Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  Not cricket

  Don't get me started on cricket. I don't want to commit sacrilege or be blatantly blasphemous. Dhoni and his Josh Machines (the energetic T20 team that won the World Cup, defeating Pakistan), is still in a euphoric mood. The day that historic match was to be played in Jo'berg, I was engaged in two diametrically different activities. My day was spent being a jury member, appropriately scanning candidates short-listed for the Lead India initiative launched by the Times of India. Twenty-four young, ambitious, charged-up persons were to face us—the jury—and the number would further shrink to a more compact eight. This was the second and final day of deliberations. Everyone was in a rush to run through the last lot of worthy hopefuls (some nominated, others, self-nominated). There was a clash of priorities. But the main reason for the rush was to get to a television on time to catch the cricket final.

  These meetings coincided with the ninth and tenth days of the Ganesh Utsav. Both are important days for devotees (me!) who hadn't had the chance to get a darshan of their favourite deity earlier. Mumbai virtually shuts down on Visarjan day, with traffic regulations diverting motorists to less crowded routes in order to facilitate the slow and majestic progress of Ganpati idols making their way to the sea. But on the penultimate day, when all roads led to Lal Baugh where Mumbai's ‘Raja’ temporarily resides and presides over the festival, the mood was electric on account of the cricket match starting at 5.30 p.m. Devotees who'd queued up for up to fourteen long hours for a brief glimpse of the god from half-a-kilometre away, were showing unusual signs of restlessness as they pleaded with strutting organizers to speed up the process. I was stuck in the melee myself and getting increasingly hot under the collar. Cops at the chowki manning the mass of humanity surging towards the pandal were on red alert, clearly conscious of the potential threat of a terrorist attack. But even they, were discussing cricket and Dhoni's chances of bringing the cup home even as their eyes expertly surveyed the crowd for potential trouble-makers. Some were grumbling they'd be forced to miss the historic match, since bandobast duty could not be avoided. But as one of them joked, ‘Half the devotees here have come especially to pray for the team's victory—Ganpati Bappa, Morya.’ I noticed an undercover agent (there were thousands of them during the festival) adjusting her fancy saree and hair self-consciously before merging into the crowd. Her male colleagues were teasing her mercilessly and clicking pictures on their cell-phones. She looked determined as she gave her bright red lips a final touch-up. But not before saying ‘Chak de, India! Aaj jeet hamari…’ Even her bosses smiled indulgently while wishing her luck.

  My own mission had to be aborted, since the pandal organizers had decided to shut most of the entrances for reasons of security. Never one to give up, I shamelessly phoned Javed Ahmed, the dynamic police officer whom Mumbai acknowledges as the attractive face of the beleaguered cop force. He asked me whether time was an issue—would I be prepared to go at 11 p.m., or later? I would, indeed! It was done. The match had reached a crucial point when Javed called to confirm the darshan. ‘Pray for the team,’ he said. ‘Have been doing just that… now, I shall go and thank Ganpati, if we win,’ I answered. My stress levels must have shot up, as I found myself turning away from the television screen unable to watch the last over. Imagine! And I'm not even a cricket fan!

  I was fervently praying to the Raja to save our izzat and grant us victory! In a bloody cricket match, for God's sake! Just a match! Not a war. I had gone crazy, like the rest of the country. Insane with tension and anxiety. For what? Who would actually gain from this great victory, besides our cute Boys in Blue and their bosses? Yet, it was crucial to win. It was Pakistan we were going to thrash, after all. I started to breathe again, once I heard the whoops and cries. Tears were flowing down my cheeks as I rushed to fall at the Raja's feet and thank him for listening to my prayer. Yup. My individual prayer. Not anybody else's. Such is faith. In God. And in a game. Who can challenge sentiment?

  It was the power of a psychological victory that moved the entire nation collectively that night. Nobody was immune to the moment. Spontaneous celebrations took place all over India as the joyous mood spilled over and the streets became party zones, crammed with exultant cries of ‘India! Ind-I-aa!’ People sang the national anthem over and over again and ran around blindly, waving the tricolour. Temporary madness has its advantages, when the force driving it is positive and inspiring. This wasn't only about cricket. It was a gigantic booster shot for the country's morale. India was on a high that unforgettable evening, when people danced on the streets and felt good about themselves and their country. These moments happen rarely, which is why it's important to cherish them, remember them. I don't think any Indian who was part of this celebration will ever forget what it meant or how proud it made us feel to thump our chests and declare, ‘We won! India won!’

