Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  But people dealing in cash these days are mostly pimps and small-time merchants. The big fish who once dominated the parallel economy have switched to electronic scanning. ‘Black money’, which was the favourite topic right upto the '90s, has all but disappeared. Suitcases filled with wads of notes are a relic of the non-electronic past. Which is a pity, really. Most Hindi film villains relied on them as important props. Hardly any blockbuster was complete without at least one dramatic ‘suitcase’ scene. Today, deals are done with a gentle tap of a computer key— no fuss. No drama. How boring! Money itself has been deconstructed and devalued, at least in my ancient eyes. Mangta hai kya? Paisa ya pyaar? The answer's obvious

  One Indra Nooyi Does Not a Revolution Make

  Of course we're very proud of the successful Pepsi lady who has been winning accolades for breaking through the reinforced steel ceiling in the corporate duniya, because she heads one of the world's largest companies—Pepsico. Good on you, girl, I feel like saying, each time her picture appears of her accepting an award. India has rushed to claim her as ‘one of our own’. We clasp her to our bosom and say, proudly, ‘See… how well Indians are doing internationally? And that, too, a woman… Wah! India! Wah!

  No taking away from her achievement. Please give her some more awards; she richly deserves them. But while the hosanna hour is still on, let us remind ourselves that the story isn't all that amazing for women in the corporate world back home. The story isn't all that dismal either, but the fact that we incessantly need to parade our token ‘women achievers’ quite depresses me. We should take these achievements in our stride. The minute you create separate categories for successful women, you are already insulting womankind. There are counter-arguments in abundance, and determined feminists will point out the inspirational/aspirational value of holding up such role models. It's a little like that corny, misguided Ram Gopal Verma film titled Main Bhi Madhuri Dixit Banna Chahti Hoon (‘I, too, want to be Madhuri Dixit’). Today, the same film might work better if Madhuri's name was replaced by Indra's.

  Nooyi was given a prestigious national award in 2007 (the Padma Bhushan). At a grand function, she received it from the prezzie, clad in a traditional south Indian Kanjeevaram saree. India was agog. Wow, we all said in unison, now here's a power lady worth emulating. She is smart, super-successful, powerful, wealthy… and… most importantly—so ‘Indian’. She has not sold out. She retains her traditional values. She enjoys married life and raising children. Indra is perfect.

  And so she may well be. But not every body can be an Indra or even want to be her. In her several interviews, she sounds like a sensible professional who happens to be a woman of Indian origin. Although her halo tarnished just a little when she confessed her teenage daughter sends her e-mails requesting for an hour of her time! That's so un-Indian! She deals with those incontrovertible facts of life in a balanced manner, without drawing extra attention to either. It is we in India who are dying to appropriate her and take indirect credit for her success. It is an old habit that refuses to go away. Spot a successful ‘Indian’ and promptly lay claim to him or her. We tried that with Sunita Williams. We did it with Kalpana Chawla. And so it goes… whether it's a Mira Nair, a Gurinder Chhadha, Night Shyamalan, Jeev Sethi, Anoushka Shankar or a Kiran Desai. We want to possess them and thump our chests over each individual scalp acquired. I wonder if that's how it goes elsewhere…?

  Our ladies are doing very well—if you don't examine the numbers too closely. The minute one gets into uncomfortable demographics, the picture looks far less rosy. A majority of our women still bear the patriarchal burden, regardless of which strata of society they come from. The fight here is very different… it is not just about equal opportunities and equal pay. It is a fight that encompasses several centuries of cultural stereotyping. It's going to take at least another fifty years (and I'm being generous) for anything to change in a qualitative or radical way. Each time we kid ourselves into believing we've achieved something significant—a legislation here, a concession there—we start shouting about the triumph from the rooftops. And, of course, we promptly produce our few ‘role models’ as evidence of woman power. Indra being the latest to join the roster that routinely features the two Kirans, Bedi and Majumdar Shaw. The former, a top cop, and the latter a biocon czarina. With Mother Teresa dead and gone, the new crop of beauty queens is a bit lost. Who are they supposed to salute during the all-important question-and-answer rounds? Ten years ago, they didn't have to think before trotting out Mother T's name when asked to identify a role model. Today, they fumble a little as they wrack their brains to come up with a politically correct name. However, the media very considerately steps in by keeping a ready reckoner on hand. Sushmita Sen is frequently held up as an inspiration for having the guts to be a single parent to her daughter Renée, for being ‘open’ about her countless romantic relationships. ‘It takes guts,’ say women, as they watch Sushmita gyrate to an old hit, Mehboob Mere. Yes, I suppose it does. But then, you have to first become a Sushmita Sen. And everything else follows.

