. Go to any government office, or an unknown person's home and you'll feel dozens of eyes boring holes into you. We don't find this sort of behaviour odd or offensive. We love to stare, ourselves. Often, at nothing.

  Try this experiment on any street in India. Stand in the middle of the road and gaze fixedly at the sky. Soon you'll be joined by a couple of idlers who won't necessarily ask what you're looking at. They'll mutely join you, craning their necks upward to follow your gaze. The logic being, ‘If someone is staring, there must be something there…’ Soon, the small group will start growing. From three persons, it'll grow to thirty. All of them peering heavenward at precisely nothing. If you stroll away nonchalantly from the scene, they'll trail you for a while, before dropping out. A ‘starer’ has his or her own status. It's assumed the person is looking at something because there is something significant going on which may not be immediately visible to the others. Besides, we have all the time in the world to stop and stare.

  Everybody stares at everybody else. No problem in that. No embarrassment. It is understood that no offence is meant. And none is taken. But outsiders get pretty spooked when they find themselves at the centre of this staring game. It's one Indian trait they'd rather go without. But I often ricochet on them (sometimes, just to be contrary) and say, ‘Rather our staring than the no-eye-contact rules of NewYork and other places.’ At one level, I believe what I say—the minute you look into another human being's eyes, something happens. A connection takes place. Not always with a happy outcome—but what the hell.

  When I'm in New York, I forget not to stare. Particularly in the subway or bus. I am an inquisitive person to begin with, hungry for the smallest, silliest detail. Bad news! I remember a beautiful black girl in a trendy Miami club walking up to me and saying aggressively, ‘Whaddya starin' at? You have a problem, lady?’ I shook my head vehemently and said, ‘No problem… I like your earrings.’ She wasn't convinced, but let it go. Phew. That was a close call.

  People find us hypocritical, too, as indeed we may be, but that's only a half-truth. Of course we are hypocritical about a lot of things and pretend to be far more virtuous, holier-than-thou, etc. etc. than we actually are. But that's true of nearly every society.

  I remember losing it once in Germany, when I was asked (rich irony coming up—you're warned) by a snivelling German in the audience (this was at a book reading) about ‘India's terrible caste system’. I nearly gagged on hearing it in such an incongruous setting. I let him have it ‘right and left’, as we say, by pointing out the absurdity of such a strong statement in a country that had exterminated millions in the name of ‘cleansing’ society. How could he ask me such a question! How dared he? Caste exists everywhere, it's just labelled differently. ‘Caste’ is ‘class’ in Britain. What else does one call the discrimination faced by Kate Middleton during her romance with Prince William? The poor girl was savaged by the press for being too ‘middle-class’. She could've been a Dalit in Mayawati's UP dreaming big dreams of marrying her Brahmin boyfriend.

  Nearly every day one reads horror stories about young people stoned/lynched/killed/burnt for falling in love with someone they're not ‘supposed’ to fall in love with. Yes—caste is a ghastly sore that festers and festers while civil society looks the other way. It makes us uncomfortable. It makes us angry. It fills us with wretchedness and shame. We cannot believe caste is still an issue in India. I mean—caste! Who cares? A lot of people, apparently. Educated people, included. Young people, too. All these bright-eyed students who sail through impossibly competitive exams, rush abroad for higher education, come back to swank jobs in swank companies. And then advertise for a bride/groom of a particular caste and sub-caste. The opposite is also true. As I found out for myself, chatting with a twenty-four-year-old engineer at his engagement ceremony. He'd met his future bride on the Internet. His requirement was simple and unambiguous. He was sick of living abroad and dating ‘foreign chicks’. He ‘met’ his bride-to-be while chatting on a friendly site. She was desi, single and working with an international company. They flirted for four days—just four days—before he proposed marriage! He had not asked to see her photograph but had sent her his own. ‘I decided to be candid and upfront about everything. I was overweight, I drank too much and I'd slept around quite a lot. In fact, I had a Jamaican girlfriend when I proposed. So what? I was ready to commit and settle down. You know why? My Internet girlfriend sounded so sincere and traditional. Despite the crazy time difference, she would wait up for me to get home, only to say a sweet “good night”. I was touched.’