  Oof! The power of branding!

  The ‘Lalbaugh chha Raja’ who has now become Mumbai's most important ‘celebrity’, with advertisers and mediawallahs falling over backwards to ‘own’ the god. It was amusing but also annoying to note that the entire street leading up to the pandal was lined with huge billboards promoting wine on one side of the busy street, and a gutka merchant who is serving a jail term, plugging ‘oxyrich’ mineral water, on the other! The commercialization of India does not spare festivals or gods (who are amongst the biggest money-spinners). A rival pandal had adorned their Ganesh with gold jewellery worth seven crore (carefully removed and locked away before immersing the idol). Everybody wants to climb on to the brandwagon, whether it's Durga Puja or Ram Leela, Pongal, Diwali, Christmas or Id. No dearth of ‘Space for Sale’. Sponsors line up instantly if the ‘product’ has a promising market. And who better than a much-loved god to push and peddle everything from booze to banks?

  Since our cricketers are demi-gods themselves, the Boys have become crorepatis overnight. Nobody grudges them their prize money or the Porsche given toYuvraj Singh. Endorsements continue to rain on these photogenic youngsters, who know their brand-worth and how to milk it before their first big match is even played. Like that telling scene from Iqbal, which shows an oily agent pressing a cheque into ‘Iqbal's’ hands, sensing a winner!

  It is blatantly about big bucks—but isn't everything else too? On the eve of the cricket team's cavalcade through Mumbai (a 30-km distance from the airport to the Wankhede Stadium, that took hours to cover), a team of casual workers slaved overnight to plaster an open-top BEST bus with pictures of the captain rejoicing after the win. The captain's mug on the bus was fine, considering he was the Most Desired Male on the subcontinent at the time. But riding on the hysteria, politicians insisted on their pictures being splashed all over the bus as well. Piggybacking on cricketers' visibility took an aggressive turn at the official reception, during which the front row was dominated by the same politicians again, while the country's heroes were bundled off to Row 2! Such are our skewered priorities at a time that ought to demonstrate our sporting spirit. The cricketers had earned the spotlight. By trying to hog it from them, our politicians, once again, put their own petty insecurities on display.

  Newspapers carried front-page coverage (paid for by an advertiser of course) of the parade. And then went on to assess the net worth of these young men, taking their saleability quotient into the reckoning. The commodification of cricket was complete. Just like the Ganesh Utsav no longer belongs to the people (as its brilliant founder, Bal Gangadhar Tilak, had envisaged it to be). It belongs to fat-cat advertisers who've hijacked it smoothly and expertly.

  Today, our Boys in Blue have been auctioned off! Yup. They were traded in the marketplace—and nobody seemed to mind. They were sold to the highest bidder like collectibles at a Christie's sale. Their price-tags went public, and everyone knew the cost of, say, Harbhajan Singh. Demeaning? Not really. Just cricket. Today's cricket.

  The spectacular ODI win in Australia threw up yet another boy wonder—Ishant Sharma. Now, he's up for grabs… even as ‘old man’ Tendulkar mops up
some more endorsements and props up the team each time the going gets rough. Will Ishant become the new ‘Item Boy’ of cricket? Hey—the kid's nineteen, okay? But money talks. Let's see… before you can say ‘Lalit Modi’, Ishant will have ‘SOLD’ written all over him.

  Old-timers shake their heads and wonder whether all this is ‘good for cricket’ (Is aspirin good for blood pressure?). The important thing about the so-called ‘commercialization’ of the ‘holy’ game is that with 88 players representing India (as opposed the earlier 11) more and more young cricketers are getting the chance to wear the prestigious blue jersey. Even more significant is the fact that these promising youngsters come from obscure towns and hamlets, armed with a dream, guts and talent. If they can become national heroes, millions of others can aspire to be too. The old elitism has all but disappeared. Our ‘Boys’ stand for more than just excellence in a chosen game—they represent hope. A far more worthy achievement. Small-town India becomes a part of the mainstream, in one stroke of the willow. Isn't that inspiring?