  It's a charmed life by any standards. Let's face it, how many women in the universe become Miss Universe at eighteen? And then go on to a superglam movie career with all its attractive, lucrative spin-offs? Sushmita Sen is like Maggi Noodles—she's different. But for a young girl aspiring to be her I'd say, ‘Honey—trust your mirror. Do you look like a beauty queen? No? Then forget the Sush dream and focus on passing your FYC with decent grades.’

  That's the trouble with manufacturing icons. Unlike a Kiran Bedi, whose remarkable trajectory could (and does) inspire millions of teenagers across India, the ladies who are made of tinsel cannot really be held up as role models, mainly because they are born beautiful, stay beautiful and cash in on their God-given beauty. One can admire them worship them, lust after them, be jealous of them—but one can hardly be them.

  India struggles to find worthy women worth looking up to. For years and years, the list remained stuck in a groove. Indira Gandhi, Maneka Gandhi, Sonia Gandhi, Priyanka Gandhi. And Mother T, of course. Briefly, P.T. Usha made the cut. Now Sania Mirza rules. Medha Patkar and Arundhati Roy are treated like yo-yos—too hot to handle for most list-makers. Shabana Azmi has her admirers, Mallika, too (not Sherawat, Sarabhai). But ever since the whole construct of women in mud-coloured khadi struggling to establish their own identities lost its appeal, it's the showbiz ladies with impressive chests and near-perfect features who've grabbed the top spots.

  It was fascinating to watch an episode of Koffee with Karan that featured Rakhi Sawant, the notorious ‘item girl’, who gyrated her way to the top of the cabaret girls' clique, before she won Indian hearts via a reality show titled Bigg Boss. Karan Johar's show stripped her of all her silicon-enhanced glamour and showed her the way she was—a plain-looking but immensely ballsy, lower-middle-class girl who'd decided to exploit her physical assets—and succeeded! In her own words, ‘Jo dikhta hai, woh bikta hai’ (‘It's what's on display that sells’). When she decided to brazen it out, critics fell over backwards criticizing Rakhi for being nothing better than a cheap sex-pot who shamelessly cashed in on her body. Considering Rakhi's modest background and her Maharashtrian roots, she was certainly hard to slot.

  Then she hit the headlines because of an unscheduled kiss with a lout called Mika. And there was no stopping her. I watched Rakhi's transformation into a ‘pop idol’ very closely, since it was a significant development in a country that demonstrates such mixed feelings towards non-conformists, especially when they are female. In fact, asked to write the lead article for a very chi chi publication, on India's ‘50 Power Ladies’, I picked Rakhi as the symbol of true power. Self-made, self-taught, raw and unaffected, gutsy and undisguisedly herself. She seemed far more ‘today’ than some of the privileged ladies on the list, like Indra Nooyi.

  It's when I was writing the piece that I asked myself whether women were demanding much more than men these days. More of everything—including money and sex. Women in earlier tim
es were not expected to demand. Period. A woman who ‘asked’ was called a nag and worse. Women were supposed to live in a state of eternal gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you… thank you for feeding and clothing me… for putting up with me… for not throwing me out… for not replacing me… for not rejecting me… for letting me live. Oh Lord! Was there one hell of a lot of ‘thanking’ to do! We thanked our fathers, brothers, bosses, sons, virtually every male who wasn't vile to us. The only women who were in a better position to negotiate were those with money. Independent wealth. Heiresses. And even they weren't sure how to deal with their unique positions in a patriarchial society. Except for the women in Kerala (where communities are largely matriarchial, plus educated), and a few tribal communities in the north-east, our roles and positions were strictly defined. It never occurred to us that we could actually ask for something—even basic dignity.