  He took the first flight back to India, and met his love at the airport for the very first time. What do you know? She turned out to be attractive, smart and ready to take the plunge. Parents? They were ‘handled’, and showed up for the engagement, albeit without much enthusiasm. The guy sounded over the moon, the girl looked ecstatic. Caste? Forget it—compatibility is what these two opted for.

  And yet, for every such example, there are so many others who still stick to notions of varna, like sugar syrup to jalebi. It angers and embarrasses me when otherwise trendy young people continue to endorse caste divisions, whether in their private lives or when it comes to competing for entrance exams/jobs. The protests are half-hearted, as and when they break out. By and large, students are a bit apathetic, allowing themselves to be ruthlessly manipulated by politicians who capitalize on prejudice, while promising deliverance. I wonder what sort of a switch we need to galvanize the majority? We are constantly reminded of the fact that over 50 per cent of our one billion (and still growing) population is under thirty-five. They seem somewhat directionless and uninspired as they ungrudgingly chug along, allowing themselves to get co-opted into a system they ought to be vigorously fighting.

  *

  Driving into Udaipur to attend a tony seminar in a fantasy-setting (the Lake Palace Hotel), I am struck by the startling contrasts en route from the airport to the hotel, a good forty-five minutes away. Yes, a new international air terminal is under construction, but as of now, the existing one is nothing if not primitive. The cops checking our e-tickets are clearly clueless as they stare uncomprehendingly at the print-outs. My daughter's paper has been misplaced, but nobody notices that the two of us have sailed in with a single ticket between us! And this is one of our ‘most visited’ tourist destinations, one that boasts of an unbroken line of erstwhile rulers going back 1,400 years. We could as well be in that era, for all the ‘progress’ in evidence. The highway is not as awful as the one in Agra, but the landscape is dreary and daunting, despite the boasts of a local guide who points out a zinc smelting complex that he insists proudly is the ‘second largest in the world’. Well, a fat lot of good that's done to this historic city of seven beautiful lakes. There's absolutely nothing in sight for as far as the eye can see but the jagged outlines of the Aravalli range (‘earthquake-proof,’ insist locals). I don't spot a single school building, forget a college, and the one
hospital we are shown looks like a dump—I'd hate to fall sick in Udaipur.

  And yet, the city attracts posh visitors from across the world who are ‘charmed’ by its rusticity. ‘Time seems to have stopped here,’ gushes an American lady in her eighties, as she squints up to take a better look at a crumbling palace, which serves ‘High Tea’ (if you please!), on a stone-paved terrace. I laugh to myself. If the old biddy only knew how close to the truth she was!

  While sprawling luxury hotels are being built around the edges of the lake, young locals sit around listlessly, unsure of what to do next. To call the centre of the city shabby would be an understatement. It is off-season, and the mercury has already hit over 40°C, but one can see not much happens even during winter, when the hordes descend for a taste of ‘exotic India’ (‘What, no camels? No elephants? No snakes? No maharajahs? Where are we, honey? Are you sure this is India, not Cambodia? Oh… that's our next stop, right?’). As we glide past in our wonderfully-restored 1948 Chrysler, all gleaming chrome and leather-upholstered seats, a few sleepy shopkeepers look up without interest, before going back to their extended siestas. When I dare to interrupt their nap and ask to see some silver jewellery, they are visibly annoyed. It's as if they've stopped hoping or caring for custom.