  So who finally wins? Small-town India.

  The pressure to ‘conform’, to ‘make it’, must be so great, that the Rohit Sharma-story, seen in this context, makes perfect sense. What does a twenty-year-old cricketer from a humble background do once he gets his first ten-lakh cheque for an advertisement? Does he hand it over to his proud parents and ask them to use the money for whatever was important to improve the quality of their lives? Nope. According to insiders, the lad put eight lakh down for a fancy car. The balance two were used to buy a fancy watch! He had to be seen as a dude with the right accessories, or else he'd be dubbed a lalloo or a ‘loser’

  Perhaps he is right and I am wrong. It is largely about perception these days. If you're perceived to be rich, people are willing to give you even more money! Rohit was shrewdly investing in himself, so he could negotiate better when the next Johnny came along with a contract. Perhaps his parents agreed with his decision. Perhaps they, too, understood how important it is to project an image of success, before you actually achieve it! Weird and ironical. It used to be the other way around.

  And even then, clever people played down their worth, fearing the kaali nazar of jealous neighbours. If a person was worth ten crore, he'd live the life of a man earning ten lakh. There was so much guilt surrounding the acquisition of wealth. That has disappeared and been replaced by an in-your-face brazenness. If someone's got it, it's to flaunt. What's the point otherwise? Young India thinks nothing of borrowing money to flash a lifestyle it can't afford without those tempting loans. People borrow money to holiday or buy jewellery. It's not to create tangible assets—which ‘old India’ might have done. Being financially overstretched has become a way of life. It's cool to be perpetually in debt and looking for ‘outs’.

  The only time my father borrowed money was to pay the examination fees for a sister's IAS entrance test. It must have weighed on him to such an extent that the tension generated during that period continued to haunt him fifty long years later. He'd go over the details methodically. The amount (paltry, but not for him), the embarrassment and the eventual relief when he managed to pay off the modest debt!

  How different it is for me. And how much more different for my children—India's first plastic generation, heady with the power of the card. Clued-in, smart, looking for that ultimate deal, scoffing at my ‘lack of guts’ and ‘foolish’ conservatism that stops me from making clever market moves. And it's no use telling them that I sleep better at night. For it's not true! They sleep equally well— and have ‘superior’ credit cards to prove their point. So be it.

  From modest family celebrations during Ganpati to the mega-scale, multi-million-rupee carnival it has been converted into, India's brashness is evident at any and every level. Dhoni is thinking of buying the latest Harley, being an ardent biker. That's confidence. And individuality—no BMW or Merc for the darling captain. That's also change. The boy from Jharkhand knows his mind. Ranchi is a long way from the cities he'll now be routinely mobbed in. Dhoni has gone global. And he did it in a record time of two years. Mera Bharat Jawan? You bet!

  Help, they're turning me into a gizmo!

  It took seventy-five years from its inception for TV to reach fifty million homes. It has taken the Internet four years to achieve the same. Instantly alarming. I heard an earnest young man who'd developed a new software package for cell-phones that he boasted would ‘further revolutionize’ our lives through dynamic connectivity. He was making a strong sales pitch to a woman (me!) who is terrified of technology and what it was doing to us, especially in India. I look at ads featuring sweet little grannies on cell-phones and PCs and my heart sinks. The brands they're pushing are out to prove how easy it is to use these sleek gizmos, and how quickly Amma can reach her favourite grandchild studying overseas. Once again, I think of my father at ninety-plus who'd seriously considered taking computer classes. For what? I'd insensitively asked, to which he'd replied sharply, ‘For the same reason that all of you use computers. In this day and age of such technological strides, I also want to be a part of the change, or else, I'll feel left out, like I'm missing something important that's happening around me. I don't want to look like a fool in front of anyone, and I don't want to depend on anybody either. If I want to buy a computer, I will. But I should first learn how to use it.’ That had shut me!