  Which is why women like Rakhi or Mayawati make such interesting character studies. They don't ask. They snatch at what they believe is theirs. But Rakhi is unlike Mayawati, who frequently behaves tyranically. The latter's body language and personality signal the arrival of a ghastly new stereotype—the Honorary Male. By cloning the worst aspects of male conduct, women like Mayawati end up in a strange, grey zone, which is confusing to both men and women. I feel like telling her to take a closer look at Ségoléne Royal (regardless of the outcome of the 2007 elections in France). Here's a woman who is rewriting the rules, and doing so in style, without damaging her essential femininity (so cherished by the French!). The fact that she lost to Sarkozy is immaterial. The French claim to despise her these days, after months of gush. ‘She was politically naive… foolish,’ a Frenchman declared dismissively. Perhaps. But it would still have been interesting to watch her swim through shark-infested waters—in that famous bikini! Mayawati's personal positioning is a far cry from this model of leadership. Mayawati is competing with the Big Boys. She's taking on adversaries, who are no better than hoodlums, by mimicking their behaviour. As the leader of the Dalits, she controls a gigantic vote bank, and is likely to emerge as one of the most powerful politicians on the subcontinent. Whether we like it or not, whether we accept her or not, Mayawati is the face of India's future. It isn't an attractive face—but it's an unforgettable one. Mayawati for PM? Don't laugh. It's likely to happen sooner than we imagine.

  There are many Mayawatis waiting in the wings. It is as if they've been waiting for centuries for their time to come. Now that the moment has arrived—what next? Is India ready to confront its Mayawati moment? Not just yet.

  Mayawati scares the hell out of India. And not only because of her reputation for biting people's heads off. Mayawati is seriously threatening to a society that isn't comfortable with women in the first place. And I refuse to buy that bilge about India regarding its womenfolk as devis to be worshipped, etc. etc.

  The sad truth is that for a woman to find acceptance in our mind-bogglingly complex society, she has to be invisible. If that's impossible, she has to be as close to being invisible as possible. She must be obedient, virtuous and quiet. If she has a voice, it must not be heard. If she has a brain, it must not be evident. If she has eyes, she must shut them without seeing what she isn't supposed to see. If she has ears—plug them. A (virtually) deaf, dumb and, blind woman had a far better chance of survival back then, and I'm ashamed to admit this, even today.

  Media may talk about the all-encompassing ‘A-word’ (‘A’ for Attitude), and write glowingly about how far it's taking contemporary women. I fear we are fooling ourselves. This is a part of our fantasy. We want to be Bridget Jones. But in reality we are one of Jane Austen's miserable plain sisters, desperately waiting for Darcy. I often overhear our versions of Carrie Bradshaw (Sex and the City) speak longingly, achingly about their lives, as they sip Cosmos in smart lounge bars. They're just not happening! I want to tell them not to waste their time. They look almost comical, clad in low-slung jeans that display sexy underwear, butt cleavage and saucy tattoos. Their feet, shod in summer sandals, move restlessly as they toss their ‘relaxed’ hair, stare longingly at other women's boyfriends and discuss how their own lives suck!

  Frustrated in the workplace, frustrated in their personal lives, frustrated at being frustrated, they crave for something elusive and out-of-their-grasp—independence within a secure relationship. It does not exist, I feel like shouting. It is still an either/or scenario. But I keep shut and think of my mother. I never got the chance to ask her whether she ever felt like breaking free. Or even if she missed ‘independence’.

  *

  It was in such a frame of mind that I attended a simple wedding in Pune. The celebrations were on in full swing at a marriage hall in a crowded area on the outskirts of one of India's fastest-growing cities. There were around 300 people present, friends, relatives, neighbours and colleagues of the couple. Nearly every woman I met at the function was a ‘working woman’ (hate the term. Show me one woman who does not ‘work’). Educated and articulate. Some were married, with children. They were the new middle class that India is so proud of. Under thirty, working, Double Income family. Disposable income. Annual holiday abroad (cruise, anyone?). Good clothes (branded, mostly). Good food (er… pizzas, McDonald's and cans of colas). And what is loosely described as a ‘decent lifestyle’. I looked at their sweaty faces (the mercury was hitting 41°C that afternoon) and wondered whether they were happy. Is this the dream life they wanted to live?