  The homes and shops in the centre of the city look in need of urgent repair. Open drains, overflowing gutters and uncleared garbage bins add to the overall gloom. The stench combines in an awful way with the oversweet fragrance of summer blossoms—madhumalini creepers, mogra bushes and frangipani. The contrast is symbolic of the city where legends of valour abound among the squalor. Young people live in the past, vicariously revelling in the glories of ancestors. They speak a strange sort of highly-accented English, with the emphasis on all the wrong syllables. When they talk half-longingly of visiting Mumbai ‘some day’, my heart breaks. Mumbai is just a ninety-minute plane ride away. But it could as easily be the North Pole. To them, it is remote, inaccessible and intimidating. A fantasy-factory that bears no connection to the real thing, but resembles all those over-the-top Bollywood films that are shown in old-fashioned cinema halls dotting the city.

  There are no diversions for these folks—no restaurants, cafés, coffee chains, pubs, clubs, or hang-out areas. Bollywood is their only escape. And even Bollywood is beginning to bore them with its sameness. The older generation is stuck on Hollywood—or rather on a single film, Octopussy, which was partly shot in Udaipur more than twenty-five years ago. They speak of ‘James Bond’ (played by Roger Moore) and his exploits, pointing out where he stood, sat, shot at villains, was chased by goons or flirted with a Bond babe (Maud Adams—does anybody remember her?), as if the whole thing had happened only yesterday. Hotel staff point to nooks and corners that featured in the movie and fondly narrate the day a really hot and bothered Moore returned from a long shoot in the merciless sun and plunged straight into the swimming pool without bothering to get out of his perfectly tailored bespoke suit!

  As we head back to Mumbai, after a trip to the pilgrimage town of Nathdwara, a two-hour drive away, I once again marvel at our resilience—the famous Indian resilience that is both a boon and a curse. In this picturesque setting, it's easy for tourists to gush over the ‘timelessness’ of the place, and find the whole Rajasthan experience ‘charming’. Which it most certainly is. Even I was going ga-ga over the soft-spoken, lilting speech of locals and was swept off my feet by our doe-eyed female butler who took such immense pride in sharing local lore. Tales abound. Legendary queens of such spectacular grace and beauty that marauding Mughals were ready to lay down their arms for a single glimpse of milady. It's the innocence of the narrators that breaks my heart. At a practical level, we could still be stuck in the fifteenth century. It's as if nothing of consequence has happened in the ensuing ages. Women are still veiled and the men continue to twirl impressive moustaches as they sit around waiting for ‘progress’ to come a-knocking. Everything appears primitive and un-modern. Basic and uncomfortable. Yet, the demeaning contrasts between the super-luxurious life inside those marble palaces and hotels and the cramped, dirty gallis of the city don't seem to bother these idle residents, who watch without rancour multi-millionaires partying on the royal barge, as attentive chefs prepare succulent tiger prawn kebabs, all the while precariously balancing on a bobbing pontoon moored in the middle of Lake Pichola. Do these trusting, proud and polite people never resent the absurdity of it all? A bottle of wine being quaffed by a noisy bunch of revellers would pay for an entire family's meals for a month. There is no anger in the eyes, no sardonic twist to the mouth. The boatmen ferrying us from the palace jetty to the shore are incongruously dressed like Venetian gondoliers. They speak broken English, bow deferentially and accept tips gratefully. It all seems bizarre, like the meals we've enjoyed, eaten off gleaming Versace crockery. Daal makhani and Gianni? Strange marriage, na?

  *

  I wonder what Sreenathji makes of all this as he glowers at his devotees. Sreenathji is a superstar in the pantheon of gods and goddesses. You don't go to him. He summons you. If you know what's good for you, you wisely drop everything and rush for that fleeting darshan (he doesn't deign to allow the faithful more than a brief glimpse of his divine self. Blink, and the curtain is pulled across the door barring your view). My daughter and I make it to the noon darshan by the skin of our teeth. A very agitated guide is waiting impatiently in the white-hot noonday glare for us to show up. ‘Hurry’, he urges. ‘He will not wait for anyone…’ We hurry. The modest, unpretentious temple that attracts millions of devotees, mainly Gujaratis from the neighbouring state, is clean by the usual standards. And there aren't too many pesky priests trying to extort fees for special privileges. We take our places and Sreenathji, clad in yellow and white (his attire is changed seven times daily), looks at us with half-shut, scornful eyes. When the chanting of the men behind us reaches a crescendo, it is one of those mystical moments when beauty overwhelms the senses and leads to tears. A kindly, silver-haired priest places a gentle hand on my head and shoulder to comfort me, and says in a murmur, ‘Don't cry, sister… be happy… you are in the presence of the Lord… isn't he magnificent?’ So he is. I don't want to leave. But Sreenathji has had enough. The curtain is firmly drawn and the congregation is dismissed.