  But then, my father had always succeeded in shutting me up. I was stumped. And also envious. It had taken me years to come to terms with computers. I was hostile and suspicious after I lost over 5,000 carefully keyed-in words to cyberspace. Entirely my mistake—I'd forgotten to press ‘save’. It was then that I decided not to give up on good old-fashioned long-hand. My switchover to e-mailing columns was voluntary. I'd gotten pretty sick of sub-editors massacring copy they couldn't decipher. Today my columns stay in neat folders, and I am as computer-literate as I want to be. With children overseas, basic skills have become mandatory—to scan, upload and send family pix, for instance. And Skype away whenever the connection cooperates. These are tools that make our crazy lives somewhat simpler.

  Or do they? A generous friend gifted me a Blackberry on my last birthday. I squealed with delight as I held the glossy monster in my hand. I felt empowered and very twenty-first-century as Chanda, my galpal, shared her sophisticated techno knowledge with me. ‘It's so simple… look… all you have to do is…’ Yeah. Sure. The hard-sell continued. ‘You can get your e-mails, finish a lot of work in the car, programme it to remind you about important “to do” things, make notes, store info… my God! There's little it can't do, besides have sex with the owner.’ Woh! This I had to check out for myself. Sincere attempts were indeed made—and eventually abandoned. The Great Techie Revolution will have to do without one revolutionary—me

  There's no escaping the fact India is going big-time techie, as even a day trip to Pune can convince the non-converts. The number of glistening techno parks that seem to spring up, virtually overnight, in and around Peshwa territory! Nothing can or will ever be the same again, as anyone who looks down from the plane as it comes swiftly over the treacherous ghats and descends onto the Deccan Plateau will tell you. Looking at Pune from that height and perspective, makes the viewer wonder where he or she is. For as far as the eye can see, one can discern frantic construction taking place over several square miles of what was once just flat, rocky land of no special consequence. A few fighter planes at the air force base, the famous Yerawada Jail (home to hard-core criminals, terrorists and more recently, movie stars like Sanjay Dutt), and forest land covering large tracts.

  Today, that same area is unrecognizable, with steel and glass structures housing thousands of young geeks who work in shifts at these gleaming sweatshops. Every big name in the business has a back-end office here. From banks (HSBC) to techno giants like IBM. Gigantic, futuristic temples of hi-tech gadgetry dazzle visitors and make one blink at the extraordinary speed demonstrated by world-class builders who've erected these stunning complexes in record t
ime. To support the influx of young professionals, the profile of the city has undergone a profound change too. It is a change I can't keep up with! Each time I visit Pune, I go ‘Wah! Wah!’ and ‘Oh no!’ in turn. Well-loved landmarks get torn down to make way for malls, fancy service apartments, housing, entertainment complexes, restaurants and bars. The average age of citizens is around twenty-two. And there is enough money to make living there entirely attractive.

  The techies are everywhere! Zombie-like and chilled out, they work crazy hours at insane salaries, and before burn-out claims them, they party even harder at trendy lounge bars playing Arabic pop along with Bollywood mixes and Bhangra hits. ‘It's a great life,’ a beautiful Turkish girl told me, as she finished her beer at what is Pune's hottest weekend spot—‘Soho’. Pune is attracting professionals from all over the world. A young Belgian woman, managing ‘Oakwood’ (upscale service apartments) in snob Koregaon Park, complained mildly about the limited availability of Cuban cigars and rare whiskies. ‘Is there a market for them?’ I asked naively. ‘You'd be surprised… people have the money and the awareness,’ she answered, while briskly instructing a chef to rethink the Caesar Salad dressing which he had ‘desified’. Most occupants in the 84-suite complex were foreigners who'd decided to relocate to Pune.

  I spotted several young children. ‘Where do they school?’ I asked. ‘Oh, there are several excellent options offering international baccalaureate programmes. Plus, the Mercedes school is top-rated if expensive.’ The city has geared up to meet the challenge of accommodating a large number of foreigners who have decided to make Pune their home. ‘Mocha’ the popular coffee shop in Koregaon Park, is shrewdly dressed up in Osho's official colour— maroon. There are fresh-faced kids smoking sheeshas at adjoining tables and scanning a menu that features the best coffee beans from around the world, and international snacks that are giving the local favourite (dhabelis—a version of Mumbai's vada pav) stiff competition, even at much higher prices. My own bill for a coffee and a banana-walnut muffin is close to Rs 500. But going by the number of kids pouring in, I guess money is not an issue here. Everyone seems to have plenty of it.