  Lunch was served in another large hall that featured large painted signs in Marathi instructing people clearly: ‘Clean Drinking Water Here.’ ‘Wash Basins.’ ‘Waste Material.’ ‘No outside eatables allowed.’ Guests were helping themselves to strictly vegetarian food from a buffet table. Bratty children in shiny, synthetic ‘outfits’ noisily chased one another round the tables, while their proud parents beamed. I polished off three courses of rice preparations while nervous hosts sweetly offered mineral water only to my husband and me, as if we were from Kansas! It was all very simple, sincere and touching. On one level, I felt reassured that not much had changed since the time my own parents had celebrated their golden wedding anniversary (phew! Fifty years of togetherness? Some feat!) at a similar marriage hall. In fact, at the very one where they had got married! It still exists in Girgaum, one of Mumbai's oldest localities (a pucca Maharashtrian stronghold). The menu was practically identical to the original feast; even the guests looked the same, if I ignored the bratty kids in polyester outfits. But there was one important difference—the Pune bride was in charge this time. And so was her family. The young girl (well qualified and earning a whack) was doing the ‘meet-and-greet’ routine in a remarkably relaxed fashion. And I thought about my own mother at her fiftieth wedding anniversary, still taking her cues from her husband, and being deferential in the presence of her in-laws! After five decades!

  As we left the venue and went into ‘town’, the more developed and modern part of this historic city, I looked around keenly to try and see Pune through an outsider's critical eyes. I noticed an old cobbler (easily seventy-plus), sitting in the shade of a large peepul tree, waiting for someone to show up with a chappal that needed fixing. I thought about his earnings in today's day and age, where nearly everyone on earth has switched to wearing trainers! You hardly see the old Indian chappal or sandals in leather any more. What must the cobbler be fixing? Nikes and Adidas? N409 ot likely. Nothing happens to sturdy trainers (even those 200-rupee knock-offs from Taiwan).

  The old man was dozing off in the unbearably dry Deccan heat. Right behind him was a swanky spa (!). A beauty salon called ‘Sweety's Parlour, for men and women, everything included, threading, waxing, bleaching.’ There was a tiny bar advertising Morgan's Spice Gold Rum. And a car showroom featuring Honda City cars in the gleaming, metallic colours of 2007. Another old man was busy hacking sugarcane (over five feet in length), while a vegetable-vendor dressed in a bright red nine-yard saree rested her head against an enormous basket of white radishes. There were watermelons for
sale in a bullock-cart, mangoes shrivelling in straw baskets, a cycle tyres repair stall and a Nokia dealer advertising the latest in mobile phones. Suddenly, a sense of ‘instant alienation’ hit me. I realized I was reacting like a foreigner yet again. I was ‘noticing’ things that I ought to have taken for granted. Like at the charming wedding earlier. Like this scene, straight out of a German documentary film. Why was I studying these contradictory images in the first place?

  You hardly see the old Indian chappal or sandals in leather any more. What must the cobbler be fixing? Nike and Adidas?

  Waiting at Pune airport for our flight back to Mumbai, I stared at my co-passengers. Most of them were foreigners with laptops. Pune is giving Bangalore a run for its money as an IT hub. After each visit to Pune, with its gleaming new IT buildings, I'd wonder at how rapidly this Peshwa city was changing. Even so, on that flight, I switched mental places with the laptopped visitors, their skins angry, red and peeling (had they ever encountered such intense heat before?). They were dressed in blazers! Their misery got to me. Did they have the time to notice the cobbler by the roadside, as they rushed from the airport to their glass techno temples in air-conditioned cars? Did they see the irony of a spa right behind the dhoti-clad cobbler whose monthly earnings must not have matched a single seaweed treatment at the swish place meant for the lovely ladies of Pune? Did they avert their eyes rather than register the existence of the red-sareed radish-seller as they downed beers in trendy hangouts incongruously called Soho?