  *

  Such an important pilgrimage centre and how depressingly shabby. It seems somehow more ‘appropriate’ and humble. But the guide tells me in a hushed voice that soon everything will change. India's premier business house (Ambani) has taken over the running of the complex, since the family believes it was thanks to Sreenathji's blessings that they prospered. Arundhati stared at the makeshift car park and said wryly, ‘I hope they start right here…’ as we clunked back into our ‘tourist vehicle’ (gloved driver wearing gold ear-studs) and nearly fainted. Dehydration was the obvious explanation. But I preferred ‘life-altering religious experience’.

  *

  Driving to yet another palace-hotel en route, I briefly switched places with Liz Hurley. It was here at Devigarh that Hurley had announced her engagement (sort of) to her Indian Prince (well, at least he looked the part, in his trademark bandgalas). Much had been written about this imposing property by adventurous travel writers (mainly French). I had marvelled at its grandeur myself after seeing it in Eklavya—The Royal Guard. Devigarh was the chosen locale for the extravaganza, and as we approached it, I pondered why it had been picked by Vidhu Vinod Chopra, the maverick film-maker who'd gone ahead with the project despite film industry reservations. (What? No item songs?) Alas, Devigarh didn't look half as picturesque, and our hearts started to sink, as our parched throats cried out for paani. The driver (Mr Ear Studs) explained apologetically that this being ‘off-season’, and the beginning of a long, hot summer, the place was not looking its best. He was right. The Aravallis were forbiddingly harsh and stripped off all vegetation. The fort looked smaller and drabber than in the movie. Aah—the magic of great lenses, I said to myself, blowing kisses to the absent cameraman. />
  Once we were inside its welcoming and comparatively cool interiors, it was hard to imagine why Liz and gang had kicked up their heels in Devigarh. Handsome Rajput men in pristine white achkans took charge of our short time there but there weren't many other people around. Besides my daughter and myself, there were two other guests, an ancient German couple, struggling as they clambered up and down those terrifyingly deep granite steps. Once again, we were led to the Presidential Suite and I heard a familiar echo (‘Amitabh Bachchan had stayed here for three months while shooting Eklavya’). Lucky him. It was a stunningly beautiful suite, with impeccable detailing and milky white marble everywhere. Did Liz occupy it, too? But what on earth did her travelling party do in this desolate fort, with no diversion for miles and miles? The pool plan? Spa? Nonstop sex? Tiring, man. Boring, too.

  *

  Aaah! Spa! Like the rain in Spain, the spa in Udaipur is exactly what the doc ordered. A petite masseuse led me into a dark and fragrant room and offered to wash my feet in an intricately carved silver footbath. Oh God! This was too feudal and embarrassing. But irresistible, too. I wondered how that French lady across the room, with tired, faded blue eyes would feel having her pink, swollen feet gently washed in rose-water by a beautiful young girl with the softest hands ever. Like a maharani? It didn't end there. The girl said a small prayer, recited a Sanskrit shloka and anointed the proffered feet with sandalwood paste. This was an experience that made each recipient come out of it smelling better than roses! Nice. Very nice. And deliciously decadent. Habit-forming, too. Snap out of it, I ticked myself off sternly. This is a once-in-a-lifetime treat. You don't deserve it. Not after all that cribbing about the heat and dehydration. The lake right outside the delicate grille of the spa shimmered in the late evening sun. It had all been a mirage, after all. Everything is maya. Long live maya. Spa maya.